Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. Thank you for the inspiration, SM.
A/N: **bowing at the feet of my betas** Pickwicksociety, JenKB, and Guitargirl edited this chapter in less than 24 hours. How is that for devotion? They are beta-tacular! (yeah, I made that up…I'm a dork.) And special thanks to Mel/mcc101180 over at Project Team Beta for polishing up this chapter even more.
Chapter 10 – A Hero Is Born
"Miss Swan?" The feminine, English-accented voice spoke tentatively.
I turned from the dry erase board, looking around the drab classroom, with its unsightly pea-green wainscoting and dingy white upper walls. My eyes settled on one of my brightest students, Hannah, seated at her table with one arm up in the air.
"Yes, Hannah, what is it?" I asked, smiling.
"Uh, well," she mumbled, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear as her eyes darted aimlessly. "Um, I think you misspelled the word defense. Isn't it spelled with a 'c'?"
I looked back at the board, my eyes scanning it to find the word in question. I had written the word "defense" in my instructions to the students for their persuasive essay assignment, explaining the importance of using supporting material in defense of the thesis statement. Sure enough, I had absentmindedly spelled it the American way, thanks to my ever-wandering mind.
"Well done, Hannah. You are absolutely correct."
My students must think their American teacher is a complete idiot. I felt compelled to explain my error, attempting to salvage any respect they might have had for me before I misspelled a word that any British child should know.
"You see, in the United States some words are spelled differently than they are here in England. Sometimes I forget and revert to the American spelling." I laughed at myself, erasing the offending word and writing it correctly. "Thanks for setting me straight, Hannah."
Her nervousness at correcting her teacher vanished, replaced with a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes.
Roy's hand shot into the air. Of course, it did. I had come to expect it multiple times during each class period. I had probably showered too much attention on Hannah for his liking.
"Yes, Roy?"
"Miss Swan, what are some other words that are spelled differently in America?" he asked curiously.
Roy was an eager, smart, and adorable seventh grader who had latched onto me like a bee to honey when I'd arrived at St. Andrew's Preparatory School in Eastbourne six weeks ago. Perhaps his fascination with me was only because I was from America, but my gut told me there was some "crushing" mixed into the equation as well. He often stayed after class to ask me questions or accompanied me as I walked to the office or the teacher's lounge in between classes.
"A curious mind is always a good thing, Roy, but right now that subject is off the topic at hand. For those of you who would like to hear the answer to Roy's question, see me after class."
I turned back to the board, pointing to the due date of the assignment. "Your essay topic and outline are due on Wednesday. I will return them to you on Thursday, letting you know if your topic has been approved. Any questions?"
I scanned the small classroom, looking for raised hands, but all I saw were sixteen 12-year-olds staring at me anxiously, notebooks in hand and ready to bolt from the room as soon as I said the magic words. "You're dismissed," I said with a chuckle.
A mass of gray blurred across the room and out the door faster than I could blink. The room was now empty except for the handsome young man at my side, looking ever the proper British school boy.
Like all St. Andrew's male students, Roy wore navy slacks and a burgundy oxford beneath a charcoal v-neck sweater, accented with burgundy stripes, framing the v and circling the cuffs. The girls wore the same tops, but instead of trousers, they had pleated gray skirts with burgundy and gray knee-socks.
I have to make a conscious effort to call them trousers rather than pants or else risk complete disruption of my lesson while my students laugh hysterically. It was during my first week at St. Andrew's that I learned that pants means underwear to my British students. I may have turned three shades of red when one of my students explained this to me.
Roy walked with me as we left the classroom, and I shared with him some of the words that are spelled differently in the States. Since arriving at St. Andrew's, I had developed a soft spot in my heart for Roy. Some students went home every weekend, but he was one of the full-timers, going home only on holidays. He seemed lonely and hungry for attention, so I happily obliged him. He had a keen intellect beyond his young years, and though at times he could be annoying, always wanting to be around me, most of the time I enjoyed our conversations.
Walking through the main hallway, we stopped to greet Fudge, the school's yellow Labrador Retriever who could usually be found sleeping in the foyer or wandering the main hall looking for scratches and head pats. I thought it was a wonderful thing that the school had a dog so that children living away from home could have some aspect of a normal childhood by loving and being loved by a pet.
