A/N: Hey guys! Thanks so much for the reviews, faves, alerts & reccs!

This chapter is not as long as the previous ones because really, it's like, only a quarter of how long it was supposed to be. The reason for that is I like where I ended it. I felt it was a good place to stop. Also, I thought the rest would be more fitting in a new chapter.

But, because this chapter is shorter, and as I've started the next part and know exactly how I'm gonna write it, I'll get the next chapter out within two weeks. Three at most.

Also, I wrote a little spin off thingy about Emmett and Rose called Twenty Questions. It basically gives you a bit more insight into Emmett and what he might or might not know... So if you haven't read it please do if you feel inclined. It's on my profile page.

Ugh, I hate long A/N so I'm so sorry about this.

Now, Enjoy!... ;)


I wake up early.

Lie awake in my bed, stare at the ceiling for a while – until I remember.

And the first thing I do when I remember?

I check my phone.

Because the phone call, the interrupted phone sex, him asking me to go to UW on the weekend, the 'I miss you' I sent him… all feels like it never really happened. It feels like a dream, one of those really vivid dreams you wake up from and wonder whether they were a dream at all.

And his response to my text?

I'm pretty certain I dreamed that part –

Except… I didn't.

Because when I pick my phone up off the nightstand and go into my message inbox, it's there:

Same here. See you Friday.

And although the smile that creeps up on my face again is involuntary – it doesn't last long.

I'm not half asleep now, like I was last night. I'm awake and I'm lucid and I haven't just gotten off after whacking it to thoughts of him, so the See you Friday part of the text becomes equally as significant as the Same here.

Maybe even more so.

I check the text he sent me before that one:

Come to UW for the weekend, Friday night? COD marathon.

Check my sent messages to see my response:

Ok. See you Friday.

And I'm panicking a little, because, shit, it's Tuesday.

Friday's only three days away.

/ \

Rosalie frowns. "So… you wanna see him, but you don't wanna see him?"

I tip my head back on the couch and ruffle my hair with my hand. Shrug. "I guess?" I sigh. "I don't know."

Rosalie sighs too. "I don't get why you told him you'd go when you're not even sure you wanna go."

"I was half asleep, I wasn't really thinking."

"Well, then tell him you can't come anymore. Tell him something came up – family shit, or something."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Cos… I wanna see him."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Then what's the problem?"

I don't answer her. Instead, I sit there, staring into the space across the room and just… thinking about her question for fuck knows how long.

What's the problem?

Technically, there is no problem. He asked me to go hang with him on the weekend – to play video games – and that's cool. That's good, in fact, because I want to see him, it's just… I mean, it's a whole weekend, just me and him, away from Forks and… and, truthfully, I'm fucking nervous.

The phone calls, the texting, the long distance thing has been working.

What if we fuck everything up again when we're together?

When I finally look over at Rosalie again, she's eating a sandwich – one she didn't have before.

"You think it's a good idea?"

She finishes chewing before she asks: "What?"

"Me going to see him this weekend."

Rosalie shrugs in an exaggerated way, raising her eyebrows as she looks at me. "I don't know, Jazz. Do you?"

I shrug too, not meeting her eyes.

"I don't know."

/ \

He texts me that Tuesday night :

Hey.

Hey. U ok?

Fuckin peachy. U?

The sarcasm in his words is hard to miss, and I'm frowning as I reply:

Yeah... Good day?

It's fifteen minutes before he answers:

No. Urs?

Mine was ok. The usual... What happened?

He takes a while to respond – a really long while, actually.

In fact, it's almost an hour later when he replies with:

Doesn't matter.

I get another text from him immediately after that one – before I even have a chance to reply.

I'd call but I'm fuckin tired. Gonna sleep.

Ok… Talk to u later then.

Later.

And I'm frustrated.

His cryptic, sparsely worded text messages are driving me nuts because all I can think about now is what could have happened to him today, why he didn't have a good day. And his Doesn't matter really ticks me off because why the fuck did he have to tell me he had a shitty day if it 'doesn't matter'? Why didn't he just answer with a, 'yeah' when I asked?

Then there's the fact that he didn't mention anything about this coming weekend.

And what the hell am I supposed to make of that?

I mean, shit, it's Tuesday night.

Friday's only three days away.

/ \

He texts me during the day on Wednesday, calls me at night, and we talk for a while. Although his mood seems normal enough – there's still no word on the weekend.

