A Snowfall Kind of Love

Summary: There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

December 19: 6 days until Christmas

There's something about graduation ceremonies that's like Christmas, in a way: full-to-bursting with anticipation, threaded through with the barest hint of the blues. Everyone's looking forward to the future, but there's a wistfulness that comes with the knowledge that the door is very firmly closing on a chapter of our lives. That there are people in the room with us who we will likely never see again, despite the fact that they've been pretty regular fixtures in our lives for the past two years.

Standing in a line with the traditional black robe hanging around me, I force myself to focus on the present moment. This is the culmination of my academic career. I've been in some school or another since I was four years old; after today, I will cease to be a student. The memory of my first day of school – the pigtails it took Charlie four tries to get right, the shiny Mary Jane shoes, the too-big backpack – floats at the edges of my mind, and I close my eyes for a brief second, thinking about my father and his adamant insistence that I commit myself to my studies. While he only ever alluded to it abstractly, I know there was something in him that felt like being blue-collar was…inadequate. Whether it was my mother's selfish and callous dismissal of his small-town, civil servant life as "not enough" for her, or the fact that we always had just enough to get by but never much more, despite how hard he worked…I was never able to nail it down, but as I got older, I saw that faint trace of it in him. The fear that he wouldn't be able to give me what I needed. And, later, the determination that I'd always be able to make my own way. That I'd be educated enough to choose my own way.

I wish he were here now. Not because it's Christmas, not because I want him to see me walk across that stage, but because I want him to know. I want to tell him, now that I'm old enough to understand: he was always enough. What we had was always enough. With my understanding, now, of what the world holds – the Edwards and the Jakes and the Rileys and all the rest of them – I see, truly, how much we had. How much I had.

I wish I could tell him.

As we file into the small auditorium to the plodding bars of "Pomp and Circumstance," I gaze around at the crowd sea of faces. Parents, friends, families, spouses, lovers, siblings. Rounding the corner to walk into my row, I spot Alice and Jasper sitting a few rows back from the front; when our eyes meet, they both grin and wave. Smiling, I wave back before finding my seat.

The small ceremony is predictably dull; the December graduates are a small bunch when compared to the large slew of students that will graduate in May. That the university even goes to the trouble of having a graduation ceremony at all is nice. Despite the admittedly interesting speaker, there's that familiar energy in the air: let's get this over with. Then we're standing again, and the dean is reading off names as he confers diplomas. When Emmett's name is called, I hear Alice and Jasper whooping like football fans from behind me, and I smile when he glances over at his brother, dimpled and grinning. And, when it's my turn, I hear the same racket again. It warms me from the inside when I peek over my shoulder to see my best friend and her boyfriend standing and whooping like lunatics, and I have to bite my lip against the threat of happy tears. "Thank you," I manage to say to Dean Whitfield as I accept my degree and make my way to the opposite side of the stage.

What's left of the ceremony passes in a blur, and before I know it, I'm adrift in the sea of families and friends searching for their graduates. I wander, only halfheartedly looking for Alice and Jasper, wanting to make sure that they find Emmett first, but when I feel a hand clamp around my elbow and I turn, Alice is standing there beaming, eyes bright. "Congratulations, Bella! I'm so proud of you!" And before I can respond, I'm enveloped in her surprisingly strong arms. There's no sign of Jasper, no awkwardly hovering Emmett, so I let myself hug her back, hard, surprised by my own swell of relieved gratitude.

"Thanks, Alice."

She pulls back, her eyes sympathetic and searching. It's as if she knows my dirty little secret: I'd been hoping to spot Edward in the crowd, despite the fact that I know he's the only one on at the House today. Despite the fact that I'm pretty sure that, whatever the thin thread of possibility stretching between us was, it snapped last night. "I think we need to get drunk and celebrate."

I groan, the memory of last night's "celebration" still a very present echo in my temples. "I have a phone interview in two hours," I remind her, and she wrinkles her nose.

"Oh. Right. Boston."

I laugh at the barely contained distaste in her voice. "Yeah. Boston."

"Okay. Well, then, lunch, at least."

"Lunch sounds good."

And it is. Despite Emmett's presence and the tiny hint of awkwardness that lingers – likely due to the fact that we can't really hash anything out with Alice and Jasper in company – lunch is perfect, a small celebration with three of the people who mean the most to me in this new city I've chosen as home. And I'm almost certain, now, as we sit in our chairs, the debris of lunch scattered across the table as Alice recounts the chaos that was her classroom on the last day of school before the holiday, that I'm not going to Boston. That Angela Cheney could offer me the world this afternoon, and I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. These are my friends. I don't need some big declaration from a man to make me stay: I'm staying for me. Because, the anguish of loving someone I may never get notwithstanding, this is my home. I'm happy here. I have a life here, and an offer of a job that will let me help people. In this moment, in the company of my friends, it feels like enough.