"How are you, big boy?" I said cheerfully, scratching behind Fudge's ear while Roy petted his back. Fudge's tail wagged furiously, and as I began to step away, he nuzzled my hand, licking it in protest of my departure. "Gotta go, Fudge. And I'll see you tomorrow, Roy. Enjoy the rest of your day."
Roy smiled as he always did. "Thanks, Miss Swan. See ya." He headed toward the exit to join the other students outside on the playground.
I gave Fudge one last pat before turning to go out a different door which led outside to the teacher's lounge in a separate building. I folded my arms, rubbing them with my hands in an attempt to create warmth before opening the exterior door. I always left my coat in the teacher's lounge since it's only a fifteen second walk between buildings, and I don't want to mess with hauling it around from room to room. My taupe turtleneck sweater and brown wool trousers would not be enough to fend off the English winter wind.
As I pushed open the door, the jolt of the cutting wind was like jumping into an ice cold swimming pool. I ran as quickly as I could in my high-heeled boots, flinging open the door to the teacher's lounge. I darted inside, breathing heavily and red-cheeked, too, no doubt.
"Hey, Bella," Victoria greeted with a smile. She sat on one of the couches, papers scattered across the coffee table in front of her, obviously busy with grading. "I'm glad you're here. I want a full report on your traveling adventures."
Victoria was my mentor teacher at St. Andrew's, the one responsible for overseeing my lesson plans, assisting me with any student problems, and writing evaluations of my teaching ability to send to my professor at A.S.U. Over the past six weeks, we had become friends, enjoying many conversations outside of the realm of teaching.
"Okay, but first I need coffee and one of those amazing tarts." I made a beeline to the snack area complete with tea, coffee, and uniquely British snacks. "I'm dragging today. A sugar and caffeine combo should do the trick."
I poured a cup of coffee, stirring in sugar and cream, and grabbed a tart before settling onto the couch next to Victoria. I bit into the pastry, making yummy noises, and mumbled mostly to myself about how I'd miss my daily tart when I left England.
"Where's Alice?" Victoria inquired, sliding her brown, tortoise-shell glasses onto her slicked back, auburn hair, its length knotted at the back in a chignon.
Her question caught me mid-bite. Covering my mouth, I mumbled, "Um, she has playground duty this week."
While Victoria half-heartedly graded papers, I reluctantly complied, regaling her with a summary of my European adventures, minus Edward and Emmett. Even though I'd changed my attitude about meeting Edward, now being grateful for the experience, that appreciation was submerged in a vat of longing, with just a sprinkle of melancholy. The week of traveling had left me physically and emotionally exhausted. Plus, the topic of Edward had already been discussed ad nauseam with Alice.
"It sounds like you and Alice had a fabulous time. So out of all the places you visited, which city was your favorite?" Victoria probed.
I settled into the softness of the sofa, sipping my coffee as memories of Florence flickered through my consciousness like a movie trailer–standing in front of the Statue of David, Edward's warm breath whispering in my ear that "there is no comparison"; the joy on Edward's face as he belly laughed while quoting Ace Ventura; his massive hands gently cradling my face while kissing me; and the wetness in his eyes when he told me he couldn't do a relationship.
"Florence." I sighed wistfully.
"Florence was your favorite city?" Victoria confirmed.
I felt her eyes on me, and I focused my attention on my coffee. I nodded, taking another drink to avoid her eyes.
"Then why do you look like you're about to cry, Bella?"
My head snapped up, my eyes meeting Victoria's. "What? I do?" I blurted, feeling vulnerable and unexpectedly exposed.
Victoria nodded, smiling warmly and reassuringly.
I sighed in resignation. "Okay, the short version is that I met someone. We spent a few days together, and it was intense. But he doesn't want anything more than that. He didn't want to stay in touch."
"And you met him in Florence?"
"No, but that's where we spent the most time together.
That's where I let my wall down . . . and let myself . . . fall for him."
I paused in reflection, setting my coffee on the table before turning to Victoria. "I shouldn't have, but I honestly don't think I had a choice. It was sort of automatic . . . natural."
The door swung open, interrupting our heavy chat. Alice was bundled like a mummy in her coat, gloves, and hat, with a scarf wrapped around her face, exposing only her eyes.
