Chapter Six: Stalking

EPOV

I've become a Facebook stalker.

No. Seriously.

I can't get SwanLake out of my mind no matter how hard I try. I've spoken to her once, but she kept me on my toes, something that very few women have been able to do. I grow desperate for any means to distract myself from my thoughts of this girl, this virtual stranger.

My apartment is spotless from my newfound love of cleaning, something I've started performing as an act of distraction. The laundry is washed, folded, and put away, smelling like Island Fresh Gain detergent. The lipstick stains left by Lucky Charms have magically disappeared from the collar of my shirt, thanks to the wonders of a woman named Heloise, another virtual stranger whose blog I'm now obsessively following.

Heloise is a freaking genius! Not only has she given me stain removal tips, but she's taught me the joy of banishing mildew from my shower.

Was I the only one unaware of the miraculous benefits of distilled vinegar?

I'm not fooling myself. No matter how much of the acetic acid I inhale while shining the kitchen faucet or scouring the shower floor, I still find myself constantly drifting to the computer, pulling up Swan's profile picture on the screen.

I wonder if this is how real stalkers start out. Maybe it's all innocent at first...they find a pretty girl and become obsessively thinking about her, staring at her photo like a crazy person. When I start questioning my sanity I decide it's time to take a break from Facebook and the snarky enthralling thoughts of Ms. SwanLake.

It's Friday night and I've shocked my mother by eagerly agreeing to have supper with her, my father, and Granny Platt at their home. Typically I try to avoid this at all costs, not because I dislike my family...per se. I can handle each of them, divided, but when we're all thrown together it's nothing but a big, boiling pot of trouble.

Desperate for any form of avoidance, I find myself standing in front of their home. I grasp the brass knocker on the front door and bang impatiently.

Glancing around I take in the sights: the small plot of glossy grass in front of their French provincial-style mansion, the bursting, fragrant flowers my mother has lovingly planted on either side of the wide, sweeping stone steps. The house itself is ostentatious; over one-hundred years old and cost enough to feed a small country. I shake my head at the irony of it all, just as I hear the door slowly creak open.

A tiny, frail woman stands before me wearing a navy-blue floral print dress and black orthopedic shoes. She's about five foot tall with streaked gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head. Thick Buddy Holly glasses are perched on the end of her tiny nose. The blue eyes hiding behind their thick depths are magnified at massive proportions. Her sagging, wrinkled face takes me in from head to toe with a critical stare.

"If it isn't my grandson, the Harlequin Whoremance Novelist," the old woman snarls, glaring at me through her thick-framed glasses. "Are you still calling yourself 'Edward Platt' on the cover of your trashy novels? Are you still disgracing my good family name?"

"Granny, there's not a person in this world reading my novels who knows my true identity other than you, my parents, and my editor. I can assure you that no one knows 'Edward Platt' is your grandson," I explain with a sigh, as we've had this conversation dozens of times over the years. "Besides, I gave myself 'Platt' as a pen name as a tribute to you, Granny, to show you how much I love you."

"You think plastering my last name all over your dirty books makes me proud?" she hollers, her thin, cracked skin growing red. "You better run, cause I'm gonna whip your ass, boy!"

My grandmother shuffles through the doorway like a decrypted slug. I heave another great sigh and slowly descend the thick stone steps, planting my feet in the lush grass. Granny takes her time, fumbling around as she slowly grasps the black wrought-iron handrails on the stairway. I silently count to one hundred in my head.

Granny eventually makes it to flat land and shuffles towards me at a snail's pace. I dodge her, ducking away easily as she clenches her fists, hollering and flailing at me. With a whistle on my lips I step inside the mansion and shut the door safely behind me, leave my flustered old-as-dirt grandmother standing in the tiny excuse of a front lawn.

"Edward!" my father beams, standing in the foyer with his hands clasps together prayer-style. "The prodigal's son has returned home! How's life in the sinful world of literature that you're so ungraciously living in?"

Only a man like Carlisle Cullen can get away with insulting me without inflicting injury with his comments.

My father beams angelically, his large, sparkling über-white teeth shining. They're suspiciously larger than the last time I saw him, and I instantly realize he's had them capped. He's wearing a soft gray suit and pink tie. His blonde hair is coiffed to perfection, glistening beneath the ritzy gold chandelier hanging overhead. The gray suit does nothing to hide his toned, athletic body, a result of the days we spend running together.

