Dusty

by YellowBella

She loves him. He loves her crazy. She's a hopeless romantic. He's just hopeless. She's afraid to let go. He won't let her. A story about a silly girl in love with a foolish boy. Here, forever is a lie. TeamBella23 - the realist and YellowGlue - the poet

37. Jar of Hearts

It all started with a song:

No, I can't take one more step towards you
'Cause all that's waiting is regret
Don't you know I'm not your ghost anymore
You lost the love I loved the most

I learned to live half alive
And now you want me one more time

And who do you think you are?
Runnin' 'round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Who do you think you are?

I hear you're asking all around
If I am anywhere to be found
But I have grown too strong
To ever fall back in your arms

And I've learned to live half alive
And now you want me one more time

And who do you think you are?
Runnin' 'round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Who do you think you are?

Dear, it took so long just to feel alright
Remember how to put back the light in my eyes
I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed
'Cause you broke all your promises
And now you're back
You don't get to get me back

And who do you think you are?
Runnin' 'round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
Don't come back for me
Don't come back at all

Who do you think you are?

Who do you think you are?

Who do you think you are?

Chapter 35

Isabella Bliss

It's here.

This moment.

The end of the countdown.

The day we're supposed to walk away. Be together. Tell everyone.

The day we're not supposed to give a fuck.

This was always going to be when we put ourselves first.

Finally.

No regrets.

No second thoughts.

No reluctance.

Just go. Just drive.

Be gone.

Don't look back.

Never look back.

Runaways.

"Are you nervous?" the girl behind me asks.

I look over my shoulder, but not at her face; I look at her right hand. She's rubbing a silver ring she's wearing on her pointer finger along her thumb. With the slightest movement of my eyes, I look further down her body; she's fidgeting, causing her gold graduation gown to sway. She's swearing black flats, and I can't help but think that they're not nice enough for this occasion. Meanwhile, my metallic heels sink in the grass.

I pivot and look forward, dismissing her.

I'm trying to ignore everything but the line in front of me.

Even him.

Especially him.

Because, one person at a time, I'm moving closer to my future.

Whatever it is.

"My heart is beating so fast," the girl whispers, trying to keep conversation.

Thankfully, the line proceeds as more names are called.

Three more until it's my turn.

I take a few more sinking steps.

Two more.

I place my hand on the rail and set my right foot on the first step, finally reaching the stage.

As I stroll up—ready, smiling, faking—I turn to the girl, meeting her dark brown eyes, and say easily, "I can hardly feel my heart."

.

.

.

I can't keep up.

My mom is pushing me one way, and my dad is pulling me another. Mom wants me to take a picture with these people, and these people, and those people, and Dad wants to show off his only daughter to the entire Forks police department, who he probably forced to come watch.

All four of them.

My grandma is in my face, touching my cheeks with her cold hands. She's so proud of me. She knew I'd be great. She remembers the day I was born.

"You truly are Bliss," she says.

"Yeah, thanks. Sure," I say back.

Whatever.

Grandpa insists on squeezing my shoulder, like I might forget he's standing right beside me. He smells like Bengay and too much cologne—it's giving me a headache. My father's father slips me a twenty dollar bill and tells me not to use it all in one place.

Then he squeezes my shoulder again.

I see Leah and Rose. We exchange sincere goodbyes, as if this might be the last time we see each other.

It might not be.

We may have the whole summer.

Surrounded by our families, Kim, Charlotte, and I make eye contact as they pass by. Despite our history and despite what could be said, I don't exert the effort it takes to curve my lips into a smile. I don't say a word.

My mom calls my name … again. She's requesting another captured moment with my fucking French teacher.

This time I have no choice. I smile. And it drains me.

I slip under the arm of my educator and sigh.

As my mom holds the camera up in front of us, Madame Ancel asks, "In a hurry, young lady?"

I shake my head, leaning a little. "I'm just want to get home."

Madame Ancel holds me a little tighter. "Rien ne sert de courir, il faut partir à point," she says softly.

There's no sense in running; you just have to leave on time.

"Smile!" Mom squeals, taking the photograph.

I see Petey before I see Alice, and I see Carlisle and Esme before I see Dusty, who's walking at a slower pace with a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. Ben and Victoria are behind him, and further back, Mixie, Kim and Charlotte follow.

For the first time today, I feel like crying. Ending this part of my life is heavy, and right now, I don't feeling like running. I want to stay right here. I want to never forget this. I want to hold onto it for as long as I can.

Because we're changing.

And it's my time to choose.

Alice has her gown completely unzipped, showing off the white dress she's wearing underneath, with her cap in her hand. Her hair is entirely blonde again and she's wearing a bow, but it's there because someone told her to wear it.

I know my girl. I know her.

Ally's cream colored wedges are in her hand, leaving her feet bare. Pink-polished, her toes dig into the muddy grass as she walks faster, coming right for me.

Kicking off my heels, I meet her halfway.

We collide and we rock and we tilt and we cry. Closing my eyes, I hide my face in her neck and ignore the boy who I know is not ignoring me.

I try to give all of my attention to the person who should have had it all along.

"Bliss," Alice cries. "Bliss. Bliss. Bliss," she repeats.

I take in her smell and her feel: cookies, sticky like sweat. I kiss her with wet lips, and I whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

With Alice's face in the palms of my hands, I can see Edward behind her. He's standing back, eyes hidden behind Ray Bans and hands sunk in pockets.

The cigarette gone.

Beside him, Carlisle and Charlie are trying to be cordial. They congratulate one another for raising a high school graduate, gracelessly.

Esme's crying, but she's trying to hide it. She hates that Alice and I have grown distant, so this is a small relief for her.

Ben wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his white button up, ignoring the smudge of makeup it leaves on his cuff.

At our side, Kim is ignoring Pete, and Pete looks uncomfortable being avoided. Victoria wants to leave, Mixie wants to get high, and Charlotte will do whatever the others tell her to.

Mom is begging for a picture.

"Come on, girls. Just one so we can leave," Mom says, lying. She'll never be able to take only one.

Alice and I smile at one another, and my unrested heart kind of, sort of buckles. As much as I want this, it's already gone. We can stand here all evening and cry. My mom can take hundreds of pictures. We can say whatever we want, but this friendship has already passed it expiration date and there's no going back.

"It feels like we broke up," Alice says, wiping my tears away with her thumbs.

I don't do the same for her.

"Don't break up with me," she says. "Things can be the same."

Lie.

"Okay," I say, looking away. "I swear."

Lie.

We split apart after that, and I'm being passed around again. This time I don't mind, though.

Ben picks me up and Petey pulls my hair, and I know these guys, too. I cherish them. I love them. Ben and Petey have always been around. They're my boys—The Boys.

When we were little, dumb and dumber made Sleeping Beauty cry, and as we got older, one carried me, running, and the other drove the get-away car. They protected me in high school hallways, and saved me from overcrowded parties when I couldn't get out the door alone. They bought me Slurpees at midnight, and showed me why three joints are better than one. They got shy when I got boobs, and they let it be known that little sisters are off limits.

They're my defenders, my redeemers … my friends.

Next, Victoria smiles at me. "Little sister," she says, running her hand through my hair like she has so many times before.

Kim, Charlotte and I go on ignoring each other, but Mixie gives me a hug, and it's not completely awkward.

Like it or not, I know these girls, too.

Then I'm in Esme's arms, and I'm crying some more. I bury myself in red and hold on like she's my own mother. Her hair smells like the Cullen home, shifting my heart once more.

"I'm so proud of you, pretty girl. So, so proud," she whispers.

From Esme, I go to Carlisle. He's tall and dignified, and just as intimidating as he was the very first time I saw him after his son stole my nail polish all of those years ago.

"Princess," he greets me, just like he did then.

Carlisle slips me some money, and it's much more than the twenty bucks my grandpa gave me.

He's always given me so much.

They both have.

After love's dad kisses the top of my head, there is nowhere to go other than to I'm not ready for him.

I probably never was.

He pulls his hands from his pockets and lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head. As a consequence of the night we spent, his eyes are half-sleepy-swollen and red. My boy's expression is an assortment of unhappiness, denial and determination, and I recognize unpredictability in his posture and volatility in his stare, like he can somehow change the inevitability we've been silently troubled with.

Love is killing us softly.

Recklessness takes a few steps toward me, and Mom snaps a picture. I keep waiting for my heart to leap, but it gives nothing more than a low thump. Not even when he pulls the end of my blonde-red curl.

It's so tired.

"Congratulations, sunny side." His straight smile swerves with my hair between his fingers.

My pulse should be pounding, pumping blood to my cheeks, but it's struggling.

It's dying.

Giving up or giving in … I don't know yet.

After a moment, Edward hasn't backed away, so I smack his hand and warn him with my own sleepy-swollens: too close, boy.

He drops his sunnies back over his eyes, and when he smiles this time, he's allover hoodlum with awful purpose.

And still, my heart is thin.

Edward leans in, taking my wrist in his hand. "Don't look at me like that, Bliss. You're breaking my fucking heart."

Mine drops to a low beat while the rest of my body searches for his smell, his touch, his affection. My senses are looking for something to hold onto. Something to remind me. Something to pull my heart back up.

As we die, everything slows.

He smells like a boy. A normal boy. Like laundry detergent or his brand of shampoo, with a hint of the troublesome I need beneath. And his touch is not much more than a touch, but he's trying, fighting fate. Affection is lacking, self-satisfying and self-seeking, but it's still only for me.

His grip on my wrist is not genuine, but cautionary.

Stick to the plan, his hold says. Now or never.

I know.

Feeling desperate, when he pulls me in close, I let him. I allow the front of my body to press against the front of his, expecting to light fire. I look forward to the rush of love I normally feel when he's this near. I crave it. I need it. I need it. I do.

But it's only a hum.

"I love you," I whisper, because I know it's true.

Edward laughs.

His arms circle around my shoulders, and mine are secure around his lower back. Anyone watching us probably thinks we're cute. Like, we've known each other for so long, of course we're this close. I kind of, sort of hear my mother's stupid camera clicking, and I hear Esme say, "She's like a sister to him."

My boy holds a little tighter, and so do I.

"Tell me," I say like a breath, smiling so no one knows this is torture. "Say it, Edward."

He turns his head into my neck and whispers, "I love you."

My heart is as quiet as the blood in my bones.

Love is knowing.

Digging my fingers into his back is all I can do to keep the earth below my feet. I close my eyes and cling onto what we have left, hoping it's good enough, intending to make sure it is.

We've been hugging for too long, though, so I drop my arms.

Edward doesn't let me go.

"We can leave, Bliss," he says desperately, like it's the last time he will ever ask.

I grip onto his sides and try to push him from me; I can't get away, though. I never will. I might try to, but I won't ever get far.

I hope.

His hold on me is reliable and proves failing-hearts faulty.

I pray.

"The car is right there, baby. Just get in," he whispers, like it's ending him.

Then his lips are on my neck and the tiniest pinch of my skin is between his teeth. Before I have a chance to think, my hands are moving on their own, pulling him closer before shoving him away. I have to force my legs in place. They want to run—to him, to his car ... away from the looks we're getting now.

