Happy spring! Sorry so delayed…am posting minus usual obsessive proofing as my on-line time has dwindled to almost nothing of late. So please forgive typos and other imperfections, as well as my everyday silliness. Of course, your own everyday silliness is exactly what I like about you! [You're not silly, you say? Then what in blazes are you doing reading this? ;) ]

My thought of the day: Home, psychologically speaking, is a place where you feel you belong; where you wake up each morning not needing to re-establish your identity but knowing where you are and more importantly WHO you are and what your life means. We lose homes and re-gain them not always all of a sudden but in gradual slippages and changes and developments, and it is exhausting work.

Which gives more credence to my realistic saying of the year: "That which does not kill us makes us more ready to die when our time comes." I hope you can see the cheerful resignation in that, rather than mere negativity. I find it much easier to be positive about the daily tasks before me when I keep my expectations squarely set on battle, on the struggle for survival that life represents in a psychological and spiritual sense even when you're lucky enough for it not to be so in a physical one.

Of course, the term "battle" implies conflict, but it doesn't have to be conflict with the people around you-I usually think of it as struggle against entropy (the universal tendency of things to fall apart), chaos and fear. And when the battle does move into relationships, it's possible to be nonviolent about it.

I build a lot of mental brick walls these days to keep other people's emotions, and especially their opinions of me, out of my soul. (That is why I've yet to go back into my private messaging account, a fact which I deeply regret and hope to change soon. In order to survive the long, looooooong winter, I had to retreat almost totally into my own head and little life, as I've been bombarded with so much negativity that I couldn't risk even another whisper of criticism or censure lest I fall to pieces. And praise is even more dangerous, because then I have the fear of how badly I will feel when the praise-giver figures out their mistake! I don't judge myself for having these insecurities, because it would be like judging my hair color-which is changing, by the way, and is a reminder whenever I bravely look into the mirror that life is even shorter than I thought it was so I better do what's important right this very moment, and then think hard about how I define "important.")

Peace and blessings to you, fellow warrior of love. Yes, I type that with a smile on my face, but that doesn't keep me from meaning it with all my cheesy heart.

Daffodils and ownership rights for all things Twilight to Stephenie Meyer; dark chocolate Easter eggs to the rest of us.

Yours, liza

XxXxXx

I was embarrassed at first, but then really relieved when Alice dragged me out of the car and up to her room right away. Embarrassed because she saw me sitting on her brother's lap, and relieved because I feel more normal, or at least like my usual self, when I am with Alice.

It was kind of like old times, from earlier that fall, although Jasper was in the room too and kind of staring at me a little bit, and Alice was a little more excited than usual. She kept interrupting herself to say things like, "This is so great!" or "I can't believe you're finally here!"

I don't feel nearly as confident as she does in the existence of any significant change in my relationship to the Cullen family, or any one member of it, so I just ignore those outbursts and concentrate as best I can on the main conversation with Alice, avoiding any thought or commentary about what will happen next. Alice can talk forever when she's happy. She's a good listener too, and if I'd had anything to share, she'd have listened with enthusiasm…but I didn't.

So she updated me on the additions she's made over the past couple of months to her design collection. She even brought out her dressmaker's dummy to model several outfits, fussing around with them and muttering a bit about hemlines and waist darts and other details that didn't mean much to me, making a few notes on the old-fashioned clipboard she had in her hand when she wasn't adjusting fabric or typing on her open MacBook.

It was easy to admire her work because it was all beautiful, if a little outlandish for regular people to wear in a couple of cases. Alice isn't remotely "regular people," however, and when she excitedly said, "You have to see this one on; it has rhythm when you wear it!" I had every expectation that it would look exactly right on her, and it did.

By that point, Jasper had kissed Alice on the cheek and disappeared to his own room for a while, promising to head down to the kennels with us to feed and exercise Alice's dogs as soon as she was done. When there was a knocking on the door, I figured it was him, back to help Alice get on track to take care of the animals, but when I looked up at the opening door it was Edward's face appearing, a smile breaking across his face when his eyes met mine, his body slipping in then closing the door behind him.

I sucked in a huge breath then looked quickly away, tears starting up before he had even said a word. I don't know what I expected him to do, but moving straight towards me before picking me up and settling me in his lap again wasn't it. I cried harder, of course, and forgot all about Alice and her designs as Edward held me to him, rubbing my back and speaking quietly to me like I was a frightened horse.

It was lovely, and I stopped crying quickly, turning my body into him and resting my head against his chest. He and Alice held a conversation, but I have no idea what they said as I was lost in the blissful warmth of Edward's arms around me and his hands in motion against my head and back.

I'm just drifting off to sleep again, when I hear him laughing. It's louder than before, so I know he's looking down at me and not at Alice, and that awareness brings me back awake, and makes me anxious. Freezing on his lap, I wait for what will happen next, for what is going to hurt me.