My father is a preacher, but he's not just any preacher. He's the number one, top-rated, most publically beloved televangelist in the United States. His sermons are broadcast all over the globe. Woman swoon at the sight of his bright smile and charming good looks. Some even stalk him. It's the grin..and the fact that he can dress like a mafia prince, but still glow like an angel.

He makes Joel Osteen look like the Son of Sam.

"Leave him alone, Carlisle," my mother demands, entering the foyer. "Oh, Edward! I'm so glad you decided to join us tonight! Where's Granny? Have you seen her?"

"She's outside," I tell my mother.

I don't go into detail as to why Granny is standing outside seething. I'm too distracted by my father's massive teeth. My eyes constantly drift to his smile, like I'm witnessing a horrific car wreck.

"Carlisle, go fetch Granny so we can eat supper," my mother says, shooting my father a stern glance.

The perma-grin falters just a bit at the mention of my grandmother, but he replaces it with the psycho-smile quickly enough. My father, like me, is slightly terrified of the old broad. Luckily I'm not the one who's forced to share a home with her.

My father glides around me and disappears outside. I follow my mother into the elegant dining room which hasn't changed much since they purchased the home. The walls are adorned with fancy gold fabric. Antique furniture graces the room. Ancient fine china hangs from the walls. A massive crystal vase billowing over with blooming, fresh-cut flowers rests in the middle of the long, glistening wooden table. The table itself is covered in a mouth-watering array of food. My stomach audibly growls.

Granny and my father arrive just as we sit down. For some unknown reason Granny decides to sit directly across from me, probably so she can glower at me and kick me with her thick shoes throughout the entire meal. We drop our heads as my father offers grace. He ends the prayer with a boisterous 'Blessed Be!" before we begin passing the food around.

We carry on a pleasant, yet mundane conversation for about twenty minutes. My grandmother stares at me like I'm the scum of the earth the entire time. Her tiny body is twitching in anticipation and it isn't long before she digs into me.

"Slandering my name for the whole world to see, you filthy dog. And for what? So you can write a bunch of dirty books for horny housewives to read? All you men think about is your dicks!" she cries, burying the prongs of her fork deeply inside a boiled potato, causing me to wince. "Just like your grandfather! His dick was like a tiny pencil!"

Here we go. Again.

"Mamma!" my mother admonishes, her face growing red. "Don't talk about Daddy that way!"

"Oh, it was Esme!" Granny snarls, ripping and tearing the meat from a fried chicken wing with her loose dentures. "It looked like this!"

Granny holds up the thin, greasy chicken bone. Tiny strands of meat hang limply from the joints.

"And crooked too! Bent in the wrong direction!" she continues, scowling at the memory of my deceased grandfather's penis.

"Did you mix up your meds again, granny Platt?" I chuckle. "Or did you forget to take your antipsychotics today?"

"I ain't psychotic, boy! I take antidepressants! I have to take Prozac to live up here with you damn Yanks!"

At the mention of her precious Prozac, Granny digs in the front pocket of her floral dress. She removes a colorful capsule, covered in lint, and pops it in her mouth. She also removes a tiny bottle of whiskey from her breast pocket and swallows the medication with a large gulp.

"Prozac, you're my only friend," she mutters, gazing at the miniature, amber-filled glass bottle fondly.

"I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to mix your medication with whiskey," I mumble between bites.

"Don't you sass me, boy!" Granny growls, shaking in her chair.

"Mamma, be sweet," my mother coos patiently as my father sits beside her, smiling like a loon.

"Yeah, be sweet, Granny," I goad her.

"To hell with being sweet! Quit writing about your dick and start using it. Your poor mamma wants grandchildren, for some ungodly reason," my grandmother proclaims. "Why the hell she thinks you'd take care of kids when you can't even wash the crack of your ass is beyond me."

"I've been bathing on a regular basis lately, if you must know," I admit.

Bathing has also become a form of distraction.

"Son, maybe you should take a break from writing and meet a nice young lady to spend your time with," my mother sweetly suggests. "I worry about you, all alone in that apartment with no one to talk to. I'm sure there's someone out there who can hold your interest again."

"The only girl who's held my interest lately hates me," I grumble. "Besides, I don't even know her name...or anything about her."

