(+)(+)(+)Far Away Flame(+)(+)(+)

"Okay, so where's our first stop?" I ask, bouncing a little in my seat while I pull the car door closed behind me. I still can't believe the improbable happened and we're spending some time catching up.

"You'll see."

I rub my hands together in front of the vents after Edward blasts the heat. "We're not gonna get arrested for trespassing, right?"

His mouth falls open. "Now, when did you ever know me to be a rule-breaker?"

"Never," I agree as our truck creeps down the quiet, wooded street. "But you still surprised me over the years."

In less than twenty seconds, Edward turns into the sandy parking lot of Brooks Field. "Fine, name one time I surprised you." He drives up to the front door of the old summer day camp Craft Shop and pulls the keys from the ignition while I deliberate whether I should open this can of worms. "I'm waiting," he teases, his arms open wide.

I huff. "Okay, how about you losing your virginity when you were only fifteen years old?"

"WHAT? To who?"

I raise my eyebrow, a little too condescendingly, and then reel it in before the men in white coats jump out of the bushes and haul me off for being irrationally bothered by something that happened fourteen years ago.

"Dorie Chester." Equal parts harlot and bane of my existence.

"Where on earth did you hear that crap?" He steps out of the car, and I follow him up to the door.

"I can't believe you're denying that and hello? I thought you said we wouldn't be trespassing!" I whisper-shout, now glued to his side and twitchy with nerves that the flashing lights and sirens might appear, and I'm the dope who'll end up getting caught.

He motions to the handle. "There's no lock. Plus, we're just gonna take a look around." His finger now points at me before he twirls it around in a circle. "And we're coming back to this bogus virginity story too, by the way."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter, armed and ready with the hickey proof I saw on both of them with my own eyes. Walking through the musty entrance of the log cabin, I'm inches behind him and ducking, even though the ceiling is a good twenty feet high. I'm convinced there are night-flying creatures ready to swoop down out of the rafters. "How did you even know this place would be open and accessible?"

He snickers. "I didn't. But I was here yesterday helping a buddy out, installing a new fridge and deep freezer for the concessions window. We accidentally busted the corroded lock on the door when we left." His half-smile helps to calm my jitters while he pulls a mini-flashlight out of his back pocket. "I took a chance that Kurt hadn't gotten back here to replace the lock yet. Let's face it. This place has seen better days; they're hardly protecting a gold mine."

It's true; the building is ancient and run down . . . probably needs to be condemned. The Craft Shop at Brooks Field still serves as a concession stand during community softball and soccer games in the spring and fall, but in its heyday, it also used to buzz with activity every summer during Medford Lakes Day Camp. For eight years, we came in here for our hour-slot of arts and crafts: tie-dying t-shirts, making wooden napkin holders, painting ceramics . . . we always did all sorts of decent projects, never chintzy stuff. And of course, we gradually painted and starred our wooden plaques—one section each summer—until achieving our bronze shield after spending that final 8th-grade summer as a counselor-in-training.

"Did you like coming back as a counselor?" I ask, running my hand along the shelf that still holds the same white, orange, yellow and green-colored cans of paint, which coated the four corners of the shield.

"I was a junior counselor for a year, but then I started the painting gig for my dad and never returned to camp. You?"

"Oh, I came back for a while," I say, nodding. "Spent a few years as junior counselor and then did another four as a regular counselor. It was easy money, especially when I was in charge of the older girls. They just wanted to sit around under the trees and talk about boys when we weren't at swim lessons, tennis, or here at the shop," I say with a laugh. "I got paid to lay out and tan. Those were fun summers."

"Sounds like it."

"Of course, it became a little nerve-wracking the summer after we graduated, when my girls nominated me for Miss Medford Lakes. They had me convinced half the town was voting for me because I was the popular camp counselor."

"Yo, I totally remember when your picture was pinned up around the town." He barks out a laugh.

"Please, I was terrified of winning. I didn't want to spend Canoe Carnival stuck on a decorated themed-float all night, sailing around a lake for two hours."

"I can't remember if I voted or not. If I did, I'm sure it was for you," he pledges, hand over his heart.