She yanked the scarf down, bellowing, "Holy hell, I need to go back to the Valley of the Sun. Bella, I'll pay you twenty bucks if you cover playground duty for me tomorrow."
"Hell no!" I grimaced.
"Okay, fifty bucks?" she pleaded.
"Seriously? Fifty dollars?"
Alice nodded her head furiously. "Yes, I'm serious as a fuc . . . as a heart attack." Her eyes darted to Victoria. "Uh, hey, Victoria," she greeted sheepishly.
Victoria chuckled. "Hey, Alice."
"Okay, wimp, you've got a deal. Fifty dollars it is." I grinned triumphantly.
Alice thanked me and dashed to the snack table, inhaling a couple of tarts as we had only a couple of minutes before we had to be back in our respective classrooms. The three of us walked to the main building, chattering about the upcoming lesson plan that Victoria wanted me and Alice to team-teach.
The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. I kept myself busy teaching, answering students' questions, directing some hyper-active students to stay on task, and grading papers. I was grateful to be back at work where I was forced to focus my attention on things other than . . . him.
When my last class dispersed, I gathered up my teaching materials and my students' worksheets that still needed to be graded, stuffing everything into my backpack. I headed down to the school's foyer where I always met Alice at the end of the day.
She was already there, sitting on the couch with a familiar dog sleeping at her feet. She hopped up as I approached, alerting Fudge who sleepily stood to greet me. We each gave his furry ears a quick scratch goodbye, put on our gloves, buttoned up our coats, and wrapped our scarves tightly before heading out the door into the glacial East Sussex wind.
As we crossed the street, I glanced back at the school simply just because I loved the look of it. It wasn't like any school I'd ever seen. It was a charmingly quaint, aged house straight from the pages of a British novel, made of red brick and multi-colored stones. The literary geek in me had done mental happy cartwheels when I saw St. Andrew's on our first day.
The commute from Eastbourne to Falmer was tedious, tiring, and bone-chillingly cold. We walked one block to wait for the city bus, which wasn't terribly far, but then we had to wait in freezing temperatures for five to ten minutes until the bus arrived. Two bus exchanges and thirty minutes later, we arrived at the Eastbourne train station. After more waiting, we boarded the train bound for Falmer.
We came to a stop thirty minutes later at the Falmer train station, situated just down the hill beneath our college campus–home, sweet home. We silently trudged uphill along the concrete pathway, leading from the station to the Falmer campus, still bundled tightly and shivering uncontrollably by the time we reached our dormitory.
The dark gray, flat-roofed dormitories were a bit run-down, but they held a certain aged and cozy appeal. Our rooms on the second floor were just three doors apart.
I'd been relieved when we had first arrived at the college and learned that students had private rooms. Granted, they were as small as a crackerjack box, but I didn't care as long as I had my own space. As much of a people-person as I am, I also require Bella-time on a daily basis.
Alice is the complete opposite–she gets antsy if she's by herself for too long. We'd talked about this, about how she doesn't like being left alone with her thoughts. She tended to be a worrier, always analyzing, thinking of worse-case scenarios, and so she preferred to stay busy and occupied. I not only enjoyed being left alone with my thoughts, but it was a necessity. Solitude was as revitalizing to me as sleep. I found peace in writing poetry, reading, and listening to music. And I mean listening to it with your soul, which you can't really do when people are around. Or I'd contemplate my goals and analyze myself as a human being. Yeah, deep stuff.
"Meet you in five?" Alice mumbled, unlocking the door to her room.
I continued down the hall toward my room, rummaging in my backpack for my keys. "Yep, see ya in a bit."
Once inside the coziness of my crackerjack box, I tossed my backpack on the desk. After peeling off all my outer layers, I collapsed on the bed to catch my breath. I rested for a couple minutes, wishing I could just go to sleep for the night, but I knew I'd be starving later, and the cafeteria would only be open for another thirty minutes.
Plus, I had papers to grade and a lesson plan to prepare. Groaning, I forced my tired body out of bed, ran a brush through my hat hair, grabbed my keys, and headed down the hallway to the shared bathroom. When I came out a couple of minutes later, Alice was waiting for me once again.
"Ready for some delicious British cuisine?" She smirked.