Jasper and Alice pick up the check, despite Emmett's and my protests, and as we all spill out into the parking lot, Emmett and I exchange an only slightly awkward hug as Alice extends the invitation for Christmas dinner. He glances at me briefly, and I nod. When he accepts, I'm surprised by my own relief. Again, I can feel how it might be if we ever make our way into genuine friendship, and I like it.

An hour later, I'm on the phone with Angela, telling her thanks but no thanks. As impressed and, yes, awed as I am by their facility, my heart is in Chicago. My heart is in helping the kids in Chicago. The Jakes and the Rileys and the Seths and the Jameses and the once-upon-a-time-Edwards. I know without leaving that I'd miss it here.

When I hang up, Alice's smiling face appears almost immediately around my bedroom doorjamb, and I laugh. "Eavesdropper."

"You're staying?" she asks, not bothering to argue my accusation.

"I'm staying," I agree, and she shrieks, bounding into the room and leaping onto the bed to grab me in a ferocious hug.

"I'm so glad. I know I told you, but God, I'd have missed you if you left."

"I'd have missed you guys, too." Holly chooses this moment to leap onto my bed, and as she settles between us and I stroke her fur, I say to Alice, "What would you think about…giving Holly to the House?" At Alice's surprised look, I add, "Neither of us is here all that much. And there's always someone there. And…she really seemed to like the guys. And—"

"I think it's a great idea," she cuts me off.

"Really?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "I didn't want to say anything, but…you're right. Neither of us is really ever here. And, according to our lease, we're not actually supposed to have a dog in the house." She looks faintly sheepish at this little revelation.

"What? Why didn't you tell me that?"

Another shrug. "Because if you wanted her, we'd have figured something out. At worst, she could have stayed with Jasper while we looked for another place."

And even though I've known for a while what an amazing friend she is, the knowledge hits me with renewed force. "Thank you, Alice."

"Of course," she says, ruffling the fur on Holly's neck. "So…any new deliveries?"

I shake my head. "That's done."

"What? Done? Why?"

"It's just…over."

She narrows her eyes. "What the hell happened last night?"

But I don't quite know where to start, with the Edward and Emmett of it all. I'm not even sure I can explain it, that feeling that I had, and that I've since lost. The bubble of possibility, the faint shimmer of potential. I think back over the brief little marathon of gifts: the popcorn and the chocolates and the gloves and—

"Hey," I say suddenly. "What are you guys doing tonight?"

"Me and Jasper? Nothing. Why?"

"You guys should take the Nutcracker tickets."

Alice frowns. "But you like it. Why don't you and I go?"

I shake my head. "Honestly, I'm not really feeling up to it. I drank too much last night, and I honestly don't have it in me to get all gussied up a second night in a row. I'd really like it if you guys went."

I can tell by the look on her face that she wants to press the issue, but after a searching look of my face, she finally just nods. "Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And…thank you guys. I'm…I want you to know how lucky I feel to have you both."

"We're the lucky ones, Bella." She leans in and gives me an awkward hug over the bulk of the dog's body. "Don't give up hope," she murmurs in my ear, but she pulls back and disappears out my bedroom door before I can say anything in response.

The next two days pass in a whirl. On Tuesday, I gather up the few supplies I've procured for Holly – a pair of bowls, a leash, a chew toy she hasn't shown the slightest interest in – and drive her over to Grove House. I know by the way she bounds up the porch stairs, tail wagging so hard that the back end of her body is wriggling, that I'm making the right decision. The reserved dog of mere days ago is a memory: she bounds up to Edward and leans her full weight against his lower legs, gazing up at him with adoring eyes as he bends and rubs her sides. Jake gets a similarly affectionate but slightly less frenzied nuzzle of welcome, and she does a loop of the rest of the guys before settling on Edward's feet beneath his desk.

"That's cozy," he says, glancing beneath the desk. "If I got dogs for everyone, I could save a small fortune on heat."

"Which you'd promptly have to spend on kibble," I volley, even though my heart's not fully in it.

"True," he allows, looking back up at me. "Congratulations," he adds. "You're officially done."

Done. "Yeah. I'm done."

"You're free of me," he adds with a smile, but it doesn't seem like an Edward smile. It seems like someone else's smile. A mask that has nothing to do with his full beard. For a second, I'm sort of glad I can't see his smooth, unobscured face.

