Happy Thursday to us all! I'm practically squealing because this has been my favorite chapter to write that's set in the present, and I hope you guys will tell me what you think! I'm not excusing Jasper, particularly because I was once in Bella's position, and I don't expect sympathy. But I hope he's interesting enough not to be labeled as just a jerk or bad guy. Anyway-enjoy! :D

The Reunion Part I

Jasper

I stand up and shake hands with the senator, before making my exit from the two hour briefing on the agricultural bill. Luckily, the meeting went relatively smoothly and it looked like the bill would be on the floor of the House soon. A few years ago, I would have been ecstatic to have even been in the room discussing any bill, but now there was just the faint satisfaction that I had earned my keep.

And now I get to go home, get drunk, and pass out. Perfect.

Ignoring the imminent self-flagellation I was clearly hurling towards, I quickly retreat to my office and pack everything up for the week. Just as I'm about to decide which bar to head to, my phone vibrates.

I groan, almost afraid to see who's texted me this time. I had already confirmed the holiday plans with my mother, called my dad to check in and let him know of the plans, and chatted with some old college friends about meeting up in the next week or two.

My pulse accelerates slightly at the thought of Alice texting me, and I feel dread start to pool in my stomach. I glance at the screen and feel myself sit down when I realize who it is.

It's Bella.

Where to begin with Bella Swan?

It's almost cliché how we met-I had just come from a disastrous dinner with Alice, after hearing about her happy life with her new shiny lawyer boyfriend, and I was looking to drown my sorrows.

As I downed my glass of bourbon, neat, I spotted her sitting alone at the bar. Her dark brown hair was piled up into a neat bun over her head, eyes fixed on her glass of wine. She was wearing a modest outfit-red sweater with jeans, but I remember how well they molded to her figure.

I stared at her like a creep in the corner while she frowned and checked her phone, impatiently tapping her finger on the bar table. For a brief, crazy second, I considered approaching her and charming her, using flirtation to help compartmentalize and forget.

But even I knew I'd be doing her a favor by staying away.

Curiously, I glanced up again to catch another glimpse of her, before I heard someone clear their throat from behind me. I froze and slowly turned around, a sheepish grin on my face.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, do I know you? Because if I don't, then you might want to stop leering. Seriously, the brooding in the corner thing? Only hot in romance novels."

I raised my eyebrows. Well that escalated quickly.

A bit tipsy and a lot intrigued, I flashed an innocent smile and replied, "I apologize. You don't know me, but you could and you should."

She rolled her eyes.

"Really? That's your line? You are really lucky you're decent looking." I perked up at this, but she simply held a hand up. "I'm stating a fact, not stroking your ego...or other things." This time I couldn't help but laugh.

She was certainly...different, that was obvious. Whether that was good or bad for me remained to be seen.

"So, based on your creepy close observation of me, what have you learned?" She asked airily, taking a seat next to me. I blinked, a bit surprised at her sudden change in attitude. She ran a hand over her bangs, staring expectantly at me.

I cleared my throat. "You're waiting for someone, that much is obvious. Your outfit is well put together but doesn't draw too much attention, which means you want to look nice but not advertise that you're here for a one night stand. I'm gonna go with-first date, met online."

Most women would have been impressed at my observational skills, or at the very least shocked. But she just knocked back her glass of wine, wiped her mouth demurely, and smirked while keeping her eyes steady on mine.

"Yes, yes, and yes on all accounts. Congratulations. He didn't show up, though, and now you've won the pleasure of my company." She signaled the bartender and ordered another drink.

I didn't even try to fight the genuinely amused smile that made its way onto my face. I didn't know where the night was headed, but for the first time in months, I felt like a man talking to an attractive, interesting woman without any baggage attached.

"Put it on my tab," I told the bartender, and she frowned at me. "I'm not looking for anything casual," she warned.

I held up my hand, and she startled a bit at the old fashioned gesture, before cautiously shaking it with hers.

"Jasper," I introduced lowly.

"Bella," she replied confusedly, as if she wasn't sure what was happening. "So, are you going to tell me why you look like the human version of Eeyore?"

I answered her question with a bitter smile of my own. "How much time do you have?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Well, an hour if you're pretty cool. A half-hour if you're tolerable. And five seconds if you're a total weirdo."

I chuckled. "Fair enough. So what can I say in the next five seconds to convince you I'm not a total weirdo? I take it the staring from afar thing and cheesy line didn't help."

