Chapter 14

"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection." Anaïs Nin

"I don't want to go." My back arches as I slide the zip up as far as I can, before I have to hook my arm over my shoulder to close my dress the rest of the way.

"Love–"

I stamp my bare foot against the tiles on the bathroom floor, wincing as pain shoots from my heel to my knee. "I know, Edward. I know."

He sighs, and his breath is warm on my neck. "Jared's nice, Bella. And Angela and Ben will be there–"

"I said, I know. That means, 'I know it will end up being fine but I want to have a tantrum about it anyway,' okay?"

"Oh." He chuckles. "Well, go ahead, then."

"No." I fold my arms across my chest. "I don't want to, now. You've ruined my fit of petulance with your logical, calm caringness."

I imagine his eyebrows lift as he smiles at me. "Caringness?"

"Shakespeare made up words. Why can't I? And anyway, everyone knows that you can add 'ness' to the end of any word and it's perfectly acceptable."

"It is? Are you sure?"

"Actually, no. It completely pisses me off when other people do it." I giggle. "But at least I know I'm a hypocrite, right?"

"Yes. It's fantastic that you're aware of your hypocriteness, baby."

My nose crinkles with disgust. "Okay, you win. No more 'nessing.' I s'pose, Shakespeare's words were slightly more interesting … like puking and obscene and sanctimonious."

"So, what are you actually worried about?"

"Assassination. And premeditated … multitudinous. I wish I'd invented them. Imagine going … 'assassination!' Yep, just thought it up while I was in the shower."

"Bella–"

"Good point, the English weren't exactly known for their cleanliness, huh? He probably thought it up while he was –"

"Isabella."

My mouth snaps closed.

"What are you so anxious about, sweetheart?"

I shrug, trying to shake off the nerves that are fizzing through me. "I don't know … Alice, I guess"

"Seeing her with Jasper?"

"Not at all." I shake my head. "I'm fine with them being together, you know? It's not that I–I mean, I've barely even thought of him. I don't even miss his friendship, to be completely honest. But Alice …"

I break off as I swipe some mascara over my eyelashes.

"Alice …?" He tumbles his hands to encourage me to continue.

"Alice …" I pause as I do the other eye.

"Yes?"

I cap the mascara and set it back down.

"Wait—you can't talk while you're putting that stuff on?"

"I can, too."

His chuckle is deep and vibrates through me. "No, you can't. You do this–" he opens his mouth wide as he waves his hand near his eye, miming mascara application, "–and you have to stop talking."

I regard my reflection in the mirror for a moment and unscrew the cap again. As I hold the wand to my eye, I smirk.

"Watch. I'm talking and look, I'm putting on mas– Shit!"

His laughter rings loud in my head as I regard the black smear that now stretches across my cheek.

"Note to self: I actually can't talk and apply makeup." I dig through the drawer for a cleansing wipe and carefully remove the thick black paint.

He smiles, and his green eyes are bright with humor.

"Alice has changed. I told you this." I tell him, my amusement draining away. "I mean, last time I saw her—at that shop—she was this hyperactive, bouncy pain in the ass, you know? It was weird. She's different."

"Well, she and Jasper were kind of new then, right? Maybe she's settled down again, now. Maybe the novelty and new-love giddiness has worn off a little."

I wrinkle my nose at him. "Why do you have to be so logical and stuff? Stop it. Stop making me feel stupid about getting worked up!"

I smooth my hands over the bright yellow cotton of my dress, check my makeup and hair once more, and turn away from the mirror.

"Do I look okay?"

"You're beautiful."

Thankfully, Alice decided to have her farewell get-together-and-get-drunk at Sam's. It's neutral ground, and walking distance from home.

"You're not going to walk home, though. Are you?"

I sigh. "Not if I'm drunk."

"Okay, good."

Rolling my eyes, I huff a little, but I still feel a twinge of sadness as I feel him slip away when I step into the noisy bar.

"Bella! Hi!"

Angela grabs my hand, her smile already loosened by whatever she's drinking. She kisses my cheek, and the strong scent of coconut makes my eyes water. Malibu, then, I guess.

"Hi, Ange. How are you?"