Edward takes a few steps away from me.

His smile is daring.

It says, "Play it off or play it up, girl."

I half-laugh, overwhelmed. "You're such a jerk." But like a shot of life, my heart picks up and my cheeks are warm, and it feels so fucking right.

His smiles falls, though.

I place my hand over my heart and it pulses in spite of me. It's pumps blood through my veins and arteries and lungs, keeping me alive; even heating the tips of my ears, now. If it would just stop, this would end. But it won't. It gives me no choice other than to to witness what Edward and I are becoming … what we're doing. I have to live through this moment—which is everything it was never supposed to be.

Death would be so much easier.

With less enthusiasm and uneasy posture, Mom calls out that she wants a picture of all of us. Instinctively, Alice and I stand side-by-side. I want Edward to take advantage of the brief opportunity we have to touch easily. I want him to put his arm over my shoulders, and I want to put mine around his waist, and I want us to smile … like nothing is different.

But he stands beside his sister.

Mom isn't happy with only the three of us. She herds in Petey and Ben, too. And when Pete stands next to me, I circle my arms around him instead his best friend. Benjamin sneaks between Alice and I and leans his head on top of Alice's.

Still, Mom's not satisfied.

"Come on, girls," she says kindly to the Sluts.

They're taken off guard, but oblige. Awkwardly, the girls stand in a row beside Pete.

"Closer," Mom says, looking at us through her camera screen.

My heart is steady beat, beat, beating, and my stomach is twist, twist, knotting. My boy is impatient, shifting next to his sister, patting his pockets like he does when he's ill-fitted. As Victoria moves herself between Ben and I, I hold onto Petey as tightly as I can. He helps by holding me to his side. Kimberly moves to his right, and he puts his free arm over her shoulders. When I look up, he's madly grinning, like he knows.

With Charlotte and Mixie at Edward's left, we squeeze in as tightly as possible to fit in the frame.

Connected.

Linked.

Bonded.

With our parents on one side of the camera, and the disparate youth on the other, Mom says, "Say cheese!"

In unison, like an opus, we do.

I smile so high.

And it takes no effort at all.

Because like it or not, these people have always been my closest friends.

After a couple of flashes, we gap and separate, and the moment of simplicity is gone.

With only a couple of feet between us—twenty-four inches that feel like five hundred eternities—Edward shakes his head with a sad half-smirk, keeping his eyes away from me.

When Pete asks him if he wants to take off, I watch my boy answer.

I watch him walk out of my direction, and I watch him get into his Lincoln.

I watch him drive away, without me.

When it was only ever supposed to be with me.

.

.

.

"Hang out with me, like we used to. Spend the night. Spend the weekend," Alice said while we stood in the school parking lot, before I got into the car with my parents and she got into her Jeep alone. "It's only right we're together," she said. "You're still my best friend."

I agreed. I told her I'd call her later. After dinner, maybe. Probably.

"You better," she said.

The drive from the high school to home is short, but I still get lost in myself. I stare out the window, watching the same shade of green pass—the same shades of mud and wet and moss and gray. My dad has music on low, but nothing registers. Nothing is distinct. Everything is flat, fixed, and bland. My parents whisper between themselves, but their words are white noise.

Until Dad pulls the car into the driveway and asks, "What the hell was that, Isabella?"

I hear him clearly.

Settling back into my role is seamless, but not facile. With years of practice and the help of my body, I sit up straight, I smile, and I force my voice out. My eyes light up, my cheeks redden, my dimples dip. Everything clicks into place, and I'm no longer the girl with the underworking heart, but the daughter they're used to me being. I'm Isabella Bliss.

I play stupid. "What?"

Charlie meets my gaze through the rear-view mirror. "Edward," he says.

I roll my backed-up-with-tears eyes and smirk. "Dad, nothing. It's just Edward."

"We don't like it," Mom chimes in, with so much implication behind her tone.

With my hand on the door handle and my stare on the back of my mother's head, I say with a little more spit than I should, "You don't have to like it."

I open the door and step out with my right foot, and I'm tempted to leave the conversation as is, but I don't. Before I get out, I say, "There's nothing for you not to like. I'm like his..."

"Little sister?" Dad finishes my sentence for me, cynically.

And this time I just get out.

.

.

.

The conversation is apparently far from over.

I'm sitting at the table picking blueberries out of a muffin I have no intention of eating, in my graduation gown I have no will to take off. My eyes are tired and so sore. I can feel their redness. Aches and pangs and strains are the only things I can feel at this point.

Digging though my muffin, I notice my nail polish is marred. My cuticles are inflamed. My nails are bitten down. My knuckles are cut up, like his always are. My finger tips are tender from so much clutching. I roll my wrist and extend my fingers and think, these are the hands of a desperate girl.

"It's not Bella I don't trust," my dad says, opening and shutting the fridge.

I breathe though my nose and sit back, pushing my mother's homemade effort toward the center of the table.

"She's a seventeen-year-old girl, Charles," his mother replies, winking at me, taking my side.

Like I care. Like anything being said matters. It's me and Edward. That's all. That's all there ever will be.

I hope.

"He kissed her because he knew he could. He took advantage of her." Dad cracks open his beer. "And she's going to college—then what? Who else will do the same?" he asks, truly concerned.

Like I can't take care of myself. Like I'm not smart enough. Like I'm too naive about the real world.

They're so fucking ignorant.

I'm self-sufficient. I'm a fucking expert on real life.

Edward taught me.

I know how to use my fists, and I know exactly how to survive on my own.

He showed me about narcotics and villains, and everything else my parents keep in the dark. I'm street smart, thanks to him. I'm hood smart.I'm alert. I might be too aware, even, because it's my life. I've seen assaults and witnessed drug deals—I know the pusher. I can roll a joint with my eyes closed. I know the difference between kush and ditch weed. I know what cocaine looks like. I've felt it. Fought it. Flushed it down the toilet.

I roll around with criminals and addicts and sluts and alcoholics. I know a girl who had an abortion, and I know a whole group of girls who have fucked for drugs.

My boyfriend is white trash.

So are all of my friends.

And I'm just like them, in prettier dresses.

Alice and I used to go through her father's work files, so I've read all about and seen pictures of rapists, murders, child molesters, and thieves.

I've had sex.

Sex my parent's wouldn't even believe.

I spent a large amount of my childhood in the Cullen house and they don't shelter their children. They prepared me for the real world. They showed me what it was like. They taught me what to look out for.

Because of them, I'll be fine.

With Edward, I will be fine.

I know I've been so fucking selfish. I know I can't be without him. I can't be one place and him another.

I won't live in a dorm. I won't separate us. We have to be together. Always. We're hurting so much and we're falling apart, and he's pulling away because of me, because I couldn't break from this role I play. Because I didn't recognize it was time.

It's our turn.

It's us.

Us.

My mom is grating cheese for the enchiladas; the meal she thinks is my favorite. The meal I told her I wanted on the day I graduated high school. The meal she is making especially for me.

I'd rather be eating McDonald's in the passenger seat of the Continental a hundred miles away.

"Maybe she can live here for another year. Kirkland isn't that far," she proposes, as if I'm not in the room.

Like a month ago, she wasn't trying to frame my acceptance letter to Northeast.

Like I don't exist.

Like my opinion doesn't matter.

And when Dad agrees, suggesting they buy me a new car so I can commute, I finally say:

"Do you think I've never been kissed?" I scoff in disbelief. "Because I have been."

Grandma laughs, but Mom scowls, and Dad warns, "Isabella."

I stand from the table and walk away from this sorry excuse of a graduation party and head upstairs. I asked if I could have friends over tonight. I wanted them all here, at my house. All of them. I wanted music and food and laughs and some sort of truth. But my dad shot the idea down right away.

"I don't want any underage drinking in my house, Bliss," he said. "I'm the chief of police, Bella. How would that look?" He jeered. "What would the neighbors say?" "Maybe, but I'm chaperoning." "Maybe, but everyone needs to leave by ten." "Maybe, but no more than a few friends."

It was easier to act as if I wanted enchiladas.

In my room, I dig through my purse for my cell phone. While it rings my boy, I open my closet door and search through hangers for something to wear.

My call goes to voicemail.

"Dusty." I sigh and hang up.

I turn my stereo on and change out of one dress and into another as I wait for love to call me back. My speakers sing, "Who do you think you are?" my heart beats steady, my body moves on its own, and my mind chants his name—

Edward. Edward. Edward.

I pull a red cotton and lace dress over my head and brush my hair over my shoulder. I rescue pink jadeite from under my bed where I threw it months ago and fasten it around my neck where it belongs.

As I sit at my vanity, his name is on repeat inside of me—

Edward. Edward. Edward.

I pin my bangs back so I can reapply my , "Don't you know I'm not your ghost anymore?" I wipe off old mascara with a cleansing towelette, but it smears more than it removes. I rub, and rub, and rub, until my eyes are clean from black, but stay so last-night-red.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

I work on the other eye, then my forehead, and then my nose. When my face is concealer free, I stare at myself in the mirror. Freckled and blemished and purple and swollen, I look older. Fresh-faced and new-in-love no longer stares back at me. Like my hands, this is the face of a girl who struggles.

And it's not only my hands and face: my hair is lusterless, my skin is scarred, my eyes are dim.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

When, "I've grown too strong, to ever fall back in your arms," surrounds me, my phone rings.

Without haste, I stand up from my seat and walk across my room. My phone is on the nightstand, vibrating in circles, singing a tune.

It's not Edward, and instead of feeling disappointed, I feel indifferent. I answer the phone without really taking notice of who it is, and say, "Hello."

"I'm coming to get you, girl," Alice shouts over music. "Ready to get your party on, Bliss baby?"

I walk back to my vanity and sit. With my phone between my shoulder and ear, I tap foundation on a sponge and blot it into my skin, covering war wounds.

"Sure," I answer. "I'll be ready."

Alice shrieks happily. "Pack a bag!"

"Okay," I say before I hang up.

Instead of setting the phone down, I set my sponge down. And instead of calling Alice back and telling her I have no desire to be anywhere near her, I call Edward. When I get his voicemail, I don't say his name. I hang up. And then I call Garrett.

He says my name.

Like a whisper.

Like a dream.

Like a fucking charm.

"Bliss."

My skin warms a little, but I have a hard time differentiating love, lust, and disgust with this boy.

He asks me to hold on while he goes into a different room. He's having a party. All of his family is there, he says. I don't wait, though. I just ask, "Alice wants to go out tonight. Are you?"

He's still walking, and as he does, the background sound melts. "I want to see you."

I roll my eyes, circling my brush in blush. "I heard something about Jake Black."

Garrett clears his throat. "Yeah, that's what Jasper said."

I apply pink to my cheek bones. "I'll see you there."

He's quiet, awkwardly. He has something to say, but he doesn't. "Okay."

Pussy, the single thought breaks the chant momentarily.

With my makeup polished and perfect and my hair re-curled, I text Edward because he hasn't called me back.

I'm going to Jacob Black's.