"Believe me, I was much happier losing. I'm sure with leaving for college at the end of that summer, I never would've been able to fulfill my all-important duties as Queen throughout the year." I mark off my fingers. "Cutting ribbons at new stores, plugging in the town Christmas tree's lights, riding on the back of the convertible Sebring at the Halloween and Memorial Day Parades . . ."—I shake my head, drama and silliness drips from my every word—"Too much pressure, I would've had to abdicate the throne." I hope that slipping college into my explanation might help us tackle that subject, but he doesn't take the bait.

"Remember lining up on the blacktop every morning for attendance?" He shakes his head, pushing himself up on the counter near the window. "Never failed that it was already roasting at 8:30 A.M., and they still made us sit on that hot pavement for damn near a half hour."

I snort. "Thank goodness for towels and thermoses filled with ice water." I lean against the picnic table that's been splattered a thousand times by campers. It looks like a Jackson Pollock reject. A vivid memory strikes me and I have to smile. "Hey, do you remember one of your counselors making you guys march and sing as you walked between activities?"

His eyes narrow, looking like he's scrolling through his mental Rolodex. "Oh, man . . . I think so. We were really young. I can picture it, like walking from the field outside down to the beach for swim lessons or something."

"I did my little-girl version of swooning back then, watching you guys. There she was, just a—walking down the street, singing . . ."

"Doo wah diddy, diddy dum, diddy doo." Edward busts out laughing after he sings the refrain back to me. "Holy shit. Now that one was from way back in the vault. That must've been one of the earlier summers, maybe after first or second grade. The counselor would sing the verse and we had to echo back to him." He laughs. "Too funny."

I can't help but smile. I'm finding it so easy to talk to him again. Despite the changes I saw in him through the years, and even when we grew apart as we got older, I believed he was still fundamentally my forever friend—my Edward. It's hard to ignore the giddy crushing feelings that try to surface.

"Camp was cool." I nod, looking around again. "Learned all sorts of stuff here."

He quirks his eyebrow. "Care to share?"

"Ummmm . . ." I trail off trying to come up with a decent memory. "Oh! Yeah, learned how to shave my legs."

"Ha!" He hops down from the counter and jerks his head. Guess we're off to our next stop. "What, did you all bring razors and soap or something?"

"No. Pretty sure a few of the mean girls bullied a crowd of us who still hadn't ventured into shaving yet. I went home that night and took my mom's pink Lady Bic and shaved a smooth streak right up the center of my shin." He smacks his palm to his forehead, listening and chuckling, like my silly story truly matters to him. "I was so terrified my parents were gonna flip out. I made sure to wear my knee socks pulled up at all times till the hair grew back, and then I asked my mom if I could start using Nair the next week."

"You girls had it rough," he calls across the hood of his black F-150. "Guys didn't have to go through any of that junk. As long as we made it through the voice change with as much dignity as possible and didn't inadvertently pitch a tent around the pretty girls, it was smooth sailing."

I giggle. "So, don't leave me hanging . . . did you pitch any tents at inopportune times?"

He sends me his killer smile. "I'll take the fifth on that one."

"Chicken," I say with another chuckle, strapping the seat belt across my lap. "So, what's next?"

"Let's just cruise around for a bit and see what we can see. You in?"

I haven't heard a peep from Tyler. I'm sure he's drunk, neck-deep in poker chips and scantily clad women, but I trust him. And Emmett would never let him do anything stupid. I've got nothing to worry about. Plus, I'm having too good of a time with Edward to call it a night just yet.

"You're the driver,"—I raise my palm—". . . go for it."

.

.

.

We spend the next forty minutes laughing and reminding each other of goofy stories about old friends. We drive by every landmark and building that ever meant anything to us as kids, in a town that has twenty-two lakes weaving between countless trees in its one and a half square miles. We truly lived in the woods. It was always a close-knit community, a great place to raise a family. Nothing ever infiltrated our perfect bubble.

"Uhh, I have an idea for our next destination, but we need to make a stop first, and no, it doesn't involve trespassing," he reassures, winking.

"And I was just getting used to thug life."

