A/N: I have to thank my fantastic friend Twila Reaux once again for taking the time to look at this and make it readable. She has a new--WONDERFUL--one shot up about canon Alice and Jasper called "Because of You." I promise that it will make you look at those two characters in new and enlightening ways. It's under my favorites, so seriously. Go. check. it. out.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.


Chapter Ten: Six Impossible Things

"Alice laughed: 'There's no use trying,' she said; 'one can't believe impossible things.'
'I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.'"
~Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass


APOV

"'Morning Alice."

I round the corner to the living room to see one of my hall-mates sitting on a couch in front of the TV. I frown slightly at her use of my name. I'm friendly with the people here whenever we happen to meet in common areas of the house like this, but by no means am I friends with any of them. Certainly, I've never taken the time or effort it would require to get to know them all by name.

"Hey," I return, smiling emptily as I hurry past her into the hallway. I don't really mean to be rude, it's just that friendships formed out of convenience rather than mutual liking… well, they haven't worked out for me so well in the past. And plus, thanks to oversleeping my alarm this morning, I'm already running terribly late.

I pull my coat, hat, and gloves out the hall closet and quickly layer up for the onslaught of cold air I'm about to face. I don't mind it actually. I was glad when the seasons started to change and we were no longer trapped in the heat and humidity of a Philadelphia summer. The forty-five minutes it takes me to walk to work seems somehow shorter these days—probably 'cause I'm not sweating and panting the whole way there.

Once I'm bundled up I sling my tattered backpack over my shoulder and step out into the crisp winter sunshine. I inhale deeply, letting the icy air fill my lungs. It's cool, it's refreshing, it's invigorating. If it weren't for how ugly everything looks this time of year, winter would definitely be my favorite season.

I begin to make my way down the front porch steps, but as soon I reach the sidewalk, I feel a dull, familiar ache in my hip. I groan inwardly as I turn and jog back up the stairs. It's going to make me even more late than I already am, sure, but this day has already started out so poorly that a few more seconds worth of tardiness really isn't going to change much.

"Forget something?" my hall mate calls as I re-enter the house and begin digging through the hall closet again. I search blindly through the mess until my fingers finally find the object I'm looking for.

"It's gonna rain," I say simply, turning around and holding the umbrella out for her to see.

She furrows her brow as she looks out the window at the perfectly clear sky, and then turns back at me incredulously.

"You sure?"

"Trust me," I say confidently as I shove the umbrella into my backpack. I learned long ago that the fractures in my bones are better forecasters of impending storms than any weatherman could hope to be. My boss may yell at me for showing up late to work, but I'm certainly not going to regret coming back in for the umbrella when I'm walking home in the rain.

As if in confirmation of my body's predictions, an icy wind whips against my skin the moment I step back outside. I cross my arms tightly across my chest and duck my head down as I make my way quickly down the steps and out onto the sidewalk.

I walk towards the hotel, keeping my eyes focused on the ground in front of me so that I can avoid looking at the Christmas decorations that are beginning to appear on all the houses. For obvious reasons, holidays really aren't occasions I can find it within myself to get excited about. Thankfully, the neighborhood kids knew better than to come trick-or-treating at our door during Halloween. And Thanksgiving for the residents of 5210 Market Street consisted of consuming turkey sandwiches and potato chips while watching the Eagles play the Cardinals on TV. But somehow I doubt that Christmas will pass me by so harmlessly.

It's not that I object to Christmas as an idea. The Christmas message is certainly an admirable one, and the bright green and red and gold colors that line every lamppost and window definitely make up for some of the barrenness of the winter season. But Christmas, more than any other holiday, is clearly about home and comfort and family—three things that I don't have. And the less I have to be reminded of that, the better.

Unfortunately, I can't avoid these reminders forever. When I reach the Sheraton I see that the doors have been decorated overnight, and are now sporting two great, huge wreaths. I walk inside to discover that the lobby is even worse: the long, twisted staircases are rimmed with garlands, the front desk is decorated with red velvety bows, and in the middle of everything sits a two-storey-tall, intricately decorated tree.

Perfect.

I sigh and make my way to the staff lounge to get my assignments for the day. I'm so late that my manager Terri (whose name I can only manage to remember because our uniform requires that we all wear nametags) is the only person still in the room by the time I arrive. As soon as she sees me, her face constricts into a frown.

This day is just getting better and better.

"Alice? What are you—"

"I'm so sorry," I cut her off as I rip off my coat and throw it carelessly onto the rack by the door. "I was running late and then I forgot something at home and I had to go back for it. I promise it won't happen again."

Terri crosses her arms in front of her and raises her eyebrows at me in both annoyance and amusement. "Are you done?" she asks. I nod in response. "Good. What I was going to ask you is what you're doing here. You're off today."

