Writeontime is my beta. She's wonderful. And so funny.

I don't own Twilight.

And now, all of a sudden, she's here, and she never leaves.

She sits outside in a different bikini every day. She has so many. And this is Forks. It's cloudy and cool, and believe me, I've been trying to wear very little, and hang around in pretty dresses and very short shorts, but I always end up covering arms and legs. Sometimes I'm lucky, and I get to cover them with things he gives me, but I'd never ask, and he doesn't always offer, so I'm usually sitting there, a little uncomfortable, wishing it would get colder, because he would notice chattering teeth and shivers.

You know the best thing to warm you up in that weather? Hands and a body and warm breath.

But I guess she's not cold. She sits there. She reads a lot, on her Kindle. I bet she thinks it's so cool. It's the opposite of cool, Edward, I told him the other day. He looked at me like I was crazy, and then called me a brat, and I was reminded again of how things have changed. I say things like that to my friends and in that world I'm funny, and some might find me interesting. Even cool. I'm not sure what I am here.

So she sits, reading and reading, calling out for Edward to join her, and I've started counting how many times a day he says "In a minute!", "I'm busy, Rose", or "Huh?"

She wears big, big sunglasses on her head. It's not sunny enough for them to go on her face. Her nails are always "perfect" in a way I wouldn't ever want for myself. She probably thinks they're classy. Elegant french tips. Mine are all different colors, and I waste precious minutes drawing on them and then chewing it all off. She probably thinks they're hideous.

Somehow, she's thinner than me. Or maybe she's not. I don't know, but I bet Edward does. I think he notices these things, but I don't think he realizes that he does, but then he'll say something and surprise me. Anyway, she's thin, and I think her breasts are what make her look big when she's wearing clothes. She just looks very different lying there, half naked. But good.

She calls out his name again. He's washing her car. She gets up and walks over. She's got on these low wedge flip-flops. They look like they've got something sparkly on them. Husband and wife are talking, and I can't hear anything. He turns the hose on her, and she's shrieking and wet and laughing. He does it again. She starts running away, but she's only pretending, because no one's that slow. He swears he's done, but he's not. This time he gets her hair. She's upset now, but he thinks it's funny, and she laughs with him. She takes off her shoes and walks inside.

I go back to my essays. I don't have any time left. This is it. I need to focus, so her timing is actually perfect. It would kill me to be right next to him without being able to sit with him, stare at him. I really don't have much time—I'll be in Seattle soon. Then I'll be in Europe. Then I'll start my job. Maybe Thanksgiving? Maybe not? Maybe she'll be pregnant and he'll be happy and I'll meet boys and it won't matter. By next week, this can't matter.

XxXxX

The feeling that time is running out is something I'm familiar with. I had spent the months between our fight and the day I left for college waiting for something to happen. I can't describe what it felt like. I was anxious. Desperate. I dated Tyler for a minute and thought Edward would get jealous and something would happen, but it never did. He'd walk right by me, and nothing. I'd run into him at the store, and nothing. I even went to him once, and nothing.

I drove myself crazy. I sat facing my computer, waiting for him to come online. Maybe this time he'd say something. Maybe he'd apologize. Maybe he missed me so much he couldn't take it. I remember this one time, shortly after our fight, or maybe it was even before the fight, on one of those last confusing days when he was being weird and quiet... I opened the laptop that Dad had given me for my birthday and noticed how dirty the screen looked. Fingerprints all over it. And then I noticed one on the corner of the screen. Bigger than the rest. Just that one. And I knew it was his. And I missed him so much. For a long time I made sure it stayed like that. My dirty screen. Then I guess I forgot. I don't remember wiping it clean. I don't remember making a decision. Life went on. And it won't be any different this time around.

XxXxX

"I don't want to spend one of my last nights before the bar having dinner with your wife."

"Bella, no."

"No?"

"No," Mom repeats. "You can't tell him that. Where's your pride? You want him to know you're jealous of his wife? You want her to hear about it?"

"I'm not going to make up another stupid excuse. He knows why I don't want to be around her."

"He's never been that bright."

"Ugh."

"Bella..."

"And I'm not jealous. Of what? If I wanted her life, I'd have her life."