I rolled my eyes, smiling. "Oh, yeah, I really missed the cafeteria food while we were gone." We chuckled together, amusing ourselves with our witty sarcasm.
"Thank god they have french fries every night!" Alice added.
As we pushed open the dormitory door, without a word, we ran full speed toward the cafeteria. Neither of us had brought a coat, choosing to brave the cold for the thirty seconds it took to sprint to the other building.
Arriving at the cafeteria shortly before closing meant that we didn't have to wait in line, but it also meant less than fresh food as it had already been sitting in the warming trays for two hours. Once seated, I cautiously poked at the mystery meat on my plate. I don't freaking think so. I opted for the French fries, salad, and cake.
After dinner, per usual, Alice and I dashed next door to the computer lab. International long distance calls were expensive, so we kept them to a minimum, instead using email as our main method of communication with our friends and family back in the States. I had been so tired when we got back last night that I hadn't made it over to the computer lab.
After arriving in Paris on the night train, we'd caught another train to Calais, then ferried over to Dover, and then we'd taken another goddamn train to Falmer. We were dumbasses to cram in so much traveling, not allowing ourselves even one day to recuperate before returning to teaching.
After finding two unoccupied computers side by side, I accessed my email account, anxious for contact with home. Besides an assload of spam, there was an email from my mom and one from Angela, my dearest childhood friend.
We had met in second grade and went through elementary, junior high, and high school together. Seven years after high school graduation we were still close friends. Always preferring bad news first, I opened my mom's message. Even if it wasn't bad news, most likely whatever she had to say would be neurotic and narcissistic, putting me in a bad mood. I scanned the message quickly, my heart sinking as I read that my brother, Seth, was missing again. My god, will it ever end?
My baby brother, who technically wasn't a baby anymore, though he acts like one, is a meth addict. Being three years younger than me and having a mom who was barely capable of taking care of herself, I had instinctively assumed a protective, motherly role toward Seth. I was the one who taught him to tie his shoelaces, helped him with his homework, and made him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when he was hungry. I utterly adored him.
Then all hell broke loose when he was about fifteen. I know it happens all the time, especially at that age. Kids hang out with the wrong friends, wanting to feel valued and part of something. Seth started drinking, smoking weed, failing classes, and, generally, not giving a shit about his life or his family. It was the classically sad story that we've all heard countless times before–how minor drug use escalates to hardcore stuff, like cocaine and meth.
Seth ended up dropping out of school during his junior year, eventually moving out and sofa surfing from one friend's couch to another. I use the term "friends" rather loosely–the friends in question were drug buddies and suppliers.
The next few years were a rollercoaster of emotions. Most of the time Mom and I didn't know where Seth was or if he was even still alive. Then he'd call, asking for help, telling Mom how his friend had kicked him out and he was sleeping on the streets. Mom always let him come home, believing his promises that he was ready to get clean. He'd be at home for a couple of weeks, and then he'd disappear again. Sometimes he would call every week or so to check in, but other times we wouldn't hear from him for months at a time. Then one day he'd called Mom from jail–he had been arrested for forgery.
Apparently, he had charmed his way into the life of some chick he'd met on some social network site. He had lifted some of her checks, forging her signature to get cash for drugs. Of course, he swore to Mom that he didn't do it. He never did anything. There was always an excuse, an explanation, a story.
He was a good-looking guy, musically-gifted on guitar, and he was beyond charming. Everyone liked Seth. He could talk his way into or out of just about anything, except with me. After a few years of denial, I had finally caught on, accepting that Seth had become a professional liar. I had no doubts that he was guilty–if he was capable of stealing his big sister's heirloom ring from Grandma Swan, he was certainly capable of stealing checks from some broad he was banging.
Seth served ten months in prison for his crime. Upon his release, he was sober and repentant, vowing he was ready to get his shit together. Mom let him move back home, and after three months of holding down a job and pleasantly interacting with us, I began to feel a glimmer of hope. When I'd left Phoenix, he was still doing well.
I continued reading the email looking for more information, but it was rather vague, just saying that Seth hadn't come home one night about a week ago. Tears stung my eyes as I contemplated the possibilities.
There could only be two explanations for his disappearance, both of which were revolting: Seth was either dead, or he was on drugs again. Just fucking great. I didn't know what the hell to write back to my mom because I wasn't even sure how I felt.
