I do not own Twilight.
Just a quick update :)
High school: middle of senior year
The box of tissues sits beside me at the counter.
Surprisingly, I'm drying my tears out in the open this time instead of in the privacy of my bedroom. Charlie had made a quick getaway to work after making sure I was okay physically and then left the emotional burden to my mother which, really, I am not sure was a good move.
She is leaning against the counter on the opposite side, her brown eyes on my red, puffy ones before she pulls a piece of paper and pen from the drawer beneath her.
I watch as she writes two words in large letters at the top of the page and draws a line down the middle and then flips the paper so that it's facing me.
I stare at the paper and the two words, CONS and PROS, that pop out.
I glance back up at her and sniffle.
"What is this?"
She takes a breath and then presses her lips together.
"Bella," she starts in that tone that makes me want to plug my ears and not listen to another word she is about to say, because I know that I won't like it. "I want you to make a list."
"What kind of list?" I ask, but the tears are already forming as I look at her, because I know exactly what kind of list this will be.
"A pros and cons list," she says. "It will really help you sort things out. It'll help you determine what qualities you want, and which ones he is lacking."
I push the page away from me harshly, though it only moves a couple inches.
"I'm not writing a list of reasons to break up with him," I snap.
"Not pros and cons of breaking up," she says softly, turning the paper back with one finger so that it's facing me again. "Just pros and cons of Edward in general."
I scoff and sit back, folding my arms. "That's so fucked up, mom."
One eyebrow arches high into her brow and she purses her lips. She taps the CONS column with her index finger. "'Bad influence' can go right here," she states and I refrain from rolling my eyes at her. That, coupled with the swearing would be a quick cause for grounding.
But I take the paper and crumble it into a ball and let it bounce off of the table a few times. I push out from the counter and stand up.
"It's fine," I snap. "I can make my own decisions."
She doesn't say anything more as I round the staircase and run up to my room, my socked feet making too much noise and I'm surprised she hasn't called me back downstairs for stomping.
The list was a horrible idea, but why, four hours later in the middle of the night, am I sitting over my desk with a mechanical pencil aimed beneath a CONS column?