A/N: I thank all my readers for the support. It has been fun sharing this story with you. I appreciate every one of you, and your opinion makes this journey worthwhile.
My love and gratitude again to my amazing betas: mopstyle and twitchling! Rags88, thank you for pre-reading. Books, love you.
Disclaimer: SM owns all Twilight. I only borrow. It's my characters who steal.


Chapter 6

Face value

BPOV

I stood quietly next to the counter, wishing the last ten minutes of my life hadn't happened. I knew Jess could be flaky and insensitive at times, but this was beyond anything she'd ever done before.

She kept telling me something while tugging my sleeve, and I couldn't bring myself to care for it. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to go home.

She was not pleased when I told her so.

"Are you hungry or something? Why are you so cranky?" she asked.

I stared at her, dumbfounded. "Are you saying I have no reason to be upset?"

She ruined this trip and tried to pin it on me. Unbelievable.

"Is it about those guys? I don't see what the big deal is." Jessica had the nerve to look annoyed. "I was just trying to meet new people. I did it for you! And you flipped as soon as I called for an attention on you."

I opened my mouth to object.

"I know what you gonna say," she interrupted me. "You think I was mean. I wasn't. I told two gorgeous older guys that my friend is unpredictable. That's hot! And why don't you ever look anyone in the eye? That guy with the sexy copper hair was staring at you, like, all the time. I think he even sniffed you a couple of times. That was kind of weird. But boy, was he hot!"

Sniff me? She was crazy.

"Are you even for real?"

"What?" She looked at me with wide, innocent eyes.

"You told two complete strangers our names, where we live, and even about my father."

"I know, right? Did you see their faces when I said that?" Jessica laughed out loud, making the cashier girl look at us with disapproval. "They were impressed!"

Impressed?

"What's wrong with you?" I enquired, without any hope of getting a relevant answer. She still wasn't getting it.

"Jess." I sighed, resigned. "You can not tell people stuff about me without my consent, ever. Besides, do you really think someone will be interested in me if the first thing they learn is that my father is a cop?"

She shrugged. "The boys in our school don't care."

"Because they know my father since birth."

"Yeah, whatever, crunkypants."

I dug out a dollar from my backpack—my emergency stash—since I remembered I'd left my wallet on the top of my dresser at home.

"This is for my candy." I held up the money for the cashier before putting it down on the counter.

"I want to go home," I told Jessica, done with this conversation.

"Yeah, one sec." Her attention was switched to her phone.

Feeling resentful, I didn't want to think that what Jessica just said about meeting new people was true, and how I kept avoiding doing so, even though she and I still had a pact that I would try. I also pushed away the thought that the guy with a sexy copper hair had my complete attention from the moment he walked into the store.

Because if I did allow myself to think about it, I'd have to admit that I shamelessly spied on his squabble with his friend. And that I noticed his long, graceful fingers when he grabbed the cup I almost dropped from the counter, or when he drummed them on the table as if he played the piano. I also didn't miss the soft look on his face when he saw me upset and that he seemed to detest Jessica's behavior just like I did. Up close, I was fascinated by how green his eyes were, and by their intensity. As Jessica pointed, he was gorgeous, and older. He was also way out of my league.

It wasn't very crowded at the store. I could see the exit door across the room and the people walking on the street. Two men were standing right outside arguing. I recognized them instantly.

I saw how the owner of the crazy bronze hair, Edward, threw his palms up in an exasperated gesture, and then froze, looking away, while his friend, Jasper talked. Jasper was laughing when he poked Edward's chest with some yellow piece of paper. Edward snatched the piece of paper out of Jasper's hand and pushed it into his jacket pocket. I couldn't hear what they were saying, I just watched them. Edward was taller; he was looking down at Jasper, the sun lighting his face. His thick brows were in a deep furrow, lips tightly pursed. His hair was sticking out in many directions and he kept running his hand through it, making it look even messier. I could tell Jasper was mocking him, and Edward was having none of it. After exchanging a few more heated words, Edward put his sunglasses on. I watched him turn around and walk away while Jasper kept talking and laughing.

