This one goes to sah0004 for being spectacular and for giving me feedback and for telling me to KEEP GOING, despite my lack of reviews.

You get a Jasper tip of the hat. Swoon. And a raised shot glass from me. Not as hot, I know, but…here's to you.

This chappie was a smidge…different. I don't know. I just went with it, we'll see how you like.

I own purple sunglasses, a neon green headband and a 70's alarm clock. Not these characters. That's all SM.


It's cold.

I'm walking through downtown Port Angeles at a quarter 'til midnight and I'm really fucking cold.

There are lights dancing around me, random blasts of music, pulsing bass and then silence, the bouncing of red and yellow and green on a sticky sidewalk.

I clutch my purchases to my chest (a used copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets and a withered, heavy English dictionary) and hold my sweater over my shoulder.

Because I don't want to put it on.

I'm wearing a short black dress that shows too much cleavage and high top converse. Sometimes there are nights when I feel the need to dress up and put on a mask of make-up and go out and watch people cross streets and stare at walking signs changing and flirt with the boy at the coffee shop.

It's being in a place where nobody knows me. I'm a stranger to them like they're all strangers to me. Even as someone brushes by me, ogles my tits, glances at me for less than a second; they are all strangers. They all have their own lives and somehow, I've managed to sneak into each one of them. Not significantly, but present for a moment in time nonetheless. Like being in the background of a picture taken by a someone you don't know. You won't ever know you were in it. But when they develop their film, they'll see your face staring at the camera, blurry and haunting, blankly gazing into the lens of a camera belonging to a stranger. A mistake. They don't know who the hell you are. But, they accept it. It's okay.

You're allowed to make your mark on something so small.

I'm shivering and I think I can hear my teeth clicking against each other and someone has just made a pass at me or my boobs (I think) but all I can do is walk. And just stare at everything. Night and darkness and vitality.

It's so cold.

I can feel it. And I love that I can feel something so severe, so in-your-face, so biting and unwavering and powerful. It nips at my hair, at my cheeks, at my dress, wanting pieces of me to take along the rest of its journey.

I feel alive.

I don't give a shit that I'll probably get sick or that my stomach is growling or that my eyes are drooping or that nothing ever makes sense because…

I'm alive and cold and real.

Alone. Just…waiting. For my life to happen.

I'm tired of being surrounded by strangers who think they know the real me. Who think they know the solutions to my problems. Who think they know what I want.

The hell they do.

Nobody does.

Not even me.

I long for companionship but despise that calculating turn of lip. I long for someone to finish my sentence but am fearful of predictability.

I'm sick of feeling lonely and lost in a crowd.

I love the unaccountability and the curiosity and the fleetingness of being surrounded by people I don't have a care to know.

Alienation can be a blessing in disguise.

Maybe.

I am a mystery even to myself. Do I embrace it?

Or fight it?

Can sanity be judged by just one person?

I'm pulling up to my house, my truck loud and grumbling from the long journey home, and I park, idling the engine, hesitant to pull out the key. My house looks ominous and silent, the windows dark and the porch creaking with the wind.

It's the only refuge I've ever known. And now it reminds me of the haunted houses I used to play ding-dong-ditch on with my friends. I was pro at dares.

No fear. I was that tomboy girl who was up for anything, who dreamed of being a pirate, and who wished her parents were secret agents.

Whatever happened?

Well.

My parents' marriage was an act of young, irrational love. It burned hot, then cold the day my mom walked out. And left me behind.

Just like me. Once a sassy, vibrant firebird. Now a desolate, angry cynic just watching the world pass me by. A simple, vindictive observer.

She called every birthday, holiday, just because. To make up for it, I guess. It sure as hell didn't make growing up without her all better. Her love was embodied in that check that came every month.

End of story.

I would just take that damn check and deposit it into the same account. Every time.

Just because she fucked her life up didn't mean I had to.

I accepted it, my lonely childhood. And that's just the way things were.

I was going to college. I was going to have some substance, some reason to stay in the same place, if only for the next four years. If I did crave change if wouldn't be because I was flighty or unstable or restless…just no.

