A/N: Yep, I'm back. Shoutouts to all my usual peeps (Rav Unicorn girls, Saturday night chat). I also started a new story in case this one gets too angsty for you--it is pure fluff, totally tongue-in-cheek silliness, "The Cullen Family Players Present." It's a series of Cullen-Sweded takes of other works. First up is "Vampire Speed." It's in my profile.

Standard Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns. I have student loans from Sallie Mae.


Chapter 10: The Ghost in You

you fit into me

like a hook in an eye

a fishhook

an open eye

-Margaret Atwood [1]

The boys are circling me. It's part of the staging, so I shouldn't be afraid, but I am. I am terrified. They sing to me through snarled teeth, the stagelights reflecting off their greasy, pimpled faces. They've got "stubble" stipple-sponged on, and stage makeup "dirt," and normally it takes a little focus for me to suspend my disbelief and see them as threatening men, not silly drama club boys. But something is different about tonight. The air crackles with their energy, the way you can smell it in the air when there's going to be a thunderstorm. Mitchell is the head muleteer, and he sings, "Little bird, little bird, in the cinnamon tree."[2] There's nothing friendly in his eyes, even though we've been going out for weeks now. I suppose "going out" is a bit of a stretch, since he never actually takes me anywhere—he just gropes me in the back of his mom's car, which smells of stale McDonald's and his mother's menthol cigarettes.

The music gets more frenzied, and the boys start grabbing me. Again, it's part of the staging, but everything feels wild about tonight, out of control. It's too vicious to be just the extra frenzy of performance energy. Mitchell grabs me by my forearms with enough force that I'm certain it'll bruise. My gut is screaming at me, telling me to stop the show, to run offstage, to find Mr. Crandall. But I do none of these things, because "the show must go on." Rule number one. And I can't stop it. I am powerless, even as I feel one of the boys actually grab my breast. That's not part of the staging. I can feel hands all around me, grabbing, taking, and I don't even know who is doing what. The audience members just watch. No one helps me, because they think they think it's just make-believe. Or maybe they know what is going on but choose to do nothing. I see Mitchell give a nod to one of the other muleteers, and he starts pulling something out of his sleeve.

I sat up with a start, stifling a cry. It took me a few moments to realize I was safe in my bed, far from Olympia, far from Mitchell and the boys. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and the steady breathing next to me. The light from the streetlamps filtered through the blinds in my room, painting the sleeping form next to me in orange stripes, a sweet, sleepy tiger.

Jasper looked innocent asleep, his eyelashes surprisingly long. He slept with one hand tucked underneath the pillow. His face was completely relaxed, peaceful. I wondered if I looked anything like that when I slept. I hesitantly put my hand to his face and smoothed some curls away from his forehead. He stirred a little but didn't wake up. My brain tried to wrap itself around the concept of Jasper in my bed and failed miserably.

He was a considerate sleeper, curled on his side, leaving me plenty of room on the narrow bed. I watched him for a while, stroking his forehead. I thought I ought to be more afraid to be alone here with him, but I felt safe. He wouldn't hurt me. I watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, until I thought I'd shaken my nightmare off. I lay back down, curling against his back, burying my nose in the nape of his neck.

I waited, inhaling when he inhaled, exhaling with him too. One hundred breaths I counted. Sleep didn't come, so I sat up again. The comforter had slipped down a little, so I pulled it up and over Jasper's shoulders. I didn't want him to get cold.

I hated waking up in the middle of the night because I never knew when I'd be able to fall asleep again. My thoughts were erratic in the dark, and I was afraid of the shadows in my room. I knew it was completely childish, and I often whispered under my breath, if it's safe in the daylight, it's safe in the dark. But deep down, I didn't believe that. At night the buzzing came.

When my mother started having her episodes, my grandmother was convinced my mother was weak and letting in the devil. She blamed the Tarot, of course, even though my mom had been so careful to keep the cards hidden inside her pillowcase. She just couldn't accept that maybe my mom was just sick, that it wasn't her choice, that it wasn't because she was lazy or not vigilant. Of course prayer should be able to fix it. And when it didn't, she called my mother hard and willful. And my mother just took it, because she was too far gone to fight back.

And if I were being really honest, I'd say she'd stopped fighting back a long time ago, hadn't stood up to my grandmother since she ran away with my father. I liked to think about her back then. How much bravery it must have taken for her to look my grandmother in the eye and tell her she was walking out that door and never coming back! I was so proud of her. Some nights I'd ask her about it, and her eyes would light up when she remembered that fire within her. She'd tell me stories about driving halfway across the country, of living with no money in a studio apartment with my father.