He doesn't say anything though, just keeps rubbing my back, and despite myself, I let my guard down and relax back into him. The rhythms of the warm pressure of his fingers moving against my thin fabric-covered skin and of his heart beating underneath the soft cotton against my cheek delineate in tandem the limits of my conscious universe for an all-too-brief amount of time.

It's Alice's voice I hear next. "She sure seems tired," she observes, her tone quieter and more thoughtful than usual.

My cheeks burn, and I cringe, which Edward must feel because he pulls me in more tightly against him.

"Shhhhhhh, Isabella, it's okay," he says softly, right in my ear so that I feel as much as hear the reverberations of his words.

And you know what? I almost believe him.

XxXxXx

I'm not sure if I never noticed how sensitive my girl is before, or if she is more so today. My guess would be it's both: I definitely have new eyes for the nuances of Isabella, and I think that the more I wear her self-protective barricades down, the more her native fear and uncertainty show through. Frankly, it is horrifying to realize how afraid she is, how much of the time.

I'm also struggling with no small amount of rage towards myself, and my lack of reliability towards Isabella in the past. I think the self-directed censure would be worse but for the fact that the first time I let myself get thoroughly angry over my past actions given my new understanding of exactly how much pain I caused her, Isabella felt it as the wave of outrage over my selfish stupidity took me, and immediately reacted herself—with more fear and shame, of course. That was back in the counselor's office with Bob, and he noticed her reaction to my reaction to her reaction (follow that?), and talked me through the situation.

It's sobering to realize that someone needs you so badly, you can't even afford to get angry with yourself for letting them down. Instead, your only unselfish option is to look ahead, searching for the ways you might let them down now or in the future and then trying your damndest not to.

If this is what parenting is like, I have both a new respect for my parents and a new wondering if I ever really want to do that to myself for the rest of my life. Of course, I kind of already have.

That was a heavy thought, and I'll admit I moved away from it quickly.

I distracted myself with action, pulling Isabella up a little in my lap, and leaning in to –well, to nuzzle her cheek, if you must know. That's a new verb for me, but Isabella liked it (no surprise), so I suppose I'll be doing it again.

How do I know she liked it?

She smiled-grinned, really—and then she made this little humming noise, like a happy cat, or a cheerful butterfly. Don't ask me where these inane animal comparisons are coming from, but they're fucking true.

Which made my own animal self a little frisky, because then I bit her earlobe. It wasn't hard, just a little love-nip, but it earned a squeal and a jump and an "Edwa-a-a-rd!," sort of a cross between a protest and a happy admonition that wasn't really meant to be obeyed.

Not that I'd obey it anyway, of course. One of the best aspects of the current situation is the realization that Isabella wants—no, she needs—me to completely ignore her opinions on everything, and do whatever I think is best. How awesome is that? Any feminists need not reply; they can just join Rosalie in glaring at me from the sidelines.

Rose already gave me the evil eye on my way up to Alice's room after my heart-to-heart with my mom. "Didn't mess the poor girl up enough already, Edward?" she asked tersely.

I just grinned and said, "Nope," popping the "p" with as much in-your-face quality as I could manage. Which is a lot, when it comes to me and Rosalie.

Truth be told, I'm a little worried about her, and what she might say to my girl.

XxXxXx

I couldn't believe how easily Esme and Carlisle went along with Edward's asinine, selfish, cruel behavior to Isabella Swan. That girl needs some serious toughening up, or she doesn't stand a chance in the real world, let alone in high school. And what is Edward the Ass doing? Treating her like she's in kindergarten, like he's some benevolent big brother who's going to hold her hand walking her to school every day and make all the monsters under her bed go away.

Fat chance of that. In reality, he's more like the perverted asshole uncle who's going to take her virginity and knock her up, then pretend she's such a slut that there's no way to tell whose baby it really is.

I should know. I've been acquainted with more than one of those asshole uncles in my life, but I'll tell you that they're the ones hating their lives right now, not me. And not thanks to some bullshit white knight on a damned horse but because I'm smart, and I'm tough, and I know how to make grown men cry.

Which is something our little Miss Bella better learn quick, or she's in for a world, a lifetime, of hurt.

Oh well; I guess she's not asking me for my opinion, so I'll leave her to learn her own lessons the hard way, like everyone else. Or at least like me.

I think what bothers me the most about the situation is that everyone else seems okay with it. I mean, really, Carlisle, Esme, you think it's wise to let a 17-year-old boy lead an ignorant 17-year-old girl around by the hand, fawning all over her when it's convenient for him, or it turns him on, and totally ignoring her the rest of the time? God, they are all so wrapped around Edward's finger—the middle one, in his case—I can hardly stand living here.

I tell Emmie we have to move the hell out the second we graduate. He doesn't want to, I can tell. He may be twice my size and a few months older, but he's like a baby compared to me.