It wouldn't be because I was in any way like my mom. Like Renee Dwyer, that lady who was paying my future tuition to Escape-From-the-Average-Hell-Hole-of-Life University.

She didn't deserve to have me spend the rest of my life regretting the fact that I did not have a visible mother around as a child. Besides, I had Charlie. He was a straight-forward, ask-no-questions kind of guy who loved me from afar. Too scared and too hurt to get more involved. Needless to say, he was there when I needed him. Answered when I asked him a question. Reminded me that I wasn't alone in that decrepit, whispering house.

She had her life. He his. And I had mine.

We were all so different, even if we shared the same blood. Even if we could've been one happy family. We all chose to walk down paths away from each other.

Hell, I was running. I wanted out.

I reversed back out of the driveway, longing for anything but my room and its dark corners. The engine roared in my ears, disrupting the cold silence of my neighborhood.

I smiled with the glee of ruling the night at three a.m. My eyelids fought for control and my mind pushed the haze of sleep forcefully to the deep crevices of my brain. I felt high and natural and mysterious under the seductive coat of darkness and moon and stars.

It was funny how night made you feel like you could do anything. Completely unstoppable. I basked in the feeling.

I rolled down my window, letting the sharp wind whip my hair back from my face and hit my eyeballs. Everything else was still as I wheeled past, loud and giddy and flying. I drove to my favorite hangout.

Thank God for 24-hour donut shops.

I pulled in to the familiar spot just outside Forks. It was like a beacon of light, calling to me with promises of fried goodness and caffeine.

The 'Always Open' sign made me feel at home as I stepped in, my jacket thrashing about me. I walked through the doors, smelling baked sweets and too-hot coffee, stuffing my hair into my hood, and surveyed the room.

I wasn't surprised to see people here. People on computers, people snoring with their heads on tables, people reading and studying. People who were just like me. At the same exact place.

I was, however, severely disappointed.

I was no longer the special, all-powerful creature of the night. Just some random girl running from nightmares. Who needed coffee. Badly.

I mouthed 'I'll be right back' to the poor bastard at the register, pointing to the bathroom down the hallway situated off to the side.

I tried not to teeter into a wall on the way there, focusing on the door as if it was the fucking light at the end of the tunnel. Like I said, I needed coffee.

I peed for what seemed like forever, noticing a new scuff on my shoe. I washed my hands and looked up into the splattered mirror and scared the living shit out of myself.

Jesus. I looked like a zombie. Hell, I felt like a zombie.

My eyes were half-closed, my eyebrows sloping down as if they themselves needed to take a rest too, my make-up smeared and my hair looking windblown and wild. I was a mess that even I didn't feel like cleaning up.

I dried my hands and used my index fingers to push up my eyebrows, attempting to look somewhat normal. They just slumped back down.

Eh. I turned the handle on the knob and walked out, looking down at my shoes. I had a weird feeling I was always looking at them. That is, when I wasn't taking in my surroundings. Somewhere in my jumble of thoughts I observed that my laces were untied. On both feet. I faintly hummed that stupid tune about putting one foot in front of the other.

And collided with something. I looked up expecting a wall but saw a face instead.

A really, really, attractive face. With emerald eyes and square jaw and 5'oclock shadow and fuck me.

It was him.

My hero.

Not again. With his hands in the same exact place, burning holes into my skin.

We stared, both just unsure of what the hell to do next. I hoped he recognized me. Or didn't. I wasn't sure which would be more humiliating. Either way, I recognized him.

I hadn't been around him for more than two seconds and I was already dying to touch him. Fighting myself as much as gravity, I attempted to detach myself from his strong, capable hands.

But he wouldn't let go. He was still supporting me. It actually, kind of, truly pissed me off.

Because. Who the hell was he to be here, right now, catching me and saving me and being all beautiful and warm and beautiful?

"What the fuck is your problem?" I asked. Demanded, really. I don't know why I was mad. But, who the hell questions emotions this early in the morning?