"Don't do anything stupid," she tells me. "Even when your father left, I took it with grace, with dignity. No one saw me crying. No one heard me shouting."

"Oh. Sure. Mom, let's not get into that."

We don't.

At the end, I can't lie, and dinner is going to happen, so I throw a loose shirt that belonged to an old boyfriend over my green bikini top, and some shorts, and up close I can confirm it: she's thinner than me. And the sparkly stuff I saw on her shoes are actually hearts. And now it's impossible to take her seriously. I hardly listen to her conversation with my mother. When she's serious, I'm trying hard not to roll my eyes. When she's funny, I don't laugh.

I get goose bumps when he whispers in my ear, reminding me of something he used to say when we were kids.

"You never laugh at jokes if you don't like the person telling them."

I finally laugh.

XxXxX

"Did you have fun? I'm glad you came."

I nod. I yawn. Too lazy for words.

"Wanna take a walk?"

I don't look at him when I shake my head and tell him I shouldn't. There's really no more time left to waste.

"Sure," he says. "Of course."

He follows me back to the house. He follows me into the kitchen. A small light is on, but no one's here. Mom stayed behind to help Rosalie with the dishes. They said something about coffee. I fall into my usual seat, exhausted. He sits across from me. His usual place. I look at my piles and piles of outlines and flashcards, and sigh.

"I guess I should head back. You need to focus."

"I'll see you before I go," I tell him. "Promise."

"Do you know when you'll be back?"

"Maybe Thanksgiving."

He didn't expect that. It hit him hard. His new (old) toy is (almost) gone.

"Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, I mean, I told you about Spain, and then Canada. Then once work starts, I'll be pretty busy. There's a chance I might visit my friends back in New York over Thanksgiving, but I think Mom might want to do something here."

"I thought you had a few weeks off after you got back," he says. "Before work."

"I do, but I'll be pretty busy."

"And weekends. You could always—"

"I'm going to be a first-year associate. Weekends... doubtful."

He bites his knuckles in the way he used to bite them when he was nervous, or wanted to hide part of his face in embarrassment, or shame. Then he starts biting his nails, or maybe just the skin around them. That's more Edward. I get up and walk over to him, and I sit on his lap. I straddle him.

"I'll miss you." I recognize the voice I'm using, but I know it's new to him. His eyes are big circles. What is he thinking? What does he expect?

"Maybe I can come down sometime." He laughs, like the idea is absurd.

"Whenever you want."

He smiles. "You have room for two?"

"Don't be cruel."

He starts a "W" word. What or why, I'm guessing. I don't need that whole innocent act right now. I stop him.

"You know I'm in love with you," I explain, just in case he's really that stupid. My hand covers his lips. "I'm taking the bar in four days. Just sit here and don't talk. No talking. But stay."

He grabs my hand and pulls it away from his face. He just lunges at me, grabbing me, trying to kiss me. Like it's that part of the movie. Like it's time. I don't let him.

"No."

"Please."

And then, "Come on."

But he's already stopped trying. I lean in and kiss his nose.

"If I told you I'd sleep with you, would you?" I ask him.

"Over and over again."

You'd think this would be the moment when I'd throw myself at him, kiss him and drag him upstairs, get on my knees only to be pulled back up because he can't be distracted by anything that isn't him inside me. Instead I find myself smiling, and he probably doesn't know it's not real. That's the problem. When it comes to me, he doesn't get it. He knows the girl who wasn't in love with him, and once I let go of her, I lost him, too. Our bond—that sounds so stupid—disintegrated.

"I wish I never liked you," I say.

"Why?"

I shrug. All the words sound so stupid in my head right now.

"Because..."

"When did you start liking me?" he asks, like he's fourteen.

"I don't know..." I squeak. "I guess around the time you started dating Rosalie."

"I liked you before then."

"When?"

He asks me if I really want to know. Really? He asks again. You sure? Yes. Come on. I'm sure.

"First time I saw you. I went home and begged Mom to call your mom and invite you over to play. Before you, there were play dates. I don't remember much about them, but I'm told they happened. I even asked her to make cupcakes with pink frosting, because you used pink crayons, and kept staring at some girl's pink construction paper like you were gonna cry because it wasn't yours."