"What?" I ask, shifting my eyes to the large schedule hanging on the wall behind her, "That's impossible!" I always write down my schedule the day it's posted. I've never come in on the wrong day, I've never missed a day—heck, I've never even been late until today. She must have made a mistake.

Terri steps aside so I can better see the schedule, and sure enough under my name and today's date are printed the letters O-F-F. To add even further insult to injury, it's even written in bold. Crap.

"Can't I just work today instead?" I ask, already knowing what her answer will be. "I mean, since I'm already here and—"

Terri frowns again and shakes her head. "Sorry, Alice. We have a big turnover tonight and we'll definitely be needing you tomorrow."

Yeah, Terri's pretty notorious for being anal when it comes to scheduling. I drop my shoulders and mumble 'goodbye,' to which she responds with an overenthusiastic 'see you tomorrow!' Scowling to myself, I throw on my coat and head dejectedly back out into the lobby. It's not even 9:30 yet, and already I've managed to screw up my entire day. I almost kick that stupid Christmas tree as I make my way past it, but decide against it at the last minute. With the way this day has gone so far, it'd probably just fall over on me anyway.

For the third time this morning, I step out into the cold. My feet instinctively begin carrying me back towards the house, but after about a block I stop. Usually I spend my free days running errands or finding new people or locations to draw. Why should today be any different? The Sheraton sits directly in between two universities: Drexel and U Penn. I've never been to either, and today seems like as good a time as any. I've ruined my morning, but maybe, with a little luck, I'll be able to salvage my afternoon.

I make my way back past the hotel and onto the U Penn campus. It's old here, just like the rest of the city. Everything is red-gray brick, and stained-glass windows, and high, pointed roofs. It's the kind of place where I'm afraid to even step off the sidewalk 'cause in doing so I might destroy some hundred-year-old blade of historically significant grass. With all the statues and plaques they have around this place, it feels more like walking through an open-air museum than walking around a fully functioning college campus.

I wander around for a while, trying to find an empty bench or table to sit on. But before I can find anything, a cloud passes in front of the sun in the sky. In the same instant, like some sort of fated coincidence, my hip begins to throb again, reminding me that bad weather is coming. So I decide it's probably best if I find an indoor locale to work from.

It doesn't take me long to locate a restaurant across the street from the school. A small bell over the door jingles when I enter, and seconds later a bored-looking hostess appears to show me to my table.

"Would it be possible to sit by the window?" I ask when she starts to lead me towards the rear of the restaurant. She turns around and rolls her eyes condescendingly.

"Those booths are reserved for parties of two or more," she says, her voice matching her body language. Normally this kind of thing wouldn't irritate me—I'd just sit alone wherever she put me and sketch the walls or something. But her patronizing tone coupled with my lingering bad mood prompts me to argue with her until I get what I want.

"I'm waiting for someone," I say, placing my hands on my hips and quirking an eyebrow at her. We both know it's a lie. But hidden behind my words is an implicit threat to ask for her manager if she doesn't give me what I want. You don't work in the hospitality industry for five months without picking up a few tips about customer service after all.

"Okay, sure," she agrees finally, the "sure" being an acknowledgement of both my lie and my slight position of power over her. She turns on her heel and leads me over to one of the empty booths next to the window. "Your server will be right with you," she sneers as she all but throws the menu at me.

I frown at her back before removing my bag from my shoulders and settling into my seat. Despite the relative warmth of the restaurant, I leave my coat on. The hideous lime-green color of my work uniform always makes me stand out in public places, and with the hostess already out to get me, it's probably best that I try to blend in as much as possible. I fish my sketchpad out of my bag, and am in the middle of digging for an ever-elusive pencil when I hear a male voice speaking at my side. I look up and see a dark-haired waiter smiling down at me amusedly.

"Ummm… what?" I ask, a little flustered from his sudden proximity.

"I said, 'my name is Kevin and I'll be your server today,'" the man—Kevin—laughs, tapping his pencil against the pad of paper in his hand. "Can I get you something to drink?"

I know it's impolite to stare, but something about Kevin's face makes it impossible for me to tear my eyes away. I don't normally notice men, but even I can tell that he's dangerously good looking. He has short jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and beautifully tan skin. And yet, none of these are what keep my eyes focused on his face. There's something else about him… something at once familiar and foreign, comforting and strange…

"Ma'am?" he asks, raising his eyebrow expectantly.

"Ummm… just a water," I say, forcing myself to divert my eyes.

"Just a water," he confirms as he makes a note on his pad of paper. "And have you decided on what you'd like to eat?"

I haven't even looked at the menu. But, at the risk of being caught shamelessly staring at him again, I figure it's best to get all conversation out of the way now. I pick up the menu and point to the first thing under the 'sandwich' heading. "I'll have that," I say, as I tilt the menu up for him to see.