I slip my feet into a pair of wedges and grab a cardigan from a hanger. I don't bother packing a bag. I have no aim with Alice.

I'll be with her brother. I'll sleep in his clothes. I'll sleep on him, under him, beside him.

I'll make sure.

As I gather my purse and my phone, checking my hair one last time, I realize I wouldn't give a shit if I never stepped foot in this room again. This house, its stairs, its backdoor … it was all a part of a routine and a path that brought me closer to a desired result: a life with Edward.

It always has been.

And I almost missed my cue.

Downstairs, my dad and grandfather are sitting in front of the TV. My mother is pulling food from the oven, and my grandmother, the first person who takes notice of my presence, is setting the table.

"Going somewhere?" she asks kindly, folding a napkin before setting it down.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

Mom looks up from what she thinks I want for dinner and drops the pan on the counter, splattering cheese and sauce and green onions and black olives.

"Where do you think you're going?" she questions, tilting her head, scoping out my clothes and shoes.

"With Alice," I answer, without emotion.

"Bella, I made this dinner for you!" she exclaims.

Her cheeks are red like mine won't even become, and her hair is frizzy from the steam, and her stupid fucking apron is dirty, like enchiladas are some feat. Like they took all day to make and not an hour. Like, if I don't eat these enchiladas, her night will be trounced.

Like my very own loaded gun isn't out there, under the impression I don't want him.

And it's so sad my mother put all of her anticipation into these fucking enchiladas.

Her mother-in-law smiles and sets a few more forks down.

"Can we eat now?" I ask, instead of arguing.

"No!" Mom throws a dirty spatula in the sink.

The clink, clink, bang grabs my dad's attention, and so he's up and ready to investigate the noise.

I chew on my bottom lip and cross my arms, settling in for what will be one of the few arguments I've actually not gone out of my way to avoid with my parents.

I want this one.

I won't be deterred.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

"What's going on in here?" Dad asks, deep toned and stern. He has a red stain on his white shirt, from dipping into dinner too early.

He looks at me, but my changed outfit and purse ring no bells for him. In his eyes, I could never do anything to disappoint either of them. I'm perfect. Idyllic Isabella Bliss. So blissful. So bliss-filled. I'm a little ray of Bliss.

Held tight Bliss.

Secured Bliss.

She'll-never-be-too-far-from-home Bliss.

Bliss, wrapped up in ivy and twine—protected.

Leached.

For all my sweat, my blood runs weak, and they have no idea.

None.

Mom pulls plates from the cupboard, flustered. But her hero is here, and this is the part where he takes my mother's side and I fall into place and agree with whatever they want. It's what I've always done because it's what I've always needed to do in order to keep an upper hand.

Not this time.

This time I don't have much to lose.

"Your daughter," Renee says, giving me a pointed look before turning her eyes to her husband.

Dad rubs his stomach, briefly looking at me before staring down his wife's cooking. "What about her?"

Mom laughs, but nothing is amusing. Grandma pats my shoulder as she walks by. Grandpa is struggling to get up from his seat.

Before I would have helped him.

"She wants to go out with Alice, Charlie." Mom begins to untie her apron. "But she went out last night."

When Dad looks at me, he finally sees. He scopes out my outfit, my hair, my sweater. His expression changes for the third time since entering the kitchen: decided.

"No," he states.

I don't say anything right away, and Mom is happy with Dad's judgment. She hangs up her apron, hands Grandma the plates, and grabs a clean serving utensil from the drawer. My parents start talking about marinated chicken and sour cream and using the good wine glasses because tonight is a special occasion. It's as if they don't even remember telling me I couldn't go be with my friends. As if I never asked. As if it doesn't even matter.

So, softly but severely, amid their commotion, I say, "I'm going."

Dad looks up from the plate Mom is helping him serve. "Bella, you're not," he says, dismissively.

I stand straight. "I am."

Forks' chief of police carefully sets down his plate and turns in my direction, red stained and firm. He takes a breath, ready to bring down the hammer, when my grandmother finally intervenes.

"Let her go, Charlie," she says. "Let her have some fun. Look how pretty she looks."

Dad shakes his head, but I won't be undone. I lift my chin.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

"No, Mom," he says.

Grandma backhands her son on the arm, playfully. "Oh, stop. You can trust Bella."

I don't flinch at her words. I don't do anything but stand my ground, ready to turn and go. I'll run. I'll throw a fit like they've never seen. I'll fucking jump-skip-boogie if I have to.

I'm going.

Right on time, headlights from Alice's Jeep shine through the front window. She honks, and I shift my footing, ready for anything.

My parents share a look, and when Mom nods, I know I'm free to go. Without a word, I turn and leave. They probably think I'm so excited, like they're giving me a taste of life. A little dose of freedom. A real teenage experience—two nights in a row.

Lucky me.

Whatever.

"No drinking, Bliss," Mom calls. "Call in a few hours to check in," she follows.

"I want you home by eleven," Dad concludes.

"Sure!" I yell over my shoulder, agreeing with anything, because none of it matters. "Love you."

.

.

.

Alice is lit out of her mind.

In Chucks, jeans, and a Great Northern band tee, my used-to-be best friend has her hair up in a messy ponytail, her eyeliner is smudged, and her lipstick is wiped off. She won't stop bouncing her knee, and she's chewing gum with her mouth open, too fast and too loud.

Knocking on Heaven's door is playing under snapping bubble gum and fingertips fast-tapping on the steering wheel, and the song immediately takes me back to the day my girl got a brand new Jeep for her birthday. She didn't want it; she only wanted her sigh-boy, Jasper. She pouted, she kicked dirt, she pointed fingers, and she ran.

I was the only one who ran after her.

I remember her being so mad. She was outraged.

How could my parents get me so wrong? she screamed. How could they not know how heartbroken I am? she cried.

So I sang, Mama, put my guns in the ground, I can't shoot them any more, and I held the end of my dress and twirled. I dipped and swayed and made kissing lips at my girl, until she laughed.

It was a real laugh, and it was honest. It showed all of her teeth—even the ones in the back.

Kind of, sort of how Edward's used to.

It's funny how shit changes, almost overnight … in the blink of an eye.

Not even two years later, I feel like I'm sitting next to a stranger.

I didn't wake up one morning, out of love with my best friend. The decay of our bond was a slow march. I knew we might end, but I never counted on it. Deep down, I always thought she'dunderstand. Maybe she wouldn't care. Maybe Alice would know what it's like, because she went through it with Pete.

It was only wishful thinking, and I was so fucking green.

I knew.

I always knew.

I started it. I lied first. I betrayed her before she ever did it to me.

I set our conclusion in motion, but I did not end this. After all, she doesn't even know my truth.

To her, I'm just a girl who's stuck in a small town, too afraid to think big, in fear of sex, and commitment, and broken skin and bruises. Alice thinks I'm afraid to get dirty, when in truth, I'm covered in her brother's dust.

I'm chin-deep in his filth.

I'm so fucking contaminated.

It's my curse.

While I have heart for this girl, I've already let her go.

Love first.

At a stop light on the way out of Forks, Alice presses her palms into her eyes. "Ugh," she groans. "I took some shit and I'm fucked up, baby Bliss."

I want out of this vehicle, but she's a means to my end.

I sit back and roll my eyes, mentioning nothing when the light turns green, then yellow and back to red.

Ally keeps rubbing her eyes; she's bouncing and scratching and chewing, and I know how this goes. Alice and her mother's pills are nothing compared to Edward and cocaine—she's such a fucking girl. When the light turns again, I get out of the car and walk around to her side. I open the door and order her to scoot over.

"I'm driving," I say, uninterested in her bullshit.

She goes, but it's an obstacle. Her foot gets stuck on the seat belt, she bumps her head on the window, and she drops her phone between the seat and the center console.

"Fuck!" she yells.

I get in and go, happy no one pulled up behind us.

The top is off so my hair is twirling and swirling above my head. Despite being late May, it's still a little chilly near the ocean at night, and the closer we get to First Beach, the thicker the air becomes. By the time I park a few houses down from Jake Black's place, my curls are limp and my eyeliner looks like Alice's. My skin is sticky-cold, and my attitude isn't much better.

On top of that, this girl is still digging for her phone.

I move her hands away and help her look. "What did you take, Al?" I question, bothered.

She sits straight and pulls down her visor, flipping open the mirror. Alice rubs black pencil out from beneath her eyes and shrugs her shoulders.

"I don't know. Something new in my mom's cabinet."

I have to reach deep down, but with my pointer and middle finger, I mange to secure her phone and pull it out.

She squeals and takes it from me before kissing the screen. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, best friend ever!"

Lie.

"You're welcome," I say, reaching in the back for my purse.

Then Alice says, "I'm waiting for Jasper to call."

And I ask, "Jasper-Jasper?"

She sits up and slips her phone into her back pocket, nodding her head. "I, like, miss him."

With my purse on my lap and my opinion kept to myself, I rake my fingers through my hair and pinch my cheeks until they're a prettier red.

Out of the jeep, hand in hand, Alice and I head toward Jake's house.

.

.

.

Nothing ever changes.

It's always the same people, doing the same thing, taking the same drugs, passing around the same girls, having the same conversations as they do at every party. It's the same music, the same red Solo cups, and the same helplessness.

The same madness.

In between other faces, I spot people I know right away: Lolita's in the corner with her boyfriend. Victoria and Ben are in the kitchen. Dimitri and Mixie are kissing in the hallway. Kim's taking shots with Jake Black and Charlotte. Garrett is at the keg, serving himself a beer, and Jasper's right beside him, waiting for his turn.

Everyone is here … everyone except Edward and Petey.

So I ask Alice, "Where's your boyfriend?"

With glossy eyes and a blank expression, she shrugs. "Dunno." And a second later: "There's Jasper!"

She tries to pull me, but I just walk, and eventually she just lets me go.

When I catch up, she and Jasper and doing that silent communication shit they used to do when they were together. She's smiling, and he's smirking. She's blushing, and he's arching his eyebrow. She's sighing, and he's crossing his arms. She's turning her head away from him, and he's tilting her chin back.

He knows she's high. He hates it. His disappointed eyes say so.

But she's a Cullen, so she doesn't give a fuck.

"Beer," Garrett bids, holding out the cup he was just filling.

I gladly take his offering and drink most of its contents in a single try. Garrett whistles at my attempt, and when my lungs feel like they're going to burst, I pull the cup from my lips and wipe them with the back of my hand. The cold beer gives me a brain freeze. I smile through it.

I don't get much of a head change, but I get enough to lighten me up. With a second sip, I swallow the rest and hand my cup to Garrett for a refill. Thankfully, he doesn't question my behavior.

Alice and Jasper are still smirking, and winking, and scowling, and sighing, and not using their words, so, even though kissable and quiet is fetching my beer, I turn and push my way through the kitchen, out the backdoor.

There's a bonfire lit in the center of the yard, surrounded by beach sand and the rest of the party. I hate when my hair smells like smoke, but I sit beside it anyway, in a spot by myself. After a few moments, my cheeks begin to warm and the tip of my nose starts to sting. I shift sand between my fingers and notice I didn't repaint my nails like I meant to.