Her drink arrived and she took a small sip. It's a nice wine, pretty popular among women. But instead of enjoying the taste or even pretending to tolerate it, she made a disgusted face and stuck her tongue out.

Is this girl for real?

"Sorry," she grimaced. "I know that's the not the appropriate reaction to a nice wine. But to be honest with you, I kind of hate the taste of wine. It's like juice that's gone bad. But how else does one build street cred in D.C.?"

Hmmmm. I watched her take another sip, as if the second time would magically improve. She winced, and I decided to go for broke. I waved the bartender over. "Hey, man, how are you? Can I get a glass of the 2012 Sangiovese? Thanks, I appreciate it."

I raised my glass to her. "You are about to fall in love. This is a milestone-finding a wine that you enjoy." She finally laughed. "Bring it on."

As I predicted, she cursed at the first sip. "Damn, that's smooth," she commented, taking another healthier sip and nodding towards me in recognition. "Nicely done."

I smirked. "Well, I had to make the five seconds count. Does this earn me more time?"

She placed the wine next to her and crossed her legs, making herself comfortable. "For now. So, Jasper-interesting name, by the way-where are you from?"

We spent the rest of the hour chatting about our backgrounds, and I discovered she grew up in Arizona before moving to Washington for high school, and attending Boston University for college. Funnily enough, I grew up outside of Boston and had gone to college in Seattle. We both reminisced over the weather, tourist traps, and local hot spots. We excitedly chatted about our college adventures and bemoaned the not so smooth transition into adulthood. By the end of the hour, I had realized that not only did we share several interests, hobbies, and opinions, but I hadn't thought about Alice at all.

And while I struggled with contacting her when I first walked into the bar, I then had absolutely no inclination to do so.

The conversation slowly lulled to a comfortable pause, and Bella pursed her lips and eyed me, almost cautiously. "So, can I now ask why you personified Eeyore when I walked over?"

I snorted. "I don't know if we have enough time for that story."

Her eyes briefly softened with sympathy, and I cursed inwardly. Why couldn't I just flirt with her like any other healthy male and stop moping around? Why was I still acting like a goddamned heartbroken teenager? Why couldn't I just be happy for-

Bella slammed her credit card down and stood up, catching the bartender's attention. "Alright, come on," she announced. I leaned back, trying to figure out what she was doing.

Her eyes glinted with challenge and determination. "Look, we're both clearly having a shitty night, when we should be enjoying this awesome city. So I think we should go somewhere where we can do that. You in?"

She's only had two glasses of wine, but there's a slight sway on her feet, so I know she's tipsy but not drunk. I had lived in D.C. for almost a year and hadn't even been to any of the museums or memorials. Instead, I buried myself with work and brooded over circumstances I couldn't change, and tried to convince people of truths I was no longer sure about.

Basically, I was fucking exhausted.

Mind made up, I grabbed my phone to call the uber. "Five minutes," I said, a twinge of excitement ricocheting through my bones. "Where exactly did you have in mind?"

She grinned brightly. "A place even better than Oprah's couch."


Twenty minutes later, we both sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. "I love it here," she said serenely. "It's cliche as hell, but I don't care. This is the best spot in D.C. You just can't help but feel...peaceful." She turned her face toward me, and I remember being struck by how the moonlight highlighted her brown eyes, cheekbones, and full bottom lip.

She wasn't a girl that caused your head to turn twice upon the first glance, with her brown hair, brown eyes, and petite figure. But I was starting to realize that she was the kind of girl that made you wonder why you never bothered to look closer in the first place.

Without any hesitation, she quietly said, "I know I'm just a stranger that you met, but I hope this place brings you a little bit of peace from whatever's bothering you."

She turned her face away, but I kept staring.

I didn't know why this whimsical, spontaneous girl had taken me to her favorite spot to make me feel better. I didn't know what she wanted, if anything, from me. I didn't know how I felt about being here with her, hours after hearing how happy Alice was in her new life.

But I also didn't care. Because I knew this would be the closest I would get to feeling peaceful.

"Thank you," I said softly. I watched my hand gently turn her head to mine, trembling briefly, before I lowered my face to hers. She didn't respond for a moment, until I felt her lips gently caress mine, nervous yet demanding. An interesting and intoxicating contradiction.

It was a moment of genuine gratitude and we both knew the haze of lust was absent when we pulled away.

She cocked her head and assessed me, probably trying to figure out what my game was or what I wanted.

"I want to forget," I answered, providing no more information.