A giggle bursts from between her lips. "I'm fantastic! We're having so much fun. I'm so glad you're here, though. Oh my gosh, Alice is so wrapped up in Jasper I don't even know why she bothered to invite us all."

My stomach sinks a little, and I don't know what to say. Ange doesn't seem to notice though, she's already chatting away about how happy she is to be back home and how much Ben is enjoying his job and how sweet Emily is and how funny Liam is and how the weather's been so nice she's even worn shorts for a few days.

"Look, Bea," she tells me with all the seriousness that only the tipsy can manage. "You can see my knees. I bet you've never even seen my knees before."

I laugh as she points to the pair of cut-offs that do, in fact, reveal her knees. "What are you talking about? I've never seen your knees covered! All your jeans have holes in them."

She blinks at me and giggles again. "Bitch. I'm going to buy you a drink."

"Thanks, babe," I call as she sways back towards the bar.

"Hi, Bea."

"Jasper, hi." I look around. "Where's Alice?"

His fingers pull his curls away from his face. "Bar." He jerks his head, and I spot Alice chatting to—ugh—Eric as they wait to be served.

"Cool. So, uh, she's looking forward to starting school again?"

He nods. "Yeah. She's really excited." His brow creases and his blue eyes focus on his shoelaces.

My teeth scrape over my bottom lip before I speak. "Are you … are you moving, too?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, I just moved back … and this–" he motions towards Alice "–is still really new, you know? We're not ready for … that. We'll just do the long distance thing for a while, see what happens."

I don't really know what to say, so I stay silent.

He shrugs, his fingers tugging at the black leather necklace that sits just above his collar. "I can't ask her to stay. This is what she wants to do with her life."

I nod, though my smile is a little bitter.

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. "I don't think it will last."

"College?" I frown at him. "Why?"

He shakes his head, his hair bobbing with the motion. "No. Me and Alice. I, uh – well, we want different things, you know? I want–"

"J.J." I raise my hand, palm out, to stop him. "Not a conversation you should have with me."

I might as well have slapped him, so stricken does he look.

I squeeze his forearm in apology. It's just a brief moment of contact, but it feels so very strange to touch him after all this time. "Dude, you've got to talk to Alice about that. Not me. I'm sorry, but I can't. It's not my place."

"Oh."

I grab at a subject that's easier for both of us. "Hey! How's Nettie?"

"What? Uh, she'd doing good. I think." He shrugs. "She's in high school now. Can you believe it?"

"Um, yeah. I can."

"Yeah, well … she'll always be a kid to me."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever. Next time you talk to her, though, tell her I miss her."

His eyes narrow. "Do you?"

"Yeah, J.J. I do. She's a great girl, I always enjoyed her company." It takes a lot of restraint for me not to emphasize that "her."

"Huh." He scratches the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. "I always thought …"

"What? That I 'put up' with her? For your sake? For your mother and aunt's? Ugh. You can be such an ass, dude. She's a real sweetheart."

"Here you go!" Angela's voice in my ear makes me jump, and my elbow narrowly misses the glass she's holding out to me.

"I got you an Old Fashioned."

"Thanks." I take it from her before she can spill it on my dress—she's looking a little wobbly.

"I'll catch you later, Bea."

"Sure."

Jasper nods at me once before he blends into the crowd at the bar.

Angela takes a sip of her drink and pushes her glasses up on top of her head. "Alice!" she shouts. "Alice, get over here!"

I'm on my fifth—or maybe it's my seventh—Old Fashioned when Eric corners me. I've been on the move all evening, aware of him gradually circling closer, and trying to keep some distance between us. I lapsed though, when I wandered to the bar to order another drink—mostly because I was getting completely grossed out watching Jasper and Alice making out.

It's a weird thing, watching someone you've kissed a lot, kiss someone else.

"Bella-Bea!"

"Hi, Eric." I take a sip of my drink. I'm pretty sure they're getting weaker as the night goes on. That or the taste buds are gradually being scoured off my tongue by the whiskey.

"How are you, sexy?"

"Good. You?"

He chuckles. "I'm great. You're drunk."

I nod, and the room moves up and down, too. "Yep."

He clucks his tongue at me, which makes me screw my nose up. "Dude, are you my mom?"

"I fucking hope your mom doesn't think about you the way I do."