I slipped.

I don't know where Garrett is with my drink, but I've become antsy and impatient. Sitting criss-cross, I lean back and forth, trying to see who's on the other side of the fire, or if I know anyone on this side. Coincidently, it's Lolita who spots me first, two people down.

"Need a drink, little sister?" she asks. Her dirty blonde hair is as board-flat as it was the last time I saw her, but this time she's lost red heart-shaped glasses, and instead of the striped bandeau and matelot shorts, she's wearing a collared duo-toned romper.

"Thanks," I say softly, taking her drink.

I sniff it before I sip, and when all I smell is vanilla vodka and Coke, I determine it's all right. When my lips touch liquid, I smile. So does she.

Not long after she's gone, taking the rest of the drink with her, Garrett sits beside me. "A little close?" he asks, leaning away from the fire.

I look over at literate and stylish and decide I love the fire on his skin, but it's my favorite reflecting off his dark hair. When he smiles, his white teeth shine and I laugh out loud.

He elbows me playfully. "What?"

I lean my head on his shoulder and sigh. "Nothing."

We're quiet for a little while, ten minutes maybe, before the awkwardness of silence sets in. As it does, I can practically see his words taking shape in the smoke in front of us.

I lift my head. "Out with it, man." I don't have all night, I want to say. The love of my life is going to take me away.

I'm wordless, though.

Garrett ducks his head. He plays with the sand between his feet. He tightens his jaw. And I've almost had enough. I'm ready to leave him, too. He can go have silent conversation with Alice and Jasper. I'm not in the mood for a guessing game.

But then: "We didn't get to talk at graduation—"

I'm relieved and I don't even know why. So, I cut him off. "I know," I say a little too quickly. "My mom wanted a picture of us, but—"

But then: "Bliss, I saw Edward kiss you."

My heart beats.

It pounds.

It fights inside my chest cavity and struggles to get through my breast bone.

No, it whispers.

No, it repeats.

Then: "Bella—"

Closing my eyes, wishing he wouldn't do this, I say, "Garrett, don't."

But he says, "Bliss, I know."

And then: "I know everything."

I cover my mouth with both of my hands and open my eyes. Staring at the sand in disbelief, I shake my head.

No.

I feel dizzy and unstable and—I don't know what to do.

I want Edward. I need him.

Love is knowing.

Love is knowing I need my boy.

And so I stand up.

Garrett does, too.

He touches me. He reaches for my arm. And I'm crying. So hard. I'm sobbing.

He pulls me closer, and I don't move away. I give him one last chance to mean something, but compared to Edward, he means nothing.

I press my face into his shoulder and whisper quiet goodbyes on his skin. I circle my arms around the back of his neck and run my fingers through his too-busy-sketching-to-cut hair. I let him kiss the side of my face. I stand a little closer because I love his warmth. I love his skater boy scent: grass and sun and summer. The smoke smell I hate on myself is so good on him.

"I'll miss you," I cry.

"I won't be far," he says.

But he doesn't get it.

This goodbye isn't for now; it's for good.

"I should go," I mumble, sliding my arms away around Garrett, placing them in front of me, between us.

Garrett doesn't let me go, though. He's still kissing my face, closer to my mouth. Little by little, perfect presses…

Until his lips are on mine and his tongue is parting my bottom from my top. Until he's inside of me the only way this boy has ever been—the only way he ever will be.

No, my heart groans.

No, it seethes.

And the entire time his lips are moving mine:

Edward.

Edward.

Edward.

Edward.

Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward. Edward.

Edward.

Edward.

Edward.

Edward.

And my heart: Love. Love. Love. Love…

When Garrett's hands move from my sides up to my face, I pull away. I'm out of breath and spinning, guilty and stunned. I remove his touch from me. I push his arms away. I take two steps back. When I bite my bottom lip and taste someone other than Edward, I instinctively wipe it away.

I wipe and rub and scratch at my mouth until my lips are raw.

As I do, I watch acceptance pass over Garrett's eyes.

Now he knows.

I turn my face away from the boy who let me wear his sweater when we were thirteen and bought me a Fun Dip on Valentine's day a year later. The person who rubbed my leg while I slept through a storm. Garrett, who draws me a card every year on my birthday. The only friend I have who lets me lean instead of leaning on me.

It doesn't hurt as much as it should.

But, I don't choose him.

I was never going to.

When I turn around and look back into dark brown eyes, I find that the conversations around us have hushed slightly and eyes are darting, and I have the same feeling I had in my bedroom before I left. It's the same awareness I felt with Alice, and my parents. It's the same changeless sentience I've always felt when dealing with something other than my boy.

None of it matters.

It's only him.

Only Edward.

Doing what I do best, I blanket distress with confidence. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. I smooth out my dress and hair. I force my tears dry and jut certainty.

I smile.

I become Isabella Bliss.

It's not as strong with Garrett, though. It never was. This boy sees through my veil. He notices dark circles and collar bones and chipped nail polish. I know now that he was never fooled by my scarves and hoodies. Garrett knew it was Edward on the other side of the text messages in the middle of class. My skater boy watched me closely when Edward caught us kissing, and he knew then that deep blushes were only shame and guilt for kissing a boy other than my best friend's older brother.

Garrett was there when Edward fought Brady Fuller, and Jake Black.

He might have seen me leave school with my boy.

He might have seen us at the grocery store on my birthday.

He might know that pink jadeite is too precious to be a gift from my parents.

Either way, he wasn't fooled. He never was.

With his kiss only seconds old, still burning like a trespass on my lips, I say, "Garrett, you can't tell—"

Indifferent like I've never known, Garrett crosses his arms over his chest before he looks over at me—but his eyes skip. They pass by mine and lock over my shoulder. His posture changes, from jilted to guarded. His hands drop and fist, and his eyes narrow.

At the same time, my heart begins to thump its belonging-to-only-him beat. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my fingers twitch, ready to grab. Blood screams his name as it flows, and joints and muscles, ligaments and tendons all work together, trying to move me. My body mechanically turns away from the fire, toward the house.

I can't see through all of the commotion. A chair gets thrown, a person is pushed down, glass breaks. There's yelling from the door, and an entire group of people trying to hold someone back.

Love is knowing who it is.

Some, who were just sitting around the fire, get up from their chairs and separate from their groups, choosing to run toward the disturbance to get a better look, leaving only Garrett and I near the flames.

And I know—I know before I see him.

I know it before I even hear Petey yell, "Edward, back the fuck up!"

And I know before I hear Alice ask, "Why do you even care?"

And I know before Garrett says, "This is what happens when you keep secrets."

My eyes meet Edward's as soon as the crowd falls apart. He's despondent in a black and red flannel, buttoned all the way to the top. His hair is long under his black hat, and his slim-denim is hang low. The lace on his right shoe is untied, and his car keys are in his left hand.

Behind him, Petey's shouting in his ear. He has his hand on his shoulder; my boy keeps shrugging it off, though. In front of Edward, Alice has her hand on his chest. I can't see her face or read her lips, but I know.

He moves her to the side.

Go, my heart beats.

Go, it pulses.

The love I love the most takes one more step toward me before Petey and Ben both pull him back by his flannel.

There's more yelling and more cursing and more crying, and I can't stand still anymore.

I break from my spot in the sand and run toward him. The closer I get, as I move through bodies, I keep love's eyes. His body is being maneuvered and handled, but his eyes are mine, deep-dark and unbound.

And I hear people:

"What's going on?"

"Edward and Bella?"

"What?"

"Really?"

"No fucking way!"

Dusty is a shell of the boy he used to be, cocaine-brittle and heart-failing, but love gives us both incomparable strength. It's how we've survived this long. He's breathing through his nose, working his hardest to get his best boys off his back. He gets one arm free and tries to go forward, but Ben pulls him by the neck of his shirt.

It rips.

Petey is talking in his ear now, low and smooth under the chaos.

"If you love her..." his lips say. "If you love her..." I read again.

My hooligan is too far gone, though. And these people want a fight. They want to see Edward do what he does when he fucks shit up. It's why they love him so much. They instigate his madness.

"That's your girl,bro?"

"He was kissing your chick, Dusty?"

"I thought little sisters were off limits!"

With twenty people between us, I get elbowed in the chest. I get pushed back. I get pulled back.

Not for my own safety, though.

Garrett is meeting Edward head on, and I am in his way.

He pulls me by my arm and pushes me to the side. I don't catch my footing and fall into the side of the house, scraping my forearm on stucco.

It bleeds.

I try to run back into the crowd, but this time nimble arms circle around my waist and turn me from the struggle.

Without bothering to know my captor, I push down on arms and kick my legs. I scream, "Let me go!" and I cry, "Please!"

I'm being held so tightly, I can't breathe. I'm being kept, and no matter how hard I fight, I'm not being let go.

"Bella, stop," a voice I know so well whispers in my ear. "Stop."

Being held by her only makes me more angry. I stab my fingernails into Victoria's hands, but she only laughs and holds tighter. I elbow and squirm and stomp and yell, but the girl who had Edward first does not waver.

I fight until I can't anymore, and then I just give in.

With nowhere to go, caught in Victoria's grip, I watch the crowd move and move and move.

I watch Garrett reach for my boy.

I watch Ben and Pete release Edward.

And I watch love and confusion fall to the ground.

Through legs and arms and spaces between people, I watch my boy inflict and endure pain. For every blow he gives, he takes; but there's years of anger behind his fists. Years of watching me be with Garrett. Years of me saying no. Years of drugs and hiding and disappointment and anger and hurt and neglect.

He's wanted this since he pulled Garrett's sweater off my back, and all this waiting is regret.

To the side, Pete is pulling Alice back now. And beside them, Ben has his arm out in front of Jasper.

The party reacts to each hit, each kick, each cut lip and busted nose. But in true Dusty form, after a few minutes, it becomes scary and the crowd quiets. They spread out and stop laughing. Girls scream, but not a single one of them is louder than Alice. My boy's boys look at each other, wondering if they should break it up.

Jake Black kind of, sort of moves forward like he might, but he knows better. He knows first hand.

Jasper and Ben start pushing each other; Jasper wants in, but Ben knows, too: you can't bring Edward back from this.

And me, unable to watch anymore, I turn in Victoria's arms. "Vic, please!" I beg. "Please let me go." I push down on her hold.

Her eyes shift from my face to the fight, unsure but considering.

"Please," I groan between closed teeth, using her chest to push myself back.

I consider biting her face, pulling her hair and punching her in the stomach, but she finally lets me go.

When she does, I run.

This time, people move out of my way. They look at me as I pass. They wonder how they missed this.

When I reach Edward and Garrett, Garrett is fighting his way out from beneath my boy. His eye is already bruising, and his nose is bleeding. His knuckles are raw, and the neck of his shirt is ripped. His shoes skid and push and dig into the concrete underneath him, trying to gain leverage. Edward is all over him, though, just as beaten and bloody.

Garrett is at a huge disadvantage, though: Cocaine has Edward's back.

My boy will bleed to death before he stops fighting.