"Thank God." But I have to look away from that strange smile. Not the teasing one, not the affectionate one, not the one I couldn't quite place but that gave me a funny, fizzy feeling in my stomach. I reach into my bag and pull out the small gift-wrapped box with his watch in it. When I hold it out to him, he stands.

"What's this?"

"Your Christmas present."

"Oh. Okay. Hang on." He bends at the waist to rummage in his bottom desk drawer, and I take a second to eye his forest green sweater. No elbow patches. Just a deep evergreen, a pretty darn close match for his eyes. And for Redford. "Here." He straightens, and in his hand is a small gift bag with a puff of white tissue paper sticking out of the top of it.

"Thank you."

His smile turns faintly more familiar. More teasing. More Edward. "You haven't even opened it yet. What if it's coal?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"No. You're right. I wouldn't dare."

We're both hovering awkwardly. "Should I…open it now?"

"Does that go against your Christmas code, to open a gift before the day?"

It does, but I don't admit it. I want too badly to see the look on his face when he opens his watch. "No."

"Okay then." He tears into the wrapping paper on his gift and when he opens the small black box, his eyebrows rocket upward. "Jesus, Bella."

"It seemed…pretty functional. And classic. It…reminded me of you. But if you don't like it or something, I put the gift receipt in the bottom of the box. You can—"

"I love it," he cuts me off, pushing his left sweater sleeve up his forearm and slipping the watch from the box. "Bella, you should not have done this."

"I wanted to." My voice is barely audible as I watch him wrap the leather strap around his wrist and fasten it in place. Just as I had wanted to. He glances from the watch's face up into mine. "This is too much," he says, but I shake my head.

"I…wanted to thank you. As well as to say Merry Christmas. You've…done a lot for me. I wanted you to know." I want him to know so much, but I'll settle for this. For the understanding of all he's given me.

"Thank you," he says, and his earnestness chips away at my residual melancholy.

"You're welcome." I glance down at the bag in my hands. "My turn?"

"Oh. Yeah. It's…well, you'll see when you open it."

I pull out the tissue and feel the weight of something small but sturdy nestled within it. Unwrapping carefully, I uncover a small white ornament of a pair of birds.

"It's…the two turtle doves," he says, and when I look up at him, he looks sheepish. "The guys were watching Home Alone last week – the New York one – and the kid gives that lady the two turtle doves ornament. There was a whole spiel, but basically…you've been a good friend to me, Bella. I know I'm not great at showing it. Or…talking about it, either. But I wanted you to know that I do know it."

I'm nodding, gazing down at the gorgeous pair of birds in synced flight. It's a beautiful gift. As is the sentiment behind it. "It's gorgeous, Edward."

He grins, looking relieved. "And it seemed appropriate to get the number one cheerleader of Christmas an ornament."

I smile, but the significance doesn't escape me: I've given him something to look at every day, and he's given me something to look at once a year. "I love it." And I do. Even if it isn't the declaration I'd hoped for…I still love it. "Thank you."

"So even if you go to Boston, you won't forget us."

"Even if I were going to Boston, I'd never forget you."

He looks surprised. "You're staying?"

I nod. "I'm staying."

When he smiles again, I recognize this one. "I'm glad."

I feel my own smile spread. "Me too."

On Thursday, I call Rosalie to accept her job offer and invite her over for Christmas dinner. When she protests and I reassure her that it's not a big family dinner but a gaggle of strays, it occurs to me that maybe there are just people in the world like that: people meant to find each other, people meant to be found. Alice and me, Edward and the Cullens, Rosalie and me, Alice and Jasper. The boys and the House. I think ruefully about all of the ones still out there, wandering, but I have to have hope that they're all wandering somewhere. To someone. That the wandering isn't hopeless, but hopeful: the belief that they're going somewhere, even if they don't know where. I know, now, that the same holds true for me: that, for the first time since I lost Charlie, I have somewhere belong. I have people to whom I belong. It's the first time I've felt home in years.

When I get off the phone, I cajole Alice and Jasper into driving around with me to look at lights. We hit the Starbucks drive-thru for hot chocolates and a coffee for Jasper, and we cruise the streets, and whether they're humoring me or really into it, I find myself wrapped in their laughter and their love. I try to find the neighborhood Edward took me to but I can't, and I get us lost in the outskirts of the city instead. Alice is the worst navigator on the planet, and Jasper's patience is endless, and by the time we're driving down the same street for the third time, Alice and I are laughing so hard we're crying, and Jasper is shaking his head as he drives, but his shoulders are shaking.

