Disclaimer: Everything in the Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I am not Stephenie Meyer. Ergo, this does not belong to me.

AN: This is it – the last piece of The Cold War. I am really thankful to all of you who have read this. Reviewers get double thanks – I've enjoyed talking to all of you.

Edward-bella-harry-ginny has been my beta since Ch. 18, and we've actually collaborated on three stories since with another in the works. I can't express in words how invaluable her contributions have been. Thanks, lady!

Justine Lark has also edited and commented on various chapters. She's a fabulous writer and has amazing attention for detail. She also introduced ebhg to me, thus creating the monster that is us!

I know if I list more people, I'll forget someone important, and that will really be awful. I do want to leave special thanks to MissySkywalker, Shavera, Master of the Boot, Katmom, Persephone's Folly, EliseShaw, Eagleswings81, Indredi, Bigma, and…like I said, I know I will leave someone out and I truly do not mean to. I've had great conversations with you and it's been a blast.

Thanks to my family for not making too much fun of the hobby that they accidentally discovered (and then reading the stuff!) and to my husband for just being a great guy.

READ THIS PART: Okay, my total bad and I have been spanked in reviews and in PM's by innumerable people. The last POV in Ch. 27 (the end of the "real" chapters) was Emmett. I've edited it twice, but nothing is working. I'm going to have to just bite the bullet and say something like "I scratched my short, curly brown hair as I looked around the room" or something like that. Oh, wait, Charlie has short, curly brown hair, too….Gah. Bear with me, people. I'll figure something out.

Ch. 29. Josh's Epilogue

"I'm sorry, Josh. I just got the list this morning." Nan looked at me apologetically from her cubicle across the aisle from mine. "There were only three research positions in the department for the summer anyway."

Freshman comp. In the summer. I'd at least been teaching some lit classes in the spring – I thought I was done with the freshman classes. I slumped in my cubicle and looked up at the ceiling. I'd really wanted the research position, too. I enjoyed teaching, but I wanted a break to try something new, and the research slots were considered an honor.

"I think you might have been lucky to get the comp class," Nan murmured quietly. There were a few other grad students in their cubicles, and I sensed she didn't want to be overheard. "There was some talk in the department about how you've become unreliable."

"I only overslept twice," I hissed back quietly. After never oversleeping in my life before – I could always wake up when I wanted. I still was astonished I had missed two entire classes. The students hadn't minded, though.

"And you had that shouting match with the girl from your class."

"She wouldn't leave me alone," I muttered. She had been both annoying and persistent, and for some reason, my temper had just snapped. During my office hours, in this very office. In front of at least five witnesses. The girl had cried, too, and reported me to the department chair. I didn't generally lose my temper, either; at least, I didn't before.

"And you didn't return any of your papers on time."

"Most people don't return papers on time," I retorted, glaring harshly at my desk. That was an unfair criticism; before I had always returned everything promptly, and carefully and fairly graded, too. I had been proud of that fact at one time in my life, say, about 10 weeks ago.

"Shh," Nan hushed me. She waved at me to get my full attention, and I turned to her. "Look, I know that thing with your thesis was a bummer, but look at Daniel. He worked on his thesis for a year and a half before the committee rejected his topic. You only wasted three or four weeks." I did look at Daniel; he was only about 15 feet away. He was a little older, balding, with glasses. He may have felt our scrutiny, because he glanced back at me, gave a weak smile, and turned back to the paper he was working on. He was remarkably even-tempered, and I liked the occasional conversations we'd shared. I felt my anger fading to the standard grey hopelessness I had become accustomed to. I knew Nan was only trying to be helpful. We had started the program together, and we'd been reasonably good friends. She'd actually kept in contact the year I'd taken off to be with my father. If she wasn't a friend, she wouldn't be calling me on my out-of-control behavior.

I realized Nan was still talking to me. "…just assumed that jerk Randall was dragging you out at all hours."

"What?" I asked unapologetically. It was a new habit I had adjusted to – I couldn't seem to keep my attention on the conversations I was having.

"I said that I assumed you were slacking because of that jerk Randall. Where's he been taking you every night?" Nan had known Randall peripherally – she went to the Lit Society meetings as well. Obviously she didn't like him much.

"Actually, he's gone," I answered dully. This conversation was bound to come up eventually, might as well get it over with since we were already having a Josh pity party.

"Gone? Like on a trip or something?"