When Garrett finally gets to his feet, he pulls his torn shirt off and throws it to the side. He's breathing hard and crying, but nowhere near giving up.

"Come on, motherfucker," he instigates. "Get up!"

When Dusty stands, his flannel is ripped and his hair is blood-coated. His eyes are wild, and his lips are curved. Unknowing, he spits blood right near my feet. He wipes his cut lip with the back of his hand and rushes toward Garrett.

They collide and fall into the sand around the fire pit. Embers and smoke and ash swirl together above the flame. Still silent, still scared, still contemplating what to do, the party follows the battle instinctively.

With Garrett under Edward again, I know it won't be long before Edward really hurts him.

I'm not the only one.

Through thick tears, I watch Petey hand Alice over to Kim. When Ben notices Pete, he follows and so does Jasper. The three of them pull Edward off Garrett and pin my boy to the ground, giving Garrett a chance to get up.

The fight's over, but the party's still in shock. Edward's thrashing and struggling to get up from the sand. Petey's sitting on his legs, and Ben and Jasper each have an arm. Edward arches his back and kicks his feet. Sand flies and spit sails. Tears runs down his temples into his bloody hair. I can see the veins in his neck and hear the torment in his raspy-sore voice.

This is usually the part when Edward says something funny, breaking everyone from their trance. Something to show everyone fighting is fun, and it's no big deal. Something to trick these people into believe he's under control.

But that's not happening this time.

Edward is fucked up and way past control.

This is reality.

This is my boy's life.

This is the scary truth.

This is our deal.

.

.

.

Five minutes later, Edward remains rampant and convulsive.

I'm standing a few feet behind Petey, afraid to say a word or make a move. A lot of the party has cleared from Jake Black's house, too sober to stick around, and too uncaring to make sure everything is okay.

People like the invincibility in Edward. It's his tough exterior and sharp tongue that draw them in. He's a king, and when they're around him, they feel like one, too. His swag makes pussies wet, and all of these kids want to be just like him.

Edward Cullen will never fall.

Edward Cullen is undestroyable.

Edward Cullen will be forever young.

But this is what drugs have done to love—it's what living fast makes.

Indestructible Edward Cullen is being pegged to the ground, crying like a child, fighting off his best friends, begging for his freedom.

Is that what kings are made of?

No.

He's just a boy.

My boy.

Addicted and broken.

"Pete," Edward groans, his tone thick with tears. "Get the fuck off."

Petey half-laughs, struggling to keep Edward's legs down. My boy manages to get his left foot free, but Pete is quick to recapture it. And while Ben is concentrated on keeping Edward's arm pinned to the ground, Jasper's concerns are elsewhere.

In the corner of the yard, Garrett is still shirtless and raging. He paces, back and forth, back and forth, tearing up the lawn with his madness. Jake Black and a few others are keeping their eyes on him, making sure he can't go after Edward again.

He tries, though.

Garrett shoves Jake to the side, only to be held back by another.

Thirty seconds later, he tries again.

And again.

Until he's loose.

"Get the fuck up!" Garrett shouts, running over. "Come on, motherfucker. You want to bruise someone, bruise me!"

He has it so wrong.

Everyone who's left standing closes in. Jasper lets Edward go and rushes to his best friend. Victoria and the Sluts circle around Dusty. Alice takes over the arm Jasper abandoned. Jake Black and the guys from the corner linger behind Garrett, and I stand in the pathway between love and friendship.

Based between two different worlds, over the yelling and the struggling and the crying, I notice everyone's eyes are suspicious and questioning. They're looking at me, placing blame, wondering if it's really true.

Vic, with my scratch marks down her arms, stares at the person she thought she loved before looking over at me.

Tell me, her eyes ask. Tell me.

Jake, who still wears a scar, scratches the raised skin on his eyebrow. He looks at me, and then he looks at Edward, like it all makes sense now and he won't ever make that mistake again.

Jasper, who's stuck firm in front of his friend, looks at me every time my name passes Garrett's lips. And as Garrett says things like, "He busted her fucking headlights," and "Remember at the beach … remember when Bliss was crying?" Jasper's expression gives nothing away.

His words do, though.

"Fuck Bliss," he says.

"She's not fucking worth it, Garrett," Jasper spits, turning away from me. "She's a fucking liar, bro. She's just a slut, G."

It almost hurts.

Garrett calms while Jasper talks to him, and when I notice him nodding his head in agreement, I turn away with no intention of turning back.

I want to leave.

I want to be away from this place.

I want them to let Edward up so we can go.

Moving Charlotte and Kim out of my way, I get closer to my boy. His face is red and his bloody teeth are clenched and his hands are bleeding, not only from the fight, but from being dragged on the concrete by Alice and Ben. Edward's kicking his legs, but Petey has a firm grip. Love's hat is lost and his eyes are swelling. His lips is busted and his clothes are ruined.

"Let him up," I say, pushing Petey.

"Someone get her the fuck out of here!" Petey yells, shrugging me off, holding harder.

No one moves, though. No one fucks with Dusty's girl.

So I push Pete again.

When Edward notices I'm near, his crying becomes worse, more raspy and desperate.

"I saw you, Bella," he cries, fighting for his arms. "I fucking saw you."

I ignore him and pull on Petey's shirt until he falls on his bottom, and when he tries to move back toward Edward, I don't let him. I hold out my hands and keep him away, protecting my boy.

"Stop, Pete," I cry. "Just stop."

Leaning against Edward's kicking legs, with my arms extended and my eyes brimming with tears, my heart beats harder than it ever has.

Love.

Love.

Love.

And I feel it. All of it. Years worth. Lifetimes worth.

Every lie was merited. Every secret meant something. Every stolen moment and hidden kiss and scarf covered wound came down to this. Fuck their looks, and fuck their questions. Fuck Alice, and Jasper, and Garrett. Fuck my parents, and his. Fuck college. Fuck cocaine. Fuck the whole wide world, because he's mine.

I choose him.

I choose Edward.

I just need him to get up.

But love is too far gone.

Once Edward's legs are free, it doesn't take long for him to fight off Alice and Ben, too. He stands up, and so do I, and now we're in front of each other, with less than a foot between us. I expect him to see me. I expect him to wipe the blood from his mouth, or fix his shirt, or to say something to everyone who is staring at us and waiting.

But he looks over me with hollow and forever-black eyes, and I don't even recognize love.

Instead, he turns his attention back toward Garrett.

"You want to kiss someone?" Edward says, taking a few steps in his challenger's direction.

Love shrugs his shoulders and circles his neck; he spits and squares up. I hold out my hands again, but this time up to Edward. I push against his chest and ask him to stop. I attempt to hold him back, but he walks right through me.

"Kiss me, motherfucker." Edward smirks, reaching for Garrett. "Come on, kiss me!"

Garrett tries to rush past Jasper, unafraid and still ready to scrap. His eyes are wild, and his fists are ready. It's a fight in Garrett I've never experienced before, but I should have known it was there all along.

As Edward brushes by me, I grip onto what's left of his shirt and close my eyes, expecting to be pulled.

I'm not.

Edward stops, and I hold on until my knuckles turn white.

With his hand circled around my small wrist, my boy forces my fingers from ripped cotton. He holds my arm up, glaring at me. Rather than cowering like anyone else would, I stand up to Edward. I give him my wrist, because his hold feels so suffocatingly right. I give him my eyes, because his are so fucking gone, he can just have mine. I say his name over his face, giving him air, because he's not even breathing.

"I want to go," I say, almost like a whisper.

Even if we're not a secret anymore, this is only for him.

My boy cracks a sarcastic smile as his fingers tighten impossibly more. "Yeah?" he asks.

I stand straighter, almost touching his chest with my own. "Yes."

Edward's eyes fall from mine, to my nose, to my lips—lips that still sting from being kissed by another.

My guy tilts his head in Garrett's direction. "That's not what you want?"

"No," I say without a thought.

He laughs, and all of his teeth show—like they used to. Except now, it's wrong. All of this.

Edward lets go of my wrist and takes a step away, killing me. "You fooled me, princess."

He turns, and I yell, "Edward!"

My boy stops again, and when he turns, it's some kind of crazy. He finally wipes his open lip on the back of his hand, and he moves blood-caked hair away from his face. Everyone is standing back, waiting for Edward to move...

"You want to leave?" he asks. "You want to get out of here?"

My heart pounds his name.

LOVE.

Love.

love.

"Yes," I answer.

His lips curve. "Look around, sunny side," he says.

I don't.

"There's strength in numbers, girl."

My eyes shift away from love for a half-second. All of our friends are standing around us, watching. It's only been a few minutes, but I'm already being met with uncertainty and mistrust. Alice has her hands over her mouth. Petey lurks in the far back, because he knew. Garrett is staring right at me, pleading silently. Nobody else will look me in the eyes. They kick sand with the toes of their shoes. Ben runs his hand through his hair, looking up at the stars. Jasper won't even face my direction.

They think they know.

They have no idea.

They're clueless to the roles they really played. How we used them. How we lied to them.

Pawns.

And our friends may feel betrayed now, but it's nothing compared to what they'll go through when they learn the whole truth.

Turning away from them is easy, though. Easier than I ever imagined it being. My only concern is Edward, and when I look at him, his eyes are on mine... and they're the only pair that matter.

"I'm ready," I say with my heart in my throat.

My eyes water, and my hands shake. Dried blood sticks to my elbow, and my arms and legs are covered with goosebumps. I'm losing everything that has ever been important to me; a veil has been lifted, and my innocence stripped.

But it's fine … as long as I have him, it's fine.

"All of a sudden?" he asks, still smiling. He pats his pockets, like he always does. "Why? Because you kissed this kid?"

I shake my head. Cold tears spill from my eyes, down my cheeks.

Edward straightens out his ruined-torn shirt. He rubs his face in his hands, and when he drops them, he's no longer smiling. The seriousness on my boy's face gives me a head rush. It's been so long since we've touched. It's been months since we've really talked. I thought I was losing us … I thought love was lost in all the bullshit, but it's here. He's right in front of me, all fucked up and weak, but my heart still beats his name. My fingers ache with yearning. I need him to cover my lips with his... I need the intensity only he can give me.

I'll take the bad, because there is so much good. For every busted headlight, there's history that cannot be duplicated by a person who draws me birthday cards, or a friend who kissed me so she would be my first. With Edward, there's soda floats and Hide and Seek. There's searching through the mud for jellies that have reached Hell, and notes in my locker. There's our dock and the roof and unlocked doors.

There's sparklers and stolen milk and Ray Bans for Christmas. There's his touch and his warmth and his love.

His love.

He would die for me, and I totally fucked him.

I let him down, just like everyone else.

I gave up on Edward, when my heart and my body screamed at me not to.

When he begged me not to.

Edward spits more blood on the concrete. He faces Garrett and says, "Go near my girl again and I'll fucking kill you."

Garrett doesn't reply, and no one else says anything.