"Remind me never to let you navigate again," he says, squinting through the windshield at street signs. "You have zero directional abilities."

Through her giggles, Alice says, "Good thing I have other skills."

"Good thing," he agrees. "But our kids better take after me in the navigational department."

Alice is still laughing. "Our kids, huh? Think you missed a few steps there, bucko."

Pulling to a stop at an intersection, he glances at her across the center console. "Did I?"

Her laughter fades, but she's still smiling. "You did."

He nods, and even though the intersection is clear, he doesn't go anywhere. "Important ones?"

She shrugs. "Some would say."

"Huh." His fingers drum on the steering wheel, and from the back seat, I hold my breath. I think I know where he's going with this, even as I can't quite believe he's going to do it now, here, in a car in the middle of a darkened road with me in the backseat. Suddenly, his hand disappears from the steering wheel before reappearing from the direction of his pocket with a small velvet box, which he places on the dashboard. "Like…that one, maybe?"

She isn't laughing now. "Jasper."

"Alice, I have reservations for dinner on Christmas Eve night. I was going to do this then. But I can't wait until tomorrow. I can't. We're lost in the middle of…I don't even know where, and you suck at reading maps, and if it were anyone else making me loop around in endless circles, I'd want to throttle them, but with you, I just want to kiss the everlovin' hell out of you. And that's it. Even when you drive me crazy, I love you to the point of hurting with it. And I've never wanted to marry you more than I do right this second. And I couldn't go another night without telling you. So if you want me to put that box back in my pocket and get down on one knee tomorrow night and do it up, I will absolutely do that. But I have no idea where I am, and my coffee is cold, and we're low on gas, and I'm still happier than I've ever been. And I want to marry you. I hate being lost, but I'd be lost with you every day if meant I got to keep you."

"Jasper," Alice says again, but it's whispery and tinged with tears.

"I love you," he adds, as if realizing there are a few boxes on the "how-to-propose-marriage" checklist he hasn't hit yet. "I want to be this happy always. And I want you to laugh like that always. So…marry me. Ring tonight or ring tomorrow, tell me you'll marry me."

"I'll marry you," she says immediately, and in profile, I can see the tears on her cheeks, lit silver by the dashboard lights.

Jasper grins, and as much as I feel like an imposter, I'm so overjoyed that I got to be witness to this moment. "Yeah?"

Alice nods, the bobble on her hat dancing. "Yeah."

Despite his assertion that he'd wait, Jasper snatches the small box off the dashboard. "Can I? Now?"

"Please." When he opens it, Alice gasps. It takes everything in me not to crane my neck for a better look, but I'm trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Instead, I settle for watching her face, and immediately, I'm glad I did. The joy in her eyes is absolute, and it warms me through just to see it. "Jasper," she says again.

"I love you like crazy, even when you make me crazy."

"I love you like crazy, too."

As they kiss, I look out at the lights, the streets, the snow. And my warmth has nothing to do with my hot chocolate or my new gloves or the car's heat.

By Christmas Eve, the blues that I'd been feeling in the wake of my departmental dinner and the cessation of Secret Santa gifts and the clusterfuck with Emmett and perhaps-related-or-perhaps-coincidental clusterfuck with Edward…they've all faded and been replaced with a certain serenity. I have a good life here. I have good friends. And if I'm lucky enough to count Edward among them, going forward, I'll take it. And, if my thoughts frequently turn wistful and melancholy and yearning, I tell myself that this, too, shall pass.

As I'm peeling carrots and parsnips to put in the fridge in preparation for tomorrow, my phone rings. When I look at the screen, I'm surprised to see Edward's name.

"Hello?"

"Bella?" There's a sense of urgency in his voice that I can't say I've heard before, and it makes me immediately anxious.

"Yeah?"

"Bella, I'm so sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve. I…need your help."

"Okay."

He launches into what I can only assume is the short version of a longer story: Jake ran away. Jake called the House for help. God only knows what happened between Scene I and Scene II. "I'm out in the 'burbs, with Carlisle and Esme. Paul is away with his family, and Sam is at the house with the rest of the guys. I can't leave them there unsupervised, and it'll take me almost an hour at best to get to him. Do you think – would it be possible—"

"Of course," I say, abandoning a row of carrots and a mountain of peelings on the counter and stepping into my boots. "Just tell me where he is."

I jot down Edward's directions and assure him that I'll find him. "Should I have him call you?"