I was a girl. We're irrational like that, right?

He looked completely taken aback. His mouth just hung open. And it was really turning me on. That made me even more mad.

I swatted away his hands because, fuck, he looked so damn good at three in the morning. And, honestly, fuck him for being able to wear one of those douche beanies and a stupid aviator jacket and look like he just walked out of an 'effin magazine ad.

My vision tilted to the side. Fuck. Why wouldn't anything stay still?

"Whoa. Hey, I got you." Firm hands caught me again. I could get used to this. "Are you okay?"

Smooth.

Gentle.

And everything broke. Because no one had ever asked me that and really cared about my answer. And his voice, just really wanted to know if I was. Okay, I mean.

And then my cheeks were wet. And I was crying and sobbing those big, dramatic, stupid sobs that penetrated deep down into my chest and everything was shaking and I couldn't see and I just couldn't stop. I was all over the place tonight.

Poor, poor little me.

"Shit" was all I heard as I felt him lower us down onto the floor, leaning us both against the wall and guiding my head into his chest as my shoulders shook and my chest heaved, releasing silent tears that just came crashing and crashing and pushing and pulling and stealing my breath away.

Oh hell. I was being such a girl. But I couldn't help it. I'd never had the chance. Damn my dysfunctional upbringing, damn my delusional mother, damn my need to prove something to everybody, damn my judgmental and distrustful outlook on fucking everything, damn…just damn it all to hell.

I was too far gone emotionally to be embarrassed.

And then I was hiccupping. Weak, miserable hiccups as I tasted salt and leather and felt his hands, soothing and tentatively rubbing circles on my back.

Huh. Have I mentioned I love being a girl?

I started counting my breaths and I had gotten to about ten when suddenly, he pulls back, tipping my chin up before I could tuck it in shame.

I probably looked like a hideous raccoon. After it's been run over.

And God. Edward was just there. Edward Cullen was comforting me. And as snot ran down my lip and mascara slipped down my cheeks like black tears and spit hung off the side of my face, he looked me in the eye and made me forget all those things.

We were so close. Breathing each other's air. The black circles under our eyes a mirror of our mutual insomnia. Of our shared escape from sleep and peace.

"Do you have a hair clip?" He asks, all soft and husky and sleepy.

I nod, my eyes trapped in his penetrating gaze, reaching my hand in my jacket pocket to confirm that I did, in fact, bring one with me.

"Go into the bathroom, get all that fucking make-up off your face, put your hair up, and tie your goddamn shoes. Okay?" He slips a lock of my hair behind my ear. I'm too tired to blush.

I attempt to give him my best who-the-hell-are-you look. But I think it comes out looking like my eyes are permanently crossed and my jaw is no longer connected to my face.

He laughs softly. His breath smelling of coffee and, shit, I want him to kiss me. "I have an older sister in college. She had breakdowns all the time. Let me guess, chocolate donut?"

I beamed without really even thinking about it, teeth and all. "With sprinkles."

When he stared at my mouth a second longer than necessary, I was horrified that I might have something stuck in my teeth. Not that I could remember the last time I ate something. But, gah, no man can offer chocolate without making a girl's day. Or night. Or morning.

What-thefuck-ever.

He gripped my elbows as I stood up. Then placed his hand on my lower back, keeping me steady as he opened the bathroom door and closed it on his way out. "If you take longer than six minutes, I'm going to break down the door." He spoke through the wooden barrier.

I smiled in spite of myself. I don't think I've ever smiled this much in a whole day.

Kneeling down to tie my shoes, I pondered the absurdity of my circumstances. And decided that if this was some sick joke, some dream I'd have to wake up from, well I just didn't give a fuck. Because I'd take it.

I stood up and stared at the mirror. "We meet again."

I proceeded to follow his instructions--scrubbing my eyes and blowing my nose and pulling my after-sex(pah!) hair into a messy bun--without ever looking in the mirror again. He made me, just not care.

I did, however, notice that my teeth had no remnants of food and were not, as I had also feared, falling out. Interesting.

