Tanya and her family welcomed the Cullens back to Denali. Rosalie was quiet and subdued. She curled up wordlessly in Emmett's arms in the snow, day after day after day. Sometimes Edward sat with her and played the piano for her and tried to draw her out of herself, but she would not come out until she was good and ready, he knew. She never smiled. Jasper and Esme constructed an outbuilding for her a few miles away, where she set up a lab to lose herself in for days at a time. She claimed her interest in the lab was purely scientific, but Edward knew she craved isolation more than anything.

Just as if the last sixty years hadn't happened.

They stayed there for several years, burying themselves in snow and then coming to life in the enchanted Denali springtimes. After a few years, Rosalie began to take pleasure in singing again. She joined her family in snowball fights and fort-building and summer gardening. She filled dozens of journals with her miniscule, looping handwriting. Esme assured Edward that she wrote to exorcise her demons, and perhaps it worked. Anyway, Rosalie began to thaw.

The day George Harrison died, Edward pulled out all of his old Beatles records and played them one after another. He heard Rosalie a few rooms away, straining to listen, and turned up the volume on the record player. Helter Skelter ended and the next song began. They listened to it together, her in one room, him in another. Edward thought of the last time he'd heard this song, with Jeanine. She'd gotten Johnny back—sans one leg and three fingers on his right hand, perhaps, but alive. Much more worrying had been his mental state when he returned. Edward had visited them once, when their second child was baptized, and Johnny's head was a minefield of pain and remembered horrors. It had set Edward reeling.

It wasn't until 2004 that Rosalie finally talked about what had happened. She followed Edward's trail into the mountains on a hunt. He heard her behind him, and slowed so she could catch up.

"Ed," she said, skidding to a stop beside him. I want to talk to you, but it's going to be hard.

"That's okay," said Edward. "Whatever you're okay with."

What happened that night—with John Bauman and everything...why did you break his legs? Underneath this, a nameless guilt that she couldn't shake. Edward filled with shame. Did she think it was her fault?

"Rosie," he said. "I wish I hadn't done what I did. I see now I only made things worse, and I am so, so sorry for that. I feel like no matter what I do I can never quite keep you from getting hurt. I'm always just a little too late." He paused and looked at her. "You know, I remember dancing with you, when you were human."

"You do?" Rosalie looked up at him through glistening golden eyes.

"Of course I do. I thought you were wonderful. You were so happy, then. All I want is for you to be happy like that again. I wish I could say that I attacked John to keep him from doing the same thing to some other poor girl, but that was an afterthought. I attacked him because he hurt you, and because for once it seemed like I was in the right place at the right time to protect you. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong, and I wish I could undo it—"

I'm not sorry you broke his legs, thought Rosalie.

"You're not?" asked Edward in surprise.

No. He deserved it. But what he said—about his sister, you know? Was that...did she really say that stuff?

Edward sighed heavily and said nothing.

"I see," said Rosalie. "I know it wasn't her fault. I really do. John didn't try to do that just because of what one person said to him. He did it because he thought he could get away with it. But I can't help it, I expect guys to be like that. I expect guys to think they can do anything to anyone. I didn't expect her to be so... I don't know, maybe I should have. Maybe I blinded myself to her because she was with you. God, teenage girls can be real bitches sometimes."

"I am aware of that...now." said Edward.

"I really did try to get along with her, you know," she said, inspecting a nail. "You seemed to want it. I thought, hey, maybe she's the one. She definitely seemed moody enough to be your mate. And she was really smart, for a human. We would have been friends, I think. If it had gotten that far. But she always rubbed me the wrong way, somehow. I saw her when she was with you, and I saw her when she was with other people, and it never lined up. Like she was always trying to act more mature around you. I don't know, maybe the girl she was with you was the real her. Or at least, it showed she wanted to be worthy of your respect, and so I was willing to ignore the stuff I didn't like about her. I really did try, Edward."

"I know you did," he said. "I'm just sorry I didn't have better taste in friends. I liked Emily because she made no demands on me. I could just be myself. Moody old Edward."

