Chapter 13
"Hypothetically"

I probably looked as though I was trying to solve the Millennium Prize Problems, the way I was staring down at the packet of porridge in my hand. Carlisle handed it to me around ten minutes ago when he left for a dayshift at the hospital. It was his first day back at work. The outcome of his decision to leave breakfast up to me would have been more positive had he actually told me how to make the food he had in mind.

"Esme?" I called, hating to concede.

She was at my side seconds later, carrying a bundle of laundry from my/Bella's room. I noted that Bella's scent had saturated the cotton so much that the burn in my throat was almost as strong as being in her presence. I fought the urge to shut off my breathing, letting the desire flood through me in torment.

Fill the sachet up to the red line with milk, she instructed mentally, patiently leaning against the counter in front of us.

I did as she said, taking notes in my head the entire time. She'd been doing this the last few mornings after Carlisle had shown her, so she was now a prodigy at making porridge. The required focus was a good thing, it distracted me from the mouth-watering scent coming from Bella's clothes.

"Good?" I checked, showing her my attempt.

Perfect, she assured me, grinning in amusement. Pour that into one of the bowls Alice bought on Friday, then put it into the microwave for a couple of minutes.

I did this, too, and left the unexceptional meal heating up in a device none of us had ever used before. It took me a second to work out the buttons but it ended up being a lot simpler than I had anticipated.

"I've never felt more human," I mumbled, habitually running a hand through my hair.

"It seems that way, doesn't it? I suppose these are all the little things we'll have to get used to."

"What if she doesn't want to stay? Alice's visions are so erratic that she can't tell us for certain what Bella's decision will be."

"I'm fairly confident that she'll want to stay," she told me surely, planting a tender kiss on my cheek. "Whether she truly wants to or not, I think her instincts will lead her to the option that will give her the best chance of survival. Like you said, she's a clever girl."

"I'm not so sure she has survival instincts, judging by her lack of terror when she's close to any of us," I said, retrieving the porridge from the microwave carefully. It honestly looked like one of the most unappetising things I'd ever set my eyes on.

"She beat the odds by a long stretch, my boy," she reminded me, throwing a spoon from the cutlery tray into my waiting hand.

"I don't think that was her survival instincts; I'm positive it was a miracle," I corrected, giving her a small smile. "Is this ready to go up?"

"Add a sprinkle of sugar to sweeten it, put the spoon in the bowl and then you're good to go."

I knocked on my own bedroom door, an action that would never have crossed my mind before I sacrificed my room for Bella. My family had questioned my motives for suggesting she be moved there, but they had all recently concluded that I had done so because it truly was the best option for her. She seemed more comfortable there and I could only make guesses as to why that was. It could be a multitude of things; the books surrounding her, all of the windows, the warmth...

"Come in," she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

I opened the door slowly to find her lying on her side. She was curled up tightly, able to do so that now the IV drip was no longer needed. She'd been managing to drink water for the last 24 hours which was a good sign. Her eyes were locked on the trees surrounding the house. I wasn't surprised by this, I used to do the same thing. The beauty of Forks was undeniable, even if it was one of the most boring places we'd ever relocated to. Though tedious, we found it relatively easy to exist in peace here. Usually.

"Good morning," I muttered, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. It wasn't a phrase I used often, unless addressing a stranger. After a century without sleep, you can probably understand why the pleasantry had fallen out of fashion lately around here.

"Hi," she replied, struggling to sit up when I made my way over to her.

"Take your time," I warned, waiting until she was comfortable before I handed her the bowl.

"Thanks."

"I've never actually made porridge before so this was a first."

"You've never made porridge?" she asked, her tone skeptical.

I shook my head. "Did you sleep well?"

"Um, no," she admitted. "Not really."

As she swivelled the spoon around the bowl—mixing its contents in a way that made me think of a petulant child who didn't want to eat her vegetables—the expression on her face changed. She had looked on edge when I entered the room, and her short responses had me considering that she wasn't in a very good mood, but this change confused me. Her eyes widened slightly in alarm and I literally saw the colour drain from her face. The little V between her eyes deepened and she leaned forward uncertainly. It wasn't until she speedily placed the bowl on the table we'd put next to her, that I realised why her expression had shifted so suddenly.

She was going to be sick.

Luckily, somewhere buried very deep down inside of me, I still had some sort of human instincts. Instead of just letting her throw up everywhere, I had enough sense to grab the bucket Carlisle had previously placed by the bed. I had just managed to get it under her chin when she vomited. Automatically, my hands went to her long hair to move it away from her face—the most cautious action I had ever carried out in my entire existence.

I'd seen her this way before, through my father's eyes, but I was taken aback by the worry I felt. I knew that it was irrational, I truly did, but a small part of me was still concerned. It was awful to see with my own eyes and I couldn't help but wonder how Carlisle managed to deal with things like this on a daily basis, no matter how long he'd been doing it for.