And then she'd grow quiet, as if suddenly remembering the present, and my face would burn with shame and guilt. "I'm sorry, Mom," I'd say, touching her cheek. I didn't finish my thought, didn't say, I'm sorry, Mom, sorry I ruined your life. I was too ashamed even to put it into words.

Even so, my mom would laugh and rumple my hair. "Oh, Mary Alice, what have you got to be sorry for? You are my treasure."

I wanted to believe her so much.

After my mother was gone, the objects she left behind became far more dear to me. The deck of Tarot cards was special, our connection. If I closed my eyes and held the deck, I could imagine her hand on the other side, that we were palm to palm on opposite sides of a wall. Nothing separated us but this thin stack of waxed cardstock.

I became really good at reading the cards, and in college I became known as "that Tarot chick." I didn't mind the label—I was proud to be known for one of my mother's gifts, but without the stigma of being my mother's daughter. It was who Alice Prynne, not Mary Alice Brandon, was, this person I was building from the bottom up. Alice Prynne knew Tarot. She danced with abandon. She giggled and pretended nothing was ever wrong. She never answered questions about her past. She had no history.

It was peaceful for me, the energy I'd feel thrumming through my body when I'd handle the cards and focus on doing a reading. Mostly I did it at parties, in a dark corner far from the Jell-o shots and sticky card tables. I refused to take my cards out unless there was a clean, dry surface for me to lay them down on. Sometimes girls would stop by my room after class, knocking tentatively and asking me to see if that cute boy was interested, or some other superficial thing. I didn't mind, though, because holding the cards made me feel close to my mom.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear my grandmother blaming the cards for inviting in the devil. Of course my mother wasn't ill; she'd been weak and lazy and had let evil take her over. That version of history was easier for my grandmother to accept. I knew she was ridiculous, or, at least, the rational side knew, but a very small part of me believed her.

And one night, I had a dream. Or maybe it wasn't a dream. I still wasn't sure what it was, exactly. I was in my room, asleep, except I could see myself sleeping in the bed from a vantage point above. Suddenly I saw a red light come through my window and settle on my chest. The minute it landed, my whole body started vibrating. At first it felt like the humming I'd feel during a reading, just a bit more intense. But the energy continued to spin and intensify, becoming almost painful. Instead of feeling the energy flow through me, I was being dragged under by the current. This must be what my grandmother meant, I thought in a panic. The devil is coming, and I will be no better than my mother. They'll send me away. I won't know who I am, and no one will be able to find me. I was quaking with fear and hating myself for not being more careful. She'd warned me, and I'd laughed it off.

I did the only thing I could think of in that situation: I started mumbling the prayers my grandmother forced on us. The words were automatic, and I said them faster and faster, moving my lips quietly in the dark. It seemed to help. But then the red light crept higher, reaching my tongue and making it sluggish and unresponsive. I could no longer form the words. So I thought the words as hard as I could until the light crept higher still, to my brain. And then I was filled only with buzzing and red light and the smell of burning hair. The Echthroi,[2] I thought to myself as I stopped fighting and let myself be pulled under.

Just as I'd given up and prepared myself to be swallowed whole, the buzzing stopped, and I was back in my bed, back in my brain. But I'd never left my bed. I woke up in the same position in my bed that I'd been occupying in my dream. So was it a dream? Was it real?

I couldn't take a chance. I packaged up the beloved Tarot deck and hid it in my drawer. But the buzzing never went away completely. It would come back, especially before I'd have a moment of Knowing. All those times in the bar when I'd know what drink someone wanted, I felt the buzzing. I didn't understand why it came back to me, especially when I tried to be good, locking away my cards and willing away the visions and the knowledge whispered into my ear.

If the buzzing weren't connected to the cards, it meant that it was already a part of me, just waiting for me to be weak enough so it could overpower and devour me.

It was only a matter of time.

So why, why did I allow the visions to come with Jasper? Why did I invite the whisperings? I scrunched up my face in the dark and tried to understand it. A sudden catch in Jasper's breathing brought me back to the present. I watched Jasper's sleeping form and was filled with peace. There was my answer. He tethered me to this earth. He made it easier to stop fighting—not because he was trying to let the dark swallow me, but because he made the dark disappear.

I looked at him gratefully. He had no idea how much he'd changed my life already. When I was with him, I wasn't fighting myself all the time. I was just … me. And he made me feel like "me" was an okay person to be.

We'd had a good day. He'd come over for lunch, enjoyed the hell out of my cake. I packed up the leftovers and sent them off with Jasper while we split ways—he had an evening seminar and office hours, and I had my usual shift at the pub.