"Actually…" Edward hesitates. "I don't…I'm not sure what happened. Why he left. Sam said something, but…" He trails off. "Could you…do you think you could bring him here? I want to talk to him. I don't want to send him back to the House when I'm not going to be back until tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay. Sure. Just…text me your address."

"Okay. Jesus, Bella, I'm so sorry about this."

"It's fine. Really." And it is. Despite the panic I feel on Jake's behalf, despite the sadness, I'm glad he called me. Those boys, that house…they matter to me in a way I've only suspected until now. I'd have been upset if he hadn't called me. "I'll get him, Edward."

"Thank you," he says, and the depth of the gratitude in his voice is nothing compared with his heartfelt if formal thank you for all my hard work. And here it is, again, the glimpse of what drives him: that panic. That fear. That…understanding, of the hopelessness and the solitude and the helplessness.

The streets are dark and slushy, the traffic characteristically heavy of the last shopping day before Christmas. I follow Edward's loose directions of where Jake said he would be, and when I spot him, standing hunched against a shuttered storefront, posture curled in defeat and head hanging in shame, my shoulders sag with relief. I pull up to the curb and leave the engine running. The cold is penetrating as I step out of the car, and I shiver in my inadequate sweater. My face stings in the biting wind, eyes watering. Glancing both ways, I cross the street. "Jake?"

He glances up, but the smiling boy from the House is gone. In his place is this sad, lost, lonely boy. He says nothing, dipping his head again.

I draw to a halt beside him. "Are you okay?"

He nods but doesn't say anything. He's shivering and his ears are pink with cold and when I hear him sniff, I can't tell if he's upset or if his nose is just running in the cold. As I gaze at him – a boy large enough to be a man but still so much a boy – my heart trips. He looks like exactly what he is: a homeless kid. "Come on," I murmur. "Car's running."

In the quiet dark, Jake keeps his face turned to the window. I sit in silence, entirely uncertain as to what to say, if anything. It occurs to me, perhaps for the first time, the true depth of what Edward does. What he deals with. I'm struck with an even deeper respect for him than I thought possible.

"My mom loved Christmas," Jake says finally, face still turned away. I say nothing in response beyond a small hum to show I'm listening. "Like, really loved it. She dressed up our house so much that my dad used to trip over things – nutcrackers, small Christmas trees, wrapping paper rolls – but he always laughed because he said he knew when he married her that for the whole month of December, she went a little bonkers." He goes quiet for so long that I think he's done until he says, in a voice so small it hurts my heart, "I just…really miss her."

He looks at me as if asking me for an answer I don't have, so I say simply, "My dad loved Christmas, too. He was a cop, so touchy-feely wasn't really his thing, but Christmas…he loved it. He died when I was about your age. The first year, I barely made it through the holiday in one piece. It gets a little easier every year, but it still hurts."

"Yeah," he says by way of a reply, and we lapse into a brief silence before he asks softly, "Is he really mad?"

"I don't think so. He was worried, though." It occurs to me that I've never really seen Edward mad, and that it's another thing that makes him the ideal role model for these kids: steady, steadfast, constant.

As I follow the directions the lady in my GPS is offering and find my car pulling into a sprawling neighborhood with enormous yards and equally impressive houses, familiarity begins to settle softly on my shoulders like snowflakes. I remember this neighborhood. The catalog-worthy holiday lights, the perfect houses, the cars that make mine look like a Radio Flyer wagon with a motor. As we make our way along the winding road, my suspicion grows until the GPS announces that we've reached our destination, and the breathtakingly beautiful house from my drive with Edward is sitting before me in all its glorious splendor.

"Well, I'll be damned," I mutter, gazing up at the house's façade with new eyes. This is Edward's house. Well, the house he finished growing up in, anyway. I try to imagine what that must have been like, to be pulled in from the cold by a warm pair of arms and enveloped into a home like this. He must have thought he was dreaming.

I wonder, some days, if he still thinks so.

Unlike last time, when we sat idling in the driveway, gazing at the house's holiday dressing, I kill the engine and glance over at Jake, whose expression mirrors my own.

"Damn," he says softly, gazing up at the house. "This is Edward's house?"

"His parents' house, I guess," I say, equally as surprised.

Jake shakes his head, and we both exit the car, hugging our coats tightly to our bodies. We climb the carefully shoveled and rock-salted front steps and press the illuminated doorbell, hearing its muffled chime through the heavy door before us. It opens almost immediately, Edward's eyes jumping from my face to Jake's before he steps back and ushers us in from the cold.