I walked out of the bathroom and scanned the room again, this time secretly thrilled when I was met with a familiar face. Someone I knew. Someone I could share a table with.

I barely made it to the corner table where he was sitting before grabbing my coffee and gulping it down like it was the last bottle of water on earth. After I'd finished about half I swiped my sleeve over my mouth (no mother, remember?) and sat down, looking over at Edward.

His mouth was open. Again. This time, I reach over and push it shut. I squint my eye at him. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing. I just. That's coffee. Hot coffee. And you just straight chugged that bitch."

I shrugged. My eye still squinting. I think it was stuck. "High tolerance from my many years of long nights. What did you put in it?" I asked, curious. But it came out sounding more accusatory than I had intended.

"Two sugars. Some half-and-half and some non-fat milk." He listed nonchalantly.

I was surprised. Oh, wait, older sister. Right.

"Actually, I don't put non-fat milk in my coffee. Just lots of cream." I gestured at my scrawny body. I had always been like that. I never really worried about non-fat anything. Alice hated me for it. Even though she was skinnier than me and had all the right curves. Maybe she was just envious of my height? "I like it sweet."

His eyes followed my hand. And remained glued to my chest. I thought I was wearing a jacket…

Oh. I look bewilderingly down at my opened jacket and displayed cleavage. Whoops. I snapped my attention back up to him, curious as to what the hell was going on behind that dark gaze and if my boobs were really nice enough to tempt him.

His eyes traveled slowly back up to my face, lingering and hot all over, and when he realized I had been watching him the entire time, he quirked his eyebrow and smirked at me. Completely unapologetic. Completely and totally asking to be thrown against the wall. "Long night?" He inquired, oozing innuendo and sex.

I was suddenly ravenous.

For that chocolate, sprinkled donut sitting right beside my coffee. I took a huge bite and muttered an "umm-hummph" and tried to look anywhere but at him. I justified it by thinking that 'long night' could mean a variety of different things despite the sinful look in his eyes.

Despite my nonexistent social life. Or sex life. Or real life.

Sometimes I wondered if I just sucked at living. Period.

The donut was delicious and amazing and wonderful in all its fattening glory. I distantly tried to recall that adage about starving men and horrible food. Eh.

As soon as I was finished, I started licking the tips of my chocolate-covered fingers and froze when I realized he was staring at me. Well, at my mouth, as I sucked the sugar remnants off my skin. Hungrily.

"Did you get a donut?" I blurted out, needing an excuse not to jump across the table, straddle his lap and lick his neck and throw caution to the wind.

"No." He shook his head, side to side, slowly. As if trying to focus really hard on something.

I tilted my head to the side, waiting patiently because I knew there was something he wanted to say.

"I never…" He paused, hesitant. He looked up at me all questioning and sincere and crazy handsome. "It's just really fucking hot watching a girl eat with like, no reservations."

I huffed. Completely embarrassed and shocked by his revelation.

"No, no. Don't take that the wrong way." He held his hands up in front of him, as if convincing the enemy he was surrendering. "It's just that…" He looked away.

No. We were not talking about her. This was my dream. She wasn't in it.

She already ruled reality. I would get to her problems when I woke up.

"Yeah." I say. "I know." Even though I'm not sure I do.

We both looked at each other and knew. Some things were better left unsaid.

For now.

We were hiding out, seeking cover under the black of night and the neon of donut shop lights.

And then I remembered. That I was sitting across from Edward Cullen. That I had cried snot all over him. That he had been caught staring at me, on more than one occasion. This stuff didn't happen to people like me.

"Is this for real?" I asked, needing the see the reassurance in those green eyes. Something real in him, to tie me down to where I was in this moment.

Right…

Now.

"Yes." He replied solemnly, his eyes never leaving mine. An anchor weighing down my restless spirit. Somehow, he understood how important the question really was.

Somehow, he knew not ask why. Or how. Or when. Or what-the-hell.

We could just…be.