"You had a crush?" I giggle, because it's cute. And because I remember finally putting the pink away in second grade because he liked green, and he loved blue.

"Sometimes. And then sometimes I forgot I liked you. I mean, you were always there. My best friend. Every day. But then you'd do something and I'd remember. You'd talk to boys, or you'd go to Phoenix, and I'd miss you."

"Go on. This is entertaining."

"And you'd crush my dreams, just like that," he says.

"This is weird."

"Yeah, very."

I play with his collar. "When did you stop liking me?"

"Really?"

"Yeah." I nod. "When you met Rose?"

"I love you now."

My mouth is dry. I'm dizzy. He must feel how my legs are shaking. My hands. But this is the boy who used his lashes and pout to get in my pants. He could charm anyone. Do anything.

"You just want to fuck me," I remind myself.

"And you should let me."

We laugh. The spell is broken.

"Go home before I do," I tell him.

And he listens. But he keeps looking back, and smiling, half-bashful, half-cocky, all these things that make no sense and don't go together. I giggle for him. He stops and I think he's walking back, and maybe he thinks he is, too, but I go to bed alone. All I can think of is how he felt against me earlier. And if I never come back, or if I avoid him forever, who cares if I have him for an hour? I'm not even talking about a night. Nights belong to actual lovers. So I fantasize about the day, one of so many random corners, enough noise to drown us out, someplace close by I can escape to.

And that's how I know it's not worth it. Too much time wasted on the how and when and who's around. But I want some magic. And magic isn't a daytime thing. You need stars, and stars need the dark, and the dark needs people to give it meaning. And magic is him. I can deny it forever, but right now, it's so clear to me. I imagine his face so close, like before. His teeth and whiskers and the pink and the gold, and my chest is tight and he needs to be here.

One more magical night before I die. It should be at the top of everyone's lists. Because that would mean everything is perfect, just that one night. You're young, or feel young, and possibilities exist, and anything, everything can belong to you, be yours. I don't know if I'll ever get that again. The closest I ever got to that was on that cold morning in New York. And I don't know if he can give me magic twice. But if not him, who? And if not tonight, when?

XxXxX

"You're lying. You've had sex before. Everyone knows she's not a virgin."

"I swear."

I shook my head. "No way."

"I've been with you this entire time, right?"

No, actually, he hadn't. But we never discussed it, and I didn't want to start.

"We've done stuff, but... She's your..."

"I always thought it would be you," he blurted out.

"Uh..."

"You kissed me like you liked me back there, at the museum. That was real, right?"

"Yeah..." I was blushing. Dying inside. I couldn't let go of that last shred of dignity. If he knew I was crazy about him, thought about him all day, said prayers and made bargains with God about him... "I like kissing you."

"Can I kiss you now? I swear, if you don't want to do it here, we can sit on the couch—"

"No, it's fine. Here's fine."

"You're so pretty."

I bit my tongue. I let him say it and then I let it go. But I knew he was just saying it because he was testing the waters, getting ready to convince me to have sex with him.

"Just... lie back."

I did. I let him kiss me and touch me. I took off my t-shirt, reminding myself that I'd done it before. And not just for him.

He got on top of me and kept grinding away, forgetting my neck and breasts and face.

"Let me see," I told him.

He didn't believe me at first.

"I'm serious. Just... take it out."

And he did, and I didn't tell him I thought it looked a little weird, but what did I know, anyway?

I touched it. I think he died. I let him grind again, and it was good. I felt wetness, pulled him off, saw some stains. Nothing major, but enough to make me take off my pajama bottoms.

He didn't touch me. There was absolutely no preparation. After some more kissing, I took off my underwear and opened my knees.

"Only if you want to."

He nodded. He was warm. I winced and gasped. It was done.

I know. That took forever. I'm going to start updating once a week. Promise.

You guys are the best best best. Thank you for the encouragement, kind words, not-so-kind words, etc. They're all awesome.

I want you to tell me what you think she should do. I know what she's going to do, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear from you. Hope you enjoyed what I sent you guys with the review replies last time. There's always more of that.

mwah