That's all right, though. I'm making plans for the both of us. I have a savings account no one knows about, and that's where all my wages go. Ignorant fools think I blow it all on clothing; as if.

Even Alice doesn't realize that I buy most of my clothing during our Bellevue (an upscale Seattle suburb where I never would have set foot before meeting the Cullens—actually, I tried to set foot there once, and got Jas to drive me in his old Sentra before it died, but a traffic cop started following our car and we turned around and left, just like the asshole wanted us to) mall dates on the discount racks of Macy's, then stuff it into the oversized Nordstrom's bags I bribe the salesmen to give me when I pick up something for Emmie. Luckily we're so far apart in sizes, she never figures out that the real reason she can't find anything I buy in her own size is because she's looking in the wrong store.

Of course, Alice isn't quite as spoiled as she seems; she likes cruising the second-hand stores in Seattle almost as much as I do. Maybe more, as long as we stay away from Goodwill. (It really makes her mad that they re-sell donations that won't sell here to international companies who then sell them to poor people in other countries, pricing them low enough to kill off local competition for decent clothes that aren't American cast-offs. It's kind of cute that she cares so much, although it really pissed me off at first—I was like, "Hello, Alice, the poor person standing right in front of you? She needs some shopping options where she can afford more than one pair of socks." But then, the Cullens have been really sweet about insisting on giving me the same clothes allowance as they give Alice. I feel a little guilty sometimes that I'm only spending a small fraction of it and saving the rest…but only a little guilty.)

Alice is still spoiled rotten though, and wouldn't stand a chance in the real world any more than Bella does. But it doesn't bother me as much coming from her, because Alice knows how good she has it. At least she knows it as much as it's possible for her to know it, not really having a fucking clue what life is like without her parents' money. Or without her parents, period.

Which is more than I can say for little Miss Bella. How she has the nerve to come back here after Edward dumped her so thoroughly is beyond me—does she not see how she can never have any credibility with him again? With us? With me? Does she think she is really that special, that she can keep him wrapped around her finger with no effort on her part whatsoever? It makes me sick. Really, truly, vomit-worthy sick. I hope they're not planning on her eating here tonight; I won't be able to stomach that.

At least it's only five more months til I'm out of here…only five more months…only five more months.

XxXxXx

I'm trying not to act too excited around Bella. I mean, I don't want to scare her or anything. And maybe I'm just a little embarrassed about how happy I am—not super embarrassed, because I don't mind people knowing that I love them, not like Rosalie, but a little bit, mostly because of how happy I am that it is her.

Emmett teased me once, earlier in the fall before Edward left, that I was discovering my lesbian side with Bella. I just laughed, because he's kind of right—if I ever had any sexy interest in a girl ever, it would be Bella. She is totally my type.

But I don't really want that. I don't think. I mean, it wouldn't be awful or anything, and maybe I would kind of a little bit like to kiss her, you know, on the lips, but I don't think I want to touch her. Well, maybe just her breasts, a little. And her stomach. She has this beautiful round stomach; it's a bit skinny right now, but Edward's going to fix that, and then—she's going to look just like Venus! I'll have to start a new clothing line for her: Greco-Roman inspired; you know, lots of draped cloth and flowing lines. It will be amazing!

But I can't tell her that. She'd FREAK OUT. It doesn't take much to freak Bella out, so that's why I'm trying so hard to be calm, even though on the inside I'm totally screaming with happiness. TOTALLY SCREAMING! She's so cute, and she's so sweet, and she's so—so—so bossable. That's a word, and if it isn't, it totally should be. That's my Bella, completely wonderfully bossable, and lovely. And affectionate!

She reminds me of Bosphorus, my third dog. He's this adorable little Collie-mix mutt, and he was horribly abused by the jerks who had him before me. He's afraid of everything, even squirrels, but when you show him the least little bit of attention, he loves you forever—licks your hand, and follows you around, and just lives to put his head in your lap. That's Bella. She lives to be in Edward's lap.

I'm kind of hoping maybe someday she'll let me hold her too. I know, I know, the sizing's a little off; once Edward fattens her up she's going to be both taller and heavier than me. But I'll still be the boss, and she knows it. Or she will.

I have this picture of us, in my head, the way I see my designs—the really good ones, anyway. And in this picture, I'm stretched out on this gorgeous white silk couch, and I'm wearing emerald green (that's my color), and leaning back on me, her head resting on my chest, her legs stretched out between mine, is Bella—and she's unbelievably gorgeous. Her hair is down, and she's laughing, and her eyes are so happy, and she's wearing a dress I made for her in this sapphire shade of blue, and it's stretched artistically-tight around her belly…and she's totally pregnant! I mean, she's huge! And my arms are around her belly, and she's looking up at me and it's just so obvious that she loves me! I love that picture.

I wish so much I could connect a printer to my brain; I've thought that before about my designs, but I usually manage to draw them out and then sew them so they come to life anyway. But this picture of Bella, it's harder to create.