We eased into conversation like we'd known each other all our lives. Forgetting that he was a cocky, rich prick and I a derisive, cutting hard-ass.

We talked about college and school drama and laughed over Emmett's ploy to get revenge on his teachers and snickered over Jessica's rumored fling with Mr. Banner and criticized each others' musical taste and quoted Oscar Wilde and Emerson and freakin' Byron and fought over the significance of Howl and slam poetry and drank coffee. Lots of coffee.

And I forgot who he was. Who he was supposed to be. Because this Edward, was a helluva lot better than the gorgeous boy I watched from afar.

And he was even more gorgeous up close.

I felt liberated. Somehow, I could see parts of myself when I was talking to him. Pieces I recognized and pieces that surprised me, but all pieces that made up a part of who I was.

It was like looking in the mirror one day and finally saying, "Oh there you are. I've finally found you. You're me. That's what I'm supposed to look like."

Only I was looking at him. And he wasn't a reflection, but a reminder to keep looking in that mirror, to keep waiting until I'd found all those missing pieces.

I hardly noticed when the sun did come up, peeking over the edge of the earth, sprinkling nature with its light. All I remember was him checking his watch, rays of sun shining off the silver metal, and him saying he'd walk me to my car.

I threw away my trash slowly, squeezing my half-full cup of coffee as a token of this night and wishing I could just live my whole life in this stupid donut shop if it meant spending it with Edward.

He opened the door and gestured for me to walk through. I did so and then stopped, waiting to follow behind him, in awe of the sparks of sun that glinted off his back, lustrous and framing and glowing light around his silhouette.

And despite my current state of autopilot, I still had the ability to appreciate the deep V that was showcased as Edward stretched his arms high over his head. I think I actually moved forward a bit, battling the urge to squat down in front of him, wanting to just stare at it all day.

Glorious.

He turned to me, eyes crinkled and tired and adorable. "So. I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

That was all.

You know in the movies, when some asshat delivers that line, that one fucking line, that throws everything off-balance, and you hear that weird, ripping sound of a record being all fucked up?

I swear to effin' God that was the noise that was now reverberating off the walls of my brain. I almost wanted to ask loverboy over there if he had heard it as well.

Maybe this was something he just did. You know, like not recognize people he saved or charm random strangers to get in their pants.

Was that it?

Of course. He was fucking Edward Cullen. And I was nobody. But that sure as hell didn't mean that he could fuck around with my head. Or my heart. My mind dully noted that I probably hadn't been the first.

You two-timing, sleazy son of a bitch.

"So, this is the real you, huh, Cullen?" I murmured softly, not caring whether or not he heard me and not wanting to admit just how much this fact hurts. But I think he does hear me because for a second he looks sad and surprised and confused. Like a little boy. Then it's gone, leaving me unsure of ever having witnessed it in the first place. And before I allow myself to process all that shit, I make myself hone in on the anger, the fury, of his cavalier statement.

Of not knowing my name.

Because rage…is not perplexing and irresolute and feeling sorry.

It's easy.

Older sister, my ass.

"Fuck you." I tell him, all fierce and precise and lady in control. I was trying to overcompensate for the pain shooting up my ribs. Turning to take a step away from him, I thought of how easily life's happiest moments can turn into its worst. I was just another goddamn walking statistic.

Edward, the real one, was not who I thought he was. And I wanted to cry just from the stupidity of that sentence. How cliché. Maybe the facade was his truth, was his reality, and I just wanted to hope that there was something more. Something real behind it. Human.

"Now wait, would you just hang on for sec?" I could hear that stupid smirk in his ridiculously sexy voice.

Why in fuck's name would he be smirking when all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and die?

And because I'm a pathetic little girl (and because I was still a sucker who believed in happy endings and second chances), I stop. And wait with my back still turned, arms hanging and fists clenched.

"Seeing as we spent all this time getting to know each other…I just figured I deserved something." He paused, all suave and dramatic and talk-show host.

I waited some more, looking away but seeing nothing. Nothing at all.