He snorts, shaking his head. "I'd forgotten how damn funny you are. Thug life."

.

.

.

"Thank goodness for 24-hour drive-thru windows." I raise my cup and tap it against his. "Good call on the Shamrock Shakes."

Edward nods, his cheeks completely sunken while he sucks the thick shake through the straw before coming up for air. "Toldja."

"Fry?"

"Thanks." He grabs a few and pops them in his mouth before turning into the darkness of Mohawk Trail, one of the arteries stretching from one end of the town to the other. "I can't dip yet. That'll have to wait till our next stop."

"Friends don't let friends dip and drive," I promise. "It's my job to help keep you safe."

We both laugh as he makes his final turn, and I realize where we're headed. "Nokomis playground?"

"Hell yeah! How many times did you, me, Jazz, and Embry come down here to play after we got our homework finished?" He points after shifting into park. "And sledding down that hill? This place rocked."

We walk through the woods, dipping our fries into the minty shakes and make our way onto the same field where he chose me over the other girls who clamored for his attention all those years ago. The nostalgia is an arrow to my heart. Not enough to cause it to break, but enough to make me aware that the pang exists.

I have to wonder if that lingering twinge will always be there when it comes to Edward and I.

Assuming he's not feeling any of these chick-ish emotions, I try to snap myself out of my momentary blue funk. "I'd say, 'race ya to the tire swing' if I wasn't wearing three-inch heels."

"And taking your shoes off would be the worst mistake because the sandspurs are growing like crazy since we've had so much rain."

I look at him, surprised. "Is that what they're called?" I hum. "I remember always calling them—"

"Hitchhikers? Yeah, I did, too. But you know my dad, ever the science teacher and always ready with an environmental lesson in his pocket protector."

We head to the back of the field where the tire swing is still hooked up to the old oak tree on the playground. "May I?" I ask, stepping forward.

He lifts his palm out and turns to climb up the monkey bars, perching on the top wrung, still enjoying his drink. "Do you ever think that it sucked when our school had to merge with Neeta at the other end of town?"

I giggle at his random thought. "Well, we certainly couldn't have fit all thirty of us in this little place through eighth grade, but yeah, I get what you're saying."

"We had a cool little crowd going," he says, shrugging. "It worked for me." Our heads turn in the direction of a car crawling down the street, its headlights illuminating us for a split second.

"Yeah, once we combined with the other thirty or so kids, granted, I got a couple more good friends out of it, but—"

"It took away from the ones we already had." Edward locks eyes with me, his words filling in the blanks I felt were too sappy to use myself. The pensive smile he offers is like a looking glass into his always-caring heart. Maybe he did miss me after our friendship began to dwindle? The possibility makes me high as a kite and completely miserable all at once.

I try to shift gears while leaning back to gain momentum on my swing. "We still made some memories in junior high, though." I groan. "Remember when I broke my arm in eighth grade?"

He shakes his head. "You were always falling down."

"Hey!" I protest. "Our bikes were all clumped together on the riding path. It's not like I strategically looped my handlebars through Amy Corson's backpack strap. Once we hit the open lot, she unknowingly turned one way, and I tried to turn the other."

"And you landed on your wrist." He shudders. "I've never broken a bone."

"It was pretty much the most painful thing I've ever felt. Had to wear that ridiculously sweaty cast for the rest of the school year." I make a face. "But at least Mom stitched that satin and lace glove for me to cover it up at the graduation dance."

Edward chuckles and jumps down from the bars. "I think I still have the professional video of that dance somewhere."

"And so began our high school career."

"Yeah, speaking of high school," he segues. "Who told you I slept with Dorie? And at fifteen?"

I sigh, feeling my cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Oh, just forget I brought it up; it was dumb."

"No, seriously. I mean, it's not like I can change the past, but what gave you the impression I did that?"

I shrug, trying not to get dizzy as I spin while the swing uncoils. "It was a Monday morning, and I heard a few girls gossiping about it in chorus. They said Dorie confirmed it during homeroom."

He huffs, his thumb and forefinger rubbing the inside corners of his eyes. "We didn't have sex."

"I saw a hickey on her—"

"We barely kissed," he interjects.