"Earth to Bella." Jessica waved her hand in front of my face. "You said you were ready to go."

I hesitated, fondling the strap of my bag. "Yeah."

I was afraid we might walk out with Jasper still outside of the store. Something about that guy made me uneasy, defensive. I felt like slapping that grin off his face earlier, and I didn't believe I ever had that feeling towards anyone before in my life.

"Let's go then, feeding time," Jessica reminded me.

I grimaced. "No, Jess, I want to go straight home. Besides, I've got no money today, sorry. I just spent my last dollar."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head with why-do-I-even-bother expression on her face, and sighed. I looked out through the exit door again, relieved to find both guys gone. The path was clear.

"Did you manage to snatch anything today?" I asked Jessica as we moved through the store out. I wasn't remotely interested, but my best bet to get off the hook was to let her talk about herself. "Anything fun?"

"Oh, didn't you notice? Look at my new boots!" she immediately went for it, "The sale is unbelievable today, wait until you hear what else I got—"

And with that I was excused to drift off.

All was well in the Kingdom. Business as usual.

As if sensing my sour mood, my father suggested we went to the diner that evening. I was tired and crabby. I also felt guilty for disappearing for the entire day, so I said yes.
While we were waiting for the desert, several boys from my school burst in, laughing. I knew the boys well. One of them was Mike Newton, who bellowed, "What's up, Bella!" as soon as he spotted me.

That earned a stern glare from the chief of the police. I never knew my father could sport such an impressive unibrow when he wanted to scare someone off. That worked. Mike and the company went immediately quiet, and Diane shooed them off to the farthest booth in the diner. She brought us our deserts.

Charlie lifted a knife and paused with it in the air before cutting his pie. Normally, just fork was enough. "Do any of those boys ever bother you?" he asked me, glancing at the guys behind me.

"N-no," I said right away. "They're fine."

Then I thought about Jessica's earlier stint of spamming our personal information to complete strangers. Should I mention it? Could that be a matter of concern? I brushed the thought off. We were nobody to those guys. Who would think about us twice?

"Still got that pepper spray, kid?" my father asked, wiping his fingers with a napkin.

His quiet, calm presence was reassuring.

"Dad, please." I scoffed, although I'd never stop appreciating that he worried. No one ever did before.

xxx

Three weeks later, Jessica and I were still on friendly terms. Technically.

On the surface we were perfectly fine. We still interacted and ate lunches together at school, but neither of us was actively seeking each other's audience, and I was only happy to maintain that status. The school year end was nearly here, and we were busy with finishing papers, meeting deadlines and sitting in finals. I could say I was occupied to the point where I had no time or energy to worry about my relationship with my best friend—or at least that was what I was telling myself.

Spring quickly turned into summer. Break was coming up and I had absolutely no idea how I was going to occupy my time. Renee asked me to come to visit her in Florida, but she also spilled the news during one of our weekly routine calls that she and Phil were trying for a baby. Yeah, like I wanted to be present when that process was in progress.
So, the Florida idea was out.

I also considered finding a full time job, which wouldn't be an easy task in Forks with all the students out of school, in the same situation as me. I supposed I could use Charlie's connections to get one. That would not be something I'd be proud of, though. Strike that one, as well.

And with that I was out of choices. Add to that equation the promise of an eternally overcast sky and the lack of warm days typical for Forks.

I expected it to be the most boring summer of my life.

xxx

I wanted to go to Port Angeles again. The next new event for writers was coming up at my favorite book store and I really wanted to go.

Reading was still huge part of my life, but it was no longer enough. I found writing to be helpful for sorting the jumbled mess in my head and dealing with my bottled-up emotions. I didn't use my PC for it. Strangely, I enjoyed the old-fashioned way of putting words on a piece of paper. It felt more real, more personable, I guess.