When we step into the foyer – because this house has an honest-to-God foyer – the smell that greets us can only be described as "Christmas." It's the savory – turkey and stuffing and gravy – and the sweet – cinnamon and sugar and pie – and the faint trace of pine from what I suspect is a live garland snaking its way down the banister.

Edward glances at me and gives me a nod before focusing on Jake. "Hey, man. Everything okay?"

Jacob's gaze drops to the wet toes of his sneakers; he can't bring himself to meet Edward's eye. "I'm really sorry, Edward. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just…" He trails off, either unable or unwilling to spell it out.

Edward sighs. "It's okay." He rubs a hand over the beard obscuring his jaw. "It's okay. Just…not again, okay? Everybody gets a screw-up. But…you put yourself in a dangerous situation, and as a result, Bella put herself in a dangerous situation." At that, Jake looks up, first at Edward, then at me. Edward visibly softens. "That's kind of how it works, when people look out for each other." And the unsaid is clear beneath the words. I get that this is new for you – once upon a time, it was new for me, too. As if the unspoken allusion was enough to conjure her, Esme Cullen appears behind Edward.

"Perfect timing!" she says, hands clasped together in front of her. "I just took the turkey out of the oven. I'm so glad you were able to join us." She says this as if we're invited dinner guests, and not some runaway kid and the loser former intern who had nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than to go fish him out of the snare nets of southside Chicago.

Edward clears his throat. "Jake, Bella, this is my…mother, Esme." He gestures toward each of us in turn. "Bella. Jake." But I'm watching Esme, who's staring at Edward, her face an utterly indescribable maelstrom of emotion: surprise and love and relief and the kind of joy that is so big, so palpable, so consuming that it makes you feel like you could just explode from the inside merely from watching it. Her small hand reaches out and brushes his forearm, and he looks down at her, a similarly swirling snowstorm of feeling on his own face. And I see it all in there – the uncertainty, the embarrassment, the vulnerability – but coloring it all is the soft, warm glow of love.

This is what Edward looks like when he lets someone see his love. And the last part of my heart that I thought I'd managed to keep from belonging to him is gone, sailing toward him on an angel's white wings.

Esme swallows, blinking quickly as she squeezes Edward's forearm once before letting go, giving him his space back, and he clears his throat again, glancing at me with something indecipherable in his eyes. I know already that no matter what's sitting beneath the Cullen family Christmas tree wrapped in festive paper, Edward has just given Esme Cullen the best Christmas present she could have possibly wished for.

"Let me take your coats." Obediently, I shrug out of my pea coat; Jake does the same, and we follow Edward and Esme into the dining room. Cranberry-colored taper candles glow amid what can only be referred to as a feast: mashed potatoes, carrots and parsnips, Brussels sprouts, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and green peas are arranged around the table in matching china bowls that feature tiny holly sprigs around the edges. Matching silver gravy boats sit beside either candle. In the center of the table is an enormous turkey, glistening in the candlelight, and each place is set with gleaming flatware, shining silverware, and crystal stemware. In the center of each plate, collared by brass angel-shaped napkin rings, are linen napkins the same shade of red as the taper candles.

"Wow," I say, halting in the doorway. "This looks amazing." Despite the fact that my mouth started to water the minute I walked into the room, I feel an embarrassed bubble of anxiety rise in my chest. "I'm so sorry we're crashing your family dinner."

Esme shakes her head, the evidence of her moment with Edward still coloring her eyes and cheeks bright. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's Christmas – the more, the merrier! Please, everybody sit. Bella, can I get you some wine?"

"Oh, no, just water's fine for me. Thank you."

Jake is still shuffling his feet on the threshold to the room, and just as I'm opening my mouth to urge him inside, Esme steps forward. And through her eyes, for a quick, fleeting moment, I see Edward in his place: a quiet, lost boy with wet sneakers and a coat too thin for the Chicago cold.

"I hope you like turkey," Esme is saying as she places a gentle hand between his shoulders, guiding him into the warm room. "I always cook too much food; my husband is always teasing me."

As if she's conjured him, the man materializes in the doorway. And if there were a single word to describe him, it'd be soft: his ash-gray cashmere-looking sweater, his blond hair, his blue eyes, his smile. He's the kind of man I'd immediately want to recruit as a foster parent just on appearance: he has that artful blend of regal and gentle.

"Jake," he says, crossing the room. "I'm Carlisle Cullen. I'm so glad you could join us." He extends his hand, and Jake looks up, into his face.

It's a picture, what's unfolding in front of me: a kid with nothing and a man with everything. Exactly the kind of man who could easily have dismissed Jake – and Edward – as nothing, but who instead shows them the same respect he'd show the mayor himself.