Once the phsyical vomiting had stopped, the dry-wretching was next. That was undoubtedly the worst part to witness and I wanted to comfort her—it seemed to be causing her a lot of upset—but I didn't know how to. For once, I was in turmoil over something that was completely unrelated to her scent.
When she finally relaxed, I did too.

"Sorry," she whispered, a small whimper escaping her lips. "That was disgusting."

"Don't apologise," I insisted, letting her hair fall onto her back. "Besides, I've seen worse."

She laughed, despite the unshed tears in her eyes. "I didn't feel right when I woke up, I knew it was coming."

"I guess becoming a chef is out of the question for me. I don't think people are supposed to throw up at the sight of the food you make," I joked, moving the bucket away from her so that she didn't have to look at it. Surely, it would only make her feel more ill.

She smiled, closing her eyes. "I thought I was getting better."

"You are," I assured her. "That's the first time you've been sick for a couple of days, which is definitely progress."

"That's true," she agreed, slowly re-opening her eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"If I give you a hypothetical scenario, would you listen?" she asked, pulling her duvet cover tighter around her.

Something about this question amused me, but I nodded anyway.

"Okay..." She sighed, as if trying to find the energy to say what was on her mind. "Let's say there's a girl who was in a very bad situation for a long time, and when she tried to get out of the very bad situation she ended up making it worse and... and she got seriously hurt."

I sobered up immediately, the direction of the conversation shocking me.

"I'm following," I said softly, sitting down on the single chair beside her.

"Luckily for her, a very kind but rather strange family found her," she continued, "and they've been taking care of her. The thing is, she can't help but think about the other not-so-nice person she used to know and she's afraid that he's going to find out she's still alive."

"Does this girl have any idea where the not-so-nice person might have went?"

She looked outside at the trees again. "She thinks he might go back to Phoenix to sort some things out but she's not convinced he'll stay there. She's sure he'll come back."

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. "Was she close with him?"

"According to society, she was supposed to be," she mumbled, still staring outside. "But she doesn't think he loved her very much, and she thinks he blamed her for something that happened when she was only six."

I let that confession lie in the tense air for a few moments, gathering my own thoughts before I said anything. I had to be careful here, because she was telling me a hell of a lot more than she'd told anyone else and certainly more than I deserved. I didn't want to betray the unexpected trust she had placed in me by being too demanding.

"Do many people know what happened when she was a little girl?"

"It was in the paper," she whispered, swallowing nervously. "She, um, knows that the stories published weren't entirely true. She was there, the journalists weren't, so how could they know what happened? Everyone blamed her mom but it was her dad's fault." She looked at me then, her eyes brimming with secrets of an indescribably painful past. "Everything that happened was his fault."

I nodded, unable to form a coherent response. I simply continued looking into her brown eyes, hoping she would see the sorrow in mine. No spoken apology would suffice and what good would it do eleven years later? I didn't even know the full story yet and already, I couldn't comprehend the suffering she must have endured in her short life. This wasn't a memory in someone's thoughts, it was happening right in front of me. The scars were new, the wound was fresh, and her fear triggered something inside of me. I was ready to tear someone apart; flesh from muscle, skin from bone.

However, the most important thing here was that she was frightened and needed some sort of reassurance from me. She knew I would give her that—it's all I'd done since I found her—which is why she'd chosen to confide in me.

"I think she needs to know that the very kind but rather strange family would never let anything happen to her on their watch," I promised, my eyes never leaving hers. "She's safe with them, and they'll try their hardest not to give her food that makes her sick."

Her laughter cut the tension, and I smiled in response. It didn't matter that my teasing was the most unfunny thing ever, as long as it amused her. I was amazed that she could even crack a smile after everything she'd just told me and I was suddenly, unexpectedly desperate to make sure she knew that I would keep her safe; from myself and her father.

"It wasn't your kitchen expertise, I promise," she said, moving her hair over her left shoulder.

"I'll accept that if you let me promise something to you in return..."

"Hypothetically?"

"No, this one is real."

"I'm listening," she said, curiosity clear on her face.

"I promise that I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

She cocked her head to the side, her bright eyes never leaving my face. She was trying to read my expression, I could tell. She wanted to know that I wasn't just saying what I thought she wanted to hear; she was making sure that I meant it.

"I believe you," she whispered, her cheeks heating up under the intensity of my gaze. I looked away then, not wanting to ruin this oddly sweet moment by being a ferocious monster.

"Good," I replied quietly. "Would you like me to get you anything?"

"I could really use some water if it's not too much trouble."

"I think I can handle that," I said, standing up to grab the bucket I'd placed out of her sight. "I'll rinse this out as well. Give me about three minutes."

She giggled, possibly at the precise time frame I'd given her. I didn't notice how strange it was to say that to someone until I'd already said it. No one says that. Five minutes would have been less weird, or perhaps if I'd just said give me a few minutes...

Just as I took a step out of the room, her gentle voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Edward?"

"Yes?" I said, doing a swift 180 turn in the doorway to look at her.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Bella."