For a second, I saw the brief return of the sympathy I received from her at the bar. But it was also filled with flickers of tenderness, of genuine caring, and while I didn't know what I wanted from her, I allowed myself to appreciate this foreign protection. With her sarcastic and confident exterior, I got the inkling that she didn't let herself get close to people very often, and I relaxed even more at the assumption.

She smirked, wiping all traces of the previous expression that I had been drawn to. "What's her name?" she asks nonchalantly.

Yes, I wanted to forget, and it looked like she was on the same page.

It would be the first and last time that was ever the case.


Returning to the present, I glance around the sports bar, trying to scrounge up any enthusiasm for the drunken antics of the college kids, the earsplitting screams of the bachelorettes, and the hungry, desperate looks of the bachelors.

I guess some things never change.

I take a deep breath, still a bit disbelieving that I'm here right now and that she replied to my text (albeit a week later). The initial shock of her somewhat conciliatory response ("Sure, let's meet up") quickly gave way to confusion and wariness, but I stopped myself from overthinking and texted back a time and place.

Although I've been able to keep that promise, I suddenly felt uncomfortable for the night ahead; I knew she wasn't the type of person to cause a scene in public, but I didn't want to be on the end of her barely restrained anger for the next hour or two. We had been many things, but passive-agressive had never been one of them.

As for my expectations of the night, I had decided against bringing up any part of the past, even if it meant feeling like a herd of elephants would be in the room.

I'm not sure where this would lead, or if we could be friends again, but we both trusted and cared for each other two years ago and it seems like a waste if we didn't try to at least attempt to repair what had been damaged.

Plus, what exactly do I have to lose?

I order a gin and tonic from the bar and try to remember if I called the auto shop to confirm the pick-up for tomorrow. For the most part, I fit the straight-laced, Hill staffer stereotype to a T (although I owned nicer suits-so sue me, I liked Armani), but there was something I could never resist: speed.

The only time I came close to being thrown in jail was when I raced down Highway 293 back home in Boston in a Ferrari that I had borrowed. And by borrowed, I mean stole. From a neighbor.

Ah, youth.

Anyway, aside from the typical male vices (a nice whiskey, strippers, some kind of illicit drug that you try a few times and then realize jail isn't attractive on a resume), I couldn't resist the adrenaline rush I got from my bike.

And no, I don't mean the pathetic eco-friendly red pieces of scrap metal that assault multiple street corners in D.C.; I'm talking about my Ducati Panigale 1199R. It was my one extravagant purchase during grad school, although I'd be lying if I said it had nothing to do with wanting to see the look on my mother's face.

While my stepfather had just rolled his eyes, indifference his main parenting technique, my mother had lost her composure and threatened to cut me off completely.

And she thought she didn't have any comedic talent. I thought her bit had been hilarious.

Plus, the differences between yelling at an eight year old for using the guest bathroom and a 28 year old for buying a fast bike with his inheritance were subtle, but there, which is what really mattered.

Afterwards, like almost every argument we'd ever had, my mother came to me and expressed her remorse and reiterated her position that everything she'd ever done was to "make me happy".

Yeah, tell that to your second husband who bashed my head in with a brick.

Childhood traumas aside (a good mindset to have when meeting up with a friend no doubt), I take a generous gulp of my drink before I see a flash of red on my left. I pivot around and automatically flash a crooked smile, trying to disarm any doubts or anxiety she might have.

She smiles back coolly, probably not sharing my intent, and asks, "What're you drinking?"

"A scotch on the rocks," I reply.

She simply rolls her eyes. "So poison. Awesome. I'll have a real drink-Long Island Iced Tea, please."

I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows. "Rough day? Happy Friday, by the way."

She crosses her legs, and I note idly how the fabric slides up her thigh. She's always had a slim figure, but I detect the subtle muscle tone displayed by the strapless sundress. I once told her I liked pastel colors on women, and in response, she bought a black dress, a dark blue dress, and a scarlet red dress the week after. "What you like doesn't concern me," she had said snarkily. "I'll dress however I like."

"Happy Friday," she acknowledges, referencing the same words she would text me at the end of every workweek. "My week was...interesting. Not so much bad, just strange." She frowns a bit at this, and I wonder if I should pry or just leave it alone.

It's a good sign that we can banter somewhat, but it still feels like we're in a weird place. By not trying to make things awkward, we resort to faking nonchalance so dutifully that it ironically hinted at our grasping for straws, at our desperation to find some kind of footing. Years earlier, we could sit in silence filled with contentment, whereas now everything just feels coated with an uncomfortable residue.