First of all, she's so far from that happiness right now, it almost breaks my heart.

And then of course, there's Edward. If I told him about my vision, or told Bella who would tell him, he'd be all pissy and like, "Hands off, Alice! She's mine!" He's a total Neanderthal when it comes to Bella.

But that's okay, because that's what she needs right now. I can wait.

Which is what I've been doing, here in my own room, just sitting and thinking about our future together and waiting for Edward to stop cuddling her and get back to whatever it is he has to get back to, because it's obvious he's leaving her here with me or he would have dragged her off already. I hope Mom is sending him into town for groceries.

And I hope it's a really long list.

XxXxXx

I am on edge with the emotional energy rampant in the house, and especially with my warring feelings of hope and worry for Edward. Oh, my sweet boy—such a challenge he's always been! He'd roll his eyes at that, ungrateful teenager he is right now, but should he ever have kids himself, one day he'll understand.

It's true; Emmett has been in more official trouble. And Alice certainly has her dramatic moments. But always, always it's Edward simmering to the side like an emotional volcano, this powerhouse of intelligence and insight and strength but without the time logged in on earth necessary to modulate his understandable arrogance and tendency to be more certain than might be wise.

Of course, most of the time he really is right—certainly on factual or practical matters, he's the smartest one of the bunch, myself and Carlisle included. And I don't mind telling you, that's saying a lot.

Oh, but in matters of the heart—he is so vulnerably naïve! I've been worried for years about his inevitable broken heart, and equally relieved to have the pain put off so long. Now, with his pick of Isabella as his first real love affair, I'm starting to hope he'll be lucky, as lucky as our other children have been.

Perhaps Carlisle and I suffered enough for all of us. If only it worked that way, and parents could buy happiness for their children with their own misery; their own suffering.

Not that I'm miserable any more, of course. No, I'm happier than I ever could have imagined while growing up.

And if Edward and Isabella negotiate this unusual transition into something more, something beautiful for both of them…well, then my happiness will be complete.

Until it's time for grandchildren, of course. Which tells you my hidden selfishness in wanting things between Edward and Isabella to work out, although I swear I'm trying to remain above it. Even as I wholeheartedly believe that none of us can stay above our strongest human desires; at least not on any sort of permanent basis. But I will try, because after all, that's part of being a mom.

Which is, by the way, a whole heck of a lot harder than it looks.

XxXxXx

I knew the moments lost in Edward's embrace were too wonderful to last. I knew it, but I wasn't able to act like it—which I knew would happen too. That's the most dangerous part of this whole strange interlude: the wanting it's giving power to in me, the desire; the hope; the expectation. None of those things are helpful, and all of them will spell the end of me, I am sure of it.

Which makes me so, so angry at myself for what I did when Edward moved to leave me. I fought him. Hard.

And do you know what he did in return? He laughed. He laughed!

But he still left me.

…

That's okay, though; he's not the only one who can walk away.

XxXxXx

It was harder than I thought it would be, just leaving my girl for my visit with Charlie. I knew it was ridiculous, this feeling I had that she wouldn't be there when I got back. I mean, where was she going to go? My family's home is deep in the woods on the edge of an enormous wilderness. Other than the narrow road in and out connecting us to the remote and relative civilization of Forks, there is nothing around us but trees—trees and the Sol Duc river. And Isabella isn't exactly an outdoorsy kind of girl.

I had nothing to worry about, leaving her with Alice, not to mention my mother.

Yet I was worried, from the moment I pried her arms off of me (she didn't seem to want me to go any more than I did), gave her a quick kiss on the head, told her to "Be good, Isabella," and walked out Alice's door, to the moment I pulled up the driveway of her old home, not quite ready to face her father and whatever it was he had to say to me.

I almost called home to check on her before going in for my talk with Charlie—I mean, Chief Swan (we aren't on a first-name basis yet, except in my mind). I even pulled my phone out and hit the speed dial for the house, but I disconnected before it rang, feeling foolish at what I thought was a gross overreaction.

Disgusted with myself, and still worried, I threw the phone into the front passenger seat in frustration and undid my seatbelt, getting ready to exit the car. Just as I had my hand on the door handle and was ready to pull, my phone lit up and buzzed. Quickly I sat back down and grabbed it up, hoping Isabella was calling, or someone else from the house who I could then get to put Isabella on the phone.

It was neither; it was Bob.

"Edward!" the man said cheerfully. "I'm just checking in. Is everything going all right so far?"

There was a heartbeat's worth of silence as I weighed my response. Part of me, the part that used to be dominant—with a small "d"—wanted to snark back, "No, I've managed to alienate Bella and destroy all chances for our future happiness in under two hours."

But I couldn't more than think those words before a shiver ran down my spine and I swallowed them back, another part of me inexplicably afraid they might be true.