"You're gross." I sway a little, but step back as he reaches to steady me.

"Aww, Bella-Bea. You don't mean that." He smirks a little and it prickles my spine.

"I do so." I tell him. I'm aware of the fact I sound like a particularly obnoxious six-year-old, but there's sufficient alcohol flowing through me that I don't really care. "I don't like you."

My rudeness doesn't seem to faze him.

"You don't like the way I make you feel," he tells me. "You're attracted to me, but you feel threatened by my overt masculine sexuality."

I can't help it; I laugh. My giggle starts small but quickly grows into a cackle. Eric's smirk slowly falls off his face, his lips flattening and pressing tight as I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing so hard that breathing is becoming a real challenge.

"Hey, Bea."

I can't speak through the fit of laughter but I wave at Jared—well, I flap both my hands around, between the giant gulps of air I'm trying to swallow down.

He looks at Eric. "She okay?"

Eric rolls his eyes. "She's wasted."

My laughter dies in my throat, and I plant the hand that's not reaching for my glass on my hip, narrowing my eyes at the two men. "I'm also standing right here."

"I'm sorry, Bea. That was rude." Jared offers me a smile that's tinged with contrition. "Are you okay?"

"Is okay," I tell him. "And I'm fine, thank you. But I think I want to go home. I need a cab."

"Do you want a lift?"

I look between the two of them, confused. It takes my alcohol-soaked brain a moment to realize that I'm not seeing—hearing—double. They made the same offer at the same time.

I look at Jared closely, leaning toward him a little. "Have you been drinking? 'Cause friends don't let friends drive drunk cars."

He shakes his head as he chuckles. "I had one beer about an hour ago. I'm fine, and so is my car."

"Okay. Thanks." I drain my glass and set it back on the bar with perhaps slightly more enthusiasm than is necessary—two ice cubes jump out of the glass and tumble across the counter. "Ice dice! Anyway, I need to get my stuff."

Jared's hand on the small of my back doesn't faze me—it's friendly, not acquisitive—but I catch Eric's frown as Jared guides me back towards the table where I left my cardigan and bag.

"You all right?" Jared gestures over his shoulder. "He wasn't giving you a hard time, was he?"

"I'm fine. He's acting like a dick, but I can handle it."

His eyes narrow. "You sure?"

"If I wasn't in love with someone else, I'd ask you to kiss me right here so he'd fucking get the hint to fucking leave me the fuck alone."

Jared frowns, and I think it's because I might have given him the idea Eric's a stalker, when really, he's just an insecure young boy hiding behind the big talk of an egotistical douche.

He doesn't speak until we step out of the bar and into the quiet nighttime air. His voice is hushed with worry. "Bea … are you still in love with Jasper?"

I stumble a little, my heel catching on a crack in the pavement.

"What?! No!" My eyes go wide and I try to make him understand. "No, no, no. No way. Yuck. He was kissing Alice, and just … eww. He does this thing with his tongue … like–" I try to demonstrate, but it's hard by myself—especially while trying to walk in stilettos.

Jared runs a hand through his hair, a little smile curling his lips. "Yeah, okay. Eww."

"Uh-huh."

He opens the car door for me, chuckling as I fumble with the seat belt—the slot is really tiny and keeps moving away from the little metal tab thingy.

"So, who are you in love with? Is it someone I know?" he teases as he climbs into the driver's seat and starts the ignition.

"It's a secret." I press my finger to my lips. "Can't tell."

His smile fades, but he nods as he pulls from the curb. "Sure. I understand."

"Do you?" I can't imagine he would. I'm in love with this guy who lives in my head and in my words.

He tips his head, his eyes remaining fixed on the road. "Well, obviously not completely. But you're entitled to your privacy, Bea. Relationships … they're tricky. You do what you gotta do to make them work."

"Right."

Jared lets the subject fade into the night, asking me for directions to my house. Only a few minutes later, he's idling in front of my driveway.

"Thanks for the lift!"

"No problem." He grins. "I'll see you around."

"Definitely." I like Jared, he's a nice guy.

He chuckles. "Thanks, girl. You're nice, too."

"Aww, thanks! Okay. Goodnight."

" 'Night, Bea. Make sure you drink some water and find some ibuprofen, okay?"