I could probably qualify as an indie writer—I was a complete newbie—so, justifying the decision to go wasn't that difficult. Besides, I was genuinely interested in the process and wanted to learn more.

I was nervous all day before driving to Port Angeles. In Trig I had shared my plans for the evening with Angela, who, unlike Jessica, listened without judging. I mentioned my trip to Jessica as well during a quick chat at the lockers. She gave me a strange look, and I got myself busy with the books so she didn't start chanting something like, "Bella hearts artsy-fartsy, weird guys."

If she did, I'd probably chicken out and wouldn't go at all, and that would be a bummer.
I finally had to accept the truth. I thought of the green eyes, long fingers and bronze messy hair guy often—entirely too much, considering I knew nothing about him, and our only encounter was a disaster.

I even liked his name—old-fashioned and masculine—as I whispered it over and over again while fantasizing that it weren't my fingers touching me in pleasure but his.
And I dreamt about him a lot.

In my dreams, he chased me, always catching me, his hands grabbing me by my waist. In those dreams, I couldn't turn to face him. He was holding me too tightly, my back pressed to his chest, our hips joined, his lips at the nape of my neck. I felt him breathing me in, rocking me in his arms. His warm breath was making my whole body ache with longing. I would reach up, trying to hug him by his neck, and breathe out his name. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. I would wake up panting and yearning, my harsh breathing the only sound in the dark room.

I had no reason to hope to ever see Edward again, and yet I was eager to return to the book store to at least be back in the familiar setting.

At this point I was even thankful to Jessica for telling Edward and his friend about my visits to the store for special events. I wasn't a fool. I recognized the yellow piece of paper as a flyer when I saw Jasper poking Edward with it. Edward took the flyer; I saw it with my own eyes. Maybe he decided to keep it? Maybe he'd be there at the event, too?
My hopes weren't based on any remote possibility, and yet there I was—unreasonably optimistic.

xxx

Late in the afternoon, I drove to Port Angeles, letting my truck cruise at a comfortable speed. The road was slightly damp from the light rain, and I had my window open, enjoying the warm breeze of early June and the view of lush greens passing by.

Summer on the Olympic Peninsula was so different from what I was used to. I wished the days were warmer and drier, sure. But even though I still missed sunny Phoenix, the rich nature of Forks was growing on me.

I wanted to be comfortable today, and opted for my favorite black Converse and jeans instead. My outfit was completed by a white t-shirt with "Silicon Substitution" printed across my chest. Jessica rolled her eyes when she saw it this morning. Tyler, on another hand, seemed to like the t-shirt a lot, which more annoyed than flattered me.

I parked, blocks away from the main streets, as usual. With plenty of time to spare before the event, I slowly walked down the street, window-shopping. I paused before a shop with nice dresses on display, briefly recalling that Forks High prom was coming up. I detested the idea of attending so much I was planning to come down with sudden illness to avoid it.

I reached the book store in a very good mood. Once inside, I looked around the room, not seeing anyone I recognized. I told myself it was still early and took a deep breath, hit with all the familiar smells of the bookshop. I held it in for a few seconds, feeling a pleasant lightheadedness.

I moved along the aisles, contemplating what I felt like reading today. Passing History and Sci-fi, I stopped at the Fiction section. Borges, "The Aleph and other stories"—the cover stood out, calling to me.

"Need any help?" I heard from behind me. I turned.

"Um, I think I've got what I wanted, actually." I smiled to the elderly man who I knew worked here part-time and loved to chat with the customers.

"Ah, the eternity is the standing still of the present time," he said, glancing at the book in my hand. It sounded like he was quoting something. "Have you read it before?" he asked.

"The Aleph? Yes." I nodded. "A story about unrequited love. And hope. I thought it was kind of boring at first, but then I got into it."

He raised his thick, grey eyebrows. "Is that so? What did you like then?"