". . . and on you." I raise my eyebrows, scooting off the swing. "And yours was a doozy, too . . . looked like she took a Hoover to your neck." My snark takes over a bit, but I'm too late to tamp it down.

He laughs. "Well, I can assure you I didn't lose my virginity that weekend." He scoffs, grabbing the tire swing to stop its unmanned spinning. "And for a few years after that, if we're being honest. I was a chicken shit around girls, you know that."

His revelation about not having sex at such a young age manages to calm a part of me I didn't even realize still felt frazzled after all these years. I wish I'd known at the time, because it jaded my view of him, and I hated that he became tarnished in my eyes. I suppose I owe him an explanation about how my disappointment and confusion emerged.

"I thought I knew that, but then we hit ninth grade, and to me it seemed like you turned into Joe High School." I look up at the sky, searching for the right words. "We ran in different crowds. You were in first class and I was in steerage, or at least it felt that way. Everybody knew your name, all two thousand students. I figured maybe the old friend I knew didn't really exist anymore."

He puts his hands on his hips and looks away from me, shaking his head. "Don't you remember that we had a similar talk when we were on the Homecoming Court together?"

His words stop me in my tracks. "Yeah, I remember, but I didn't think you did. Things between us changed as we grew up, Edward." I focus on the pine cone I'm tapping with the toe of my shoe. "It didn't make you or me a bad person . . . it just is what it is, or was what it was," I chuckle humorlessly, waving it all off. "Whatever."

"Just because we got to high school, it didn't change how I felt about you, Bella. Or that I always thought of you as my . . . friend." His stutter before he finishes his thought throws me off. He sounds sincere, and it's making me feel anxious. "You never bothered to go out of your way and keep in touch with me either, you know." He shrugs, sounding more and more irked with each word while he paces a bit. "Junior high was over and you were just gone. No phone calls, no drive-bys, you never stopped to talk to me in the halls . . . you vanished from my life, too. You're not the only one who felt slighted, okay?"

I give him an incredulous look, ready to jump into a spiel about high school caste systems, but then I think, why bother? Hasn't this ship sailed eons ago? Yes, I had him up on a pedestal to a degree, which he never asked for . . . it was just how I saw him. I can't hold him accountable for what I perceived in my head. But it's also unfair for him to say these things now. It makes me feel cheated. Like if either of us had just spoken up to say we were missing each other, maybe we'd be getting married in three weeks. I shake off my preposterous inner monologue and decide to land my mental ship of fools before it skips off into the galaxy, and I'm never heard from again.

I bounce on my legs to keep warm and try to cheer up the tone. "C'mon. Where're you taking me on our next childhood stop? And we haven't even touched on what you did at college."

"What I did at college doesn't even come close to mattering, trust me," he mutters. "There's nothing to tell. I dropped out because I'm a pussy who couldn't handle my shit," he scoffs, shrugging.

"What the fuck does that mean?" I snap, despising that he just degraded himself like that. How I should continue to respond versus how I want to respond is the difference between a single worm being released and an entire truckload being dumped on our heads.

He ignores my question and continues. "What I want to know is why're you changing the subject?"

I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the chain-link fence next to the baseball dugout. "Edward," I whine, tortured that he wants to stick with this line of questioning. "It's like you said earlier: we can't change anything about the past. High school politics are over and thank God for that. Let's just talk more about you," I urge. "And why would you say that what you did doesn't matter?" A sudden burst of adrenaline rushes through me, powered by frustrated desperation. "Do you have any idea how much I've missed talking to you? Missed knowing what's going on in your world?" I flick my arms up in the air. "When are we ever going to have this chance again?"

"I promise you, Bella, I'm not impor—it's not worth the time it would take to explain it all."

The hard breath I exhale billows in a puffy, white stream toward the ground. I'm trying really hard not to allow tears of frustration to form, so I quickly switch gears again. "All right, then let's get out of here. I'm having fun on our hometown tour."

"Well, unless you take me back to your parents' house, or we go raid the house around your block that I used to live in—although I think the current owners might have something to say about that—I can't think of where else to go that holds memories for us."