"I'll come by after class," he said before kissing the tip of my nose and heading out the door. I leaned on the doorjamb and watched him go. I washed the dishes in the sink and tidied up before I had to head to the Unicorn.

Work was unremarkable and gray until Jasper walked through the door a bit after 10. I squealed (yes, really) and did a little pirouette when I saw him come in. Instead of shrinking away or making some snide comment to the fratboys who drunkenly applauded me, I smiled sweetly and dropped a curtsey. From the corner of my eye, I could see Jasper watching our exchange with a smirk on his face. By the time he reached the bar, I already had a Corona with lime waiting for him. "Thank you, pretty lady," he said as he took his usual seat at the bar.

At the end of my shift, he was waiting for me, as usual, outside the Unicorn, leaning against the side of the building with his hands in the pockets of his corduroy jacket. I ran up to him, throwing my arms around his neck to be lifted up in his customary bear hug.

He lowered me slowly back to the ground. "Walk you home?" he asked out of habit.

I'd already made my mind in the bar in those long hours before he'd shown up. "Yes, please," I said, looking at my shoes.

By the time I felt brave enough to look him in the face, Jasper's eyes were wide and twinkling. "Oh! Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said, lacing my fingers with his. I tugged his arm a little as I started off in the direction of the Co(n)vent. "Come on, it's getting late."

We were silent during the walk home. This was unchartered territory for me. Although I'd made this walk home many, many times before, I'd never done it with another person. I leaned against him, sniffed the sleeve of his jacket, and closed my eyes. I could feel corduroy against my cheek, hear our shoes shuffling along the sidewalk. The night was still, the quiet interrupted only by an occasional car driving past. I let Jasper guide me home, knowing that he already knew the way.

As we walked up the stairs, I wondered what Jasper was thinking, if he expected something momentous to happen. I hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed.

"Do you want some tea or anything?" I offered as I flipped on lights and kicked off my shoes.

"Only if you want some, darling," he said, leaning down to unlace his shoes.

I made a pot of chamomile tea and let it steep on the coffee table as we sat on the couch and looked at each other. I think we were both afraid to move. Eventually Jasper reached up a hand to cup my face, brushing his thumb lightly across my eyelid. I let my eyes flutter closed. I could feel him lean in to kiss me.

I leaned in closer and wound my fingers into his hair and kissed him back. No one before had ever kissed me the way Jasper did, softly, tenderly, with little nips on my lower lip, tongue mischievously darting into my mouth. No one had ever been that … subtle before. Or, I supposed, actually affectionate. When others had kissed me, it had felt like they were trying to steal something from me. With Jasper, it always felt like a gift. Before Jasper, I never understood that you were actually supposed to enjoy having someone's tongue in your mouth. It had always been something you just had to endure.

I hoped I wasn't too awful a kisser. I tried to mimic his style, the gentle sucking, the little licks and nips. He breathing grew faster, and my heart raced, a little in surprise that I actually had such an effect on him, and a little in fear—an old reflex. I was frustrated at myself for having a fear response to Jasper, but before I could be too upset, he nibbled on my lip in a way that made me cease thinking altogether.

Mid-swoon, my toes in full curl, I could feel Jasper's arm support my head and back as he leaned forward, tipping me down until I was flat on my back on the couch. Once settled in this new position, we both shifted instinctively until we fit into each other's contours, kissing each other hungrily. I arched my back, and Jasper nuzzled my neck. I was vaguely aware that the tea was getting cold.

And then it happened. Jasper pressed up against me, and I could feel how hard he was through his jeans. Part of me was thrilled that I could make him feel that way, just from kissing, but then I panicked, worried I couldn't give him what he wanted, worried about his reaction, worried he wouldn't want someone so broken, worried he'd be angry. And what happens if he's angry, Alice? You're pinned under him. You live alone. It's three in the morning. Who would hear you if you screamed?

I … I don't know what got into me, but I just shoved my hands against his chest as hard as I could. Jasper stopped immediately, looking hurt? Sad? Shocked? Maybe all three? He rubbed his sternum where I'd shoved him, but I knew I couldn't have actually injured him.

"Oh, oh god, Jasper, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, burying my face in my hands. Great, I'd already fucked things up royally. Oh, it was a mistake bringing him home. It was a mistake trying to pretend to be normal. I bit my lip to stop it from quivering, and I brought my hands up to my head, twisting and pulling my hair. I was sitting up with my knees curled up against my chest. I hid my face in my knees.