"Well..." I thought about it. It'd been awhile since I read it, and details were fuzzy.
"So, Aleph in this story is a tiny point in space which is basically a peephole into the entire universe's past, present and future, right?"

The man nodded. "Yes, a microscopic hole in the step of some cellar stairs. Mysterious, inexplicable phenomenon. The protagonist could observe any and all events ever to occur and people, too—all clear and simultaneously."

"It's... It's..." I was looking for the right words. "The way Borges described it, it felt as if it was something real. What the protagonist discovered really shook him up."

"And then he decided it was a fake."

I frowned. "I don't remember how it ended, I want to read it again."

"Then let me leave you to it." He patted my arm. "Readers like you are the reason I work here. Good luck."

"Thank you," I murmured, feeling slightly flushed from the compliment. The man smiled and left.

With the book in hand, I dropped my backpack and plopped myself on the floor and began reading. I was fully engrossed in the story when I sensed someone moving by me. Without looking, I tucked my legs, letting the person pass through. No one did. Instead, I thought I heard a muffled noise; through my iPod on full blast in my ears I wasn't sure. I pulled one bud away and tilted my head. I froze as soon as I recognized the beat-up boots and the legs in black faded jeans standing next to me. My heart stuttered. I paused the music and slowly remove the headphones, taking a moment to steady myself. I smiled at the person towering over me.

"Did you say something?" I asked, thankful that my voice didn't falter giving away my nervousness.

"I said hi, it's nice to see you again." He lowered himself in a squat, getting close, too close for my comfort and leveled his eyes with mine. Bright, piercing and green—just as I remembered.

My mouth went dry at once.

"Hi," I rasped.

"Hello. You seem very comfortable here." He slid down next to me, stretched out his long legs with the content sigh, and turned his head to me.

"I am. Favorite place to be," I said, trying to not stare at him too much.

I didn't dream it up. He was really here, talking to me. He was so close I could touch him, which wasn't a sensible idea. I dropped my eyes down to the book so I wasn't tempted to push away that unruly strand of hair that fell over his ear. Silence between us lasted so long I started questioning if Edward was interested in talking to me at all. If he wasn't, why was he even here?

When I couldn't stand it any longer I raised my eyes to him and discovered him studying me. Blood surged to my head so fast I heard it pounding in my ears.

"This book store is one of my favorite in the city, too." He broke the silence with a soft smile, and I was thankful he pretended not to notice the scarlet of my cheeks. "And there's an old music store right next door. I like going there–flip through old vinyl records, talk to the owner. He's really cool. Claims to have witnessed the infamous recording of Charlie Parker's Lover Man. He must have been a baby then." He chuckled, shaking his head.

I had a very vague idea about Charlie Parker, but at the moment it didn't really matter who that guy was. I watched this man next to me sharing something special with me, his excitement so contagious.

"So, are you a musician?" I asked, the question seemed appropriate.

"Um, no, I'm not," was the immediate answer. "It's just a hobby of mine".

It seemed that he instantly closed off. His eyes became unfocused, his jaw tightened. I watched as he absentmindedly smoothed down his unruly hair, finally tucking that one strand away, only to have it fall down again. It seemed just a tad shorter than last time I saw him, or maybe it was my imagination. I noticed that his boots were very worn, and so was the jacket, but everything looked well taken care of–the shoes, though not laced up properly, were clean, and there was a neat patch sewn to the right sleeve on the elbow, dark brown leather not matching the black color of the jacket itself. He had on a half-buttoned light blue denim shirt, with a gray T-shirt beneath. He was unshaven, but the stubble didn't make him look rough. It actually outlined his strong jaw.

I was staring again. Not good, Bella. I returned my attention to the book on my lap, trying to concentrate again on the story. It wasn't happening. He was too near. His smell—the faint musky perfume mixed together with the crisp fresh air and a hint of coffee and cigarette smoke—was too distracting. I kept reading the same lines over and over, the letters refused to make up into the coherent messages.