She turns towards me once she gets her drink and takes a sip. "So, what made you want to reach out?" She asks, and I realize we've skipped the aimless small talk of the evening. When we first met, half of our conversations consisted of jokes, harmless flirtation, and discussion of current events. We talked about Putin, asked how work was going, and confided over what crazy shit our families had dragged us into again.

I clear my throat and try to look earnest. "It's been two years. I wanted to see you." I try to keep my tone even, but I'm sure she can hear the uncertainty underneath. "How have you been?"

She smiles, but it's devoid of any emotion. Ironically, I understood her exact position. It's not easy to sit across from the table, engaging in conversation with the person who broke your heart. I want to ask her why she accepted if she's only going to keep her distance, but it's a dick move, especially this early in the evening.

"I've been fine," she replies robotically. "How's the new job?"

"It's...great. Everything's great. Congress is-"

"Great?" She finishes. Though her rigid posture doesn't change, I hear an echo of the sarcastic wit that used to punctuate her sentences, and see a brief flare of amusement in her eyes.

I feel my breathing slow and my body relax a bit.

"To be honest, I'm not sure why exactly I'm back here," I confess. "I love politics, and I'm grateful to have my job and work in one of the most powerful organizations in the world, but-I don't know. It's not the same."

She hums. "Yeah, a lot of things can happen in two years." This time, the edge in her voice returns with a vengeance.

Here we go. Granted, I don't know if I'm more surprised that it took this long to reach a moment of contention, or just disappointed. When I texted her, I thought we might be able to get past what had happened and start over.

For the first time since seeing her, I wonder if I've been completely wrong.

After a couple of seconds of more awkward silence, Bella suddenly deflates. She runs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit of hers, and studies me, resigned.

"Look, I don't want to fight with you, I really don't." Could've fooled me.

At my incredulous expression, she lets out a small, genuine laugh, and I'm warmed by the sound. "I'm willing to be civil. So let's start over-how is your job different from campaigning?"

I suspect it's not under the most voluntary of circumstances, and I know her well enough to sense that she was still conflicted over seeing me, but I take the opening and run with it.

"I appreciate that. Although for the record, I certainly wouldn't blame you. But my job's good. It's a bit more slow-paced than the campaign trail, but…"

And off we go. By the time we've both had a few drinks, everything almost feels back to normal, as if we both conveniently blacked out the last time we'd spoke at the Lincoln Memorial.

A shiver runs through me and she gives an excited jolt, much like she used to whenever she remembered something amusing or came up with an idea that she would later pretend to regret for propriety's sake, but secretly revel in her rebelliousness. I, of course, would not so secretly suggest to her that she was a complete deviant, which she would deny but then smile as if some secret goal had been accomplished.

I'm not sure how I still remembered these little tics, other than the obvious cliched explanation that it was like "riding a bike", although I wish I knew where I was going.

She laughs after hearing about my brunch with Jake. "Oh man, I can't believe he's on his third kid. I mean, financially he's secure, but isn't this the same guy who got into a fight with an ex-IRA member? At an Irish bar?"

I can't help but lose it with her, and we both reminisce over the New Year's celebration (fiasco) of 2013. "Yeah, he's grown-up these past few years. Well, in some ways. He still talks about getting a keg and tapping it, although I'm pretty sure Leah would be out the door if that ever happened."

She snickers. "Probably into Mike Newton's arms."

We both smile a bit wistfully before finishing our drinks and a sense of unexpected satisfaction drapes over me as I recall how many of my friends she's met.

"So…" she starts. I raise an eyebrow and cock my head. She glances at something behind me and asks breezily, "Have you been dating?"

I snort into my drink. "With my schedule? I'm not exactly a catch at the moment. How about you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Dating? Yes. Happily? No. Same old single bullshit," she snarks. For a brief second, I see her "I'm an empowered woman who don't need no man" armor crack, and I feel my chest tighten.

I clear my throat. "Amen to that," I say weakly, unable to contribute to this topic more than I already have.

She runs her fingers through her hair again and I notice how the light bounces off her golden honey-colored hair, almost two shades lighter than her previous hair color. She checks her phone and shoots me an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry, this has been...great, but I actually have to meet up with a friend tomorrow morning, so I should get going."

I nod and stand up next to her, as we walk towards the direction of the exit. It's still a decent night, with only a slight breeze that signals the imminent chilly weather.