I placed my elbows on the table, resting my weary head on my hands as anger, sadness, and apathy coursed through me. Um, yeah, I said apathy. That sounds despicable, I know, but after years of caring so damn much, having my hopes lifted and then crushed time and time again, an apathetic numbness began taking over. That might sound like I've given up on my brother, and maybe part of me has, but only as an involuntary and innate need to protect my battered and betrayed heart.
"Are you okay?" Alice whispered, gently rubbing my hunched over shoulder.
"It's Seth." I sat up straight, pulling my hair away from my face. "I'll tell you about it later, okay?"
She nodded with a sympathetic smile, returning her attention to the computer in front of her.
I typed out a quick reply to my mom telling her that I was sad to hear about Seth and to keep me posted if she should hear from him. What the hell else was there to say? Naturally, Mom wanted to hear all about my recent travels, so I wrote a paragraph just hitting the highlights of our trip, minus Edward, of course.
I eagerly clicked on Angela's email quite certain that it would cheer me up. Because Angela hadn't put college on hold to work and support a husband–like some people (cough, cough)–she was already a college graduate, working as a civil engineer.
Her email made me laugh out loud as I read about her new coworker who repeatedly challenged her knowledge and expertise. She explained how she would flirt with him one minute and then humiliate him the next by outshining him in meetings. I typed out an email back to her, encouraging her to continue messing with this douche bag's head. I provided her the same short version of my recent travels, deciding to wait and share the saga of Edward with her when I returned home.
I nudged Alice, whispering, "How's Jasper?"
She hesitated, appearing pensive. "He misses me. He's supportive, he's wonderful. He's the perfect friend," she said matter-of-factly with a frown.
"Do you miss him?"
"I do miss him but like you'd miss a friend. Like I would miss you."
"You're still thinking about Emmett?"
Alice sighed. "Yeah, and I hope I get my shit figured out before it's time to go home."
"Speaking of Emmett, I just remembered I wanted to try to find that magazine article he wrote about Edward being awarded a medal."
"Oh, I forgot about that," Alice said smiling, with a little more pep in her voice.
She pulled her chair closer to mine as I typed into the internet browser: Edward Cullen Emmett McCarty. The first listing on the results page displayed both Emmett's and Edward's name.
"This must be it," I mumbled, clicking on the link. When I saw the picture on the screen, I sucked in a quick intake of air, gasping, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
It was an official Army photo of Edward in a full-dress, navy blue uniform. His ethereal beauty combined with the masculine authority of the uniform was breathtaking.
"Breathe, Bella, breathe." Alice chuckled teasingly. I ignored her because I was already reading the first paragraph of the Reader's Digest's article that had been published seven months ago.
Who in the world would voluntarily walk away from a luxurious lifestyle, leaving behind a powerful position as Vice-President of Acquisitions and Mergers at international conglomerate, Cullen Industries, Inc., to enlist in the U.S. Army just as the United States is preparing a full-scale war assault on Iraq? Two words: Edward Cullen.
Just three months after the 9/11 attacks on America, Edward Cullen, who had never before contemplated a military career, walked into his local U.S. Army recruiting office in Seattle, Washington and signed over his life to the military for the next four years. As difficult as it is for most Americans to comprehend that kind of sacrifice, to Cullen the decision was elementary. He explains, "It's simple, really. America was attacked on its own soil. If they would do that to us once, they would probably try it again in the future. I believed our lives and our freedom were at stake. What would have been the outcome of the Revolutionary War if men had been unwilling to fight? And World War II? Same thing. It sounds cliché, but I felt it was my duty as an American to participate in defending her and helping to ensure that nothing like 9/11 ever happens again."
As a Columbia University graduate, Cullen was able to begin his military career as an officer. Seven months after enlisting, having completed Basic Training and Officer Candidate School, Second Lieutenant Cullen was en route to volatile Iraq for the first of what would ultimately be three tours of duty.
He is slow to talk about his experiences in Iraq except when asked about Specialist James Winters, who died in the battle that earned Cullen the Distinguished Service Cross, 'the second highest military decoration that can be awarded to a member of the United States Army, for extreme gallantry and risk of life in actual combat with an armed enemy force.'