The time lingered, and with every second I grew more uncomfortable, afraid to make the slightest move. I was stuck in a strange affair—not wanting to leave, but not sure if I should stay. Very aware of his presence, I felt his tension as well. I wondered if he was even breathing, he was so quiet. I kept pretending to read, my body felt stiff and my neck started to hurt. When I finally heard him clear his throat and move to stand up, I sighed with relief.

"You know," he said, and I snapped my head up. I was met with a soft smile. "I just realized, I don't think I had formally introduced myself. I'm Edward..." He slightly leaned forward, offering me his hand.

"Bella." I pushed myself up while extending my hand to him. The book slipped from my lap and fell down with a muted thump. Neither of us looked down.

"I remember, Bella." Edward smiled crookedly again and took my fingers, squeezing them. He then grabbed my elbow with another hand and pulled me up. It was a natural gesture, and yet the direct contact with his skin sent prickles shooting up my shoulder, the hair stood up on my neck, and I almost lost my balance. His smile slowly disappeared as he released my hand.

"Thank you," I managed.

He nodded. We stood in the aisle for what seemed like forever, our eyes locked. Edward finally shifted with a sigh, the leather of his jacket crackled with the movement, and we both looked away. The book was still on the floor, so I picked it up and shuffled to the shelf, placing it back and returning for my backpack.

"What was it you were reading?" Edward stepped closer and touched the cover, checking the title. I inhaled, hit by his smell again. He stepped back and turned to me with a surprised look on his face. "You know Borges?"

"I do." I exhaled, puzzled by the question.

"How old are you, Bella?" he asked, studying my face.

"Why does it matter?" I went on the defense, not understanding his reaction.

"I'm sorry. I'm prying. I'm just surprised you are interested in Borges."

"I'm interested in a lot of different authors. How is it related to my age?"

"It's not. Forgive me."

I decided to answer anyway. "I'm seventeen. I have nothing to hide."

The expression on Edward's face hardened. He nodded and hunched his shoulders, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Well, Bella, it was nice seeing you again," he muttered after a pause without looking at me.

"You've already said that." I knew what he was thinking. I may have been younger than him, but it didn't mean I was stupid.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, "nothing's wrong with being nice to random strangers."
Random stranger… Of course, who else would I be to him?

Call me melodramatic, but I was disappointed. It became painfully evident to me that I was crushing on this guy. I was here today because I had this gut feeling that I'd see Edward again. My gut feeling was right, but did I really hope for any sort of reciprocation? Was I out of my mind? Of course there was no chance! But why did he approach me and talked to me? And what had I said or done to solicit such a strange reaction from him? He looked so angry, his darkened eyes bore into mine. Why?

Because I liked Borges? Because I was seventeen? What did he expect?

Judging by Edward's expression, it didn't look like I was going to get any answers, and I'd never beg anyone, ever, to talk to me if they didn't want to. I was a random stranger, after all.

Oh, why did I even give two shits? I should let him think whatever he wanted, and I should leave.

"No, nothing's wrong with being polite," I agreed, playing my part. "Enjoy your evening."
Edward nodded, his jaw set, and shoved his hand into his hair. He pursed his lips, and I almost laughed thinking how many times during the last few weeks I had imagined having them on me.

I carefully stepped around him, trying not to come in contact with him in the confined place. He shirked away from me, evidently attempting the same.

I almost walked out of the store, forgetting why I was there in the first place. Ah, yes, the writers' workshop. I wasn't sure I wanted to stay for it anymore. Actually, I was sure I didn't, but leaving would only prove how weak I was. And no, that I couldn't allow to happen. I turned around and walked straight to the small group of people already gathering at the lounge area.

There was coffee and some condiments offered on the small table. To occupy myself, I poured a cup and took a big sip, promptly burning my tongue. I winced from the sensation and tried to nurse the pain, curling and uncurling my tongue and sucking on it slightly. It only made it worse. I gently inhaled some cool air in my mouth for some relief. I knew it would bother me for days.