"One water and one cheese steak. How very original of you," he teases as he takes the menu from my hand. "And your friend?" he asks, gesturing towards the empty place across from me. I can tell from the joking tone in his voice that he's not trying to be mean—he's just trying to play along with my charade.

"Just another water for now," I say, smiling slightly.

"Two waters," he says, nodding, before walking away to fill my order. Seconds later he returns with the drinks, and winks at me before placing the second one down across the table from me. And when the corners of his mouth lift up into a smile again, that same feeling I had earlier of something between intense attraction and unsettling dis-ease returns.

I try to ignore it by turning my attention to the view from the window and beginning to sketch the skyline of the campus across the street. But it's no use: I can't concentrate. For whatever reason, all I can think about is my stupid waiter. I sigh and flip to a clean sheet in my sketchpad to begin drawing his face, hoping that getting him out of my head and onto paper will erase him from my mind entirely. I work quickly, trying to take down everything I remember from my brief but embarrassing ogling session, and filling in the rest with my imagination.

I find myself paying unnecessarily close attention to his lips. I've only ever seen them raised into a smile, but for some reason they don't even begin to look right until I sketch them into a frown. And even then I have to keep tracing and retracing and shading and re-shading until they begin to look even remotely like the lips I'm aiming for. I'm so absorbed in drawing his mouth that I don't even notice that he's standing next to me again until he sets down my food on the table next to me. I quickly attempt to cover up the drawing with my hands, but by then of course, it's too late.

"Don't cover it up," he says, nodding his head towards the incriminating evidence beneath my fingers, "that's really good." To my immense surprise, he doesn't seem at all shocked by what I've drawn—like strange girls walk into the restaurant and shamelessly sketch him every day. He doesn't laugh or even smirk at me as he tilts his head to the side to examine the half-covered portrait. "Who is it?" he finally asks.

I have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. Am I really that horrible that he can't even recognize his own face? Ha! And all this time I really thought I was actually pretty good at this. That'll teach me to think—

My thoughts trail off as he bends closer to the drawing to get a better look. With his face right there, in perfect juxtaposition with the face I've drawn, I see how very far off my representation actually is. Except for a slight similarity in the shape of the lips, the two faces look absolutely nothing alike. The one bending over the table is a complete stranger, but the one I've sketched on the paper—that's one I see every night in the darkness of my dreams.

Jasper.

Quickly, I rip the page from my sketchbook and crumple it in my hands. "It's no one," I say when Kevin looks up at me, obviously confused. "Do you think you can throw this out for me?" I ask, holding the little ball I've made out to him like an offering.

"Are you sure? It's really good and—"

"I'm sure," I say, almost panicking as I continue to thrust the paper at him, wanting, needing to get it out of my sight as soon as possible. I feel my palms beginning to sweat and my heart beginning to race the longer I have to hold that stupid drawing in my hands. Finally sensing my desperation, Kevin nods, takes the picture from my hand, and walks quickly back towards the kitchen—probably already writing me off as at least partially insane.

And, well, maybe I am.

It's been nearly six months since I left the hospital, but I still think about Jasper all the time. I hear him speaking to me while I lie awake in bed at night. I hear hints and whispers of his voice when I pass strangers talking to each other on the street. I can't walk past a library or a hospital without feeling him next to me. My heart still aches every time I think his name. The night I touched him recurs relentlessly in my dreams—an insistent reminder of the mistake that took him from me. And now I'm seeing him in other peoples' faces as well? Truly, I must be going mad.

I push my plate of food to the side and place my sketchpad on the table in front of me, determined to get Jasper out of my mind. I look out the window and shakily begin to sketch the building across the street. It's clearly newer than many of the rest of the buildings on campus—it has hundreds of windows, the bottom floor is completely made of glass, and the upper floors are supported by large, concrete columns. The whole façade of the thing is so redundant that I can't even tell if I'm looking at the front or the back of it. That's good; it's exactly what I need. Cold, ugly, inhuman.

I let my food grow cold as I work to make my sketch as accurate as possible. I feel my heart rate slowly return to normal and my hand begin to steady as I focus more and more intently on the inanimate object across the street. By the time I've finished the sketch, I've completely forgotten why I started it in the first place.

I write today's date next to my signature at the bottom of the picture, and then strain my eyes against the rapidly-darkening sky to see if I can make out a name anywhere on the building. When I can't find one, I turn to a girl sitting alone at a table across the aisle from me and ask her if she knows what the building is called.

"Oh that?" she says, looking out the window at where I'm pointing, "that's Van Pelt." I write the name in quotes at the top of my page and turn back to thank her. But before the words can leave my mouth she adds, "it's the library."

Seriously?

Why does everything I do have to point to him? Why can't I just forget him like I've forgotten everything else that ever mattered in my life? Why does he have to be the one thing that still lingers incessantly in my mind? Why can't I just let him go?