Thursday it's the same.

And I'm starting to wonder whether he was half asleep too that night he asked me to go to UW.

I'm starting to wonder if maybe he thinks he dreamed it.

Starting to wonder if he even remembers he asked.

Or, if I'm being one hundred percent honest with myself?

I'm starting to wonder if he's changed his mind.

/ \

I'm sitting in third period on Friday morning when I get a text from him:

Hey. U still coming tonight?

And there's a cocktail of emotion – one part relief, a dash of surprise and two shots of pissed off – that pours down my throat and settles in my chest.

I read over the text a few more times, thinking over how to properly word my response – or whether to bother responding at all.

But eventually I text:

Srsly? U wait till Friday morning to ask me that?

My text goes unanswered for twenty fucking minutes, and I'm adding more shots of pissed off to the cocktail, every passing second.

He finally replies:

What? I asked u on Monday.

And that's another two shots.

I'm so fucking fuming now my fingers are fumbling, and it takes me a while to type out:

Ok… but then no fuckin word about it all week? How the hell am I supposed to know what's going on?

Less than a minute later, he retorts:

U could have fuckin asked.

Which is like throwing a lit match on the cocktail and having it burst into flames.

His text makes me furious, not just because he's a fucking asshole –

But because he's right too.

Fuck that, I text back anyway.

I don't need to ask anything. U asked ME to go to UW, remember?

This time, I don't give a shit that he takes another twenty minutes to text back – because I don't even bother reading his reply.

He sends me three more messages during fourth and fifth period.

I don't read those either.

/ \

"You know that people think we're related?"

"What?"

"At school. They think we're cousins or something," Rosalie says.

"Really?" I ask, keeping my focus on the road.

"Yeah. Like some girl in my Home Ec class? Jessica, I think? She asked me today, if my cousin was single. I was all, well yeah, but he lives in Ohio. And he's like, twenty six."

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie grinning at me.

"And she looked all confused and was like, Jasper Whitlock's twenty six?" Rosalie snorts, shaking her head. "I swear, I've never met anyone so stupid. Told her you weren't my cousin and she was like, really? Everyone says he is." Rosalie shrugs. "It's the blonde hair, I guess."

I give her a forced half-smile. Keep my eyes on the road. "I guess."

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie staring at me.

And we're both quiet for a while.

A car swerves dangerously into our lane in front of me and I mutter, "Fuck."

Rosalie glances at me again. Sighs. "Ok, so what did he do now?"

I know that my eyebrows – which are already set in a frown – knit even tighter together at her question.

"The guy didn't even check his fucking mirrors," I say. "Could have crashed right into him if –"

"Jazz."

I don't answer.

Another sigh. "Look, Jasper, I'm not trying to tell you who you should or shouldn't be with, but I'm sorry, if he's hurt you, again –"

I shake my head, cutting her off. "He didn't really do anything."

Rosalie frowns. "Ok... So what are you mad about?"

"Who says I'm mad?" I say through clenched teeth.

"No one. But the look on your face is a pretty big clue."

I ignore her.

"There's no need to be an ass, Jasper. I was only asking."

"I'm not being anything."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

My phone's lying on the dashboard – where I threw it when I got in the car – and my eyes can't help flickering over to it for about the hundredth time today.

I still haven't read the four messages he sent earlier, and now it's definitely more out of pride than not wanting to, because I really fucking want to – and that fact is the main reason why I'm still mad.

So I ask Rosalie to read them for me instead.

"You've got four messages," she says, when she picks my phone up off the dashboard.

"I know."

"And they're all from him?"

I nod.

"So, what, you want me to read them for you?"

"Yeah."

"Out loud?"

"Mm hm."

"Ok."

She taps a few buttons on my phone, stares at the screen – and then stays silent.

I grow anxious. "What do they say?"

"Ok," she says, clearing her throat. "First one says: Alright. Whatever. I'm sorry."

She looks over at me, questioning.

"I'll tell you later," I say.

"This one," she continues. "Says: So, r u still coming tonight?" Rosalie looks at me again. "Are you?"

"I don't know."

She nods. "Ok, third one says: So, what, ur fuckin ignoring me now? Whatever, man. Just let me know if ur still coming so I can make plans if ur not."

I sigh.