As if I needed any reminders about the massacre of my pride I had just experienced.
It was what was left of my pride that made me stay at the store and wait for the event to start. Who did this jerk think he was to chase me from this place? I was here first!

"Bella?" Someone tapped my shoulder. "Hey."

I blinked and focused on a familiar grinning face staring at me.

"It's nice to see you, Bella."

None other than Rob Sawyer—my date that never happened—was standing at the table, smiling.

"Oh, hi."

"What are you doing here?" Rob asked. "I mean, sorry, it was a stupid question. You're in a book store, duh."

Did he just ask me a question and answer it himself? He could be an excellent date—I mused—I missed my opportunity with this guy. And he was kind of cute—tall, blue eyes, blond…

Not my type at all. I sighed.

"I know, sorry," Rob spoke again. "I shouldn't have even asked. Do you come here often? My aunt lives nearby."

So it didn't look like I was required to speak at all. Rob was one of those self-sufficient types—like Jessica. I was reminded of what I didn't miss about her. When he finally paused, looking at me expectantly, I tried to come up with a proper response and fell short. So, I just stood and started at him, stirring my coffee. He blushed furiously, poor guy. Was it possible that he was my match, indeed?

He cleared his throat. "It's my aunt's birthday today. I came to buy her a card."

He handed me a card that said, "Happy Birthday, Maureen!"

"Your Aunt's name is Maureen? How convenient." I tried to be pleasant.

"Ha-ha, no, but she loves shoes. Look, they are all over the card." He opened it in my hand and pointed inside.

Then who the hell was Maureen? I frowned. Did I say "a match"? Maybe not.

"Listen, Bella." Rob touched my arm, looking very sincere; I pretended his touch didn't bother me. "I am almost a half an hour late for my aunt's, but if you could give me your number—"

"Hello and welcome to our Indie writer's workshop!" a cheerful voice broke through the chatter of the people in the lounge, and—thankfully—interrupted my company. The room went quiet.

"Sorry, maybe later?" I smiled apologetically and handed the card back to Rob. "Have fun at the party."

"Meh." He shrugged and smiled back. "I'll see you at school, Bella." He waved a good-bye and scurried to the counter to pay.

I turned around to find a spot to settle down and faced the room again.

What the hell?

Edward stood directly behind the host, leaning against the side of the bookshelf. He was looking straight at me, studying me, with his arms crossed on his chest. His perfect face looked rigid, as if it was set in stone. I narrowed my eyes, meeting his glare, determined to keep it up until he looked away first.

You want a staring contest, mister, you got it!

I knew it was silly, but being stubborn as I was, I couldn't just drop it. I wanted to figure out what this man wanted from me. At the same time, I was scared, feeling that I was getting myself into something I would not be able to walk away from unscathed.

Polite applause abruptly pulled both of us from our stare. We both looked at the guy, who was introducing himself as the host of the evening and the author of a newly published book. He held one in his hand, talking about the story behind it. If this evening turned into a discussion of someone's book I'd never heard of I'd be very disappointed. To my immense relief, a minute later, the guy put the book away.

"Now that I'm done with this painful self-promotion part..." The crowd was chuckling at his words. "Let's focus on why we are here tonight. I always like to hear from my fellow writers what got them into writing. What made you start and what inspires you?"
The guy moved his gaze from person to person in the crowd, smiling expectantly. A momentary silence, followed by a low murmur, settled around the lounge. People were looking at one another with shy smiles, no one wanted to go first.

It won't be me, for sure, I thought, averting my eyes, as if not looking at someone would make me invisible.

"You, sir. How about you?" the host asked, breaking a dead silence.

I looked up, finding with a great surprise that he was addressing Edward, who in return seemed startled and not exactly pleased. He looked rather pissed. He glared at the guy and then turned to glower at me. Like it was my fault he was standing right next to the host. He practically asked for it!