"You met someone!" my father exclaims, his eyes sparkling happily. "That's great, Edward!"

"I haven't technically met her," I confess. "I talked to her online. "She's a writer, like me."

"Online!" Granny hollers, slamming her fist against the table, shaking it with surprising force. "I knew it! I tried telling you something is wrong with this boy, Esme. I bet he's a Craigslist Killer! Sitting in a dark apartment in front of a computer all day long. It's just not fittin' I tell you! Are you one of those men on Dateline who meets young girls online? Showing up to their house with a bag full of wine coolers and condoms?! Freaking Yanks."

"Granny, do not cast judgment on Edward and his wicked ways," my judgmental father speaks brightly. "There is far greater punishment than living with a bunch of Yanks in the Windy City!"

"Oh, shut up you dumbass," my grandmother growls, chugging her whiskey once more.

"My son the dreamer," my mother says quietly, staring at me with pity in her eyes. "Living in a fantasy world even in his love life."

"I have no love life," I grumble. "She hates me."

"Smart girl," Granny belches. "I like her already. You should marry her."

I open my mouth to hurl a snide remark, but I'm abruptly interrupted.

Ding!

My heart frantically gallops in my chest and I turn into a sixteen year-old girl, fumbling around frantically for my cell phone. A grin stretches across my face as I see the words lit up on my Facebook Messenger.

You tell a girl she's beautiful then ignore her for three days? I knew you were an ass. - SwanLake

I'm not ignoring you. I simply assumed you no longer desired talking to me, considering I'm a jerk and all. - TonyMazen69

You are a jerk...but for some reason I miss hurling insults at you. It was fun while it lasted. - SwanLake

Would you like to continue degrading me? Maybe on a semi-routine basis? - TonyMazen69

Are you a glutton for punishment? - SwanLake

If the punishment inflicted is coming from you...yes. I think I am. - TonyMazen69

Fine. Whatever. If you enjoy being beaten by my snide verbiage, who am I to judge? - SwanLake

Wonderful! I'll message you when I get home. I'm having supper with my parents and grandmother, but I should be home in an hour or so. - TonyMazen69

Supper with your parents and grandmother? How shockingly human of you. I'll be sitting here...impatiently awaiting the chance to flail you with snark and cynicism. - SwanLake

Perfect. I'll message you soon. - TonyMazen69

Mmmkay. Later, Tony. - SwanLake

Hey, Swan? - TonyMazen69

What, loser? - SwanLake

The name's Edward. - TonyMazen69

There's no immediate response. I've thrown her a bone, giving her the one thing that no one besides Emmett and Jasper have...my name.

As I sit, wondering if she realizes the amount of trust I'm showing her, I feel the hard stares of my tablemates. I glance up, taking in all their faces. My grandmother glowers at me in disgust, my mother gazes at me with concern and frustration, and my father is gleefully grinning.

Ding!

I abandon their stares to glance down at the glowing screen in my hands, smiling at the words that shine back.

Edward? Ugh. I knew it. A name like that only tells me that you're obviously an eighty year-old man. You should take your heart medication if you plan on keeping up my verbal onslaught...Bella - SwanLake

I take in a deep, sharp breath, pausing only momentarily as she gives me her first name. Bella. Her name is Bella. It's beautiful, just like her. I snicker as I type my response.

Oh, I can 'keep up.' Don't worry your pretty little head about that. - TonyMazen69

I wonder if I've crossed the line again, but her immediate reply abolishes my concern.

Ugh. You're a pig, making remarks like that with your folks sitting nearby. Message me when you get home. As for the 'keeping up' remark, I guess that's something you'll just have to prove. - SwanLake

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession- I was standing outside Saturday, reading an update on my phone when a tiny insect flew down my scrub top and stung me. I freaked out, cause that shit hurt, and started jumping around. I dropped my phone and the insect eventually made his way down the back of my scrub bottoms, biting me again. It's not as good of a story as feet going numb from sitting on the toilet reading too long or running into poles. Y'all have really endured some pain for the love of fanfiction!

I have an anonymous contest entry if y'all want to check it out. Author search Twific-textmessagelolcontest. I'll tell y'all which one is mine AFTER the contest is over ;)

Okay, thoughts on this chapter? Does online lurving, lemons, or self-gratification bother y'all? Just wondering...