"No, he's gone. As in his cell phone is no longer in service. As in his apartment is no longer occupied. As in his emails bounce back to me with an error message that says 'Username unknown.'" I wasn't about to explain how I knew that his apartment was empty – it would just emphasize how desperate I had become for human contact.

"When did this happen?" asked Nan with concern. As far as she knew, he was my only friend outside of school. Which, in fact, had been the actual case.

"Same week as, you know." The week I had found out my thesis topic was null and void since the owner of the manuscript had "reconsidered his decision" to allow me to use it.

I remembered driving back from Wolfeboro at the end of spring break feeling a little down. I had attributed it at the time to the end of a holiday, and for that matter a holiday spent alone working on my thesis. Then, two days later, I had received the polite, apologetic (impersonal) letter from the owners of Bella Libri informing me that Il viaggiatore was no longer available to me. The letter was still shoved in my desk – I had only read it once. Thinking about the letter was sometimes enough to make me mildly dizzy. Two weeks later, I had gotten up enough nerve (and righteous anger) to drive back up there to demand (or beg) to be allowed to speak directly with the manuscript owner. I had driven to the Hunter's Crossing strip mall and been confronted with a burned-out shell where the building had been. The memory of getting out of my car to stare into the sooty space surfaced, bringing with it the dull ache of loss. The mechanic's shop across the street was for sale, and when I visited the Den, it was under new management. The enthusiastic older couple had been effusive in their plans to give it a 1950's kitsch look. Rather than stay overnight, I had headed back to Boston immediately. The entire Wolfeboro experience had taken on a dream-like quality. With nothing left of what I knew there, it was as if it had never happened. I had only memories and the useless notes typed up on my laptop.

I had tuned out again, and Nan was waving her hand in front of my face. "Josh. This summer could be really important for you. You need to get your act together, or Dr. Howeson might drop you as a student."

"I know. I've had a lot of difficulty concentrating. I'll work on it."

Nan seemed satisfied with my response, and went back to whatever she had been doing. I wondered for a moment if I was happy with our friendship because her concern never turned into nagging.

I picked up the journal I had been perusing, and my thoughts drifted to my complete failures at life. Thanks to Sylvia, I had a criminal record to call my very own. After wasting time with Randall and random ladies for several months, I felt disgusted with myself for the serial failed relationships. The two things I had managed to hold on to through all my difficulties were my research efforts and my teaching, and now I had screwed all that up as well. I half-expected to get a call from Uncle Kimani to let me know Sylvia had successfully pried my trust fund away. I glanced at my cell phone. Nope, no missed calls. In fact, my phone hadn't gone off for about a week now.

To top everything off, I had this uncharacteristic lack of concentration, as if I had turned off half my brain. Unfortunately, the half that was left apparently had ADD. And was depressed. With a really short temper. And mild vertigo. It was true that I hadn't been sleeping well; I was having nightmares of some sort, often waking up in a cold sweat or screaming. It was probably just as well that I couldn't remember any of them.

The summer session would begin in two days, and I needed to get ready for my first day of class. I packed up my stuff and dropped by the main office to pick up the materials for teaching freshman comp. I decided, since I was going to turn over a new leaf, I would take the late afternoon to go exercise. I hadn't been running in a couple of months, and I was starting to feel flabby.

When I got back to my apartment after my run, I decided to bite the bullet and call Kimani and Adrienne. They already knew something was severely wrong, but I had managed to put them off until now. My new leaf was going to include honesty with the substitute parental figures. I pondered how I would break the news to them as I took my shower. I pondered further while I towel dried, and then continued to obsess as I stood in front of my closet. If I couldn't pick out which t-shirt to wear for the evening, the conversation possibilities looked bleak.

Finally, I settled on the couch, surrounded by the new books for freshman comp, a copy of the syllabus, and my phone. I dialed the familiar number.

"Hello! Joshua!"

"Hi, Adrienne. How are you?" Small talk was good.

"Things are fine here. The weather's turned hot and sticky." Hotlanta – when wasn't it hot and sticky?

"It's still mild here," I commented. "You guys should get a summer home up here."

"You know Kimani won't leave work for any amount of time. We'd never get away for more than a weekend." This was true. He was a dabbler in local politics, too, on top of the law practice.

"Is he home?" I had tried to sound nonchalant, but even in my own ears I sounded like a lost kid.

"He's right here, honey." I heard rustling with the phone.

"I'm glad you called, Josh. I was going to call you myself if we didn't hear from you soon."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I have some interesting news." This was unlikely to be good.

"What about?" Please, let it not be Sylvia. Please.