It's like we're all afraid to move. We're quiet, with music from the house and waves from the ocean as our only backdrops. Edward laces his fingers behind his head and walks away from me. I keep my eyes on him, uninterested in looking at anyone else. It's only now that I realize my jaw is chattering. I'm freezing, inside and out. The tip of my nose is frigid, and my tears sting my skin as they fall from my eyes.

I stay in place, though. Frozen, damned, petrified … in love.

Edward walks to the side of the house at the very same time Kim dumps her beer on embers that were once the fire I sat in front of. Liquid hisses and steams as it collides with burning wood; she shakes her red cup, emptying every drop.

It brings everyone out of shock, and everyone kind of shifts positions.

Jake Black starts picking up beer bottles and trash. Ben hugs his girlfriend. Jasper takes off his shirt and gives it to Garrett. Alice just stares. And Edward ... is leaving without me.

I take a few steps, but I don't really start to move until I hear the side gate slam shut. Adrenaline that never really calmed pumps my blood and beats my heart. It moves my feet and thaws frozen limbs. Every nerve ending in my body sparks and erupts, lighting up dormant affection and taken-for-granted tenderness.

I can't let him leave again … not without me.

As I pass his sister, Alice grabs onto my wrist and jerks me back. I pull my arm, trying to get free, but she doesn't let me go. Her lips don't need to move for me to know what she's asking. Her eyes are screaming accusations, and her defensive stance is confirming her suspicions.

She knows.

Her best friend was never only her best friend.

With the rest of my body turned away from her, I pull down on my arm again. "Alice, let me go."

She does, like my touch is poison.

I run after love, through the side gate, out to the front of the house. A few people talk in a small circle on the porch, and they stare once I'm in sight. I spot Edward right away, walking to his car at the end of the street. I call his name, but he doesn't turn around.

Ignoring whispers from the group on the porch, I run across the lawn. I rush past Alice's Jeep, and Ben's BMW. I hurry under orange street lights and trip over a crack in the sidewalk. I press fallen leaves under my wedges, and I breathe in the cold sea breeze.

I wipe my eyes on my forearm and cry for him again, "Edward!"

Beside his Lincoln, Edward finally turns. I stop running, struggling to breathe between gasps and sobs. He's patting his pockets, finding his cigarettes in his back pocket. With the lighter inside of his pack, he lights up a smoke and chucks the Bic across the street. It hits someone's car before landing in the street.

He watches me the entire time I'm walking toward him as he smokes a cigarette with an unstable hand. The closer I step, the better look I get of his face. My boy is swollen and wounded, black-and-blue and cut. His knuckles are raw, and his eyes are bleak, with no trace of Edward behind them at all.

"You can't leave me," I say, in reach.

Edward blows smoke into salty air before flicking the rest of his cigarette into someone's yard. Half of his face is lit by the street lamp hanging over the Continental, and the other half is darkened by the night.

"Why?" he spits. "You looked pretty comfortable to me."

Love leaves me on the sidewalk and walks around to his car. He looks as he unlocks the driver's side door, scrutinizing me with cocaine-blacks, taunting me with a smug smirk and a condescending wink.

When Edward opens the car door and gets in, I think he might actually leave me.

He doesn't.

My boy starts the engine and presses on the gas, shattering silence. He flips on the lights and leans over to unlock the passenger door. When I hesitate, love opens the door and demands I get in.

"Get the fuck in the car, Bella," he says, righting his position. "Hurry up."

Cream colored leather is cold on my bare legs, and the windows are fogging from our warm breath inside and the icy air outside. I tug on my seat belt, but it's stuck. So I tug and tug and pull. Unsuccessful, I leave it, letting what I had slam into the side window.

I cry in my hands.

"What the fuck are you crying for?" Love asks, turning on the blinker.

The action is so simple, it makes me cry harder.

"I can't get my seat belt on," I say, filling my palms with sadness.

I want to lean forward and scream into my knees. I want to fall over and bury my face in his seat. I want to go back in time and leave after graduation like we were supposed to. I want to tell him I'm sorry, and he should know … he should know by now that it's only him.

But I can't.

I can't do anything but cry.

Calm, my heart beats.

Stop, it whispers.

"Put it on, Bella," Edward says sternly. "Put your fucking seat belt on, Bliss!" he yells.

I don't jump. I don't flinch. I don't do anything but scream into my hands.

Frustrated, Edward reaches over and pulls on the belt. Between my fingers, I watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he fights nylon. His jaw is tight, and his nostrils flare. Plastic cracks every time he pulls; he's breaking his car, but he doesn't care. He wrenches and forces and drags until the seat belt releases and pulls.

After he locks me in, he drives, not bothering with his own.

Heading back into Forks, Edward's cell phone starts ringing as soon as we pull onto the highway. He ignores it, driving with both hands on the steering wheel. The Lincoln's headlights fill the route in front of us, lighting up the trees. I watch the dashed yellow lines between the lanes, counting then as we get closer to home.

As upset as we both are, I'm also relieved. For the first time today, I feel like I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. So I stay quiet on my side of the seat, and I yawn as my tears stop and exhaustion sets in. My fingertips tingle and my eyes burn, but none of it's new. I've felt this heart-hurt before.

Edward doesn't talk, and I don't expect him to.

Unable to keep them open any longer, I let my eyes close.

I don't open them again until Edward stops the car.

When I do, I get one moment's peace. I'm with my boy, and he's looking at me with his hand on my knee. His touch is gentle, soothing, and even though his eyes are blueless, they're consoling.

This, I know.

This, I love.

I kind of, sort of open my thighs, hoping he'll touch me higher. I blink tired lids and curve lazy lips. When my boy slides his hand away from me, I sit up and look around.

"You gotta go, B," Edward says lowly, sitting back in his seat, looking straight ahead.

I rub my eyes, taking in my surroundings.

Wrong house, wrong driveway, wrong street.

"Why are we here?" I ask, tipping hysterical, staring at my parents' front door.

Love is knowing.

Even this.

I look over at my wrecking ball, who won't look back at me. I clutch onto his flannel and claw at the neck of his torn white tee.

He's crying. Slowly, quietly...

"Edward?" I question, ripping his shirt further.

He takes control of my wrists. He holds them in his hands. He looks at me with red-rimmed eyes and a quivering chin.

"Baby," he whispers.

"No!" I fight against his hold. I sit up on my knees and move closer to love. "Edward, no!"

He keeps me in his grip, but turns his face away from me. My kneecaps touch his thighs, and my tears drip on his denim. His beaten and bruised face looks worse than it did when we left La Push twenty minutes ago. Edward's almost swollen shut eye looks pitiful as he cries. He bites nervously on his bottom lip, reopening his cut. He licks his own blood away.

"Don't make me stay here," I beg. "Please … I'm sorry, Edward. I swear … I swear."

"Bella..." he trails off.

For the third time tonight, I try to free my wrists from someone's grasp. But this time, my holder doesn't let up. Edward holds me until his knuckles turn pink. As blood circulation slows in my hands, they begin to lose sensation, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters unless I have Edward, and he's trying to take himself away. He's trying to leave.

"I'll go with you," I say, twisting my wrists so I can dig my fingers into him. "Don't leave me," I cry. "Not again."

"Bliss, stop," he chokes. More tears stream down his cheeks. "I can't—we can't..."

Love knows.

It knows what this is.

"Please," I cry out, hiding my face in his neck, smelling vanilla and trouble and blood and aggravation—my boy. "Please, Edward."

Desperation moves me, and I force myself on his lap. I push my knees into his stomach until his part, letting me in. I kiss the side of his crying face while he keeps his grip on my wrists. Edward's eyes are closed, and his lip is bleeding, but it doesn't stop me from kissing him … biting him. I bite until he moans. I bite until his grip loosens, and when I have my arms free, I circle them around his neck with no intention of letting go.

"Don't," I say over and over. "Don't leave me. We'll go together, Edward. Edward!"

When he gives in, I feel it. His shoulders sink and his breathing quickens. His body molds to mine, eliminating space, connecting us completely. His lips press into the side of my neck, and his voice is a whisper in my ear.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says.

I don't let go, though. I hold tighter. I'll keep us this way forever if I have to. We can't be apart. We can't—no matter what.

But love still knows.

I stay in place as he starts the car, and remain in his lap as he drives away. I cuss and yell and clutch while Edward takes us somewhere other than my parents' house. I cry and cry and cry, unable to restrain myself. I cry until I start to yawn again. I cry until my teeth chatter for a whole new reason. I cry until I'm shaking.

I cry until the car stops; this time in front of Edward's house.

"Bliss," he says softly, turning the engine off.

My eyes sting when I open them. They feel red, tender and irritated. I blink, looking out the back window over Edward's shoulder. A couple of hot tears spill over my eyelids, down my cheeks and onto my boyfriend's fought-dirty shirt. I keep my arms hooked around him as I look around, finding Alice's jeep parked on the far side of the house.

I turn my head, lying my temple on Edward's shoulder. The Cullen home is massive and completely dark. All of the windows are lightless and the drapes are closed. Not even the porch light is on. The swing, which has been reupholstered, delicately rocks with the quiet wind.

"Let's go inside," Edward says, breaking our silence with his punished tone.

Hesitantly, I drop my arms and sit up, still in Edward's lap. He opens the door, letting in cool air, and waits for me to step out first.

I touch my wedges to rocky pavement, listening to tiny rocks grind under my shoes. Standing straight hurts. My back aches, and my wrists throb. Straps, leather, and buckles dig into my feet, causing each step to pang with objection. I straighten my dress and lift my bra straps back into place. Meanwhile, the boy who's not my ghost anymore gets out of the Lincoln and shuts the door, sending an echo through the forest surrounding the house.

Edward spots Alice's car as he walks past me.

"Do you think she's here?" I ask, following him.

"I don't know," he answers quietly, pushing his house key into the front door.

Once the door is open, love steps aside and waits for me to enter before him.

The interior of the house is just as unlit as the exterior. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Especially after Edward follows me in and closes the door, locking us inside a place which used to be a haven.

Through the dark, I walk slowly, deeper into the living room. I reach out for the sofa, pleased to find it's in the same place it always was. I don't sit, though. I wait. Edward walks toward the kitchen, and I know he's going to turn the light on, so before he does, I close my burning eyes and inhale through my nose … and for just a second, I remember how it used to be.

I think back on the days when baseball bags used to be thrown by the front door. I smile at the memory of love hiding my best girl's shoe in the washing machine. I drop my head and remember Esme trying to pass take-out as homemade. And I remember Carlisle, walking through the front door with a loose tie and a lazy grin, happy to be home after a long day at work. His presence used to make me so excited, like he was my own dad.

When the kitchen light flips on, I open up and look around. Nothing is the same. Edward's mother has been busy redecorating, like she does every season. Winter colors have been replaced with summer, and the old wooden coffee table has been superseded by a larger glass one. There are new pillows on the couch and a new rug in front of a new TV, which hangs on the wall. Alice's old school picture has been traded for her new one, while mine remains a year old.

At least it's still up, I think before turning around.

I don't know when the last time Edward has been home was, but he isn't affected by the change in décor. My boy is at the kitchen sink, catching water in the palm of his hand. He bends down, cupping liquid into his mouth. He swishes and spits blood-pinked water before cupping more and splashing it on his wounded face. He does this over and over until it runs clear from his mouth.