"Like maybe…a kiss?" He had the nerve to make the last part start out as a question but end as a demand. I don't even really know how.

On top of that, the assfuck had the nerve to sound like I was so goddamn lucky to have the honor of even wanting to be kissed by the Edward Cullen, boyfriend extraordinaire.

I was seriously getting tired of using his first and last name when referring to the guy. It was getting old. And it was making me angry.

I saw red.

Because Edward Cullen (dammit) just spent the night with me, in a donut shop, spewing philosophical shit and connecting and being my world and he doesn't even fucking know my name.

That was it.

I walked calm, brisk strides until I was up in his face and I pulled my fist back and I punched his cheek with everything in me because, really, you don't fuck with Isabella Swan.

I refused to touch his mouth despite my true heart's desire to smack that damn smirk off his face. Yes, this concern was premeditated. Sue me.

He didn't budge. I mean, his head had turned with the force of the blow, but fuck, he could have at least staggered back, like in the movies. But no. Instead, I was the one who stepped back, tenderly cupping my throbbing knuckles with my other hand, attempting to mask any pain that might make it to my face.

The fact that I was extremely pissed did not need to be masked.

I continued to take steps backward, frantically trying to remember where I parked and wondering what in the hell I was supposed to do now. Call him names?

" You… conniving MOTHERFUCKER!" I screamed at him, still backing away. Trying really, really hard not to cry. Because he hadn't recognized me. Because he was a silly, immature boy who needed to grow up and be…real.

And then, sweet Mother Mary and Joseph, he's fucking laughing at me.

Douchebag.

"I know you want me." He smirked again, leering at me. His eyes mocking and his hair curling out from underneath his beanie. I wanted to kick him in the crotch.

Because he was right.

But that wasn't the point.

Fucker.

"This." he gestured at his swelling cheek (which I looked upon with pride).

"Is all…foreplay." He finishes, his eyes raking up and down my body, all sex and lust and mmm-fuck, that bloody shit-eating smirk still playing on his too-red lips.

I don't even know how to react to that one. My butt suddenly slams into a car while I'm fighting hard not to sob and trying even harder not to run and shove my lips onto his, and I'm still trying to back up. Wanting to run away from this crazy, surreal situation but not being able to tear my eyes away from it, in true, masochistic form.

I brace my hand on the car, fighting to catch my breath, my head reeling and spinning and then, shit, this is HIS car.

And suddenly my body and mind and heart are one. Confident and sure as hell in this one endeavor.

"Foreplay this, bitch." I say as I dump the rest of my coffee on the shining hood of his too-fucking-expensive automobile. I then crush the cup, turning angrily, yet triumphantly, on my heel and chucking the damn thing over my shoulder, without looking back.

Asswipe.

I have to fight the urge to do a victory dance when I miraculously recall where I parked.

Only about two cars over from his. Not as long a sexy, to-hell-with-you strut as I would've liked, but alas, this was reality. Not Hollywood. It was good enough for me.

I got the last word.

Ha.

Dickwad.

I turn toward the driver's side of my vehicle, digging through my pockets for my keys, frantically needing to get in my truck because if I didn't soon I would look over at him and everything I had just proved would all be shot to hell. Because if he looked at me like that again, I was most definitely gonna do something 'bout it. And that something just might happen up against his coffee-splattered car door. Donut customers be damned.

A girl can only take so much.

I victoriously shoved the key into the lock and got into my car, planning on revving my engine and screeching out of the parking lot, all at about five miles-per-hour but with really awesome sound affects. I'm blowing a strand of hair off my forehead and checking my mirrors and getting ready to get the fuck out and--

"See ya at school, Bella."


Longest chapter yet. Whew. I'm actually excited to leave you guys with a cliff-hanger just to see how y'all respond. IF you respond.

Per usual, me, the crazy bitch lady author is hounding for reviews. So, please, make my day?

Hit the button. What is Edward Cullen up to? If you ask questions, I just might give a hint of an answer.

Oh, and sah0004, you are one lovely BAMF. I mean that in every fantastic, possible way.

Until next time.