"Sure, sure."

Shivering, I wrestle my cardigan on as I watch his taillights fade away.

Fall's chill is starting to creep in, sly and sinister. The cool breeze taunts me, twisting around my ankles like an affection-starved cat as I wend my way across the cement drive to my front door.

It takes me a few attempts to slide my key into the lock—it's even smaller than the seatbelt clasp—and then I'm inside and he is there to greet me.

He laughs. "Hey, drunky-face."

I switch off the porch light, drop my keys and bag onto the floor, and start sliding my cardigan back off. "I'd flip you off but my fingers are all fuzzy."

My cardigan lands somewhere on the floor, and I kick the sapphire-blue heels off with a clatter, leaving them in the middle of my hallway. The zip of my dress takes a bit of effort, but soon the sunshine-colored cotton is puddled in my bedroom doorway. I unclasp my bra and it falls to the floor, where my panties soon join it.

Collapsing onto my bed, I stare up at the ceiling. The walls are washed with the dim light shining from the lamp on the nightstand, shadows dancing around me as my vision blurs in and out of focus.

"Edward?"

"Mmm."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Bella."

His voice tugs me out of sleep only an hour or so later. Though my lamp has been left on, I can see that it's still dark outside. I can see the starlight dancing on the rippling ocean, piercing the infinite shades of inky blue that blanket the world outside my room.

I reach over, fumbling until I find the switch and plunge my room into darkness, matching it with the world beyond my windows. In the faint light from the moon and stars, my skin glows silver-grey.

"Are you here?"

"For as long as you need me."

"I need you now."

"You're still drunk, pretty girl."

The arch of my spine is mirrored in the curve of my lips and the pointing of my toes. "Are you going to take advantage of me?"

His laugh is as dark as the night, it vibrates through my gut and sets my blood thrumming in my veins. "Are you sure it's me who's taking advantage?"

I think about it—for a second. "Don't know, don't care." I roll over, searching blindly through my drawers.

My fingers close around the thing I'm searching for, and then Edward smirks at me as his hands and mouth begin to explore my skin, wandering over it, mapping its contours. He searches out the spots that make me writhe against the sheets, and forces my breath to become short, sharp gasps.

His name spills from my lips as I'm submerged, drowning in the wave of feeling that crashes over me.

"I love you, I love you."

His warmth blankets me, his arms folding around me. "I love you, too."

When I'm dragged from sleep again, there's a drummer in my head, his sticks pounding his bass beat against my brain, my eyeballs are his cymbals. The rhythm is heavy and so very loud and the throbbing of my blood makes me groan.

My mouth is stale and dry, my eyes are full of grit.

I drag myself out of bed, stumbling around until I find some ibuprofen and a cool, glass of water, and then slump into the shower.

Clean, hydrated and medicated, I collapse back into bed, only vaguely aware of his whispering chuckle as I succumb once more to sleep.

"Are you going to write?" His fingers move over my hair, catching in the sleep-induced tangles.

I groan. "Not today."

"Okay." He leaves me with a soft kiss.

When I finally sit down at my laptop three days later, I'm strangely blank. I read and reread, making little revisions here and there, sharpening images and pruning away the deadwood.

And then I'm at the end of the text, the cursor blinking blankly at me.

My eyes drift to the window, searching.

Though it's overcast today, grey clouds blanketing the sky and dulling the ocean's surface, my eyes have to squint against the glare.

Where do I take us—them? How do I move us past tragedy and onwards? What comes next?

I tap my fingers against the table a few times before they move their staccato beat to the keys and words start to spin across my screen again.

In the line of duty, Edward had watched too many couples and families forced into dealing with tragedy. He'd watched close-knit families cling to each other and pull themselves through the most difficult of times, and he'd also seen fragile, shaky relationships splinter as the reality of loss and illness pushed them to their breaking point.

And yet, he'd also seen the closest, most affectionate and devoted of couples torn asunder by the strain of caring for a gravely ill child, while a new or fractured relationship that he assumed would buckle under the pressure would somehow be forged with renewed strength in the face of pain.

Tragedy was the great touchstone, he thought. The fire of suffering was the great purifier—the peripheral, the insignificant was smelted away like dross from silver. Sometimes relationships were consumed in the fiery trials, but where they survived, they were wrought stronger, purer, truer.

