Chapter summary: Rosalie asked me if this were 'fun.' Firstly, ... well, what's 'fun'? I had never experienced that in my life. And secondly, making supper as Rosalie's slave is supposed to be ... 'fun'? I'm Bella Swan, and I think I may actually be having fun ... for the first time in my life.
"This is fun, right?" Rosalie asked me.
"Um..." I stuttered uncomfortably, then I said as brightly as I could: "Yeah, this is ... fun."
'Fun.'
What does 'fun' mean? I was saddened to learn, right now, about myself that I didn't know what 'fun' means, because I had never experienced it in my life.
Ever.
And, but ... this? 'Fun'?
Rosalie was with me, in the kitchen, and she was dressed simply in a white top and rust-colored skirt, casual around-the-house wear for Rosalie and I was ... 'dressed' as I normally was, in my kitchen apron, and in nothing else, and we were ...
Okay, 'we were,' did you get that?
We were making supper. Together.
Yes. Rosalie was helping me in the kitchen, making supper.
Someone have a feather? 'cause you could knock me over with it.
I wish Rosalie were videoing this, because nobody would believe it without proof.
And supper?
Supper wasn't on the menu planner on the fridge, so I just looked, helplessly, at the menu planner, hoping Rosalie wouldn't leave it to me to guess what she wanted me to make, because then I'd invariably guess wrong, and pay for that guess for the rest of the day and maybe even weeks afterwards if I really pissed her off.
That incident of the 'seared Ahi tuna' recipe she wanted me to make (okay, like, how?) that I pan-fried and blackened for her? Because that was my best guess?
Please don't bring that up with her. I think if you did she's become so angry again she'd start the punishment over from the beginning, and I didn't need to live through that again, thanks.
The irony with that one? After she got done beating me into a pulp, leaving me half-dead, I swear, on her bed, she came back upstairs and tasted it in front of me, just to show me what a shit I was for ruining her sushi-grade quality Ahi tuna (whatever the fuck that meant), and she tried it and ...
And I saw her face ... change, right in front of me, wanting so badly to hate that I cooked her fish, wanting so badly not to show any admission that how I prepared it was pretty darn good.
Because then she'd have to admit that she was wrong. And she couldn't do that.
Life under Rosalie's thumb in Rosalie's kitchen had taught me a thing or two about blending spices together into a flavorful, savory dish that just melted on her tongue.
But she couldn't say that to me, left whimpering on her bed, because then she couldn't justify having just beaten the tar out of me for ruining her supper like I just did, now, could she?
But she could, and she did, the next week tell me to prepare half of her Ahi tuna properly this time, Bella, for God's sake, with a soy-wasabi sauce and the other half? 'Oh, do the other half like you did it the last time, yes? That was ... well, do it like that again, okay?'
Okay! Whatever Her Majesty wants, and you're so welcome for the last time, too!
Yeah, that was Rosalie's 'apology' for being 'wrong.'
AND I had to look up what 'wasabi' meant. Being with Rosalie Hale was an ... educational experience.
'Educational.' Yeah. That's one way of putting it.
But that was supper, normally ... I mean, when I messed it up, normally. But normally, I cooked her supper, under her very close (stinging) supervision, and served her at the table in the dining room ...
And knelt down on the floor, and took bites of food from her hand.
When people say, 'Oh, come on over, we'll feed you supper.'
Rosalie Hale took those words literally.
"Bella, ..."
I was called back into the here and now by Rosalie's reproving tone.
"What?" I said defensively.
She said ... well, she wanted me to say we were having fun, and I said we were having fun. I did what she wanted! Why does she always have to be so mean to me when I'm doing exactly what she tells me she wants me to do!
Or me trying to do what she wants.
And that's the kicker, isn't it.
I sighed.
"Look," she said quietly, consolingly. "I know nothing about us and our situation is ... normal, okay? And I get that," she said. "But can you try just to let that all go and just be here with me now, and enjoy this moment?"
She looked searchingly into my eyes.
"Okay," I said humbly and looked away.