I nod, admonished by his dismissive tone. "Okay. Maybe you should just take me back to PJ's to get my car."

In the shadows cast by the moonlight, I can see his Adam's apple bob up and down, his jaw set in frustration—I assume—with me.

What a shitty way to end what's been a fantastic evening. Way to go, Isabella.

We walk back to the car, no words passing between us. The rustling of crunchy leaves and night critters surrounds us, but it can't drown out my internal voice screaming at me to fix this before it's over.

Thankfully, Edward turns on the radio when we pull out of the lot. At least we'll have something to fill the silence. The final piano chords of "Faithfully" by Journey fade out as the robotic voice announces an '80s rock block before a keyboard's familiar notes are joined by Steve Perry's voice.

I sputter a sarcastic chuckle, burying my head in my hands and pull my fingers slowly down my face. "Did you plan this?"

Edward smirks, giving me a pointed look. "I'm good, but I'm not that damn good." He shakes his head, adjusting the volume. "Unfuckingbelievable."

We listen to "Oh Sherrie" all the way back to PJ's parking lot, neither of us making a move to end the night before the song comes to a stop. When it's over, Edward shuts off the radio.

"I used to listen to my tape of that song over and over when I was a kid," he confesses, his head tipped back against the seat. "It was a crappy version; y'know, where you hold the tape recorder up to the clock radio and have to stay silent until the song finishes?"

I smile. "I did that for tons of songs." I don't fill in the part that when my parents got me my first CD player for my sweet sixteen, I ran out to Sam Goody the next day and bought Steve Perry's album to listen to "Oh Sherrie" on repeat.

"Think maybe the universe is telling us to chill out and press restart?" He talks toward the windshield.

"Stranger things have happened." I check the time on his dash. "But for now, I think it's time for me to say goodnight."

He nods, still not making eye contact. "I understand. Do you feel okay to drive?"

"I think so."

"I'll follow you back to your house." His stare finally finds mine. "If that's okay."

"I'd appreciate that," I say quietly and grab my purse from the floor.

Stepping out of his truck, I get into my car and head out of the parking lot. I'm numb the entire drive to my parents' home, somehow getting there on autopilot. I rehash what's transpired over the last few hours. My stomach went from doing flips in excitement to getting coiled up into knots and back again. In all of my imagined scenarios as a young girl, this reality didn't come close to matching how I hoped we'd enjoy a reunion.

I've been poisoned by fairy tales and John Hughes movies.

I suppose this ending is better than a perfect adult-reunion, where we miraculously declare our love for each other, vowing to be together forever, and then I go out for a bike ride only to get creamed by an eighteen-wheeler. As my luck has always gone, that ending would be more my speed.

Although this doesn't feel much different than a Mack truck to the skull.

Edward pulls into the driveway next to my car, and I step around to his driver's side door as he gets out.

"Despite whatever weirdness happened back at the playground, I want you to know that I enjoyed our time tonight," I initiate. "I haven't seen some of those spots in almost fifteen years." I fiddle with the fringe on my scarf, choosing my words carefully. "It was great to reminisce with an old friend who understood the quirkiness of this little town in the Pine Barrens."

He leans against the bed of his truck, his face marred by a crease between his brows and a smile nowhere near genuine. "Yeah. It was great to see you, too. I'd say let's try to keep in touch, but we've been a lousy bet ever since we graduated." He raises and lowers his brows quickly like he's having an unwelcomed moment of clarity. "And apparently long before that," he mutters.

Tucking some wispy hair behind my ear, I nod, not deaf to the dig he just threw at me . . . or maybe at himself? I have no idea anymore. I'm focused on my shoes, feeling a sting behind my nose as tears threaten. I vow to hold them back, though. When he catches my glassy eyes, I'll be embarrassed enough.

I find his gaze, and he instantly looks away, his jaw tensing. "I feel like there's something more I should be saying." He pulls at the back of his neck before shaking his head. "I just don't know what it is."

Somehow I muster the emotional energy to reassure him—reassure us both—so I smile. "Hey . . . we're good. We run into each other every five years or so," I say with a laugh, and he gives me his crooked half-grin. "I'll keep my eye out for you around 2009 or thereabouts."