Using a dish towel from the counter, love dries off his face and opens the freezer. He pulls out an ice pack and holds it against his most swollen eye.

Slowly, I go to him. I turn Edward toward the kitchen table and help him take a seat. He hands over the ice pack without a fight and leans back, tilting his head back so I can get a better look. The warm-golden shines from the ceiling uncover and highlight the injuries on my boy's face. Contusions and slices are not what bother me the most, though.

Edward's crying.

I lightly press the ice pack to his face and ask softly, "What?"

Between his knees, with his hands on my hips, love does nothing to hide his hurt. He cries openly, and loudly. He pulls me closer, until my knees buckle and press into the edge of the chair. I run my free hand through his hair, breaking up dried blood and knots.

"Tell me, boy," I say, kissing his forehead, fighting back tears of my own.

"You and cocaine make me crazy," he says, broken. Edward's shoulders shake and his head drops forward onto my chest.

I curve to suit him, circling my arms around his neck and lying my cheek on the top of his head. I hide us behind a curtain of strawberry-blonde. I move my legs from between him, to each side of him, straddling his thighs; the tips of my wedges brush the kitchen floor. The ice pack drops.

He kisses the side of my throat.

Under my chin.

The corner of my mouth.

"Bliss..." he cries sadly. "Bliss..." He whispers over my lips.

His broken and shredded fingers touch my face while my boy kisses each freckle and imperfection. Edward slides one hand behind my neck and moves my hair out of faces with the other. Love forces my head back so he can kiss across my collar bone.

But he's still crying.

And this feels like goodbye.

Unable to stop myself, I cry out as tears start to build and spill again. Salty liquid stings already-sore eyes, and already-tender fingers grip at the front of Edward's shirt. With his mouth near my ear, I press my wedges into the floor and push myself up my hoodlum's legs until where-he-hasn't-been-in-so-long feels what-it-needs-so-badly.

"Stay," I whisper through teardrops.

I circle my hips.

"Stay, Edward," I cry again, clutching onto the front of his shirt.

My boy's mouth is unmoving, and his hands have a hold of my arms. He breathes uneven breaths right below my ear, and I feel it when his sadness drips onto my shoulders. But no matter how hurt he is, love cannot keep his body from reacting to mine.

I know.

I feel him under me, so I circle harder.

I whimper because he likes it when I do.

I let go of his shirt and lace my fingers into his hair and pull until he looks at me.

Nothing tastes better than Edward's lips, bloodied and slashed, defending what we are. I can savor the battle through each split lip. Blood tastes like justification. The swelling feels like protection. Each bruise looks like a declaration.

Edward tries to still my hips, but I push through him, thrusting up and back. He's hard between me, and I know we need this. No matter what he thinks. No matter how crazy he feels.

Even if our hearts don't beat the same.

I feel that, too.

Mine's crying, gripping as hard as we can.

Its beat is nowhere near as strong as it used to be... back when our biggest worry was waiting for Alice to go to sleep so I could sneak down the hallway into lifelong-love's room. The early days, when we used to roll around in powdered donut wrappers and make up the most insignificant, significant rules. When we used to play hide-and-go-seek in the dark. When this was easy. When love was new and hiding was exciting.

Before keeping our secret became a burden.

It still beats, through.

My heart skips and palpitates and jumps, plagued with years of abuse and misuse, but it still works.

He has to know. He has to be able to feel it.

Edward's hold on my hips softens. He kisses me back. Love relaxes into the chair, pulling me forward until our chests are touching.

He closes his eyes, and I close mine, too.

Our mouths make the best kind of love and it feels like being rescued. It's messy and hard and it hurts, but we open our mouths wide and our tongues reach so far back. Our teeth collide and his lips bleed against mine. I brush my fingers through his hair instead of pulling, and Edward circles my hips instead of holding.

My lips are soaking wet in a mixture of saliva and blood and tears. I suck on his tongue before I chew on his lip. I lick his teeth and groan into his mouth, needing more. I gag him with my insistence. I force myself on him. I give him no other choice.

We have to eventually break for air, though.

I bring my head back and stare up at the ceiling, and I gasp for breath.

Edward just moves his mouth down my throat. His arms are around me, keeping me secure...

"Not here," he says pressing his face over red cotton, between my breasts.

His hand slips under my dress. His fingernails scratch up my thighs. His palm slips inside my underwear.

So wound up, so caught in my victory … I don't even hear Alice come down the stairs. I don't notice when she comes into the kitchen. I wouldn't have cared to, anyway.

I feel it when she throws my purse at us, through. It hits the leg of the chair before settling at Dusty's feet. I hear the screen on my phone break when she tosses it on the kitchen counter. And when I look over my shoulder, I see my betrayal in the eyeliner running down her face. It's in the tremble of her hands and the shock in her eyes. It's in her silence. It's in her posture and her anger and the missing friendship bracelets that used to be on her wrist.

When Alice turns and walks away, I know I've absolutely lost my best friend.

It takes a moment before my eyes move away from the empty space she just filled in the kitchen, but I feel her void in me right away.

I didn't think I would.

I thought letting her go would be easy compared to the alternative.

I was wrong.

Slipping my fingers from Edward's hair, I cover my mouth and close my eyes. I try to breathe, but I can't take a full breath. I can't...

I just can't...

"You knew," Edward says lowly, pushing my hair over my shoulder. "We always knew, Bliss."

Grief moves through me in waves—immense rises and rolls. My stomach is in tangles and my heart is beating a little softer. My boy, despite being fucked up and beat up, tries to be consoling. He's rubbing my arm and stroking my hair.

He doesn't get it.

She will always be his sister, but Alice will never be mine ever again.

I hate him for it.

When I open up and look, he knows.

Edward's face shifts from soft to firm, and his touch changes from comforting to controlling. He sits up straight and moves me down his lap. He wipes wet eyes in the bend of his elbow and clears his throat, and his already-so-open pupils seem to expand more, swallowing up any vulnerability he was showing before his sister found us.

This boy is standoffish, thoughtless and cold.

This person is who Edward has become.

"I should take you home," he says, indifferently.

My boy crosses his arms and stares over my shoulder, purposely avoiding my eyes. His cocaine-blacks are so fucking taunting, like they're teasing me. Because they're winning—drugs are killing Edward, and it's beginning to feel like there is nothing I can do about it. I can't get through to him anymore. My usual weapons—affection, threats, sex—are having no effect. He's unreachable, and this feeling is worse than the slow death he is sentencing us to.

"And where will you go?" I ask pathetically. My voice cracks, and my chin quivers. Pressure builds behind my eyes, and my chest caves in.

Before he says anything, the front door opens and slams shut, knocking one of Esme's portraits off the wall. A few seconds later, we listen as Alice's Jeep starts and speeds out of the driveway. When she's gone, Edward pushes me off of his lap and walks toward the broken picture. He doesn't bother picking it up; he steps over broken glass and the photo of his family and opens the front door.

Still in the kitchen, I refuse to move. I'll hold onto the fucking chair if I have to. I'll climb the walls... I'll burn this motherfucker down. He won't make me go. Not without him.

He knows.

"Isn't this enough?" he asks, raking his hands through his hair. "What more do you want, Bella?"

"You're not leaving without me!" I scream, kicking the chair we were just sitting in.

I want to break it. I want to smash the entire oak table to pieces. I want to dig splinters in his eyes. I want to stab a shard through my heart. I want to do whatever I have to until he listens to me.

He's not listening, though. He's watching me throw a fit with a smirk on his busted lips. My anger and frustration entertain him.

"Kick it again, princess kid," he provokes amusingly.

With my hands fisted at my sides, I'm livid. I see red. I see purple, blue, and black. I see fucking stars I'm so damn upset.

So I scream and kick the chair again.

If I could, I'd pick it up and throw it at him.

Edward laughs.

His knees bend.

He tilts his head back.

His teeth show.

He holds his hands over his stomach.

I reach for the first thing I see and chuck it. It's not until the object leaves my hand that I realize it's an orange from the basket of fruit on the counter. My boy dodges my effort easily, so instead of throwing the basket of produce one at a time, I pick the entire thing up and throw it.

I toss the cookbook next, the garage door opener, and then a half-full water bottle.

I yell until my voice gives. I cry until tears blind me. I don't give up, because he's going to hear me.

When I've thrown everything but my purse and my cellphone, I reach for both, but he's here, grabbing and pulling me out of the kitchen. With my back against his chest, Edward holds my arms down and doesn't even bother letting me walk on my own. I trip over apples and glass and his legs. I thrash and fight and dig my nails into his not-even-well-skin.

He carries me past the front door, and I kick it closed.

I won't go.

I won't.

"Stop!" he's yelling. "Calm the fuck down!"

But I'm past calm. I'm hopeless and scared and so fucking heartbroken.

Because I know.

My heart is telling me.

My boy shoves me toward the stairs, letting me out of his grip.

"Get the fuck upstairs, Bella," he demands, turning me around and pushing me forward.

Lightheaded and desperate, I place my right hand on the banister and slowly take a step. Love's impatient, though. He's behind me, pushing me ahead; so I take two steps instead of one. Then I take three, tripping over my footing. Edward catches me by my elbow and helps.

At the top of the stairs, I stop, but only for a second. Edward walks around me, not even bothering with the hallway light. He doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.

He knows I'll follow.

Standing in his doorway, through my cries, I watch love pull off his t-shirt and drop it to the floor. He walks toward the window and opens the curtains, and even in the dark, I see dust scatter into the air.

He hasn't been here in a while. The room smells closed off and closed up. Everything is too tidy—too long untouched.

Guided by the moonlight he let in, Edward walks back and forth. He turns on the TV, opens his closet doors, and goes into the bathroom. He acts as if I'm not standing here, crying my fucking soul out.

His jeans hang low, showing his dark blue boxers. My boy is thin, and his skin is pale. From his fight with Garrett, his shoulders are scraped up and his ribs are bruised. Because of me, Edward has scratch marks up and down his forearms and punctures from my fingernails in his hands. Cocaine has him unsteady and antsy. He can't commit to one thing. He's washing his face, he's at his window smoking, he's looking through his clothes for a shirt, he's starting the shower... he's turning it off, he's asking me, "Are you going to stand there all night?"

Despite being scraped, bruised, scratched, punctured and unsteady, he's still beautiful to me.

I refuse to believe what my heart already knows.

I close the door with a soft click. I wipe off my face and force oncoming tears back. I move carefully, quietly. I reach under his ivory lampshade until my fingers feel the cool metal chain. With one pull, his room lights up in a dull yellow. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the TV, even though I have no idea or interest in what's playing. It's movement and it's noise, and I need it to settle down.

I'm all hiccups and gasps and whimpers and quivers. My hands are shaking, and my eyes are slowly watering. It would be so easy to lie back and curl up in these sheets and blankets I've missed so much. But I need him...

"Edward," I say, unsteadily.

Shirtless, he's positioned in front of the TV with the remote in his hand. Like me, he's uninterested.