"Thank you for having me," Jake says, accepting the handshake. When his shoulders straighten infinitesimally, a soft surge of pride and relief makes my own shoulders drop.

"Edward tells me you know a lot about cars," Carlisle says, pulling his chair out from beneath the dining table and gesturing for everyone else to do the same.

"I, uh." Jake glances toward me and I nod. "Yeah. I mean, yes."

Carlisle nods. "I have an old Shelby in the garage that I can't make sense of. Maybe you wouldn't mind taking a look at it with me after dinner?"

"Really?"

Carlisle lowers himself into his chair. "I bought it on a whim—" Here, Esme snorts rather inelegantly as she scoots her own chair in and reaches for the bowl of peas "—and as much as I'd love to get it to the point where I can drive it, I haven't the foggiest idea how to do that. I really don't know how badly off it is, to be honest."

"Sure," Jake says, nodding as he places the deep red linen napkin in his lap. "I'd be happy to."

Carlisle nods, reaching for his wine glass. "Excellent."

When I glance at Edward, he's watching this exchange with that same indecipherable look on his face, and I wonder what's going through his mind – if he's seeing Jake, or if he's seeing another boy from years ago. The desire to reach across the distance between us and squeeze his hand is so great that I make myself reach for my own linen napkin to quell it.

After dinner, when Carlisle and Jake have retreated to the garage and Edward, Esme, and I have cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and packaged up leftovers, Edward and I find ourselves in the living room while Esme sits in the kitchen, chatting on the phone with her sister. He's halfheartedly flipping channels with the TV remote as I glance around the impeccably decorated room, eyeing the photos in silver frames and watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Occasionally, I glance at Edward, trying to remind myself that I've decided I'm okay with loving him, okay with being his friend, okay with things as they are, despite how badly I want to slide along the couch and nestle myself beneath his arm. His watch glints in the light from the fireplace, and warmth spreads through my chest. I watch as he channel surfs, bypassing The Grinch and Home Alone and The Santa Clause.

"Stop!" I nearly yelp as Hugh Grant's face flashes across the screen.

"What?"

"This one!" I confiscate the remote and shove it between my hip and the sofa armrest. "I love this movie."

"What is it?"

I stare at him through wide eyes. "Love Actually? You've seriously never seen this?"

He shrugs. "I don't really watch many movies. Especially holiday movies. They're too cheesy."

I roll my eyes. "Cheese schmeese. This movie would be fantastic even if it weren't a Christmas movie. It has the best declaration of love scene in a movie, like, ever." I pause. "Maybe we should change the channel. You really should watch it from the beginning."

"Bella, the likelihood of me doing that is slim to none. Just leave it on. It's fine. You can catch me up. Besides, I have to see this 'best scene ever.'"

"Okay." I glance at the screen and give him a quick rundown of what's happened until now. We watch in companionable silence for a while, me clarifying the occasional detail and Edward, likely to his chagrin, getting quickly engrossed. When Mark appears at Juliet's door with a tape deck and an armful of poster board, I watch with held breath, glancing at Edward once to see him equally rapt.

When the credits finally roll, he's frowning.

"Wait…they don't end up together? Keira Knightley and that dude?"

"No."

"So…it's the best declarative scene ever, but in the end, it doesn't work?"

I frown. "Well, it's not about…getting the girl. I mean, she's married to his best friend. He's not trying to get her to leave her husband. He just…needs her to know."

"Know what?"

"How much he loves her. He knows he doesn't have a shot. He knows she'll never be with him. But he just…he wants her to know that he loves her that much."

"Hmph." He leans back against the sofa, a frown on his face. I watch him for a moment, the way the firelight dances across his skin, the way his chest rises and falls beneath his soft-looking shirt, the way his long legs prop up on the edge of the coffee table.

Don't be a coward, I tell myself, even as, at the last minute, I drop my gaze to finger the seam of the couch cushion instead of looking into his eyes.

"Wouldn't you want to know? If someone…loved you like that?"

He's quiet for long enough to force me to look up. When I do, he's watching the still-rolling credits. "Even if there was nothing I could do about it?"

"Yes."

"And even if it was…inappropriate?"

I swallow and nod. He's quiet for a while, the low sound of the television and the sporadic crackle and pop from the fireplace the only sounds in the room. Finally, he shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is soft, but sure. "No. No, I wouldn't want to know."

I return my gaze to the TV, but my interest in watching it has vanished. "I would," I whisper softly, fighting the absurd threat of tears. "I would want to know."