"Hey, Alice, girl, hey," Jasper said. I could feel his hands on mine, trying to pull them out of my hair. I just held on more tightly. He rubbed my back and talked softly. "I'm sorry. I'm the one who should be apologizing. Are you okay? Please let me see your face, my beautiful girl."

I mumbled into my knees, "How can you call me beautiful? I'm such a disaster."

Jasper was still trying to untangle my fingers from my hair. "Even if I were blind, I'd know you were beautiful."

With my face still hidden, I said, "What, you'd sculpt a cheesy bust of my head and make me look like Lionel Ritchie?"

"Jheri curls and all, sweetheart," he said, putting his forehead to mine and gently clasping my head in his hands.

Despite my misery, I couldn't help giggling. I lifted my head up an inch and peeked out from behind my knees. Jasper's eyes were right there, gazing at me with concern. "There's my girl," he said with relief once he could see I was okay. He tried again to ease my hands out of my hair, and this time I let him.

I let my hands fall limply to my sides, but Jasper took them up in his and kissed my knuckles gently. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

I groaned.

"We don't have to. Whatever you want. I just want you to be okay," he said. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I hope I didn't scare you. I want you to feel safe."

"It's not you," I said. "I'm a mess. I just … I don't know what happened. I …" I stopped talking. There just was no dignified way to say I was totally into it until your erection freaked me out.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No! Of course not," I said, face burning. "This stuff is just … really hard for me to talk about. And I'm just angry with myself. And I think any minute, you are going to run away from me." I laughed bitterly. "I mean, how many times do I have to break down in front of you before you give up on me? Why would you even want to bother with someone like me?"

Jasper squeezed my hands. "Darlin', but we're not talking someone like you. There is no someone like you. There's only you."

"Oh," was all I could say to that.

"I don't think there is anyone else like you in this whole world."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I asked, fearing his answer.

"It's the best thing," he said.

"Oh." I studied my toenails. They needed trimming. Alice, you're avoiding. I know; shut up. I'm working on it.

I took a deep breath. It had to be said. I had to be upfront about this. "Jasper?"

"Yes?"

"What if … what if I told you that I didn't know if I could, you know, be with you?" My toenails were very interesting. Oh god, please don't let him ask me to be more specific.

"I don't want to presume, but if you're talking about what I think you're talking about, I'd say that I would be okay with that." He put a hand to my cheek, which still burned from embarrassment.

"You wouldn't … be fed up? Angry? Frustrated? Hate me?"

Jasper cupped my face in his hands and forced me to look up at him. "Alice. Baby. There is nothing you could do to make me hate you. I'm here. I could be anywhere, but I choose to be here, with you. I've, you know, I've seen my share. I know what's out there. And there's no one else like you, no one else who draws me to her when she's near. If you asked me to go away, I would, but I'd always want to come back."

"Why?"

Jasper thought a minute, rubbing the back of his neck. Eventually he said, "Well, now, I'm not sure. I just know it, the way I know my own name. I didn't know my heart was uneasy until I met you, until I discovered how calm my heart could be. Does that make sense?"

I thought about it for a second. "Maybe," I said. "And it's not that I don't want to be, um, with you. But I guess, you know, I guess that part of me is just broken or something."

Jasper looked pained. "Baby, you're not broken. You've just … I mean, I don't know, you've been through stuff—life. Life damages us, but we don't break. It might take us a while to find the pieces, but they're never gone. I don't believe they're ever gone for good.

"And you know what? Even if they were gone for good? It doesn't matter. I choose the you that you are today, whole, broken, damaged, perfect."

"I wish I could be the person you deserve, Jasper," I said, picking at a loose thread on my skirt.

"You are everything I want," he said simply, stilling my nervous hand. "And someday, if you trust me enough and want to, we can talk about the other stuff. It's going to be okay."

I could almost believe him. I knew he meant it, that he thought we'd be okay, but I kind of doubted that I'd ever be okay. Well, he wasn't going anywhere for now, at least. "Do you mind … staying with me tonight?" I asked. I just couldn't bear seeing him go, now that he was here.

"What do you mean, darlin'?"

I stood up and started pulling him to my bedroom. "Can you stay?"

He nodded.

So we walked hand in hand to my bedroom. I put Bear-Bear on the dresser and turned down my comforter. I scooped up my pajamas and padded off to the bathroom to change and brush my teeth. When I got back to my room, Jasper was standing right where I'd left him.

"This is me," I said, modeling my flannel pajamas.

"Flannel was never so lucky," Jasper said, grinning. He still hadn't moved from his spot. I supposed he was waiting for a cue from me.