After a deep breath, I chose a more moderate response. "As far as I can tell, Bob. Why? Is there something I don't know?"

I winced as I heard my last words, having become painfully aware in one day's time exactly how much there is that I don't know.

Bob, apparently being more mature than I in more than abdominal structure and hair style, left that airplane-hanger-sized opening alone and simply said, "I just wanted to make sure you knew that I meant it when I said I would be available to you and Bella as you figure things out. You've got my number in your cell now; please use it when you get stuck."

I did notice he said "when" and not "if," but I couldn't bring myself to mind his presumption, mostly because I was too busy trying to figure out how to ask him a question right then.

"Edward?" he asked, apparently looking for some comment back from me before he hung up.

"Um, Bob?" I said, so eloquently, in return.

"Just ask me," he said, a little humor obvious amid the warmth and openness. I decided I couldn't afford to care, and did what the man said.

"What should I say to Chief Swan?"

"Chief Swan?" Bob asked back, confused.

"Chief Swan," I reiterated. "Bella's Dad? He's…well, I guess you could say he's summoned me to meet with him."

"Oh!" Bob said unhelpfully. "I wasn't aware that was in the works." There was a pause as I processed the fact that Chief Swan was moving out of official channels in calling me over, and guessed as to what that might signify.

"Does that mean she's not with you right now?" Bob asked, taking the conversation in a different direction than I needed at the moment, and straight into fear and guilt central.

"That's what it means. He was very specific with Esme about wanting me to come alone."

"Is he at his office?"

"No, I'm sitting in the driveway of his house as we speak. I'm kind of hoping you can tell me what I should say to him to let me keep Bella." I cringed at how needy that last bit sounded, but I also crossed my fingers that he could do exactly that.

"Well, I can tell you what not to say, and top of the list would be any sort of possessive language like 'keep.' He may not be high in some of the Dominant qualities, but Charles Swan is as territorial as you are; maybe more so in this case, given it's his daughter's well-being at stake. So stay away from underscoring her current proximity to you instead of to him."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I asked, a little angrily, knowing as I'm sure Bob did too that Isabella's proximity to me was the number one issue on my mind.

"Just look the man in the eyes and tell him you will take good care of his baby girl, Edward. You tell the truth, you just do it delicately, and with emphasis on the goals you have in common. Do they not teach rhetoric in the schools anymore? And more to the point, do you know why Chief Swan wants to meet with you?"

"No; I was hoping you would."

"I have no idea; he seemed OK with the plan when the meeting broke up this afternoon."

There was another brief pause as Bob thought things over and I recovered from his rhetoric insult, wondering if I have been totally overestimating my own competence my whole life long and deciding that no, I have not been, I'm just a little distracted by Isabella at the moment.

Then Bob picked up with, "I may have missed some hesitancy on his part we're doing. Although it also makes sense that he would have gotten a little nervous, thinking over the more unconventional aspects of what he's agreed to. My best guess is that he just needs to reassure himself as to your trustworthiness and desirability as a suitor for his daughter."

"A suitor?"

"Absolutely. Don't tell me you don't realize you're courting Isabella?"

"Courting?! Bob, I have to tell you, you're freaking me out with all the Victorian language."

"Sorry, Edward, but modern cultural lingo hasn't kept up with the animal truth of romantic interpersonal exchanges, apart from sex—in which aspect it's gone a little overboard, frankly."

"Oh," was all I could muster, though I immediately saw his point (that's what she said); at least about cultural lingo concerning sex. I then tried to consider "courting" from a modern viewpoint, and all I came up with was a hazy mental image of Beyoncé and her back-up dancers—and their inner thighs-moving to "If you want it then you shoulda put a ring on it," leading me once more to the conclusion that Bob the Annoying Bastard was right. Again.

That image also triggered a memory from Christmas a year ago, when Emmett's big gift to Rosalie under the tree was a promise ring…wrapped up in a black leotard. He may act like a lumbering doofus, I suspect to some extent on purpose, but the man has smarts when it counts. Most of the time.

Maybe I should call him and ask what he would say to Chief Swan…

"Edward?" Bob's voice brought me back to the present.

"I'm here," I said, and sighed, because "here" is not where I wanted to be at all. Home with Isabella, that's where I wanted to be, enjoying the very proximity I was about to go in and downplay in some unstated test of my intentions by her father, a man I could tell was going to be a thorn in my side for as long as Isabella remained a minor.

Which immediately gave me the idea of helping her pursue emancipation, an idea I shelved to come back to later after I had successfully negotiated the gauntlet the Chief no doubt had set up for me inside the house.

"I've got to go and get this over with, Bob," I said, geared up to do just that and grateful for the good advice I'd just been given. "Thanks for your help," I therefore added, with less difficulty than I would have imagined a few hours earlier. He may be a weird excuse for a middle-aged university researcher with a fetish for helping confused adolescents, but at least he was useful about it.

