CHAPTER 12

"No pets, no drugs, no psychos. If you need to bang some dude you met at the bar, don't bring him back here. I don't need some random in my house stealing my shit. And pay your rent on time. "

"Got it."

"One more thing B," she says, shooting a withering look at my ratty sneakers, "no shoes in the house."

I nod and hurriedly toe my Converse off immediately. She smiles for the first time since I've arrived and I relax a bit, but not too much. I may be a little terrified of my new roommate. I'm ashamed to admit I felt an involuntary pang of jealousy when I first met her. She is model pretty, with pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair that didn't come out of a bottle. She's covered in tattoos and as far as I can see, hers aren't trite or clichéd or embarrassing. We're about the same height, but I feel about three feet tall standing next to Rosalie Hale.

It was scary finding a roommate on craigslist, but I knew my ex for years before moving in with him. He turned out to be a psycho and last guy I lived with was a werewolf. I spent a week taking the El to view apartments that either smelled like cat piss or in which the current tenants saw fit to leave used condoms lying in plain view on the nightstand. I was ready to sign the lease on the spot when I walked into Rose's place. It was immaculate, beautiful, and right on the lake. The rent was surprisingly reasonable. It seemed like a good place to lick my wounds.

Rose is not the warmest person. I think she's still trying to size me up. But she has deemed me not-psychotic enough to move in with her so I've got that going for me.

"I googled you."

"What?" I ask, taken aback.

"I googled you, before you came here. Just to make sure you were who you said you were and not a gross dude. Full disclosure."

"Thanks?"

"Laundry room's at the end of the hall. Is that seriously all your stuff?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

I had taken one look at the storage space that I had been paying rent on for months, stuffed with boxes and boxes of junk that I no longer wanted and donated most of it. The only things I kept were my clothes and books. The contents of my entire life currently fit inside the trunk of a taxi. I don't even have a bed. Rose watches my face, the wheels in her head turning but she doesn't inquire.

"You can crash on the couch. You took a cab here, right?" I nod. " I'm off tomorrow. If you want, I can drive you to the Ikea in Schaumburg to pick up a few things."

"Thanks Rose. That's really kind of you." I am genuinely touched by the gesture. And I'm grateful that she isn't asking too many questions.

I find myself riding in the backseat of a SUV driven by Rosalie's giant boyfriend Emmett. He volunteered his services and his car as soon as he heard there would be swedish meatballs involved. I'm secretly relieved he's here. They banter and bicker and do whatever it is people in a normal and healthy relationship do and I mostly go ignored.

I try not to think about him. Really I do. But in a city of close to three million people, I find myself more alone than ever. Only a few weeks ago I was living on a mountain with a man I was falling hard for. I breathed clean air and sticky sweet redwoods and smoke. My mornings were pink clouds and dense fog, inky black nights and millions of stars. It feels surreal. It's as if those few weeks belonged to someone else's life.

My reality now is a brutally frigid Chicago mired in grey, still shaking off the final dregs of endless winter. Now I trudge through the slush and ride city buses and avoid making eye contact with strangers. I keep hoping this is the nightmare that I will wake up from. But I never do.

I don't know why I moved back. I could have gone some place sunny, like Los Angeles. I could have been one of those smug people who referred to everything east of Las Vegas as "east coast" and then boast about the weather as if I had something to do with it. But the devil you know and all that.

Ikea is an endless labyrinthian nightmare. I can't decide if it will be more sad to buy a double bed that I know I will be the only one sleeping in, or face reality and get the twin. I purchase the bare minimum I need to get by. I keep telling myself this situation is temporary even though I know I am lying to myself. I buy the double bed.

Esme has left me at least a dozen voicemails since I came back and twice as many emails. I never told her I was coming back to Chicago so he must have called her. Perhaps he knew I'd need some mothering after he broke my heart. I can't bring myself to call her back. The shame of not having written a single word in the last few months hangs heavily upon me. I promise myself I'll call her back when I have a few chapters written.

I accidentally packed one of his shirts when I left. It still smelled like him so I wore it to bed for a week and now his scent has faded. If I close my eyes and try hard enough I swear I can detect a hint of tobacco. I consider putting it in a ziplock bag to preserve the scent and then don't because that would be pathetic. I don't even have a picture of him. It never occured to me to take one and now I regret not doing so. I buy his favorite whiskey and drink a silent toast to him every night. I say a little prayer, in the hope that he has not yet drowned himself in alcohol.

"What's his name?" Rose asks me suddenly one morning.

"What?"

"The dude that you're crying over." She says this casually, as if we were discussing the weather.

"I'm not crying over anyone."

"Right. And the reason why you've been wearing that ugly oversized men's shirt for three weeks straight is...?"

"There's no one," I say in a small voice. I hate how meek I sound.

"Whatever, it's none of my business anyway." She goes back to reading her paper. I stare at my coffee for a while. I thought I was being discreet. Apparently not. Or maybe Rose is just really perceptive. She looks at me over her thick tortoiseshell glasses. I guess she decides it is her business because in a softer voice she says, "B, whoever it is, no dude is worth this much misery. You look like hell, girl."

"Thanks alot Rose."

"Well, you do look like hell." She shrugs. "What do you want me to do? Lie? Look, I don't know you that well yet, but you seem like a decent person. And when you're showered and not dressed in flannel, you're kind of a babe. So obviously, this asshole that broke your heart is clearly an idiot."

I can't help but smile a little. In her characteristically blunt way, Rosalie is trying. She's completely wrong, of course. He is worth it. He's not an idiot. He might be a little bit of an asshole. She smiles back at me.

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"Anytime."

I don't feel any better. But carrying a torch for him isn't going to do me any good. Making like Miss Havisham in my plaid flannel will not change a thing about our situation. It won't bring him back to me. It won't make him want to be with me.

I wish he had given me a reason to hate him. It would make the letting go easier. But as much as I try, I can't hate him. I mourn him. My heart breaks for him. His mountainside might as well be a prison cell. And he of all people does not deserve this. Underneath the gruffness, the rough exterior, is a beautiful man, and despite what he says, a good man. He doesn't deserve to die alone.

"We can sit here all day, I'm getting paid to be here. It's your time you're wasting." Banner sits back in his chair and takes off his glasses, cleaning them with the hem of his white jacket. He places them back on his head and meets his patient's eye with a steely gaze. The man stares right back.

"Do you want to be rehabilitated?"

"I'm here. What do you think?"

"I need you to answer some questions then."

"Why?"

"It's part of your treatment."

"Look, I let you stick me with needles and run a million fucking tests. Just give me the fucking drugs and fix me."

"We've been through this before. The treatment is involves daily individual psychotherapy concurrent with drug treatment therapies. I can't prescribe you anything until I'm certain you are willing to undergo the psychiatric treatment as well. How serious are you about getting better?

The man glares back, but Banner is unperturbed. He writes something in his notes but the man cannot see his words. They sit in silence for ten long minutes. Finally, the man drops his gaze. He stares out the window at the glass and metal and concrete of downtown.

"Can I smoke in here?" He asks, already pulling out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placing it in his mouth.

"No."

The man ignores Banner and lights the cigarette anyway. Banner sighs and walks over to the window, opening it.

"Fine, you can smoke. Just do it by the window please."

The man sits on the window ledge, tapping his ashes into a sad houseplant resting on the sill.

"I could use a drink."

"You know you aren't allowed to have any alcohol here."

He says nothing. The man finishes his cigarette and immediately lights another.

"Alright. Have at me."

"Edward, how long have you been a werewolf?