Thankfully the girl turns back to her meal before she gets a chance to see the frustrated tears that begin welling up in my eyes. For once the weather outside cooperates cathartically with the emotions building inside of me—as soon as the first traitor tears spill over, the skies open and the rain begins to fall in heavy sheets. I drop my head into my arms and listen to the sound of the rain drumming against the window, feeling for the first time in my life like the universe understands my pain.

I don't know how long I sit like that, but it can't be long, and, thankfully, I can't have been crying that loudly, 'cause when I look up the girl at the table across from me is still working on her meal. I sniff quietly and wipe my eyes on my otherwise unused napkin before ripping the tear-stained drawing out of my sketchpad, crumpling it into another ball, and dropping it to the floor. I shove my sketchbook and pencil into my backpack, deciding that I've had just about enough drawing for today.

"You didn't touch your meal," Kevin observes when he makes his way back to my table a few minutes later. "Wasn't it any good?"

"It was fine," I tell him, only barely attempting to smile, "it just turns out I wasn't hungry after all."

"Do you want me to put it in a to-go box for you?"

I nod at him indifferently as he reaches across the table and takes my plate. And then, for no reason whatsoever, he begins to laugh. I scowl at him as he straightens up and smiles down at me.

"You know, now might be a good time to tell your friend to come inside," he says, smirking knowingly.

I look up towards the door and see that there's a small line of people beginning to form in front of the hostess' podium. The hostess herself openly glares at me before leading a party of four to one of the less-desirable tables at the back of the restaurant. I sigh and turn my attention back to Kevin. "I'm leaving anyway. Can't you just tell her to be patient for a minute?"

Kevin's face scrunches together in confusion as he looks towards the hostess and then back at me. "No, that's not what I meant. No one's telling you to leave. It's just… I mean… Well, he's getting pretty wet just standing out there, is all I'm saying," Kevin says, still being infuriatingly, and most likely purposefully vague.

"What are you talking about?" I say, getting a little annoyed now. "Who's getting wet standing out—"

Kevin interrupts me simply by inclining his head towards the window. "Your friend—the guy from the drawing? I assume he's out there waiting for you."

My head snaps towards the window before my mind has a chance to talk me out of believing. And in the seconds that pass before my eyes can focus on the figure standing out in the driving rain, six months worth of missing, six months worth of needing, six months worth of wanting, are suddenly erased from my body, replaced entirely with one moment's worth of impossible hope.

***

JPOV

Dammit, I told her I could drive. It only takes one hand and one foot to drive a fucking automatic, and I happen to be able to use both my right hand and my right foot quite well, thank you very much. But no, the stupid lawyer at the hospital had my goddamn license revoked until the "successful completion of my physical therapy." And so now I'm standing out here in the middle of the sidewalk, getting soaked by the fucking rain.

I could just as easily blame my physical therapist for insisting that I take the metro to our twice-weekly appointments. She sees it as a way to ensure that I get some exercise each week—a way to keep my skin from getting too tight. I see it as a goddamn hassle. I mean, seriously. Why would I want to walk to the metro when I could just as easily call a cab to pick me up? But, because I'm a compliant idiot, I've walked the eight hundred and fifty-three steps from my front door to the station every Monday and Thursday for the past six weeks including, of course, today. And what do I have to show for all my efforts? Fucking blisters on my toes from the strange ways my feet now rub against my shoes. And probably, at this point, a fucking cold as well.

Screw it. There's no way I'm going to therapy today: not when I'm standing out here looking like a drowned cat. But—fuck—it's cold, and even though it's only three blocks back to my apartment, it's going to take forever for me to get there at the snails' pace I usually move at. I may as well try'n find a place where I can wait out the storm.

And so it's official—today can't possibly get any worse. As if having to wake up to the same old pain, the same old aching, and the same old longing weren't enough—as if being caught helplessly in the rain 'cause I don't have enough good hands to hold both an umbrella and a fucking cane weren't enough—I now have to go into a public place and be stared at by people who don't ache, who don't hurt—who have two perfectly good hands.

C'mon, Jasper, it can't be raining that hard. Surely you can suck it up and make it—

Before I can finish my thought the wind picks up and the rain drives down harder, forcing me to duck my head into the collar of my jacket to keep the pelting drops from hitting me squarely in my eyes. I hunch my shoulders in defeat and begin walking reluctantly towards campus. I haven't been back to school since my release from the hospital, and I'm sure as hell not going to deal with that crap today. But there's a little restaurant just down the street that I at least know to have dim lighting and halfway decent food. And at 11:30 on a Monday morning, it probably won't be too full yet, so I may have a chance of being able to sit and wait in peace.