"My pleasure, Edward," Bob responded, a genuine warmth in his tone that I found comforting, almost in spite of myself. "Do me a favor though, and just give me a call after you've tucked Isabella in tonight; let me know that everything's okay with her."

This had been a very long day full of surprises, and often-uncomfortable revelations about the motives and needs lurking in plain sight under the behavior of me and almost everyone around me…yet I still retained the capacity to be floored. And rendered speechless.

"Edward?" Bob asked again, sounding puzzled this time.

With great effort, I got out, "What the f-ck, Bob. Tucked her in?" the last words a little higher-pitched than I would have liked.

Somehow, saying those unbelievable words heightened my reaction, and I had to put the phone down for a moment in order to simultaneously pinch the bridge of my nose and cover the back of my head as I leaned forward in some sort of instinctual duck-and-roll position. Of course, the steering column impeded my instincts, and after a couple deep breaths with my head on the wheel I was able to sit up and pretend I had my shit together again. Emphasis on "pretend."

As I raised my phone back to my ear I heard Bob, sounding a little concerned now, "Edward? Calm down, son, I didn't mean to upset you. Actually, I don't really understand—"

I cut in. "It's all right, Bob," I said, my tone that of a world-weary old man, or at least a middle-aged one. Oh my G-, my tone was Bob. "I just lost it a little at that mental image."

I was hoping he'd move on to "OK, talk to you later," but Bob wasn't one to let things rest. "What mental image?" he asked, concern now warring with curiosity in his voice.

I sighed. Again. What the Hell, I thought, he already knows how I feel about her, and pretty much everything I've done Isabella-related over the past 6 months. I might as well tell him this too. "I've tucked her in already, Bob. Just before."

"Before what?" I wasn't sure if he was being deliberately obtuse or he really couldn't put 2 and 2 together and get 4.

"Before I deserted her without a word, Bob. Before I crushed her like a bug under the heel of my steel-soled combat boots." I didn't have any combat boots, but it made a nice picture. Or at least an accurate one.

"Oh," Bob said calmly, "I see." And he did. "Edward, this is a different situation entirely. You're not going to hurt her like that again."

There was a painful silence as I bit back any number of bitter retorts that danced across my lips, their acid almost a physical sensation. It was broken by Bob, and his sincerity was shocking. "I won't let you."

My head fell back against the seat exactly as if I'd been bitch-slapped, and I swear I felt the corresponding sting on my cheek. And then, proving some theorem I've never read that every dominating asshole has some part of his psyche that is just waiting to find the person capable of doing the same to him, I felt spectacularly relieved.

But like the sun rising—no, like the earth spinning because I felt the immutable pull of it, the gravity not just of the situation but of my fucking being, and I knew what I was and how I was and in all of that being there wasn't a kernel of caring about what Bob or Chief Swan or anyone else thought about me or how they judged my actions, just a reservoir of raw power waiting to be unleashed on a worthwhile object, a meaningful goal—the relief morphed into calm assurance, into a visceral awareness of how independent I was of censure or control. For the first time, I understood with perfect clarity how idiots like Napoleon and Alexander the Great had gotten it into their heads to try to rule the world; it wasn't because they thought it was logical or even necessarily desirable, it was because their will required it; because only a global scope could begin to satisfy their need to exercise their incredible ability to bend others' wills to their own.

Luckily, I have apparently been spared the particular burden of megalomania; I don't know if it makes me enlightened or a sociopath, or maybe an enlightened sociopath, but I can't care enough about the world in general—in particular the corrupt network of imbeciles and ingrates happily decaying to their own sordid ends—to want to control it. I didn't then and I don't now want anything to do with most of what and whom I see around me. I only want what is good, and beautiful, and true—I guess Rosalie's right and I am completely and most decadently spoiled. But why shouldn't I be? With the power to surround myself with only the best of the world, why shouldn't I indulge it? In the almost post-coital glow of that sunrise moment, I could think of no reason, none at all, to do anything counter to my own happiness.

Eventually, a small voice whispered back, Because those with great power have great responsibility, and though I can flippantly dismiss the sentiment as borne of pop culture and Jackie O I know they are merely figureheads precariously pasted onto a much older idea, a truth written in the wiring of human nature, and that I'll only be truly happy when I am in some type of balance between enjoying the spoils of my selfishness and feeling the satisfaction of making the lives of those around me better too. Not because I give a damn, but because my soul requires it.

Yes, Edward fucking Cullen has a soul. Are you surprised? Well, I know who's not. And along with all the other undeniable animal components of my attraction to her, I knew in that illuminating moment that spiritually, I needed Bella because she saw me. Not the surface picture, not the aggression I cast around me like a shield and a weapon, but the power inside that created it. She saw it, and instead of running away in fear or jealousy or calculating how to use it to her own advantage, she stared at it admiringly; she reached out to it with innocent, open, unguarded arms; she longed to be consumed by it without caring what the implications might be for her own life, her own spirit... she longed to be consumed by me.