"Ok. Last one?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie's eyebrows lifting in surprise, and she glances at me before she answers:

"Last one says: Fuck u."

/ \

It's five pm and I'm sitting on my bed: fully dressed, car key in one hand, phone in the other.

And I'm surprised that he actually answers my call:

"What?"

His tone is no surprise, however.

"You still want me to come?" I ask.

There's a brief silence on the line before he snaps: "Do what you want."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He scoffs. "Kinda like how you didn't answer mine, right?"

I take a deep breath, grit my teeth together in restraint.

"This is stupid."

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm not gonna waste my time and gas money driving to fucking Seattle if you don't want me there."

Still no reply.

"Fuck's sake, Edward –"

"If I didn't want you to come I wouldn't have fucking asked," he interrupts. "But whatever. Do what you want."

And he hangs up.

I know what I'm gonna do.

There's not even a fucking question about it anymore, but still, I sit on my bed for another half hour and do nothing.

Why?

Because my pride keeps me from leaving right away. My pride keeps me from hopping off my bed and taking out my overnight bag from my closet. My pride keeps me from packing my shit and hightailing it outta here –

For only half an hour.

And exactly thirty five minutes later I'm sitting in my car with my overnight bag packed and on the passenger seat beside me.

I send him a text:

On my way.

And – again – I'm surprised that he actually answers:

Lemme know when ur close.

/ \

Three and a half hours later and I call him to let him know I'm close.

"Ok," he says. "Are you actually on campus yet?"

"I think so? The GPS says I am."

"Are you in north or south campus?"

"Fuck. Um…" I glance around. "I don't know."

"Ok, well if you're in south you need to be in north. There's a parking lot called, Padelford Parking Garage. Park there. I'd direct you, but I dunno where the fuck you are, so just follow the signs and they should lead you there."

"Alright. Then what?" I ask.

"When you get there let me know. Oh – and wait in your car."

"Ok."

There's a brief silence on the line between us before he murmurs:

"Yeah, I'll, um… I'll see you soon."

"Yeah." I take a deep breath. "See you soon."

I ask someone passing by if I'm in north or south campus.

Turns out I'm in south.

The campus is huge, and it takes me ten minutes to drive up to the north part, and another ten to find the parking lot he was talking about.

But the extra time certainly doesn't bother me.

It doesn't bother my heart either, which has been drum-rolling from the moment the GPS told me I'd reached my destination.

It doesn't bother my palms, which are so damp I can barely keep my grip on the steering wheel.

It doesn't bother my muscles, which feel too stiff and too slack simultaneously.

He calls me as soon as I reach the parking lot – before I get a chance to call him first.

"You there yet?"

"Yeah." I sound out of breath – even though I've been sitting for hours. "Just got here."

There's a pause. Then: "Cool. I'll meet you there. Wait in your car."

"Ok."

"And leave your headlights on so I can find you."

"Alright."

I sit in my car with my drum-rolling heart and my sweaty palms and my fucked up muscles, and I wait.

I peer into the darkness beyond my headlights, looking for him, though I don't even know what direction he'll be coming from.

I try to slow down my heart and breathing by taking deep breaths.

I try to dry my hands by rubbing them on my thighs.

I try to stretch out my muscles a little, rolling my neck back and forth –

A tap on the window startles me.

He's looking at me through the glass, and all the deep breathing and the palm rubbing and the stretching goes to shit as I look back.

He motions for me to roll down my window – which I do with trembling fingers.

He half smiles, red mouth curving on only one side. "Hey."

I have to swallow before I can reply. "Hey."

He leans forward into my window, holding out a piece of card.

"What's that?"

"Parking permit. They don't fuck about with giving tickets around here. That's why I told you to wait in your car."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, that's my permit from the Volvo. You're supposed to get a visitor's one but fuck paying for that when you can use this one."

I look at the permit. "It's got all the details from your car on it."

"I know. But they don't really check them. Just put it on the dashboard so they can see it and you're good."

"You sure?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright."

I pick up my overnight bag and get out of the car.

And then we're standing there for five seconds, just looking at each other.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoody and clears his throat – still holds my eyes though. "It's about a five minute walk to my dorm," he says.

I nod.

Slowly, his eyes move down. Down my face and past my nose – stopping when they reach my mouth…

But he ducks his head, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. Lightly kicks at a random stone on the ground. "C'mon."