Though, since this day is utterly craptastic, all my hopes are dashed when I walk up to the restaurant. Even through the blurriness of the rain-streaked windows I can tell that it's fucking packed. Apparently everyone else in Philadelphia has the same fucking idea as I do. For a minute, I just stand there in the rain, contemplating again whether it's really worth all the fucking stares I'm bound to get. But just like it did before, an icy blast of wind spits rain directly into my face, reminding me why it's completely fucking ridiculous for me to continue standing out in this weather. So I shove my left hand deeply into my jacket pocket and make my way inside.

Naturally, there's a line. I take my place at the back of it and carefully unzip my wet coat, trying very hard to not splatter rain on any of the other customers in the process. I shiver as warm, stuffy air of the restaurant soaks into the exposed skin of my neck and face. This whole day has just been one huge reminder of how much I really fucking hate the cold. I'm seriously finding it hard to remember how I ever thought that coming to school in this ungodly ugly place was a good idea.

I take a step forward as the line in front of me moves. I glance around the place while I wait, trying to see if there are any available tables towards the back. Ah, yes, I think to myself as I spot a little bistro table against the far wall, that'll be just—

"Excuse me, sir?" I turn to see a waiter standing next to me, and raise my eyebrow in answer to his question. "I believe your party's over this way," he says, gesturing for me to follow him towards a collection of booths at the windows.

I shake my head. "My party? I don't… I'm not here with anyone. I—"

"Please sir," he insists, still motioning for me to follow him, "I think she's been waiting for you for awhile."

"I'm sorry," I say tersely, starting to get a bit annoyed at all the misplaced attention he's bestowing on me, "You have me confused with someone else."

I turn my body away from him, and for a moment, it seems that he's gotten the message. But when the line ahead of me moves forward and I try to follow suit, I feel his hand grab my right arm to restrain me. I whirl around to face him, anger positively leaking from every pore in my body.

"Listen!" I hiss as I shrug his hand from my arm, "If you ever fucking touch me again I swear to God… I'll…"

My words get lost in my throat as my eyes finally focus on the girl standing at my elbow. Breathing, thinking, feeling all stop as a great wave of numbness envelops my entire body. Old and familiar instincts that simultaneously tell me to run away and stay firmly planted where I stand pull at my heart. The feelings are at once so strong and so dichotomous that I can't do anything. I can't move. I can't even breathe. I can only stand frozen where I am and stare down at the girl standing next to me.

She'd closed her eyes the moment I'd started yelling at her, but other than that, she hasn't moved either. She just stands there with her arm still partially extended towards me, looking as frozen as I know myself to be. Slowly—excruciatingly slowly—the fog around my mind begins to thaw and pieces of sentences come floating up to the surface.

unthinkable imagining cant be dont believe dont not her false hope impossible

I fight hard to clear away the remainder of the numbness from my body, and finally regain both my breathing and the use of my limbs. As soon as I can move, I step backwards, away from her.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice tight and strained, "I think there's been a…"

The girl's mouth pulls into a small smile that again stops me before I can finish my sentence. My hands begin to shake when I see her lips part in preparation to speak. For one instant, I almost clamp my hand over her mouth. If it's not her, then I don't want to hear it. If it is her, then I don't know if I can stand to hear it. Not now, not after everything that I've been through. Not after I've worked so hard to—

"Hello, Jasper."

sweet jesus

Her large, brown eyes slowly open to meet mine. When they do, I can tell instantly that all my previous fears were absolutely unfounded. Despite the fact that everything about her is flawless and beautiful and complete, when she looks at me, nothing in her eyes even suggests a hint of disgust or revulsion, or even disappointment.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles up at me with the most serene, adorable smile I think I've ever seen. No, fuck that. I know I've never seen anything more wonderful, more amazing, more extraordinarily beautiful than the woman standing in front of me right now.

Alice.

Even in my dreams I never imagined she'd look like this. Her voice to me always reminded me—still reminds me!—of the way stars glisten in the sky at night. Looking at her now—seeing her bright face, her pale skin, her inhumanly perfect shape—I now know that her voice isn't the only part of her that belongs to heaven. Everything about her suggests the quality of an angel. Seeing her in this moment, it's like the last six months haven't even happened. I love her now just the same as I did the day she left the hospital. Hell, if it's even possible… I think I love her more.

"Um, excuse me, is there a problem here?" A woman's shrill voice cuts into my thoughts. I don't even have it in me to turn towards the sound, afraid that if I take my eyes off of her, she might disappear altogether. Alice doesn't look away either, even as she answers the woman's question.

"No problem" –holy fuck, it's good to hear her voice again—"this is my friend," she says, nodding towards me and shooting me some sort of knowing smile. I'm not really sure what that's supposed to mean.

"Well," the woman continues, "could you and your friend please stop blocking the doorway? You're creating a fire hazard."