"I've engaged a private detective to investigate your stepmother." So much for fervent, heartfelt prayers.

"Why?"

"There have been some rumors which could be crucial to contesting the will." For a second the room spun on me, but I managed to hang on.

"Uncle Kimani, I've already told you that I'm just going to let this go."

"And I made promises to your father and long before that to your mother. You may have chosen the path of avoidance here, but I will not allow that woman to destroy your life. Your father didn't want this to happen."

"We've had this entire discussion before."

"Look Josh, the time is running out for us to take legal action. When the last day to file a lawsuit arrives, I will be ready. If you are absolutely convinced on that day that you want no part of it, we'll put it all away and pretend a giant fire consumed your childhood home."

In the end, I was unable to communicate the issues with my thesis to them. As usual, anything related to Sylvia was sufficient to wear me out. I spent the evening staring at the pile of books I needed to read, but finally I gave up and went to bed.

On the first day of class, I arrived early in my designated classroom. I had a printed copy of the roster to check off the names. I set up my laptop to project the instructions about how to logon to the university system so the students could access their syllabus, texts, and notes. My new leaf included meticulous attention to my class responsibilities. I ignored how my resolutions with Kimani and Adrienne were still unfulfilled.

Students filed in slowly, and I began class two minutes after the official start time in order to give the lost freshmen a chance to find the room. Enough early admission students began their freshman year in the summer that I would likely have several kids straight from high school. The rest would be students done with their first year but with no passing grade in the course. Between those two cohorts, summer freshman comp was considered an experience to be avoided.

I was halfway through my introductions when the door opened and another student hurried in and headed to the back of the room. I pointedly ignored the latecomer as I went over the syllabus and the required texts (and how to download them). Then I took roll; the department expected a verbal roll-call on the first day. I finished up early as per the supervising professor's instructions, and dismissed the class. A few students (all female) had questions about texts and the syllabus. I answered politely and then began packing my belongings.

"Excuse me, Professor Clemson." I was interrupted by a charming, musical low voice with an exquisite Russian accent. Memories of watching classic James Bond with my father rushed through me.

I looked up and said "I'm not a professor, just a grad student. You should call me Josh." And then the scent hit me. It was floral and spice and suggestive of cool sheets and hot tubs and other things I would never think of in front of a student. The person exuding this aroma was a strawberry blonde with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was so fresh looking; no make up was discernible, but her pale skin was flawless. She wore conservative, out-of-style clothing, and I wondered if this was the current style in Moscow.

"I apologize, Josh. You did not call my name, but I will be taking your class. It is supposed to help with my English. I just arrived in your country for one year to take classes."

I was mesmerized by her voice and her scent and her shocking beauty, even to the point of a slight dizzy spell. I forced myself to take another breath. The only thing I found jarring was her eyes – they were a dull green when I somehow expected gold? I shook my head to break the spell. There was no way I could have met her before and not remembered her. She was a complete stranger to me. The dizziness faded.

I cleared my throat. "I should record your name so I can turn in my roll to the department," I told her, embarrassed that my voice had dropped in pitch.

"Of course. My name is Sasha Irinovna Doletskaya."

I was still gazing at her without moving. "That's a lovely name." What? Shut up, Mr. Teaching Assistant. Student. Off-limits. This didn't happen to me; I could ignore any student because they were off-limits. Except, the rational, ordered part of my brain seemed to have taken a vacation about 10 weeks ago. I hoped it was enjoying itself, perhaps taking up painting on the French Riviera. Maybe it would send a postcard to remind me not to do things like stare at unbelievably gorgeous Russian exchange students.

I couldn't stop smiling, but at least I could stop acting like a doofus. "I don't want to spell it incorrectly; could you copy that onto my sheet?" I pushed the student roster across the desk to her and handed her my pen. For a moment, our fingers touched. I was shocked at the coldness of her skin, but more so by the connection I felt with her. I wanted to grab her hand and caress it. I hoped she didn't realize how strong my reaction was to her. She printed her name neatly in a slightly alien script. I stood back a step from the desk so that she was forced to lay my pen down on top of the paper rather than handing it to me.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Josh. I'm looking forward to your class for the summer." She gave me a dazzling smile and left the classroom. I sighed. It was going to be a long summer.

AN2: Who was that strawberry blonde disguised vampire?? Well, Josh is not in the happiest place he's ever been, but perhaps you'll agree that there is hope for his future. And, since this is the final, final chapter of The Cold War, you can look for that future in the upcoming sequel, Acts of Aggression.