He huffs and steps toward me, opening his arms. My heart shatters in our tight embrace, my eyes pinched in an attempt to keep the flood of emotions at bay over so much time lost. "Be happy, Bella," he whispers, his cheek resting on my head. "I hope he makes you happy. There's a closet full of stories and excuses I could share with you, but they don't matter right now."

My gut twists, knowing there's so much I don't know but wish I did.

He continues. "I guess I just want you to know that you always held a piece of me, a piece of my heart. I'm sorry that I didn't make sure you always knew that. And of all the people I've ever known in my life, you so deserve to be happy."

His words slay me, but I refuse to dwell on them; I just can't. "Same goes for you," I murmur into his chest and then manage to pull my head away so I can see his face. "We barely touched on what you've been doing since high school, but it's important that you remember how special you always were—are to me. Everything about you matters, Edward Cullen. And you deserve a happy ending, too."

A millisecond passes and I groan, my eyes fluttering closed. My forehead hits his chest, hearing my ridiculous double entendre. I feel his shoulders quaking over mine. Our chuckles turn to full-blown laughs as we step apart, shaking our heads and wiping our eyes again.

I send a silent prayer of thanks to heaven for allowing my slip-up to break these final strained moments.

"Thank you for that," he says, opening his door. "Something just didn't feel right . . . ending our night with that tension." His voice sounds gruff, coated with veiled emotion. "Thanks for ending it here."

No, it wasn't right, but it ended long before we got here. There's just been too much time. Too much water under the bridge, too much water leaking from my eyes, too much unknown about what's happened to him. Wasted time, wasted feelings . . . but he never did anything wrong on purpose. He never knew I carried a torch for him for years past after our childhood romance ended. Maybe that was my fault, but I was never brave enough to risk what little friendship we still had.

No. Neither of us did anything wrong. We're just victims of time and growth and life.

"I'll see ya." He smiles and steps back. His last words float toward me before he closes his car door and backs out of the driveway. I hold my palm up, watching his tail lights disappear at the end of the road.

"Bye," I whisper, swiping a tear from my cheek. I needed this night; I may not have wanted it to end this way, but I damn sure needed it.

Closure.

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.

I lay in my childhood bedroom, still decorated in its Laura Ashley pink rosebuds and blooms, my watery eyes fixed on the shadowy photo tucked in the bottom corner of my wicker wall mirror. I don't need to get up and examine it. I memorized everything about that picture, about that moment, when it was taken over twenty years ago.

Edward and I, both with shaggy hair, holding our Easter baskets. There was a community egg hunt on a weekend in the spring at Nokomis School's playground, and our moms took us and our little brothers.

Holding up our loot for the camera to see, we tip our heads together because we're each other's best friend. Our smiles are so genuine, with goofy gaps in our mouths from missing teeth and all, but our faces are full of sweetness and innocence . . . of youth unobliterated by the realities that come with growing up.

To the core of my soul, I believe that as kids, when we used words like always and forever with such conviction, we never expected we'd drift so far out of each other's lives. A part of me is thankful we came together tonight to say what we were perhaps too shy to admit all those years ago. Back when hormones and cliques changed with the tide, and reputations and feelings were crushed with one wrong look.

No, it's better we said these things now, at twenty-nine years old, with new paths carved out that will lead us to the happier endings we each envision . . . even if those happily-ever-afters aren't meant to be with each other.

I'm going to marry Tyler in three weeks and give him my whole heart because that's what he deserves, what we both deserve. But for the rest of my life, I'm certain I'll wonder about that forever friend of mine.

Edward Cullen will always be my far away flame.

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A/N: *deep breaths* I have to bring you up to speed on the latest in Bella's life in order to get to those all-important answers we've been dying for all along! So, there will be another pretty significant time jump ahead.

Thank you so much to all who are reading and taking the time to leave a review. I can't tell you how much it means to me when you share your stories of crushes, first loves, and first heartaches that've remained with you. It helps a little to know that you weren't alone in your feelings of giddiness or pain.

See you next Friday.

xo, Jen