"Did you know you have the most incredible body I've ever seen?"

We were resting on our sides in the cramped space that was the backseat.

Our breathing had yet to fully settle into a normal rhythm.

And I rolled my eyes at your question.

Though on the inside I was basking in the idea that you could even possibly think of me that way.

"Did you know I've been alive more than twice as long as you and you have the most incredible body I've ever seen?" I countered.

You shrugged, unsurprised, "Yeah."

And I laughed, not knowing whether I wanted to hit or kiss you for your blatant cockiness.

In the end I decided the kissing would be much more fun for both of us.

And I sighed at the heart pounding reaction the tiny, lingering peck resulted in.

"Did you know," I said, keeping with the pattern, "No one has ever made me feel the way you do?"

You took my hand, twisting the gold band on my ring finger, "Not even your husband?"

I shook my head, "Not even him."

"Then, why did you get married?"

Your directness made me uncomfortable.

But, just like Eric, you deserved answers too.

"I…" I thought for a minute, "Eric is a good person. He has good ambitions, he's a hard worker, and he's someone who does his best to look after the people he cares about. I knew he would make a good husband. I knew he would take care of me, and I wanted to take care of him. And that was enough."

You continued to stare at my wedding ring, "Evidently he doesn't take care of you very well, or you wouldn't be here."

"After we met, his best wasn't enough anymore."

"Because he doesn't make you feel the way I do," you glanced up, smiling slightly.

"No one has ever made me feel the way you do," I said again.

Your mouth slipped into a slow, unintentional grin as my words sank in.

You let my hand go and ran your fingers through the hair that had fallen over my shoulder, "No one will ever make me feel the way you do either, Bella."

I rolled my eyes again, "Right. Because at 17, you have the experience to know that."

And you frowned, "I wish you wouldn't undermine me."

"I wish you wouldn't say things you don't mean."

"But I do mean it."

"Edward," I said, "You're too young to understand what you're feeling period."

And yes, it was a stupid thing to say, alright?

I admit it.

And I admit that you had every right to pull away and tug on your clothes in quick agitated movements.

But I didn't register that right back then.

"Are you mad at me?" I asked, bewildered.

"I don't know," you answered shortly, "Maybe. I'm not old enough to understand what I'm feeling."

When you reached for the door handle, I grabbed your arm to stop you.

I wasn't ready to face the world without you yet.

I wasn't ready to be alone.

"Don't go," I said, the fear in my voice raw and easily heard, "Please."

You turned back to stare at me.

And I knew by the look on your face that you could see the desperation in my eyes.

And then you sighed and sat back down on the seat, hanging your head and grasping the bridge of your nose between your fingers.

I put the Disney sweatshirt back on before I righted myself at your side.

And put my arms around you.

And wished things could be simple and easy, not for my sake, but for yours.

Because you were young.

And the strain I was putting you under was aging you too quickly.

For all I knew, this could have been your first real relationship.

And I was ruining you.

Because I couldn't offer you a real anything.

And I sat in silence.

Holding you for a long moment.

And sometime during it you held me too.

And we wrapped our arms around what would always be out of reach.

And that was the first time you tried to say it.

"Bella," you began, and I knew by the cadence of your voice.

Knew by the feel of your arms.

The hitch of your breathing.

The loving way your fingers brushed my back.

The loving way.

Loving.

And all I could think was:

Oh God, no.

"I-"

"Eric won't be home for two hours," I interjected with a swift look at the clock.

"Oh," you blinked, trying to figure out if my interruption was intentional or not.

Trying to figure out if I knew what you were going to say.

Or if I didn't realize you were trying to say anything at all.

I forged ahead with conversation, "Is Liz working?"

You nodded.

Adding a bit later, "She'll be out late."

"Hmm," I murmured, finishing getting dressed.

You glanced out the window at the sky.

Gray, but still lit by the day.

"I could show you," you said thoughtfully.

My mind jumped around basements and pools and thousands of other areas of your home before I remembered.

"Show me what you were going to show me when Emmett…"

You smiled in confirmation.

I gave you one in return.

"I'd like that."

*

We drove separate to your house.

I wasn't about to be caught car-less again.

And you weren't about to leave your sexy ass vehicle in the student lot all night.

So we pulled in the drive and I parked close to the road.

Really hoping your mother wasn't going to be getting home early.

And then we met up.

And you took my hand.

And we set off on a long walk I was prepared for this time.

It was quiet.

A peaceful trip.

And we could touch and kiss and stare without the worry of anyone noticing.

And then we finally arrived at the little house sitting on the outskirts of your property.

I was too shocked to contain my surprise, "This is what you wanted to show me?"

I didn't know what to expect.

But it surely wasn't a tiny, rundown home with chipped paint and dirty windows.

"This is it," you said.

And you dropped my hand, moving ahead of me to open the door.

I entered with caution.

It was stuffy inside.

Dim at best.

Even with the windows.

I squinted around me, "Can you turn on a light?"

"There aren't any."

Well, that explained why you'd said it was too late to see before.

But I was only more befuddled.

I peered around with more determination.

And then my eyes adjusted.

And I gasped.

The entire place was cluttered with records, tapes, CDs, roundtables….

Every inch I could see was covered.

The walls, the floor, the overloaded shelves, the ceiling.

All packed with music, musical equipment, and more music.

Dust had gathered on most of it.

And the cases were yellowed with time.

But it was so bizarre.

So much, too much…

This house was a home to insanity.

And goose bumps pricked my skin.

And an eerie wave of intuition had me itching to leave.

"What is this place?" I whispered.

"My father built it for his parents," you told me, "After they died, he turned it into a…music room."

You sounded so strange.

It was a voice I didn't know as yours.

"I can see that," I turned around to look at you.

And you looked like a different person too.

I couldn't reconcile the you I'd been with at Forks High School with the you standing in that doorway.

I realized then I knew virtually nothing about your father.

Just that he was dead.

But I had no idea….

"How did he die?" I asked.

I looked at the insanity of the house again in a new light.

Was it possible that your father was-

"He wasn't crazy," you snapped, as if I had been thinking out loud.

And maybe I had been.

"Okay," I said gently.

I didn't like the darkness in your eyes.

The twist to your features I could only blame on bad memories.

It was the same twist I'd seen when your mother had mentioned your father's passing once before.

And it dawned on me that there was something about his death, about him, about this place that tormented you.

And there was more to you than what everyone saw.

What you let everyone see.

And I didn't like it.

I didn't want to know that person in the doorway.

Didn't want that darkness to intrude on the brightness I knew.

The brightness I craved.

The brightness I needed.

And I didn't understand your reasoning for taking me here.

Especially not your reasoning for wanting to take me here on the day for your party.

"Why…?" I trailed off.

And you seemed to know what I was asking.

"My mom never comes here," you explained, "Ever."

I stared.

You directed your gaze behind me, to the loaded shelves, "It's safe. For us."

Still, I wasn't sure what to say.

"She hasn't set foot in here since she tore out the lights…"

You met my eyes.

Very consciously not finalizing the statement you knew wouldn't make any sense to me.

It was an invitation.

An invitation to ask questions.

And you were giving me the opportunity to delve into the darkness I hadn't even been aware existed in your life.

But I didn't want to know.

Didn't want to except its' existence.

So I said, "Do you come out here a lot?"

And as you nodded you became the you I knew again.

"Listen to this," you instructed with abrupt excitement.

And you walked over and took a record off the wall.

And the place filled with static and forgotten melodies.

And the wrongness of the obsessive clutter faded into the background.

Until it was hard to identify as something different from the typical wrongness that always surrounded you and me.