"Specialist Winters was one of the bravest and most skilled soldiers in my platoon," Cullen eagerly divulges. "He was also a husband, a father, and a loyal friend–my friend. His loss is inconceivable and devastating. He's my hero."
However, the U.S. Army seems to think that Cullen is the hero, awarding him the Distinguished Service Cross in 2004. When this is pointed out to Cullen, he becomes clearly uncomfortable, even irritated. "That medal belongs to James. I gave nothing; he gave everything - his life."
When Cullen says the medal belongs to Specialist James Winters, he means that quite literally. During an interview with Specialist Winters' widow, Lauren Winters, she revealed that Cullen paid her a visit shortly after his honorable discharge from the Army. Mrs. Winters explained that Cullen came to express his condolences, to share with her some stories about her husband, and to give her the Distinguished Cross Medal, saying that it belonged to James, not to him. Though the medal itself is in the possession of Mrs. Winters, the official summary of events published by the U.S. Army, leaves no doubt that Cullen demonstrated heroic actions:
'The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal to Edward Cullen, First Lieutenant, U.S. Army, for heroism and valor under intense enemy fire while serving with the 4th Brigade, 5th Battalion, 82nd Artillery Division, in action on April 18, 2004, in Iraq. First Lieutenant Cullen's courage, tactical competence, and exemplary combat leadership in support of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM in Iraq resulted in the destruction of countless enemy dismounts and equipment, ensuring the success of the Troop and Squadron, culminating in the collapse of the Iraqi Regime. His actions reflect great credit upon himself, the 4th Brigade, 5th Battalion, 82nd Artillery Division, and the United States Army.
For heroism in connection with military operations against a hostile force in Iraq in support of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM, First Lieutenant Cullen distinguished himself while serving as the Platoon Leader for 4th Brigade, 5th Battalion, 82nd Artillery Division. On 18 April 2004, at approximately 1400 Hrs, First Lieutenant Cullen's troop traveled into an enemy ambush southeast of the city of An Najaf. The entire troop was surrounded by enemy small arms fire, RPG attacks and artillery from all directions. As two tanks from 2d platoon were hit and began to burn, B44 became mired, and First Lieutenant Cullen directed his crew on B4 and the crew of his wingman, B3, to recover B4. While B3 and the remainder of B4's crew recovered the tank, First Lieutenant Cullen and Sergeant Bailey went to offer aid to the crews that had been hit and were now out of their vehicles seeking cover on the North side of the road. Keeping a vigilant eye on his surroundings and laying suppressive fire in the direction of the heaviest enemy fire, First Lieutenant Cullen noticed a comrade, later identified as Specialist James Winters, laying incapacitated in the middle of the street. First Lieutenant Cullen left cover and ran into the kill zone, covering his comrade's body with his own, while returning fire on the enemy before dragging the wounded man to a safe zone. Again, surveying the battle scene, First Lieutenant Cullen noticed that the driver of B23 was not able to get out of his tank because of burning debris on the front slope of the tank. First Lieutenant Cullen then directed his gunner and the Platoon Sergeant from 3d platoon to cover him, as he made his way to the burning tank. Giving no regard for the enemy mortar rounds that were falling directly on his position or the ground around him being peppered with AK-47 rounds, First Lieutenant Cullen extinguished the fire on the front slope of the burning tank and pulled the driver out, preventing the driver from succumbing to deadly fumes from within the hull. After First Lieutenant Cullen had accountability of all members from the two destroyed tanks, he and his crew treated them to the best of their ability and immediately evacuated them to medics in the rear utilizing his sister platoon's Bradleys.'
I rubbed my eyes and cheeks with my hands, wiping away the streaming tears threatening to drop onto the keyboard at any moment. It was all almost too much to process: feelings of awe at Edward's heroism and bravery; sadness, imagining his grief at losing his friend; and a painful and growing longing to see him again.
Alice quietly interrupted my conflicted thought process. "So, James, his friend, was the soldier wounded in the street that Edward covered with his body and pulled out of the kill zone." Alice said with a questioning tone.
I nodded.
"And then he died anyway?"
I nodded again, unable to speak, seemingly shocked into silence.