She snorted angrily. "'Okay,' meaning 'no,' Bella?"
"No," I said, tightly, looking back at her. "So, okay, so, you want this moment to be normal when there's nothing normal about it or us and ..."
"You want 'normal'?" Rosalie asked derisively.
I was starting to lose it. How can I be a perfect little slave to her and have to be on my toes all the time, watching what I say and what I think?
It wears a girl down. It really does.
"Rosalie," I gasped exasperatedly, "I don't even know what normal is!"
Rosalie pulled herself erect.
She does that when I say something confrontational. She is a whole head taller than me, but now, she was even more imposing.
She pursed her lips, thinking.
Then she smiled. "Yes, you do."
"ARRRRRGH!" I screamed.
Rosalie chuckled lightly.
"Baby," she said comfortingly. "Normal is this: you are just scraping by with your mom, and your dad isn't there anymore. Just like the majority of American families today."
"Don't you bring my dad into this!" I shouted.
I felt the blood entirely drain from my face.
But where did that come from?
Rosalie had a thoughtful look. "Okay, I won't. But he won't, either, because he's not bringing himself into this, into your life, and he hasn't for how long, Bella, leaving you and letting you live like that?"
"He hasn't since he died!" I screamed. "Okay? You happy?"
Rosalie's face was white, probably as white as mine, and she looked shocked, surprised.
"Oh," she said quietly, and her eyes shifted away from my furious ones.
I wanted to turn away from her face, seeing it like that, knowing I made her look like that: hurt.
I had wanted to hurt her. And that's exactly what I did.
Yay. Go me.
God, I'm such a shit.
I wanted to run away, but to where could I run? To her den? Run to home? And then do what? Cry in my mom's arms? She was done cutting hair, but now her boyfriend would be there, and that would be awkward, a teenage girl crying in the arms of the woman you want to ... you know ... with.
Phil was actually a pretty nice guy, this time around, thank God, but he was my mom's boyfriend, and that's all I knew about him. That, and he was a body builder, or something. The guy was huge.
But he wasn't my dad. He never would be. Nobody could be. Not anymore.
"I..." I said.
"What ..." Rosalie said at the same time.
We looked at each other, helplessly, both hurting, me, because she hurt me, unintentionally, and her, because I hurt her.
On purpose.
Rosalie smiled sadly, and reached out with her hand, grasping me by the wrist, and gave me a little tug.
I didn't move. I didn't know what she wanted me to do. Or maybe, like she says, I did know, but I didn't want to give her a hug.
I didn't deserve to.
And there was the little matter of me falling apart having not made supper yet and all.
Rosalie tugged again and turned, leading me into the den, and sat on the couch, pulling me into her lap, wrapping me in her arms.
What could I do but hold her back?
I sniffled. I sniffled maybe once or twice as she held me, quietly, gently.
Then I lost it. I cried and I cried. In her arms.
...
"Did you want to talk about it?" Rosalie asked solicitously.
"No," I said.
Her top was wet on the shoulder I cried on.
And then there was my runny nose. Ick.
I added apologetically, "There's nothing to talk about."
"Huh," Rosalie remarked noncommittally. "'Nothing to talk about,'" she added with a tinge of disbelief.
I sighed and shrugged. "Police officer. He died a hero. That's all I know."
"They wouldn't tell you any more?" she asked.
"It happened more than fifteen years ago, Rosalie, so that's all I know. Mom told me he died a hero, and that's all I got, that all we have left of him, my dad, the hero."
"Oh," she said quietly.
"I don't even know what he looks like, or anything, I just ..." I said.
I sniffled.
Rosalie hugged me tightly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said gravely.
Me, too, I thought.
I'm sorry for my lost dad. If he hadn't died a hero, he'd be in the police force now, maybe even the chief, or something. They get paid well, don't they? So we wouldn't have to live off of Campbell's soup and mac and cheese, so I wouldn't have to beg for rides to and from school, so I wouldn't have to wear the same clothes over and over again and get looks, so people wouldn't avoid me, the poor girl.