A fucking fire hazard? For the second time today I turn around with the intention of knocking someone's fucking head off; for the second time today, Alice's hand stops me. "Of course," she says, releasing my arm immediately when I turn back around to face her, "we'll go sit down."

I shoot the woman one final glare before I follow Alice towards the cluster of booths by the window. When we reach the one she's apparently been sitting at, I slowly lower myself into the seat across from her, wincing heavily at the stiffness in my joints. My eyes snap open again when I realize that for the first time, Alice can see everything. I haven't removed my coat yet, so she probably can't see many of the scars. But she can see my limp, she can see the thin compression suit peeking out underneath my shirt, she can see how it pains me to do even the simplest of things like walking or sitting down.

Fuck. What was I thinking following her over here like this?

But when my eyes open, I see that she's not even looking at me. Instead, she's staring down at her hands which are folded together on the table. Instantly, all of my concern for myself is replaced with concern for her.

"What's wrong?" I ask anxiously when I notice how white her knuckles are becoming from her tightness of her grasp. She doesn't look up at me at all; she just sits there looking at her hands like they're stained with blood or something.

"I… I didn't mean to… when I grabbed you it was only because… I'm sorry…" she finally stutters out.

It takes me a moment to piece her fragments together. My heart sinks when I finally realize that she thinks I'm mad at her. As if I have any fucking right to be mad at her. If anything, I'm surprised that she hasn't lashed out at me yet. She's the only one who's got any reason to be pissed off here. I had my reasons for ignoring her during her last days at the hospital. But after everything she did for me, after everything she meant to me—to not even say goodbye to her? That was a fucking worthless thing to do.

And plus, any and all reasons I had for pushing her away from me went out the fucking window the minute I realized I was in love with her. With them went all the fucking excuses I'd been using to convince myself that I was keeping her at a distance for her own good. Most of the time I'd known her I'd been a complete and total ass to her for no reason except for my own insecurities. And she's sitting here apologizing to me?

I lower my eyes, feeling completely fucking ashamed and unworthy to be sitting here with her right now.

"You didn't fucking hurt me," I mumble, more to myself than to her. But of course she hears me, and I watch as her hands clench even more tightly together at my tone. I've never seen this. I've never seen what my words do to her or how she reacts to what I say. In the darkness of my hospital room, it was always easy to imagine her smiling or relaxing no matter what words came out of my mouth. But now, here, seeing her hurt herself over something I've said… it's unbearable to watch. Without stopping to consider the consequences, I quickly reach out and grasp her tiny hands, easily holding both of them in only one of my own.

How the hell is it that after all these months, I still feel that same cool fire burning within me the moment our hands meet? How is it that her touch still sends electrifying tremors throughout my entire body? And why, after all my surgeries and all my time in that stupid hospital and in therapy, is it only in this moment that I actually feel like I'm beginning to heal?

I shift my gaze from the table to our conjoined hands, half expecting to see visible flames dancing out from between them. But instead, all I see are Alice's fingers beginning to regain their pale-pink color as they relax minutely beneath my touch. And while it's impossible for me to imagine that she might be feeling anywhere close to the same thing I am, she must be feeling something, because when I raise my eyes to look at her face, I can see that she's smiling.

And I'll be damned if seeing that doesn't make me smile a little too.

"Can I get you anything?" I release Alice's hands instinctively as I turn around to see the same waiter from before standing over the two of us, grinning like a fucking idiot. I lean back in my seat and glare up at him, pretty fucking pissed that he's just ruined the first moment of peace I've felt in fucking forever. If he notices my rudeness, however, he doesn't show it. Instead, he just stands there, waiting for me to say something.

"Just the water's fine," I finally tell him. He nods at me, and walks away before Alice even has a chance to order anything. I'm about to call him back and tell him off for being such an impolite ass when Alice places a to-go box in front of me on the table.

"It's a little cold," she says, "but you're welcome to it if you want it. I don't even like cheese steak. I don't know why I ordered it."

The waiter's words from earlier suddenly flash in my mind. "I think she's been waiting for you for awhile." How long had Alice been sitting here before I showed up? And… what? Had she somehow known I was coming?

"Alice," I say, completely ignoring the fucking delicious-smelling food she's just placed in front of me, "How did you--? I mean, how… What are you doing here?"

She blushes inexplicably and drops her gaze down towards the table. "I could ask the same thing of you," she says quietly.

"I live here," I remind her gently, really fucking wishing she wouldn't hide the face I've been longing for so many months to see. Fortunately, something about my response causes her to smile and look up at me again.

"So do I," she says, laughing. Holy shit, I've missed that. But the sound of her laughter only distracts me for a moment before my mind wraps itself around her statement. She lives here? In Philadelphia? Why?

"Don't look so confused," she says, answering my unspoken question. "Honestly, Jasper, where else would I go?"