I heard Bob's voice through the phone speakers, and knew I'd spent enough time in conversation with him for the moment. "I've got to go, Bob; I'll call you later," I said, my voice as calm as perfect assurance and as strong as absolute truth. I had no more fear of Chief Swan either; I'd never been more clear about his powerlessness to interfere with me, for freed of the petty guilt and shame I'd been carrying around like carnival prizes, I now knew that he must know how much his daughter needed me.

Of course, I wanted his daughter, and there would be no having Isabella the way I wanted her without caring for those around her, so certainly I needed to placate the man. But that's all it was going to be: a shadow dance borne of civility and compassion stemming more from his daughter's needs than anything I would have felt of my own accord. I didn't despise him; I was fairly certain he'd done his best and at least—lucky for him—he hadn't done anything to hurt the impossibly beautiful creature he'd been given as a child.

But I couldn't empathize with his position, and didn't want to either. The mere idea of letting some know-it-all teenager with an avaricious need for control anywhere near a vulnerable adolescent female of importance to me was anathema, and as I realized the utter desperation of his actions, I lost any vestiges of dread for the upcoming conversation with Chief Swan and swiftly, surely exited my car to get it over with in order to return to the girl I love with all my passionate, powerful nature.

XXXXXX

That's all for Sharks right now; hope that it was almost worth the wait…I'm still trying to streamline my life in order to speed up the writing process (and be a better mom/lover of the world ;)). Thought about ditching dishes for paper plates, but not environmentally or financially sound. Perhaps fig leaves for clothes? Oh, that might lead to bad rashes.

Here's another story start if you like. It's nothing new, just more common threads weaving together in a slight variation of old patterns to form (I hope) exactly the same emotional warmth (to ameliorate precisely the same wounds) of anything I write, or try to. Be well, and thank you for reading. xoxo l

Edward has been hiking the ocean cliffs at LaPush, going longer and farther than he would have otherwise due to his curiosity over what Isabella Swan's rusty old behemoth of a truck was doing parked at the trailhead when he had pulled up in his Volvo.

Finally, at the very top of the trail in a spot overlooking the ocean with a spectacular view and a sheer drop-off, he finds her. She doesn't notice him coming up behind her as she appears to be studying the drop down, leaning over slightly but enough that Edward's heart clenches and his muscles freeze.

As she leans back in, he instantly starts stalking towards her and calls out, his tone one of fury barely contained and urgent warning, "Bella! What are you doing here?"

Bella jumps in surprise and turns around, taking a small step backwards and making Edward freeze again, his eyes wide at the terrifying realization of how easily she might go over if he isn't very, very careful.

"Oh! Hi, E-Edward. I'm, uh, I'm hiking." Bella is confused and nervous, and has temporarily forgotten both her surroundings and why she is in them in the mesmerizing presence of one Edward Cullen.

"At the edge of the top of a cliff overhanging the ocean?"

"It's, um, it's pretty?"

"Bella. Come away from there," and he holds out his hand to her.

Bella doesn't take it. She's getting stubborn. He has no idea—NO IDEA—how hard life has gotten for her, and her pain is not his problem. Nor his business. She smiles weakly, "It's okay, Edward. I've been coming here all my life. The rez kids jump from up here, all the time."

Edward is not amused, and takes a restrained step closer. He shakes his head tightly once, then says in a dark voice, "Not at twilight they don't, and definitely not in winter. The water temperature will kill you if the fall doesn't. Now give me your hand." And he reaches his hand closer to her, waving his fingers in to his palm several times, reminding Bella of the warrior in the Daniel Day-Lewis version of the movie "Last of the Mohicans" beckoning the little sister to come to him just before she chooses to jump off the cliff after the Mohican man she'd grown to love. Confused by this memory mingling with the shock of Edward Cullen's entirely unexpected presence at LaPush and even more unexpected notice of her, Bella looks over her shoulder to the water below, almost expecting to see the dead body of a man on the ground beneath her.

But it's not ground below; it's water—angrily lashing against large boulders that she doesn't remember seeing there before, or certainly not being quite that big and hard-looking. Surely she wouldn't land on them. She just wanted to drown, not be splattered against—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the feel of a strong, warm hand grabbing one of hers, and using it to yank her away from the cliff's edge. "I wasn't asking," Edward said in a growl, as his vise-like grip succeeded in pulling her farther away from the edge and back onto the path down the cliffs.

"You go there," Edward growled again as he pulled her forward and around him, switching his hand holding on to her so quickly she didn't realize he'd let go before he had tight hold of her hand again, leading her forward and carefully keeping himself between her and the drop-off.