Rosalie kissed my forehead.
"Why don't you rest here on the couch for a while, and I'll finish making supper, okay?" she offered.
I shook my head. "No," I said, then laughed sadly, "... and you, finish making supper?"
"Excuse me, Miss Bella Swan," she said mockingly in an affronted tone that didn't mask the pleasure that I had dared talk back to her in my sorrow, "but I took care of myself just fine before you came into my life, I'll have you know."
I heard what she said, but then, I didn't hear what she said, because I focused on a very few select words: 'before you came into my life,' she had said.
I tasted her words on my mouth, and I ... didn't know how to handle what I felt about that.
So I decided to ignore that feeling, for now. And maybe taste it again tonight when mom and Phil had fallen asleep, leaving me alone in the quiet and dark and this feeling to savor.
"I was just saying," I said, "there's a lot to do, and ... I don't want to be left alone now."
Or, more honestly, 'I don't want you to leave me .. alone.'
I didn't want her to leave me, even if it were in this room next to the kitchen. Not now.
Not ever.
I couldn't do anything about the 'ever,' but I could do something about the 'now,' if Rosalie'd let me.
"'Kay," she said softly, and I felt her smile, "and I'd like the help ... and the company."
I smiled.
I smiled a very, little, tiny smile to myself that I didn't even let God see if He were looking.
'Cause if God could see me smiling to myself like this, then Rosalie would see it, and see I was so, so happy inside.
But I couldn't let her know that. That's like her knowing I loved her, and we couldn't have that, because all sorts of weird stuff would happen, like they've been happening today, the weirdest day in the world.
Rosalie Hale's birthday-day.
She picked me and herself up off the couch, easily, and set me back on my feet, steadying me to make sure I didn't stumble and fall, and we went back to the kitchen to make supper.
Supper of tuna-fish sandwiches.
Yeah. You heard me right: tuna-salad sandwiches, not 'sushi-grade Ahi' tuna, but 'chicken of the sea' tuna-salad sandwiches on white Wonder bread, of all things.
I'm glad her mom wasn't here now to see this. Rosalie Hale had her lunches packed for her, and her packed lunches ... ? Kale-this and Quinoa-that, and ... whatever unpronounceable juice she was drinking from whatever freshly squeezed tropical fruit from whatever native tribe that harvested it, and all of it organic.
Okay, I have a question. How do you pronounce Açaí? Just curious.
And what the hell is Açaí berry anyway, and yes, I know it's a berry. I'm not that stupid, okay?
Like, okay, a PBJ, right?
Wrong. Rosalie Hale had sprouted-seed bread and the 'butter'? It was almond-hazelnut spread. The 'jelly'? Either orange marmalade that her Great Aunt sent her from England (in glass jars) or something called sylt lingon imported directly from Sweden.
I don't know what sylt lingon is. Don't ask me. Tastes really, really good, though.
Rosalie Hale didn't (often) drink coffee from Starbucks. Why would she stoop so low? She had civet coffee. You know, the coffee from Asia that costs one-hundred dollars for four ounces?
I'm not joking.
'Civet' coffee.
It's very subtle and smooth. It tastes ... well, nice.
But one-hundred dollars nice?
Not for me to say. Not my money.
But it was for Rosalie to say, and she did.
So: supper of tuna-salad sandwiches on Wonder bread?
If I met her mom tonight and she saw me making this for her daughter?
I think she'd draw and quarter me so she could harvest my liver to cook and then to serve with fava beans and a nice chianti.
And, ... but supper wasn't just for her, or just for us.
There were six loaves of bread on the table and cans and cans and cans of tuna. A whole big bag of single-serving bags of baked potato chips and a twenty-four count juice brick case.
When Rosalie said supper was going to feed an army, she wasn't joking.
But what army? Did she do charitable work like serve these at a soup kitchen? This wasn't fare for her and her cheerleader buddies, so ...