He looked at the girl sleeping beside him, her arms curled under her pillow, the comforter tucked around her shoulders. Even with the melancholy fogging his mind, his lips twitched with an adoring smile as she rolled toward him, her arm flung out as she unconsciously searched for him.

Her fingers found his tee-shirt and curled into it, stretching the fabric as she unconsciously tried to pull him closer. Edward shifted his weight carefully, moving closer, and Isabella sighed contentedly in her sleep as she fit her body against his.

He touched her sleep-warm face, her fair skin pearlescent in the moonlight that was seeping through the cracks in the drawn curtains.

She's amazing, he thought.

When Edward was lost in depths of his grief, it had been Isabella who had held them both up, who had carried him as he oscillated between sadness and anger, disbelief and acceptance. It had been Isabella who held him as he wept and then listened with a patient smile as he sorted through his memories of Garrett. She had given him space when he needed it, but forced him to talk when he was getting lost in his own mind. She had been patient and supportive, without letting him trample over her, without allowing him to neglect her own need for comfort and affection.

And as the weeks passed, each day got that little bit easier to get through, each unbidden memory stung a little less. He found himself able to smile as he recalled a story that Garrett had told, or a prank his friend had pulled, or imagined the smart-assed comment and blue-eyed twinkle that a particular situation would have elicited.

As Edward found himself able to look forward, to contemplate the future once again, he knew there were many uncertainties in life. Life itself was uncertain, fragile and fleeting.

However, there was one thing he could not doubt—whatever his future looked like, however much time he had been allotted—he wanted it to include Isabella.

He had known for a long time now that he loved her, he had fallen hard and fast and whole-heartedly. And now, as they emerged through the dark place of loss, bruised and aching but clinging to each other, he was convinced, that having weathered this kind of storm so early in their relationship, nothing would be able to dissolve the bonds of love that bound them so tightly together.

This confidence gave him peace, even as he still wrestled with living each day in his best friend's absence. They were partners, a team; complementary, their whole greater than the sum of their parts.

Edward yawned into the crook of his arm, the darkness seeming to intensify as his eyes grew heavy. With a smile, he pressed his lips to Isabella's cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, and let her warmth guide him back into a dreamless slumber.

"What about Pete?"

My fingers move to my temples, guilt weighing on me. "Yeah, I know. I was just thinking about that. I just … I don't know how to write it. I don't know how to write for him and stick to the third person limited. I need to be as true to the style as I do to the story."

I imagine him stretching his neck muscles out as he thinks, his eyes half-closed. "He'd take some time off, right?"

"I would imagine so."

"And his family, they'd come and stay with him for a while?"

"Definitely."

"Maybe … you can be in my head, yes? So maybe he could come back to work, in time? Or, uh, I could go visit him?"

I nod, grabbing a pen and jotting his suggestions on a scrap of paper. "Okay. That could work." I blow out a breath. "It's hard, you know? I want to do his loss justice, I don't want to brush him under the carpet—his story, his hurt—he matters. But I also can't lose the focus in the story. Somehow I have to walk that fine line."

"I understand." He squeezes my shoulder. "Let's go for a walk, let the sea breeze clear your mind."

I agree, barely remembering to save my work before I'm heading out of the house and onto the sand.

The wind has arrived with the late afternoon. It whistles along the sand, tugging at the hem of my dress and lifting the sand to bite my ankles. It skims across the surface of the water, raising white caps and flattening out the waves. It's not lifting high enough, however, to blow away the cloud cover. The beach is still blanketed in a dull grey that leeches the vibrancy from the scene that stretches out before me.

It's warm, and the humidity that comes with the threatening rain is oppressive. My skin dampens with sweat as I half-run along the shore. I can feel my cheeks grow pink with exertion, even veering into the water and splashing through the whitewash does little to cool me down or calm my racing heart.

I've reached the end of the half-moon-shaped stretch of sand when the rain starts to fall. Fat, heavy drop start to fall, spattering my face and shoulders. Each drop shocks me, sending Doppler-like waves of sensation across my skin, aftershocks rushing from the epicenter.

"That was well timed," he chuckles. I can barely hear him over the smack of raindrops against my face.