I tried not to show it on my face, but I was gloating a little—there was justice in the world, after all—and I was dying to see how it all played out.

"What about me?" Edward finally spoke up, his voice hoarse.

"Do you have any inspirations? Do you write? How did you get into it and why?" The same question only rephrased. The guy seemed determined to challenge Edward.
If I were Edward, I'd probably be annoyed at this point, too.

If I were Edward, I would also blush, produce a nervous stutter and spill coffee all over myself. The most embarrassing and weirdest things happened to me when I was placed in the spotlight. This was a moment of exactly that nature, and it was a good thing I wasn't the one chosen to be picked on.

I could tell the instant Edward made a decision to play along—there was a slight, but noticeable change in his demeanor. He still looked irritated, but his expression somehow seemed softer to me. He sighed.

"Well," he said, raising his hand to rub his forehead. He then tugged at his hair, and I wondered if he did it when nervous or uncomfortable.

"Well," he repeated a little louder, looking at the host. "I am not a writer." It sounded like an apology. He coughed into his hand.

I felt a slight unease in my stomach, instantly unsure if I wanted to hear what Edward was about to tell us.

"Or… I guess, I kind of am. I used to compose music. As a hobby…" He glanced at me and quickly looked away.

As if there was an invisible line between him and the rest of us in the lounge, he kept back without coming closer. After a short pause he said, "I started when I was about…ah… five years old, maybe six."

I tried to imagine a six year old Edward, picturing a green-eyed boy with unruly reddish hair. I bet he struggled with it all his life. I could sure relate to that.

"Anyone heard of a little musical piece called Peter and the Wolf?" he asked, unexpectedly flashing a dazzling smile at us.

I watched people nod. Even if no one in the room had ever heard of it, there still was a positive response. How there could not be? Edward's lopsided smile alone could melt a coldest heart. It sure had that effect on me, whether I wanted it or not.

"So, anyway, first, I wanted to be like that boy, Peter, who caught the bad wolf. He was a hero who saved the world, and I wanted to be just like him. What six-year-old doesn't want to be a superhero?"

People in the lounge murmured in empathy.

"Prokofiev made it sound so easy," Edward explained. He pushed himself away from the bookcase and stood with his feet spread apart, firmly planted to the ground.

His eyes were bright from the memory he was recalling. "And as a kid I thought: how hard can it be for me? I can write my own music. Each instrument has a voice. I just needed to create a melody of my own for all of them and tie them together."

He chuckled, shaking his head, just like he did earlier when he talked about a famous musician. "I thought I could do anything; in my mind I was invincible. Such a cocky little shit."

The crowd looked thoroughly entertained with Edward's speech. I couldn't stop from smiling at his last words myself.

"So, was it?" the host asked.

"Was it what?" Edward looked at him, still smiling.

"Was it… did it turn out to be easy for you to write your own?"

The corners of Edward's mouth turned down, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. "Like I said," he said in considerably cooler voice, "I used to compose. I haven't opened music sheets in ages. It's not there for me anymore."

"Well, maybe you need to go back to your roots? To what had you going at the beginning?" the guy offered.

Edward glanced back at the host. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. He shook his head. "Nah, it's all long gone. Superheroes don't exist."

He said it with such conviction, my heart split in ache.

His hand was back in his hair, the ease from his posture gone. As he fixed his stare straight ahead, it was obvious his mind was not in this room anymore. I wondered where he went in his thoughts, wishing I could travel to that place with him.

His expression turned grim, and though I shouldn't have felt that way, I was captured by his dark, beautiful face. I didn't want to like him, but he was making it impossible for me to hate him.

Edward was confusing. Was he real when he'd been so mean to me in the aisle? Or was he sincere here, in the lounge? Was it all an act just now? Or was he letting us know something entirely personal? Why did he stay? Did it have anything to do with me? The man kept surprising me.