Rosalie returned to making a tuna-salad sandwich. She did this like she did everything, with care and deliberation, concentrating intensely on her work, and each sandwich she made was ... perfect: neat, evenly spread, cut in half just so.
Then she filled a little brown lunch bag with two sandwiches, each wrapped individually, a bag of chips and a juice brick.
Watching Rosalie Hale work at making a tuna-salad sandwich was watching an artist paint a work of art.
Rosalie looked up from her work, feeling me gawking at her, and she smirked.
I blushed, embarrassed, caught.
She chuckled lightly and waved to the table laden with sandwich fixings.
"Oh!" I said, surprised. Yeah, I was supposed to be helping her make the sandwiches, right? Not staring at her as she made them, wanting and wondering what her deliberate hands could and would do to me if they weren't making sandwiches.
Because I definitely didn't wonder that. Not at all.
I rejoined her, blushing, and started in on making the next sandwich, the big bowl of mixed tuna salad between us on the table.
Rosalie was smiling lightly, looking down at the sandwich she was making, glancing, surreptitiously, at the one I was making.
"This is ... fun, right?" she asked slowly, cautiously.
I thought about it for a second.
Okay, it was still weird.
But it was fun, this moment with her, doing something together, a quiet time with no expectations, just us, making sandwiches in the kitchen.
Then I burst out laughing.
Rosalie smiled at me, carefully. "What?" she said.
I laughed still. "Rosalie," I said, "we're two girls in the kitchen making sandwiches. If we had boyfriends and they told us to go make them a 'sammich,' and we're here, doing just that ..."
I laughed again.
"Well," I said quickly, seeing Rosalie's stone-cold glare. "I thought it was funny."
"Bella, ..." she glowered, furious.
"What?" I squeaked, backing away from her quickly as she advanced on me.
She was actually pushing up her sleeves past her elbows.
Uh, oh! Was this a good time to remind her that she wasn't supposed to beat the crap out of me today? You know, her promise to herself and everything? Or would that only make matters worse for me?
"Um ..." I said helplessly as I back away.
Rosalie advanced and she was actually snarling! Can you believe it?
Giggle-worthy, if it weren't her, and it weren't me, here and now, about to be ... whatever-ed by her.
Terrifying in the moment, I tell you what.
BONK!
I backed into something hard and solid and metallic.
Rosalie put her hands on either side of my head against the refrigerator.
That darn refrigerator!
"Bella," Rosalie purred possessively, pleased she had me.
"Urg?" I squeaked.
Rosalie face came to me, her mouth smirking, and I tried to press myself into the refrigerator.
She kissed me, softly, sweetly, demandingly.
I almost fainted with relief.
GOD! That woman was going to kill me, I swear.
My knees were weak as I kissed her back. The only thing keeping me from keeling over onto the floor were her lips pressed against mine.
She pulled back, smirking.
"Bella?" she demanded, her eyes smoldering.
"Yeah?" I asked helplessly lost under her spell.
"Go make me a sammich."
She laughed easily and let me go, her conquest. She turned away, her hips swaying hypnotically as she strutted back to the table, then picked up the butter knife and resumed the work I had just found so funny a moment ago and that she was so pleased to find funny now.
I returned to the table shakily and picked up my own tablespoon, scooping a large chunk of tuna to spread on the sandwich ... sorry: the sammich I was making for her.
But then a thought struck me.
"Does this mean I'm your girl friend, Rosalie Hale?"
The look in her eye.
I... fucking... ran. I think I may have screamed as I ran.
"Bella Swan!" I heard behind me as I ran up the stairs ... yeah, to her room, but, like, where else could I go? "I'm SO gonna git ya!" she shouted.
And she laughed as I heard her footfalls, chasing me, gaining on me with every step.
If this were our little game of 'manhunt,' I ... well ... I didn't mind it if I were to get caught.
Not this time.
A/N: Um, no a/n this time, my sweeties. Just the third rewrite until I let go of the seriousness and Bella and Rosalie have a little bit of fun, for once. Hope it isn't too unusual for them in the coming chapters, but we'll see, yeah? Off to Mass.