He said nothing as they walked quickly through the growing darkness, Bella tripping along behind him, speechless. It was a much faster trip down than it had been up for Bella, following Edward's long legs and anxious pace. The speed warmed her up some, but she couldn't stop trembling; she didn't know why. She didn't know much of anything; her brain was empty except for the sensation of her hand in his. It was a wonderful sensation, but she tried hard not to put any stock in it. It meant nothing, and she knew it, she told herself.

She was lost in an embarrassing and shameful (in her opinion) inner fantasy in which she and Charlie were driving home from dinner when they were hit by a drunk-driver, killing Charlie and sending her to the hospital, where Dr. and Mrs. Cullen adopt her and bring her home to live with them, when all of a sudden Edward stops and pulls backward on her hand, making her stop too. When she's stopped, she feels him drop her hand. Panic instantly wells up inside her, making the trembling so bad she has to wrap her arms around herself.

Lifting her head slightly to look at him sideways, and gauge whether now is the time to make a break for it to her truck so she can drive away and simultaneously pretend this never happened and that it will happen again, and again, she sees him pulling his arty and exquisitely-fitted, somehow simultaneously sexy and eminently practical, cable-knit sweater off. His t-shirt underneath rides up as he does so, making her look hurriedly away, so she is surprised when bulky material is, without ceremony or even a word of warning, pulled over her head.

Which head snaps up again in surprise, and accidentally catches Edward's intense gaze staring down at her as he settles the material around her neck, then says gruffly, "Arms." Like an obedient child, Bella pushes first one, then another arm through the sleeves, and holds them out to the side as Edward pulls the rest of the sweater down to where it hangs below her waist, straightening a couple of twisted spots before nodding with satisfaction to himself and saying, "Okay, that's better. Let's go," and grabbing her hand again, resumes pulling her down the hillside.

Bella trips after, almost falling, but Edward catches her and helps her stand up straight again before resuming walking, slower than before, and Bella finally gets a few scratchy sentences out. "Um, Edward, I don't need your sweater. You're; you're going to be cold. I mean, I appreciate it, but—"

Edward turns his head back and looks down at her, pausing for a moment. Raising his eyebrows a little, he says, "Bella. Shut up." Then he resumes walking and pulling her forward.

The terseness and seeming unkindness of Edward's reply instantly bring the tears forth for Bella, and she trips a little again as she madly blinks them back and brings one hand up to wipe them away.

Edward turns at her tripping and catches the tear-wiping action, quickly moving in front of her, grabbing her face with both his hands and lifting it up for his inspection. It's hard in the dying light, but he manages to see the glint of tears, and he wipes her cheeks with his thumbs. "You're crying," he quietly observes; "I've hurt you."

Isabella quickly shakes her head "No," moving it between the hold of Edward's hands, but Edward just tightens his hold and says, "Shhhhh, it's okay. I'm dangerous for you, sweetheart, but I learn from my mistakes. I won't say that again." Then he leans in and quickly kisses her on each cheek and the bridge of her nose before leading her down again.

Finally, they get to the small parking lot at the base of the cliff, but Edward doesn't break his pace or veer from the straight line he is making towards his Volvo, parked to the left of her truck. When he goes to his passenger door instead of her truck, she makes her first effort to shake his grasp. "Edward, my truck's right here. I'd better be getting home."

Edward says nothing, just proceeds in opening the passenger door then standing to the side, holding it open for her and waving her in. When she stands there, incredulous, he just stares back, then raises one eyebrow pointedly before gesturing in the car and saying, "Now, please. You're in shock; I need to get you home."

Dumbfounded, Bella folds herself into the car, sitting stiffly, still trembling. Edward leaves the door open and moves away, and distantly Bella registers the sound of his trunk opening. She's just starting to consider getting up and out of the car when he's back, a thick wool blanket in his arms.

"It's cold from being in the trunk, but it will warm up quickly," he says as he tucks it around her, fastening the seatbelt over it, then quickly closes the car door and moves around to the driver's side, climbing in and getting the engine started. He waits a couple minutes for the engine to warm up before he turns on the heat, meanwhile backing out of the parking spot and driving away from the lonely lot, Isabella's truck sitting forlornly in the otherwise empty place. Then, as they're winding down the road to the main highway through the Reservation and back to Forks, Edward turns the heater on full blast, directing all the vents to Bella, and hits the CD player too, quickly pushing buttons as loud, angry rock comes on, pulling up a different CD until finally soothing classical music is playing.

Between the warm air and the soothing music, and helped along by the dark night and the smooth ride of Edward's Volvo, Bella finds her eyes growing heavy. She blinks them back open twice; the second time she turns her head and finds Edward looking at her. She looks quickly away, a little more awake, while he says, "You should listen to your body, Isabella, and sleep if you need to."

Then, a few seconds later, he says something more quietly as she loses the battle with her eyelids and falls into the sleep Edward had prescribed. Just as she's floating away, she thinks she hears Edward say quietly, "I'll be right here, watching over you."