I shrug. "Not what you meant by 'clearing my mind?'"

"Not exactly." I can feel his gaze drag across my chest. "White cotton and no bra. Fuck."

My body responds to his eyes on me, and the husky tone lacing his voice, making my lingerie-free state even more obvious. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His smirk is wicked, his green eyes vibrant against the grey.

"Don't do this to me now. Don't get me worked up when you can't—when I can't—follow through."

His smirk fades, his eyes cast down. I imagine the flutter of long, dark lashes against his cheek. He whispers, "Sorry."

I pass a few other stragglers who have been caught in the rain, folding my arms across my chest as we share wry smiles. Unlike me, most are moving quickly, trying to get out of the weather. I see no point in hurrying home. My clothes are soaked through, and though the wind on my wet skin is raising goose bumps, I'm lit with warmth from within.

When I do draw level with my house, I don't start towards it immediately. I linger in the shallows, the whitewash curling around my knees. The rain is still falling, and rivulets of water are trailing from my hair and down my face. I lick my lips, tasting the fresh water.

"Are you okay, love?"

"I will be."

As night falls, the wind picks up, and the rain starts battering at my windows. The steady rhythm is a counterpoint to the clatter of my fingers over keys as the words finally begin to flow across the screen again.

"Edward?"

Hearing the note of concern in Claire's voice, Edward looked up immediately, the notes he was scrawling forgotten. "What's up?"

"Pete's here."

He glanced at his watch, twisting it around on his wrist until he could read the time. "He's really early." After three months' leave, Peter was returning to the ward—though he wasn't due to start for another hour.

Claire nodded. "I suspect he's anxious, hon."

"Of course." Edward's stomach was no longer in his middle; it seemed to have fallen to his toes. "Can you–" He waved at the notes in front of him.

"Sure. You go. See how he's coping."

Edward squeezed the older woman's shoulder as he stepped around the nurse's station. "Thanks, Claire."

He found Peter sitting in the break room, his dark eyes vacant as he stared out the window. His scrubs were slightly wrinkled, like they'd been shoved in a draw for too long—which was probably the case, actually.

Edward was silent as he folded himself into the chair beside his friend. He knew he should say something, offer Pete some word of comfort, some encouragement, but words failed him. Maybe Isabella would know, he thought. But I haven't a clue what to say to make this easier on him.

"Is it weird that I can feel him here?" Pete's voice was scratchy and unsure, like he expected Edward's laughter or derision.

"No. Not at all."

"As soon as I walked in … I expected to see him. I expected to hear him—laughing or doing some stupid voice to make a kid smile. Or trying to sweet talk Claire into filing his paperwork or something."

Edward's lips twitched. "The, uh … the first few days, I kept expecting to see him around every corner, or I don't know, getting tangled in a cubicle curtain."

Pete chuckled. "You know, I never figured out if he was just stupidly uncoordinated, or if that was part of the act for the kids' sake."

"Probably both."

Silence stretched between the two men, though it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, their lips were curving with matching smiles, and fondness and nostalgia was almost a palpable cushion surrounding them.

"Does it fade?"

Edward sighed. "Yes and no."

Pete looked at him, his near-black eyes searching. Edward wasn't sure if he was looking for honesty or hope, but he gave him what he could.

"I can only speak for me. But … it doesn't hurt quite so much, now. At first, something would happen and I'd imagine his reaction, and then it'd be like someone had detonated a bomb in my guts. Blown a hole clean through me. But then, it just started to hurt a little less. Sometimes it would even make me smile. Like, Claire had this little one in here the other night with an exploding diaper. Seriously, I haven't seen anything like it, and I've seen a lot. Shit was fucking everywhere. It was disgusting. And all I could think about was the face Gar pulled when he had to change a diaper. You know?"

Pete smiled, and then his features twisted, his expression became one of disgust and dismay, his jaw slack, his nostrils flaring.

"Yeah. That one." Edward chuckled softly, then sighed. His lips pursed as he hesitated, but then he pushed the words out in a nervous rush. "You knew him better, Pete, but I think he'd want us to be able to laugh. And laughing doesn't mean we're forgetting or we don't care, it means we're remembering, celebrating."