"Holy hell. I can't imagine. I mean, if I saw you hurt and dying right in front of me, and then I tried to save you, maybe even thought I had saved you . . . and then you still died–" she muttered, shaking her head.
I couldn't even articulate a response. Internally, I was reeling, and I knew I might completely lose control of my emotions if I spoke. Alice intuitively understood, seemingly not expecting a balanced dialogue.
I turned my attention back to the article, which went on to pay tribute to James, detailing his childhood and hobbies, with a few flattering quotes by members of the platoon who knew him well. Toward the end, it said that Edward was later promoted to rank of Captain before he was honorably discharged last year.
I printed the article, including the picture of Edward. I walked across the room, grabbed the papers from the printer and glanced over them quickly to ensure they printed properly. My gaze settled for a few seconds on the picture of Captain Cullen, soldier and hero.
I walked to the door, and then turned back toward Alice. "I'm going to turn in for the night, Al," I mumbled, wiping at my still damp eyes. "We'll talk about all this tomorrow, okay?" I said it as a statement, waving the article in the air.
"I understand, hon. I'm still writing Jasper back, so I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay, goodnight then."
Walking to my dorm, I was nearly oblivious to the biting wind nipping at my exposed skin, my entire consciousness focused on processing the information that I'd just learned about Edward. I was absolutely in awe of him. Not many people would walk away from wealth and prestige to go fight a war in a sweltering desert across the world, knowing there was a good chance they'd be killed.
Once in my room, I pulled out the papers I needed to grade before tomorrow, settling in at my desk with red pen in hand. I got through five essays before the pull to look at Edward's picture overtook me again. I stared at it, losing myself in conflicted thoughts about the acts that had earned him a medal.
A part of me was awestruck, contemplating Edward's humility and bravery, how he'd put his life on the line, not once but twice as he tried to save his comrades. I hated to admit it, but my womanly self was a bit aroused at the thought of Edward shooting at the enemy and being responsible for an entire platoon of soldiers, directing them throughout the battle.
But those feelings were dwarfed by fear and panic at the thought of Edward having been in such imminent danger. I read the description of the battle again, tearing up as I imagined Edward placing himself in the kill zone with bullets and mortars flying around. Though, of course, I knew he had survived and would never have to return to the warzone, the idea alone of how close he'd come to being killed, probably on other occasions as well, left me tearful and trembling.
I stapled the pages of the article together, sliding it into an empty folder and then into my backpack, so I could find it tomorrow during my breaks. It was now my only remaining connection to Edward, and I accepted that I would probably have the entire article memorized before long. Edward had said that being with him would require too much–that he wouldn't ask it of me. I could only assume the "it" he referred to was dealing with his lingering psychological issues, specifically Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, according to Emmett.
I knew a little about the disorder, but as I sat at my desk thinking, I suddenly felt a need to know everything about it. I thought about going back to the computer room to research it, but I grudgingly pushed back at the impulse to do so, reminding myself that I needed to finish grading papers, look over my lesson plan for tomorrow, and get some much needed rest. I made a mental note to use the computer lab at St. Andrew's during my breaks to learn more about PTSD.
Though I felt a compulsion to understand Edward and what he was dealing with, I wasn't in denial of the facts. I knew that Edward had come and gone from my life of his own choosing, and I would likely never see him again. But love is rarely rational, and it urged me to connect with Edward in whatever way I could–through memories, by looking at his picture, or by better understanding his demons. And then, by some miracle, if Edward ever changed his mind about being with me, I would be ready for him and better prepared to love him as he deserved to be loved.
Long-ass A/N: If you are unfamiliar with military ranks, the article about Edward being awarded a medal might be confusing. To clarify, when Edward graduated from Officer Candidate School and began his military career in 2002, he was a Second Lieutenant, which is the beginning rank for an officer. By the time the battle occurred in 2004 in which he earned the medal, he had been promoted to First Lieutenant. By the time Emmett wrote the magazine article, after Edward was honorably discharged from the Army, he had been promoted to rank of Captain.
Also, please note that the description of the act that earned Edward a medal was not written by me. I took it verbatim from an actual official description of an event in which a medal was awarded by the U.S. Army. I should have referenced the article, but I can't seem to put my fingers on it now. However, the article written by Emmett is my creation.
Some of you are still missing Edward. I promise–Edward will be back very soon!
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