Anywhere but here? New York, L.A., Florida, D.C.—anywhere but this dirty, cold, worthless place? Sunshine, oceans, big cities, bright lights—all of those belong to people like Alice. What on earth could she possibly get from living in a city like this?

"The world's a big place," she continues softly, dropping her head down into her arms, "I thought it would be best to stick to the little part of it that I knew."

Seeing her with her head cradled in her arms like that, I'm suddenly reminded of the last night we spent together. She'd sat like that then, too. And that night I'd had the same urge I do now to gather her to me and tell her that everything will be fine. To comfort her and protect her, and swear to never let anything happen to her. But just like the last time my self-consciousness gets the best of me, and instead of reaching out to her, I simply change the subject.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

My question makes her head shoot up out of her arms—a plus—but also makes her blush the deepest shade of red I think I've ever seen in someone's face—a minus. I didn't want to embarrass the girl—I was just curious.

"I didn't," she says quickly, looking me straight in my eyes. "Please don't think I've been following you or anything. I had no idea you'd be here today. I work up the street and I came in on the wrong day and I wanted to draw the campus but it started to rain so I came in here and then I saw you standing outside but I didn't know it was you until you came inside and even then I wasn't sure until you spoke and—" She trails off when she notices the amused smile that's slowing creeping across my face.

I remember this. I remember how rushed and incoherent she gets when something excites or embarrasses her. And just like her laughter, I've missed it immensely. I've missed everything about her—even the parts of her that I didn't even know, that I hadn't even seen yet. The curves of her small body, the exact color of her dark brown hair, the soft ovals of her eyes—I've missed all of that. How on earth could I have been fucking stupid enough to give all that up?

Like some fucking karmic retribution for all the joy I've been feeling over the past few minutes, my phone begins vibrating loudly in my pocket. I pull it out to look at the number and recognize it instantly as my physical therapist's. I want to smash the phone through the fucking window, but knowing how fucking relentless my therapist is, she'd probably find a way to keep calling. I apologize to Alice with my eyes and hold the phone up to my ear.

"What?"

"Mr. Whitlock," she starts, her high, nasally voice already giving me a fucking headache, "did you forget you had an appointment today?"

"No," I say, frowning at her obviously rhetorical question, "I got caught in the rain and the—"

"The metro still runs in the rain," she reminds me sarcastically. "If you don't keep your therapy appointments then your insurance won't continue to pay for your reconstructive surgeries. And even worse, a skipped appointment can be detrimental to the process of recovery. Now, you've already missed your 12:00 time, but I have another slot open at 1:30, and I suggest you be there."

"I can't make it today, I'm already—"

"Thank you, Mr. Whitlock. I'll see you then."

Before I even have a chance to argue with her the other line goes dead. I bring the phone down from my ear and glare at it, like somehow if I just look at it long enough she'll call back and tell me she was just kidding.

"You have to go, don't you," Alice says softly. And to my surprise, I'm almost sure that she sounds disappointed.

"Yeah," I say, shoving my phone back into my pocket, "I have an… appointment."

One side of Alice's mouth turns up into an uneven half-smile as she sees right through my euphemism. "You know, you really shouldn't make your therapist angry. She's just gonna make you work ten times harder the next time she sees you."

"I know," I say, groaning inwardly at the truth in her statement. I zip up my still-drenched jacket and slowly raise myself up out of the booth, trying as hard as I fucking can to mask the amount of pain it causes me. When I'm finally standing, I look over at Alice to make sure I haven't made her uncomfortable. But just like when I sat down before, I find that she's not even looking at me. Instead, she's digging around in her backpack.

"Here," she says, pulling an umbrella out of her bag and handing it to me, "it's still raining."

I look at it dejectedly, really fucking embarrassed that I can't even accept what she's offering. "Alice," I say without reaching for it, "I can't."

"Don't worry," she says, completely misinterpreting my refusal, "I can just wait here until the storm passes. It's not going to last much longer anyway."

I shake my head and look down into her face. "No, that's not it, it's just… I can't." I emphasize the last two words, imploring her with my eyes not to make me explain any further. Finally, comprehension flickers in her face as she steals a quick glance at the offending cane that's leaning on the seat next to me. For a second, I half expect her to look back at me with the pity and sorrow that have been absent throughout our entire conversation. But as quickly as this thought enters my mind she quells it by reaching over and grabbing her backpack and smiling back at me determinedly.

"All right then, I'll walk with you," she says.

I roll my eyes at her in both relief and wonder and joy. "I'm only going to the metro station. It's honestly not that far. You really don't need to—"

"Perfect," she says, picking up the untouched to-go box that's still sitting on the table, "that's right on my way home."