He looked at his hands, his fists clenching tight. He was worried he was pushing things too far, too fast. Maybe Pete wasn't yet in that place, maybe he wasn't ready to laugh.

"You're right. He would want us to laugh. Fucking performer."

Edward felt Pete's hand land on his shoulder, his fingers flexing in reassurance.

"Thanks, brother."

Edward nodded. "Just … let me or Claire know if it gets too much, okay? Don't feel you have to—I mean, it's all right if it takes time to get used to being back here, if you need to take a breather, or tap out if it all gets overwhelming. We understand."

Pete squeezed his shoulder again. "I know. And thank you."

Isabella was sitting on her front porch when Edward pulled up in her drive, her fingers curled around a mug of coffee. He watched as she yawned, smiling as the way her lower jaw pushed slightly to the left. Her yawns weren't a perfect O and it had enchanted him from the first time he noticed it.

"Good morning."

She smiled at his greeting, patting the step beside her. "Morning."

As soon as Edward sat down, she leaned into his shoulder, not minding the slightly stale smell of sweat and antiseptic that clung to his scrubs. His arm slipped behind her, his fingers curling around her belt loop.

"Pete worked today?"

He nodded. "Yeah. He was arguing with a kid about the merits of those Japanese comic things as form of literature when I left."

"Manga?"

Edward's eyebrows lifted. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

Isabella snickered. "Well, that's a good thing, right?"

"I wouldn't have a clue. Books and literature are your department."

"No, silly." She pushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his scruff-scratchy cheek. "Pete. Being at work, arguing with kids and stuff."

"Oh. Oh. Yeah, he coped really well. I think … well, I think being back actually helped him, you know? I mean, we were swamped all night, so he was kept pretty busy. He seemed okay."

Edward frowned and slipped his cell phone from his pocket. He sent his friend a quick text, reminding him that he was available should Pete want to debrief, or if he just need some company.

"Why don't you bring him home for brunch after work tomorrow?"

Edward murmured his agreement, and added the invitation to his message before he pressed 'send.'

He slid the device back into his pocket and looked up, something unfathomable in his eyes as they locked with Isabella's. "Home?"

She tucked her head against his shoulder, hiding from his piercing green gaze. "Um, maybe?" Her voice was higher than usual, uncertainty raising the pitch.

He tugged on her wrists, forcing her to sit up straight and meet his eyes. His fingers traced her hairline, tucking some stray curls behind her ear. "Tell me what you're thinking?"

Isabella was silent for so long, he began to wonder if she intended to answer.

"Pretty girl?"

Her eyes squeezed tight. "Move in with me?"

Edward's heart picked up its pace, the thump-thump going double time, and the butterfly things unfurled their wings in his stomach. "Okay." His lips stretched with a smile so big the apples of his cheeks pushed his eyes into a squint.

Isabella's eyes flew open, and her breath hitched. "Okay?"

He nodded, still grinning. "Of course, love. You, uh, you might not have noticed but I haven't slept in my apartment for close to a month now."

"Oh."

He chuckled. "I love you. I'm in this—with you—for as long as you want me. Of course I want to live with you. Of course I want that permanence." He sighed, his smile falling a little. "If I've learned anything in the last three months, sweetheart … Life is too fragile, it's torn away from us too easily. I love you. I want to be with you. Of course I'll move in. I mean, unless you'd rather move into my apartment, but I'm assuming you'd hate having to drive to the beach?"

Isabella pressed her lips together, unsuccessfully trying to control the smile that was lighting her whole face. "That would be ridiculous. This place is twice the size of your flat, and you're right, having to drive to the beach would be insufferable."

Edward chuckled and pulled her close, his lips seeking out hers. Their kiss was awkward, smile against smile, lips stretched wide and teeth clinking.

Isabella put her hand on his chest, pushing him back, her dark eyes suddenly serious. "You know I'm kidding, right? I would totally put up with being away from the ocean if it meant being with you."

Edward shook his head, his eyes flashing fired-copper bright. "You really do love me."

"I really do."

A/N: Wishing you all the happiest of holidays!

For those of you for whom this time of year is the hardest, the saddest, the loneliest - my thoughts are with you.

Hugest of huge thanks to Tam, who is my favourite colour, the sun on my face, and the sweetest friend ever.

Shell x