"That's not right, Eddy," said Rosalie, putting her hand to his cheek. "When you're in love, when it's with someone who's good for you, she will make demands. She will demand the best of you, all the time, and you will have to demand the best of her. Who else but a loved one could be so demanding without us tiring of them, and giving up? Relationships are such hard work. Sometimes love feels just like swimming against the current, and getting nowhere. But if you stop swimming, you'll drown."

Edward couldn't think of what to say to this. Of all his siblings, Rosalie had to fight the hardest for happiness; but it came easier to her when Emmett was around. He could do worse than to listen to her.

I think I might be ready to try seeing people again, thought Rosalie. Somewhere safe. Somewhere small, somewhere familiar.

"Okay," said Edward, relieved at this glimpse of optimism. "Let's do that, then. Any place you had in mind?"

"I was thinking," said Rosalie, "about that house Esme built in the Thirties. You know, the one we never got to live in? That was a small town, and there were woods and lots of game and I was happy there. It was where we went after Emmett was turned, remember? Maybe we could try it."

"Okay," said Edward, a slow smile growing on his lips. "Let's go back to Forks."

Carlisle drove me home. Edward didn't want to let me go, but once Carlisle realized what had happened, he insisted that Edward go retrieve his tongue from the attic so that they could work on reattaching it.

"I'm afraid it might be better if you stayed away from our house for the next couple of days," said Carlisle apologetically as he turned onto my street. "Just long enough for the wound to knit closed. It's not that we don't want you there, but we all want you to be as safe as possible. What Edward did is...not a vampire's usual response to human bloodshed. Even in vampires who are careful not to drink from humans."

"Of course," I said quickly. "I assumed it would be that way. I'm just...relieved. It could have been worse." Understatement of the year. "Is Edward going to be okay? I mean, his tongue—" ew! but also, aww! "—his tongue's been sitting out…"

"Our flesh does not degrade like human flesh does," explained Carlisle. "If we left it out in the sun for ten years it would still reattach with no worse damage than a small scar."

"But it definitely hurt," I said, thinking anxiously of Edward's expression as he battled his own desire to drink me dry.

"The only thing that hurts us more than the burning of bloodlust," said Carlisle, "would be having a body part forcibly removed. It was amazingly quick thinking. Especially since your blood sings to Edward so powerfully. Not one man in a million could have done what he did."

Carlisle came in with me so that he could explain things to Charlie, which was probably a good thing given that Charlie was already disposed to distrust my boyfriend. But Carlisle played it just right: after I told my dad that I fell like a goof onto a pair of Alice's sewing scissors, Carlisle explained how Edward bandaged me quickly and drove me to the ER, and that if not for Edward's quick thinking and knowledge of first-aid, I might have suffered nerve damage in my right hand. Then he apologized that I got hurt under his roof, and at this point even if Charlie had still been suspicious, there was nothing for him to do other than graciously thank Carlisle and insist that no one can prevent every accident, every time.

After Carlisle left, I sat for a little while with my dad in the living room. He made us each a big mug of hot chocolate and brought them out to where I was sitting, wrapped up in an afghan my Nona Swan knitted ages ago. Then he plopped down beside me and we sat there, sipping our chocolate in silence.

At last he opened his mouth. "You sure do get hurt a lot, around Edward," he said. I could tell he was being careful to keep any tone of accusation from his voice, but it was obvious what he was getting at.

"It's a good thing Edward's always around to help me, when I inevitably get hurt," I corrected him. "I don't know about you, but I can't say I'd look forward to nerve damage in my dominant hand for the rest of my life…"

Charlie's moustache twitched.

"Bells," he said, seriously. "Right now, I don't have any strong evidence that Edward's a bad seed. I only ever hear good things about him, and if you tell me he's good for you, I'll believe you...for now." I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the back of the couch. "But you have to clue me in, just a little bit. You have to tell me the truth, and I have to know you'll tell me the truth, even when you don't want to, even when you think I won't take it well. Your safety is my top priority. Higher up on the list than my own safety. Definitely higher up than your romantic life."