Maybe I was just flattering myself for no reason. Maybe what I saw as vulnerability was the simple trick of a crowd pleaser, who knew how to charm a room full of people with his soft voice, beautiful face and sexy hair.

I wanted to find out and my curiosity was too strong to fight it. Before I could change my mind, I cleared my throat and took a step forward.

"Rilke for me," I said, raising my hand. My voice broke, but it was loud enough to get everyone's attention. I felt the blood—my enemy—rushing to my face. Internally I argued with myself that this should be easy, talking about books was my realm.
I glanced at Edward. Was he paying attention? I wanted him to.

With a strange feeling of liberation, I jutted my chin and pushed a piece of hair away from my face. I was who I was—and about to reveal more.

"I'm talking about inspiration," I decided to clarify addressing the host, since he stared at me quizzically. "Rilke does it for me."

"Rilke? Rilke…" The guy snapped his fingers several times. "Nineteenth century, German poet?"

"Austrian," I corrected. Part of me was relieved at least someone in the room was familiar with one of my favorite writers, and part of me felt stupid for trying to enlighten the group of people who probably could care less about his origins. "He could glorify fate, solitude and anxiety like no other," I shared. "What teenage girl would not fall in love with that?"

The reaction from the room surprised me—there was laughter, apparently I could crack a joke in front of an audience. This time, I refused to look at Edward. I didn't want him to think I was seeking his approval. I was doing just fine on my own.

I was brought down abruptly by the host, who said, "Would you share some of the Rilke's poetry with us? Perhaps your favorite?"

Crap, I just fell into my own trap. With two dozen eyes looking at me in expectation, I lost my bravado. Pathetically, I tried to remember why I thought sharing something very personal was a good idea, and I was drawing blank.

"If it escapes your mind, that's alright, maybe some other time."

Wait a minute. Did this guy just assume I'd speak in front of all these people without actually knowing my favorite poem? No way.

Did Edward think so, too? I glanced in his direction. He was back to his position against the bookcase, hands across his chest. His expression was unreadable. He looked like he didn't give a damn, like he didn't belong here. Was he back to being an asshole?
Against my better judgment, and because I was too immature to know when to stop, I closed my eyes to gain clarity, inhaled deeply and started the poem.

"I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough
truly to consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart."

I kept reciting it and stared at the white plastic cup of coffee in my hands. As the words were leaving my mouth, I imagined that instead of evaporating, they floated around me, filling up the space, and building the familiar bubble I liked to encase myself in. It was the place where I belonged, where I knew who I was.

"I want my free will, and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone."

This was the time—the first time ever—that I forgot to be concerned with the amount of people in the room while I was speaking. Because, in truth, there was only one person I meant these words for. Never mind that this person was perfect only in my imaginary world.

"...Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you..."

Except for a short-lived clap, it was strangely still in the lounge when I finished. I kept looking down, studying a thin red straw contrasting with the black liquid in my cup, and hating myself for this sudden outburst of bravery. My heart was jumping out of my chest. It was surprising I didn't stutter, choke, or simply dissolve on a spot while sharing something dear to me with others.

It was time to deal with the consequences. Bracing myself for further comments and praying I could exit gracefully, if needed, I raised my head. Focusing my eyes, I trained them on the spot where Edward stood earlier, only to find it empty. He was no longer in the lounge or anywhere around. Edward was gone.

The air escaped my lungs with a sharp, audible hiss, leaving me feeling like a deflected balloon – small, futile, used. Stunned and crushed, I blurted out an apology, and before anyone could speak to me, I ran out of the bookstore.


A/N: I would like to recommend 2 stories for you to read:

"Simplicity is Key" by Rags88, I love Mr. Chuckles!
"Evading Edward" by VampshaveLaws, Edward and Bella are so incredibly cute in trying to avoid each other:

*The poem used in this chapter is by Rainer Maria Rilke "I'm much too alone in this world".

Thank you for reading.