The silence between us is suddenly stifling, and I'm grateful beyond belief when Esme appears in the doorway.

"Edward, it's really coming down out there, and it's sloppy. I think Bella should stay." I launch myself off the sofa as if my ass has been ignited by a wayward ember from the fireplace.

"Oh! No. No, it's fine. I have snow tires. I'll be fine."

Carlisle's shaking his head from over Esme's shoulder. "I really don't think it's safe to be driving in this, Bella. There could be ice; the temperature's dropped twenty degrees in the past hour. I think we'd all feel much better if you stayed."

"We have plenty of room," Esme says. "The guest beds are all made up. Please."

"Stay, Bella," Edward says softly. Then he ruins it by adding, "your car really sucks."

I roll my eyes just as Esme says, "Edward, don't say 'sucks'," and Jake laughs. I glance around me – at Edward's teasing but affectionate face, Esme and Carlisle's matching expressions of concern, and Jake's face, smiling and relaxed in a way I've rarely seen on him, and once again I'm struck by all the different ways a family can come to be.

"Okay," I say, wanting to be part of it, even for a night and however tangentially.

"Oh, good."

Esme bustles about, showing me a guest room before disappearing to bring me a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt to sleep in as well as a new toothbrush, while Carlisle procures the same necessities for Jake, who is now standing beside Edward, the two speaking in low tones. When Esme and Carlisle reappear and offer to show Jake his room, I don't miss the faint trace of something in Esme's eyes: hope, maternal affection, purpose. A quick glance at Edward, and I see him see it, too. He gives me a small smile as the trio leaves the room.

"Thank you for getting him," he says, voice soft.

"Thank you for asking me to."

He glances at the doorway through which his parents disappeared with their newest charge. "He's a good kid."

"Yeah."

"I hope…" But he doesn't say anything else, and I wonder if we're alike in this, too: the fear that our hopes are too big to be put to voice. That some things are better left unsaid in that tiny little corner of the heart reserved for the biggest wishes.

"Mistletoe!" Esme trills suddenly, from where she's reappeared in the kitchen doorway, and as Edward turns to face her, I glance upward to spot a little sprig above where we're standing. Esme looks delighted and faintly mischievous, glancing between Edward and me. "I put it there to catch Carlisle unaware," she explains to me as if in confidence, beaming. "Never thought I'd get to catch anyone else!" When neither of us says anything, she turns and flicks off the kitchen light. "Goodnight, kids."

In the dark quiet, Edward looks down at me, his eyes a deep, immeasurable green. The green of Christmas trees and holly and…mistletoe. I'm gazing back up at him, the silent plea running through me so fervently that it's a wonder he can't hear it. Please. Kiss me. Pleasepleaseplease.

But I know before he steps away that he's not going to. At the last minute, he leans in, smelling like cinnamon and pie and woodsmoke, and presses his lips softly to my cheek. His beard rasps against my skin, his hand briefly cupping my shoulder, before he pulls away. I close my eyes, trying desperately not to cry.

"Merry Christmas, Bella." His voice is low and rough, and I nod, not trusting my own. I watch as he makes his way up the stairs and disappears into the darkness. I stand there for a few moments longer, wishing with everything in me that I could just walk out the front door and get into my car and drive myself home and cry in private, sobbing into that plaid blanket and listening to the most melancholy of the holiday songs.

I wish I had a river I could skate away on.

Blowing out a steadying breath, I climb the stairs and slip into the room Esme has offered me for the night. Through the open curtain, I can see that the snowfall has eased somewhat, and moonlight peeks through the dark clouds, their outlines silhouetted silver. Every snowflake catches the glint of a moonbeam as it swirls toward the ground, and the night sky looks like a shower of falling stars. I think about wishes, about miracles, but I can't bring myself to hope for either. Turning away, I slip into the enormous bed, shivering slightly as I wait for my body heat to warm the flannel sheets.

I try to muster up the courage to look forward to Christmas, try to remind myself of what I decided only hours ago - to be thankful - but for the first time in my life, I can't find even the smallest glimmer of hope.

For the first time since I lost Charlie, I can't find it in me to believe in the possibility of a miracle.

Everybody has someone to hold,
Nestle by the fire in from the cold.
But I don't hear the carols they are singing,
And I've only got one thing good for giving.

So take my heart this Christmas
And wrap it in a ribbon and a bow.

(Lenka, "All My Bells are Ringing")

A/N: Posting two back-to-back, since the last two days were CHAOS and I couldn't post at all. I hope the joy of the season found each and every last one of you. xo