"That's what Edward says too," I said, looking at my hot chocolate. "That my safety is all he cares about. He thinks I'm not careful enough. Jeez, you should have seen it, Dad, my dumb backpack knocked those scissors on the floor and I just fell on them like a Charlie Chaplin impersonator. Everyone's so worried about my safety all the time, and all I can think is how if I were just less clumsy, if I just knew what to do with my stupid oafish body, maybe everyone could get a little peace." I felt tears pricking behind my eyelids. "It really sucks," I said, my voice wavering.

"Aw, hey, kid," said Charlie, rooting around in his pocket for the clean handkerchief he always carried even though it was 2006 and there were two boxes of Kleenex within arms' reach. "You should've seen me as a teenager. One time I broke my right leg and my left arm at the same time. Then I sprained my right wrist throwing a baseball a week later."

"Well, at least I know where I get it from," I sniffled into the hanky.

"I grew out of it. You will too, I promise."

We didn't say anything more after that, but I think we both felt better.

It was about a week into his junior year at Forks High when the new girl moved to town. Chief Swan's daughter. Isabella. Edward liked the Chief, although the man didn't seem to have too much going on under his hat. The only thoughts Edward gleaned from his mind were of the muted, uninterpretable, wordless emotional variety. They didn't really line up with his measured way of talking.

Forks High was so small that a new girl was big news, and Edward had to hear everyone thinking about it constantly in the days leading up to her arrival. He tuned it out, mostly. What did it matter? He was sworn off human girls forever. Maybe in a few hundred years, if Tanya Denali were still available, he'd go pay her a visit, see if he felt any easier with her. It didn't seem like Edward had any other options.

He first saw Bella across the parking lot. She was sitting in her beat up truck, listening to The Killers and dancing awkwardly in time to the music. It was a funny enough image that Edward laughed out loud, at the girl who had no compunctions about looking silly in public. Or maybe she just didn't realize she was doing it. Edward was too far away to separate the sound of her thoughts from the usual schoolyard din.

He saw her again in the cafeteria, sitting with Jessica and Angela. Edward liked Angela. He had a Biology class with her and she always made a point of smiling at him, because she thought he seemed lonely. She wasn't wrong.

Jessica Stanley was giving Isabella—no, Bella, that was what she was demanding to be called—a run-down of the school. Edward listened harder, curious now about what Bella's mental voice might sound like.

"Ah," he heard Jessica say. "I see you've spotted them. Our own resident supermodels." Edward smiled a little, still looking down at his French Fries. He heard Jessica describe his family to Bella; he heard her thinking about them. He heard Bella ask about him. Did she just speak without thought? Was it too loud in here to hear her think? He'd never had this problem before.

Jessica identified him as the one with the "bug up his butt," and he laughed to himself. Then Jessica's thoughts turned to Mike, and her attention wandered off of the Cullens. Edward frowned and then, finally, curiosity getting the better of him, he glanced up.

Bella Swan was still looking at him. He wondered what she saw.

When I went to bed a half hour later, the local pain medication in my hand was starting to wear off. Carlisle had told me to pop three ibuprofen if it got bad again, and I was just starting to think about making the arduous trek to the medicine cabinet when I heard a tap at my window. I turned, startled, only to see Edward clinging like a monkey to my windowsill. He smiled faintly and pantomimed opening the window. I crossed the room and slid it open for him, and he swung easily into my bedroom.

He was breathing normally. And there was no bloodlust in his eyes at all. He just looked relieved to see me.

He sat on my bed and held up a little plastic-wrapped syringe that looked exactly like the one Carlisle had used on me earlier, and gestured toward my hand. I sat beside him and held my hand out.

Edward carefully unwrapped my bandages. Even I could tell when the scent of blood emerged from the wrappings, but there was no response from Edward. He just cradled my hand gently in his and then gave me the shot. The pain vanished instantly, and I sighed with relief as he wrapped the wound in fresh bandages which he extracted from a pocket in his jacket.

"Thank you," I whispered, leaning against him. I was so, so tired; this day felt like it had no beginning and no end, just an eternity of pain and stress. I slumped down onto the bed, and Edward sat next to me, holding the hand that wasn't hurt. "Is your mouth going to be okay?" I asked, concerned that he still wasn't talking. Edward smiled and stuck out the tip of his tongue at me, then winced.