It's pretty dark as we walk towards his dorm, and quiet, the sound of our footsteps on the ground punctuated by their echo through the surrounding trees.

He keeps his head down, hands in pockets as he asks: "Was the drive here ok?"

I sling my overnight bag over my shoulder. Nod even though he's not looking. "Yeah, it was ok. Not a lot of traffic."

He nods too. "Good."

I can tell when we get close to his dorm.

Because he pulls out a white ID card from his pocket.

Because I can see the tall, grey, apartment-like building just ahead of us.

Because there are more people around; people that say hi to him, people he says hi to.

But, mostly, I can tell when we get close to his dorm because I notice the distance he suddenly places between us as we walk – when just a few minutes ago our shoulders would occasionally touch.

And although I know why he does it, and it doesn't really surprise me,

It still fucking hurts.

He swipes his card in the wall by the entrance to the dorm and I follow him in and over to an elevator.

More people say hi to him.

The distance between us grows.

It hurts even more.

He pushes the button for the elevator and we stand, waiting, in silence.

"My dorm's on the sixth floor," he says, eyes not meeting mine.

I nod.

The elevator ride is more of the same.

He leans against one side – the side furthest away from me – and we're both silent.

Someone gets in on the second floor, gets off on the fifth.

"Jasper," he begins – but is cut off when a girl rushes in, stopping the doors from closing at the last second.

We get off at the sixth floor; the girl stays in.

I follow him down the hall, past another elevator, past what I assume is a bathroom, and we stop outside door number, six-fifty-seven. I wait as he opens the door, follow him inside –

And find my back pushed against the door the minute it slams shut.

My bag is snatched out of my hand and dumped on the floor at our feet.

His upper body and hips are flush with mine.

He palms the sides my face.

His face is so close our noses touch.

His gripping green eyes are paradoxical with his apathetic face.

"Yeah, it's ok to shove your cock against me now when your college buddies aren't watching, right?" I seethe.

I see him swallow. "It's not like that –"

"Like hell it isn't," I spit through my teeth.

"Jasper –"

"Get off me."

"Jasper –"

"Get the fuck off me."

I try to shake my head out of his grasp. When that doesn't work, I try to push him away by his chest. When that doesn't work, I grip his biceps and try to tug his hands away from my face.

When that doesn't work, I give up.

And, honestly, I wasn't trying very hard to begin with.

I close my eyes. Lean my head back against the door.

"That fucking hurt, Edward. Jesus Christ, that hurt."

He sighs. "I'm sorry."

My eyes squeeze tighter at his words.

"Doesn't make a fucking difference though, does it? Cos you'll do the same thing again."

His silence is a screaming answer.

"Get off me," I repeat.

He doesn't.

One of his hands leave my face and I know that he's gripping his hair.

"I'm fucking sorry, alright? I just… I can't…"

His other hand leaves my face too, and I know he's got both of his hands in his hair now.

"Look at me, Jasper," he murmurs.

"You always want me to look at you," I say.

I open my eyes and look at him anyway.

I look at the way his sideburns are so neat, framing his pretty, yet masculine, angular face. I look at the way he obviously hasn't shaved this morning, and there's a shadow of stubble along his impressively chiseled jaw line...

But then I really look at him.

I look at the way his hands pull on his hair, his knuckles so taut against his skin, it probably hurts. I look at the way his thick eyebrows are creased in obvious frustration. I look at the desperate way his eyes hold mine, the acute green of them pleading.

And I love him.

And I hate him.

And I grab him by the back of his neck and the side of his face.

And I kiss him.

Pouring all my fucking love into the kiss, I pull his body closer, press my mouth to his so hard it starts to sting, work my tongue with his so fast I can't tell which is which. My hands on his face and neck hold him tight, my fingers stroking his smooth skin to the same rhythm of my tongue.

Pouring all my fucking hate into the kiss, I bite on his lip, my fingers dig into the flesh at his neck, our teeth clash, our hard-ons rage as they rub against each other, our hips are vigorous, the friction so good, too good, it hurts.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans, between kisses, between thrusts. "I'm so fucking sorry…"

The wetness on my face shouldn't surprise me.

I'm hurt and I'm mad and I love him and I hate him – so tears shouldn't surprise me at all.

But they do.

And the thing that surprises me the most is that the tears don't belong to me.

Because I'm not crying.

/ \