In spite of this, Bella shivers and I smile. "Still need your own portable space heater, huh?" I joke, referencing the way I used to give her shit for being cold even when it was sunny and sub-tropical.

She shrugs. "I guess I'm just extra sensitive." We walk towards the metro station together silently, both of us trying to process the night.

I've heard from countless women that the one complaint they have about men (outside of bed) is that they never notice things or pay enough attention. "I don't need grand gestures," you all say. "I'd just like a little more proof that you care and you're thinking about me."

Well aside from the obvious assholes and commitaphobes, I think I can speak on behalf of the rest of us idiots when I say that we do notice things about you.

We notice when you're upset (maybe because you had a fight with your mom), when you're angry (Debbie from work was being a nosy bitch again), and when you're shocked (Scandal got canceled?!).

We notice when you're annoyed (very much so), when you're excited, and when you're jumping up and down on the furniture, ecstatic.

We notice when you're in pain, when you're frustrated, and when you're devastated beyond belief.

We notice these things-but we might not do or say anything.

Contrary to Nicholas Sparks novels, men are unaware of the magic combination of words to make you feel instantly better or feel instantly loved. We don't know if it's our place to take sides in an argument with your family or friends, and we don't know if it's a good idea to point out your bad ideas. We don't know what to do when you're upset and crying, and most importantly-

We don't know that we have the ability to break your heart.

Bella and I stop in front of the escalators, but instead of feeling like the end of a reunion, it feels like the end. A churning starts in my stomach, but I have no idea what to do or say. So I watch her chew nervously on her lower lip.

She takes a deep breath and smiles up at me, all wide-eyed and earnest. "Well, this went better than I thought it would," she says. "I'll see you around." Her expression turns to one of wistfulness, as if she has the same feeling that this might be it.

After almost four years of friendship, taking out the past two years, this was how we might end.

She steps in for a hug and I cautiously embrace her, getting a whiff of her perfume. Nothing had changed-I still didn't want to be in a relationship, but I wanted her as a friend.

I close my eyes for a brief second, and I recall the last time we spoke.

"I have feelings for you," she said, cautiously watching me. I raised my eyebrows and felt the bottom of my stomach drop out.

"W-what?" I stammered, thinking that I may have misunderstood. She shrunk a bit, not encouraged by my reaction, but continued. "I have feelings for you; romantic feelings. And I'm just wondering, given everything that's happened in the past few months, if you...if you, might feel something. For me. Too."

She chewed on her bottom lip, gaze steady on mine, radiating anxiety.

Oh fuck, I thought. This was going to be brutal.

"I can't," I replied softly. "I don't-honestly, I really like you, Bella. You're funny, sweet, smart, and beautiful, but I'm just-I don't think I can be with you. I'm so sorry." I watched her stiffen and then nod robotically.

"Right," she said. "Wow. Um, ok. I think-I think I should go."

I looked at her helplessly, torn between offering more half-assed explanations and apologizing. Before she turns around, I catch a glimpse of her bottom lip trembling, and I wanted to hurt myself.

I did this to her. I made the strongest, most confident woman I knew, doubt herself.

Bella pulls away, and I clear my throat, trying to shake myself awake. She smiles one last time at me, and I bring myself to reciprocate. "I'm glad we did this. I really missed you."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her smile drops and her eyes dim. I wonder if I shouldn't have been this honest, but it felt wrong to end such a great night on fake pleasantries that I couldn't help myself. We had been best friends for almost four years, until that night.

She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head, startling me.

When she bring her eyes to mine, I see no signs of the warmth that existed a few seconds ago. There isn't even the aloofness from the beginning of the evening. She simply looks resigned, not so much with wary acceptance, but muted surrender.

"I wish I could believe you," she says quietly. "Goodbye, Jasper."

I watch her turn around and slowly disappear into the station, while I clench and unclench my fist.

I deserve her last shot, but I'm at a loss over what to do.

The night progressed so well, giving me hope we could start over, but now it feels like we're both right back where we were two years ago.

If I were a Nice Guy, one she truly deserved, I would race down to the station before she got on the train and launch into a passionate speech.

"I'm an idiot," I would start. "These past few years have been miserable without you in my life in some capacity, and I wish I had reached out. I wish I had apologized the night of the Lincoln Memorial.

Basically, I wish I had tried with you. Because as much as I don't believe in blissful relationships and all that bullshit anymore, I wish I did for you."

But like I said, I'm not that guy.