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I don't own twilight.

21. Sunday, January 22, 2012 at 2:00 PM

At home.

We're making it back in record speed. See you at 8 at Jasper's? E

"Shit," I mumble when I read his message presenting me with a moral dilemma of sorts. I like him. But he's against the rules. Definitely. Plus, I can't even fall into bed with him.

"What?" Alice asks, looking up from her task of cleaning the oven, which none of us has ever used. Since we got home yesterday, the cleaning bug hasn't left her. The bathroom looks like it's been cleaned with a toothbrush and smells like bleach.

"Never mind." Usually I'd ask for her opinion, but now? I can hardly tell her I'm fretting about having dinner with a guy who's cute, but definitely underemployed and sleeping on his friend's sofa.

It's okay, I tell myself. Having dinner is completely harmless. After all, I've had dinner with Michael plenty of times and nothing much happened.

By seven forty-five, I'm on my way to Jasper's house, stopping briefly by the liquor store for a bottle of wine. Suffering from bouts of guilty conscience for violating all the rules, I buy one bottle instead of two. The less booze the less chance to give into temptation.

"Hey," he greets me at the door with his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess and a dish towel hanging over his shoulder. One look at him and it's crystal clear. I'm dead wrong. There's nothing harmless about having dinner with him.

"Here." I reach forward awkwardly with my mind in the gutter, handing him the wine, just as he steps closer.

"Thanks," he mumbles. "Come on in."

Entering Jasper's apartment, I'm a little astounded by what I find. Judging by the size and the decidedly not-purchased-at-Ikea look of the furnishings, his little business must be lucrative. Either that, or he has a nice stipend courtesy of his parents.

"Nice place," I say as I slip onto a barstool at the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, it's sweet, right?"

I nod and smile as he pours me a glass of wine, looking oddly at ease in the kitchen.

"So ... what's for dinner?"

"Mac & cheese, oven-fried chicken and salad. How was your weekend?"

I cough, almost spewing out wine. "Okay. And yours?"

"That good, huh? What did you do? Crash a wild party, get drunk and wake up at noon?" He has a cocky grin on his face as if he knows what I'm usually up to. Except he really doesn't. Obviously.

"Not so much. I mostly stayed in. How was Virginia?" I try to distract.

"Boring. And exhausting. The last bar we played in, a fuse kept on blowing. So yeah, it wasn't a great success or anything. Hell, it wasn't even fun. But wait." He furrows his brows, a bemused smirk still playing around his lips. "You expect me to believe you stayed in all weekend? What-watching TV?" He shakes his head, grabs the towel off his shoulder heading to the oven.

"What makes you think I'm such a party girl?"

He carries a huge baking dish filled with something hot and bubbling over to the counter and places it on the wooden board. "Well, you're pretty and young, always seem busy and on the run …"

His words are corny, but he's cute and I feel flattered.

"Gee, thanks," I say and smile. No need to enlighten him of my dismal party record of 2012 so far. From catching Jake hooking up with someone else to holding my roommates hair back while she barfs, it's really been great.

"So ... how's your roommate feeling?"

"Better. Thanks for cooking by the way."

Turns out he didn't exaggerate. His food is delicious, better than dinner on Friday night. I'm thinking it's not the food—but more so the company. We finish the bottle of wine and before I can stop him, he pulls another one out of Jasper's wine fridge. I duly note that none of my friends have those and how very bourgie I find it. He laughs, agreeing.

Over dinner, I learn that he was pre-med in college; his parents are still happily married living in the same small town he's from and that he definitely has a thing for Charles Bukowski. Ham on Ryeis his favorite book he tells me. Go figure. The boy doesn't even swear.

"So what have you been up to … I mean, since graduating?" I ask when he doesn't volunteer the info.

"Not much." He gets up from his spot next to me, shrugs his shoulders and starts sorting the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. "I sort of moved here to get out of the rut. Seattle was safe. Too safe."

"And New York's what? Dangerous?" I laugh.

"Okay. Maybe not the opposite. Let's say it's an experiment of sorts—to see whether I can make music my full time gig. If I fail, I'll just go back."

"You needed to be in New York for that?"

"Not really, but a couple of people from my band moved here … so it seemed like a good time to visit Jasper."

"So … that sofa there's your bed?" I ask and get up to help him with the dishes.

The kitchen is open and directly connected to a rather spacious living room, complete with a large sofa, a loveseat, a coffee table and an armchair, lending the place a grown-up feel that's lacking in ours completely.

"No. He has a small extra bedroom that I'm using. Just until I save up enough to move."

"No shit. Jasper's renting a two bedroom all by himself. Do his parents chip in?" Rose, Alice and I combined can barely afford the rent in our one bedroom apartment.

Edward laughs. "Not so much. I mean, it's not that they are rich. Jasper just works a lot. I assume the daytime job at a bank is paying well," he answers, refilling my glass.

"Yeah, right." I roll my eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shoots me a questioning glance.

"Nothing," I fumble. "I mean, I'm sure his other business must bring in the some extra cash." I wink when I say business, but Edward doesn't seem to get my hint.

"I'm really not sure what you're talking about."

"You know ..." I don't know why I just don't say it. "His gig as Mr. Dime-O-Weed," I finally bring out.

He shakes his head as if he doesn't have a clue and then he confirms it, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Wait. What?" I stare at him and he stares right back. I think I might have pissed him off. "You don't know that he moonlights as a pot dealer?"

"Like I said, I don't know what you're talking about," he says through gritted teeth.

I keep quiet, unsure how to dig myself out of the hole I've inadvertently stumbled into. Who the hell cares what Jasper does for a living?

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