"Boxers or briefs?" I asked.

"Me? Um, boxers."

Boxers weren't too scary. They left a little something to the imagination. "Okay. If you'd be, you know, more comfortable, I'm okay if you, uh, want to… I mean, not wear … um." Shit, this was hard to say without sounding totally wrong. I started again. "If you want to not wear your jeans to bed, that would be all right with me."

"Are you sure, baby?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." I didn't think I could handle the embarrassment of watching Jasper take off his pants, so I crawled under the comforter and hid my head under the pillow.

I could hear unzipping, then the sliding sound of denim being pushed down over skin. "You okay under there?" Jasper called over, sounding amused.

"Um, yes," I mumbled from underneath the pillow. "Just giving you some privacy."

"Should I turn the light off?"

"Yes, please."

When I heard Jasper flip the light switch off, I emerged from underneath the pillow. I could see Jasper's tall form making his way to the bed. "Can you see okay?" I called out.

"Didn't you know, baby? I have sonar." He made weird, high-pitched sounds in falsetto, echoing back the same pitches more softly, as if his voice were bouncing off objects in my room. I threw a sham at him, which he swatted away with a laugh. He walked with his hands in front, feeling around so he wouldn't bump into things.

"Okay, now you really look blind." I started singing, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?"

He joined in with me, "I can see it in your eyes; I can see it in your smile, you're all I've ever wanted, and my arms are open wide."[4]

He tripped a little as he got to the bed, but I steadied him. He'd taken off his button-down shirt and wore just his undershirt and boxers. With the darkness to cloak him, I was a bit less embarrassed. He crawled in bed with me, and I snuggled against his chest while he wrapped his arms around me.

Jasper, after a dramatic pause, took a breath and kept singing, so I did too, allegro con formaggio. "'Cause you know just what to say, and you know just what to do, and I want to tell you so much, I love you ..."[5]

I was shaking with laughter by the end, but in the back of my head, I was thinking, Shit, if we sing, "I love you," does it count? I decided it didn't matter. Why complicate things? But still, I smiled happily to myself, thinking that maybe, maybe it counted. Just a little.

And just as I'd imagined when I lay in bed alone all week, thinking of Jasper, he rubbed lazy circles on my back as I drifted off to sleep.

***

I'd fallen asleep easily and slept soundly, until the nightmare had woken me up in a terror. So here I was, in bed with a sleeping Jasper, unable to go to sleep again, fearing the return of the buzzing.

My mind was racing, so I took a chance. I whispered, "Jasper?"

He stirred a little and rolled onto his back.

I found his hand and squeezed it. "Jasper?" I asked again, a little louder.

I felt gentle pressure in my hand as he squeezed back. "What is it?" he answered through a thick yawn.

"Jasper, I had a bad dream."

"Oh! Baby, come here," he said, returning to his side, drawing me close, and enfolding me completely in his arms.

His eyes stayed closed the whole time, but he never stopped kissing my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. He rubbed my back. I started relaxing a little, even getting a little sleepy again. Warm and completely surrounded by Jasper, I couldn't imagine fearing the dark now.

As if knowing exactly what I needed in that moment, Jasper started to sing softly, his voice a little raspy from being asleep. "A man in my shoes runs a light, and all the papers lied tonight, but falling over you is the news of the day. Angels fall like rain, and love is all of heaven away … inside you the time moves, but she don't fade, the ghost in you, she don't fade…"[6]

"Thank you," I whispered against Jasper's chest.

He didn't stop singing, but I knew from his gentle squeeze that he'd heard me. I fell asleep with Jasper's lips breathing Psychedelic Furs lyrics against my forehead, hands tracing circles on my back, all while his heartbeat provided a firm, steady accompaniment.

[1] Margaret Atwood, "You fit into me," originally published in Power Politics (Toronto: Anansi, 1971).

[2] Joe Darion and Mitch Leigh, "Little Bird," Man of La Mancha (1965).

[3] While the word "Echthroi" is of Greek origin (Εχθροί, meaning "enemies") and is used in various translations of the Bible, the use here is from Madeline L'Engle's Time Trilogy. "If we are Namers, the Echthroi are un-Namers, non-Namers" (A Wind in the Door [New York: Dell, 1973], 89). They "Annihilate… Negate… Extinguish… X" (86).

[4] Lionel Ritchie, "Hello," Can't Slow Down, 1983.

[5] Ibid.

[6] The Psychedelic Furs, "The Ghost in You," Mirror Moves, 1984.

A/N: That's all she wrote, at least for tonight. Do you have a favorite 80s video moment of cheese?