I try to shrug indifferently, but I'm sure the enormous smile I feel spreading across my face gives away how happy I am to get to spend even just a few more minutes with her. I reach for the cane as Alice places a twenty on the table. It seems like a pretty fucking huge tip to be leaving, and I tell her so—but she merely responds by saying that he was "a really good waiter." Honestly, the moment we step out into the rain I completely forget about him. Because whatever kind of service industry super-powers he possessed, she's fucking leaving with me.

We walk in silence towards the metro. She has to hold her arm up straight over her head to get the umbrella high enough to cover both of us—and even then it occasionally bangs against my head if she steps the wrong way or loses her concentration. But I couldn't care less, because the same strange fire that rages within me every time we touch seems to linger in the air between us, warming me to my very core despite the frigidness of the winter air.

It takes only a few minutes for us to reach the metro station, even despite the ridiculously slow pace that I set (which, really, was only partially due to my injuries). She walks me under the shelter of the roof and lowers the umbrella. I'm concentrating so intently on the strange fire that's still resonating in my body that it takes me a minute to realize that her face looks sad—pained almost. Any happiness I'd been feeling quickly turns to concern as I wonder what could possibly have her so upset.

"Alice, what's wrong?" I ask, my voice sounding more emotional than I'd intended.

She smiles up at me halfheartedly and once again raises the umbrella between us. "It's nothing," she says, "I guess I'm just a little cold." I can't see her face anymore, but I know her voice well enough to know that she's telling me a lie. I'm about to swat that damn umbrella away and make her talk to me when she takes a step backwards out into the rain.

"It was nice seeing you," she says, raising her now emotionless eyes up to meet mine. The difference between the numb mask she wears now and the bright, happy smile she wore in the restaurant is so striking, that for a moment, I forget how to speak. I just nod my head at her and let her walk away without saying a single word.

But she only gets about ten feet from me before an intense feeling of both emptiness and loneliness overwhelms me. With every step she takes away from me, the feeling gets stronger, like part of myself is being ripped from within me. A low panic begins building in my stomach, and before she can get even one step further, I walk back out onto the sidewalk and shout her name.

Obviously she hears me, because she turns around and begins walking back towards the metro station. But she's not moving nearly fucking fast enough, so I walk out to meet her halfway. When we meet on the sidewalk, she again raises the umbrella up to cover both our heads.

"What is it?" she asks sounding both alarmed and confused. I want to answer her, but for a minute I can't even speak 'cause I'm just so damn relieved to have her back next to me again. And plus, how exactly am I supposed to tell her about the hell I go through every time she leaves me? How can she possibly understand what the past six months have been like for me, and how impossible it would be for me to let her walk out of my life again now?

"Jasper?" she asks again, after I fail to answer her question.

"Ummm," I stall while quickly piecing together a lame-ass excuse for what I'm about to ask, "I was just thinking that, since we're in the same city and all, we should like, exchange phone numbers or something—you know, in case we ever wanted to like, hang out… or… something."

Good fucking lord, I sound like a fucking high school dropout.

Fortunately, Alice overlooks my ineloquence. "I have some paper in my bag," she says, shrugging her shoulders as she steers us both back towards the metro station. Once we're safely under the roof she removes a sheet of paper from her bag and rips it in half. She locates a pencil and quickly scribbles something down on her half before handing the utensil and the blank half of the paper off to me. It takes me longer since I'm still not quite used to writing with my right hand, but in the end I manage to scratch out a semi-legible ten-digit number. We exchange halves of the paper, I'm a bit startled when I look down and see that she's written her address out as well.

"That number's not really mine;" she explains, "you can reach me there if you need to. But just in case you can't get in touch with me, I left the address too."

"Thanks," I say, folding the piece of paper and sticking it in the front pocket of my jeans—probably the only dry place left on my entire body. When I look back up at her, she's already got the umbrella up again, and is turning around to leave. "I'll talk to you later then?" I ask, the school-girl-like excitement still coloring the tone of my voice.

Alice turns back around and smiles at me. And thank fucking god—this time it's a real, genuine smile. "Talk to you later," she says, nodding her head and walking back out into the rain.

It still hurts to watch her walk away. It still hurts to have to let her go. But when the panic begins to rise up within me again, I'm able to push it down by reminding myself that this will not be the last time I ever see her.

I still don't deserve her. I'm still unworthy even to share the same space as her. But I've had to live without her. I've had to wake up every morning knowing that I'll have to somehow make it through another day without hearing her voice. I've had to go on breathing without knowing if my lungs could ever truly feel full of any air that didn't contain her scent. I've had to touch and be touched by others thinking that I'd never again feel the only touch that ever mattered.

And that's not living, that's not even surviving. That's just existing in a world that's lost its meaning.

And now that my meaning has suddenly and inexplicably come back into my life, it would be impossible for me to ever let her go.


In case you want to know where all the places in this story are in relation to each other, there's a link to a map on my profile.