"Still hurts," he said thickly. "It'll heal, though."

"When it stops hurting," I said, "will the bloodlust come back?"

Now Edward leaned over and kissed the tip of my nose. Hovering just inches away, he whispered, "I will never, ever hurt you. After seeing the look on your face when I... You were ready for me to kill you, weren't you? You thought you were about to die."

I nodded wordlessly.

"Not at my hands," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "Never at my hands. I know that now. I know I'm strong enough."

"Your dad said the only thing that hurts worse than bloodlust is having a body part ripped off," I said. "I can't believe you did that for me."

"The only thing that could possibly hurt worse than having a body part ripped off," said Edward, lying down behind me and holding me closely against him, "would be losing you. It's so clear to me, now. I will move heaven and earth to keep you safe, Bella. I can certainly withstand a little trifling bloodlust."

"Trifling, huh?"

"Comparatively speaking."

"So can I bleed all I want, now?" I mumbled drowsily.

"Bleed all you want," he confirmed, laughing quietly.

I had time for just one more question before I drifted off into sleep.

"Edward?" I said. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

Edward kissed my cheek, and then my neck, and then he hugged me extra-tight.

"As long as you want me," he said, "I'll stay."

Edward lay beside Bella, absorbing her heat, inhaling the scent of her, listening to the steady sound her heart made. A small part of him still longed to hear her thoughts, if only to know what she dreamt about. But it would be even better to ask her in the morning, to see her face take on that radiant glow and hear the animation in her voice as she described whatever inexplicable things had visited her in her sleep. That was a wonderful thing about Bella Swan, Edward reflected: no matter how hard she tried to sound like a disaffected teenager, there was no disguising her insatiable desire to know everything about everything. Life had never seemed so interesting, so vibrant and full of promise, as it did now that he'd found her.

There was a song that Edward had heard, not so many decades ago, a quiet little song, half-submerged in the excitement of the White Album. It had always made Edward feel sad and lost and lonely, but not anymore. Finally, he understood: had he known it would be her he was waiting for, he'd have waited forever.

He hugged Bella tighter. Even in her sleep, she cuddled closer to him.

Perhaps Edward couldn't sleep, but he could still dream.

Done.

1. I will begin posting the sequel next week. It is entitled Living in the Sun. I hope you guys check it out; if this story was all about characterization, that one is all about plot. Finally, actual things will happen!

2. If I had to point to the most compelling reason for me to write this story, it would be what my Rosalie says about love. My own experience of love (of all types) has taught me that the relationships that have succeeded were also the most work, involved the most pain as we both struggled to be our best selves for each other. That shit hurts. And it's hardly photogenic: what's sexy about balancing the household budget together, or learning how to fight constructively with each other? In the end, the reason I feel that the romance aspect of Twilight falls flat is that Edward and Bella only ever enable each other to be their worst selves. To me, that's not love. That is tragedy.

In a way, Bella's beloved Romeo and Juliet comparison is right on the nose. I recommend you read this short article (fivethirtyeight dot com/features/parsing-is-such-sweet-sorrow/)(replace "dot" with appropriate punctuation to use the link). The author says, "[Romeo] spends only one-sixth of his time in conversation with the supposed love of his life." Romeo and Juliet both talk way more to other people than to each other, which is why I never really gave them credence as a couple. Edward and Bella may technically say more words to each other than to anyone else in the books, but all those words never seem to add up to a meaningful and intimate expression of their deepest selves. All the "I-love-yous" in the world are empty if they have no more substantial conversation to lend them weight. Love may be irrational, but if it is to be deep and lasting, it must be based on more than physical beauty. It must be based on sympathy of feeling, on intellectual equality, on mutual respect. Humor helps. Shared interests go a long way. At the very least, both must passionately want the best for each other. Without those things, love will stagnate. I can accept that Smeyer's Edward and Bella love each other now, but none of their interactions convince me that their love will ever grow. Because vampires magically mate for life, Edward and Bella will forever share a juvenile form of what should have been a divine love.

To me, nothing could be less romantic.