"I'm changing, B. Then I'm taking you home," he answers, evenly.

It would be impossible to be more upset than I already am, and we're here, in his room where things are always okay enough for us to deal. We've come this far, and we've been through so much. This will work.

It has to.

On my feet, I go to him. I place my unsteady hands on his sides and press my lips between his shoulder blades. Love's skin rises, and whether he realizes it or not, he leans into me. Edward turns the TV off and drops the remote. In my arms, the unbeating half of my heart turns and faces me.

I look up at him through wet eyelashes. He's not touching me, but he doesn't have to; his look is enough. His look is uncontaminated love and courage and forever and everything.

It's everything.

He's everything.

My hands slip from his sides to his belt buckle.

Love exhales an uneven breath over my face. He closes eyelids over chemical black and shakes his head. He covers my hands with his, but I don't let him stop me.

We have to do this.

We have to, because his heart is not beating like mine.

It hasn't been for a while.

And my heart has known all a long.

But love is trying anyway.

Using the tips of my wedges, I reach for his lips and brush mine on his. I pull black leather from it's brass buckle. I hook my fingers in his belt loops and carefully step backward toward the bed. Edward's eyes are open, but he's not seeing me. He's far away, buried within himself.

Hearthurt is streaming down my face, as if my tear ducts are the only part of me not fighting the unavoidable. They've given in, so they flow freely.

When the back of my thighs touch the mattress, I let go of Edward and reach for the hem of my dress. With my eyes on his face, I start to pull red cotton up...

He stops me, though.

"Bliss," he says lowly.

I try again, but his hands are still in my way.

"Please," I cry, helplessly.

"Hey," he says. "Come on, girl. Come on."

Love pulls me into his arms.

"My girl," he whispers, softly kissing the side of my throat. "My princess girl."

Even with his lips on me, I feel our loss. I cry out loudly, full of hurt and denial and refusal. I fall into him, pressing my face into his chest. I cry against his coward heart. I scream, and I sob, and I choke.

Edward turns me, kissing the back of my neck. He holds me carefully, like I'm a fucking bubble and not the love of his life. Like I'm not the girl he's been with since he was thirteen years old. Like I'm not the same person who has gone to Hell with him.

He's handling me like I might break. His arms are around my chest, but it feels so fucking temporary.

When he guides me onto the bed, placed on my hands and knees, I don't feel any better.

"I don't want to fucking cuddle, Edward," I say, harshly.

Love pushes my dress up and kisses my lower back as he pulls down my underwear, leaving my delicates at my knees. He palms my thighs, opening me up enough to see. My boy sinks his teeth into my bottom, making me whimper, just before I feel his mouth on my center.

His lower lip touches my clit, and he licks between my folds and pushes his tongue inside of me completely. I feel his teeth and his chin and nose. I feel his breath, and I feel his voice when he pulls back and moans, "Fuck" against the part of me that has only ever been his.

Then he opens me wider and kisses me deeper … firmer.

I gasp and moan.

I arch my back, offering him more.

My boy trades his tongue for his fingers, sliding them in and out of me slowly while he kisses my inner thighs.

I concentrate on my heartbeat; it's steady, but only half as strong as it was the last time we were together. Even through this. Even though the rest of my body is sky high and lit up. With the sound of Edward unzipping his jeans, it should be racing. My lifebeat should be thrashing against my chest.

It's supposed to be flying.

Teardrops fall onto the tops of my hands. Elbows I refuse to let fall, ache in hurtful protest. My hair sticks to my cheeks as desperate cries are trapped behind clenched teeth.

Edward climbs in behind me, hard between my thighs, but not inside. He moves hair away from my face before placing his hands over my own, lacing our fingers.

Love tucks his face in my neck as he pushes inside of me. It's slow going and more painful than it should ever be. Not because it's been so long since we've been together this way, but because it's conclusive.

This feels like the last time.

"I love you," he whispers breathlessly, filling me. "I love you, girl. I love you," he cries, airlessly.

I keep looking at our hands.

Like his with me, my body could never not react to Edward. I'm wet where we connect, and my nipples are hard inside my bra. Goosebumps spread up and down my arms and legs, and across my back and over my stomach. My breath catches, and I moan. I let my head fall forward and to the side, allowing him more of the thin skin he adores.

He isn't biting or sucking, but kissing me so fucking softly. His hips move slowly, carefully... fully. He's taking care of me, paying attention, moving with thought. He's making sure I feel all of him, with no selfish regard for his own need.

My boy is making love.

I let my elbows buckle and slip.

I cry into the mattress, so smoldering and damaged.

We don't make this kind of love. This is fake. This is what other people do. This is not who we are, or who we will ever be. It's so fucking insignificant. It's a sad imposter. It's disgusting.

With my hands still pressed into the mattress, I push my hips back, forcing him to fuck me.

Edward groans into my neck. I feel his entire body tense up, because he knows. He knows what to do. He knows how we like it … how we need it.

"Do it," I say, muffled by the comforter. "Do it, you fucking—"

My soultaker holds my hips firmly, but with unusual gentleness. "Stop," he begs helplessly. "Let me, B. Let me."

I don't move or say a word, so Edward guides me from my knees to my stomach while he stays inside from behind. He covers every inch of me with so much of him. I feel his lungs expand on my back, I feel his pelvis on my bottom, and I feel the outside of his thighs against the inside of mine. He kisses the back of my neck and the top of my shoulder. He pulls my hair, but only enough to make me moan. Edward uses his teeth, but they barely brush the surface of my skin.

He loves me patiently.

He loves me kindly.

He loves me like this should have been our first time.

My entire body goes limp when I come. I sink into the bed and let go. Overcome and overwhelmed, I can hear myself crying and I can feel myself dissolving around him, but I can hear and feel him, too. The weight of his body is pushing me into the bed, but the weight of his despair is slaughtering me wholly.

It's the best and worst I've felt since the night before my birthday.

As he rides me, love's movements alter from measured to unconcerned. Guided strokes become negligent thrusts. Gentleness transforms into crudeness. Consideration is turned into mindlessness.

He's giving me what I wanted.

Only now that I've had what love can really feel like, this is a sick sadness compared—and I'm too fucking late.

Suddenly, Edward pulls out, but only long enough to turn me over onto my back.

Seeing his face is worse.

Any trace of the love I know is gone. I have his body. I have his lips. I have his hands. I have his voice, and I have his dick, but the energy is missing. Our ever-present-until-now intensity is being forced. I hear him telling me he loves me, and my heart drinks it up, but his words are empty. They're routine. They're what we're supposed to say.

This time, I settle my face into his neck. I'm soaking up and down my thighs and he's so slippery between me, but I wrap my legs around him, anyway.

"It's okay," he says, aching. "It's okay. It's okay."

My urgently seeking boy circles his arms under me, gripping so tight. He fucks in short, hard thrusts now.

He's hardly breathing.

He's barely moving.

He's holding on, like me.

Coming isn't so unhopeful the second time. He loves me. My boy kisses my mouth and hugs me hard. He whispers my name and swears he loves me.

"Know it, Bliss," he says. "Know it always."

He even smiles when my back arches. He licks under my chin and tenderly pulls my earlobe between his teeth.

He looks at me.

He really looks.

"Love stays, girl," he says as my eyes close and my body sets fire.

.

.

.

Looking back, Edward and I are marked by events— a timeline of occurrences.

When you're nine years old, love is not a concern. You think it's gross when your parents kiss, and you know the boys in school all have cooties. You're still playing with Barbies, and you're best friends with your mom.

When I was nine years old, I met Edward Cullen.

Looking over at him now while he smokes a cigarette behind the wheel of his car, it's hard to believe he's the same boy who told me he liked my hair color so much that very first day.

Edward was light back then, carefree and untroubled. He was guiltless.

That was the beginning of us; our first stamp. Nine and eleven—a princess and a troublemaker.

Almost eight years later, we've been through so much. Days pass in a blur when you're in love with a drug addict, so I don't remember every moment I've spent with Dusty, but there are certain instances I could never forget. Certain things that define who we are. The foreseeable things like the first time I snuck into his room or when he told me he loved me always stand out, but I find myself often looking back on the less predictable.

Like the first time I saw his toes.

It's so simple, but I'll never forget it.

It's an honest memory.

As we got older, things became more complicated and more consequential. There were things heavier than him lying to me or sleeping around that changed our lives.

I caught him snorting E once.

It was before cocaine, but after the first time we kissed.

That day had to have changed us, I felt it. I felt the weight of what he was doing while it was happening. And when he told me it was nothing, and I chose to believe him even though I knew, it molded who we are right now.

Maybe if I would have said something to someone...

Months passed and shit got worse. He beat the fuck out of Brady Fuller and Jake Black, and a new possessiveness controlled what we did and how we acted. The lightness in my boy slowly started to fade, but we went with it. Edward and I had a bigger goal in mind.

Cocaine makes Dusty brave. It turns him from carefree, to careless—invincible. When I was fourteen or fifteen, there was this one night he snuck into my room after he had been out with his friends. Back then, he didn't always tell me a lot. I knew what he was doing and when he was doing it, but he edited more than he told. He was cautious with his words and how he spoke to me.

He was always playfully dirty, but that night, while he had his fingers in me, he was vulgar; what he tried to get me to do was shocking.

By then I'd heard him refer to my center as a pussy or a cunt, and while it was scandalous, Dusty was a dirty talker and I liked it. I liked him uncensored. I liked the way he would smirk after he told me how beautiful my pussy was, or how hard I made his cock. The troublesome gleam in his blues was to die for.

My troublesome troublemaker boy.

But that night, his eyes were all black, and there was no smirk at all.

I was spread open, still a little shy, but I felt good. He was giving me what I had not even begun to understand I needed. He was talking to me like he would, and I was blushing like I did. His thumb was circling my clit and my forearm was over my eyes ... I was close.

He knew it.

He loved it.

Then, with the fingers that were just inside of me, he pushed my mouth apart.

"Fly with me, girl," he whispered in the dark.

There was a pill at my lips.

I dropped my arm from over my eyes and moved my head away from his hand.

He laughed lightly.

"Do you think I would hurt you, sunny side?" he asked, in a tone I didn't know well then, but know too well now.

He didn't remember any of it the next day, or if he did, he didn't say anything. But it's another one of those nights that keep me wondering.

It's not like it was only ever him. I'm fucked up in my own right.

Edward's my addiction.

I've lied for him. I've snuck, stolen, and fucked for him.

My body suffers withdrawals, inside and out, when I'm denied my dependance.

I know.

Looking around, we're not too far from my house. He told me not to worry, but I can't help it.

I don't trust him.

And this, too, is a stamp in our relationship.

"Edward..." I start.

My boy flicks his cigarette out the window before looking over at me. "I already told you," he answers, looking back to the road.

I nod.

In Edward's bedroom, after he pulled out of me and slipped my underwear back up my legs, he said he was taking me home. I began to panic and argue; I wasn't leaving, especially after that. But he kissed me, and it was sweet.

"You have to pack," he said. "Just put some shit in a bag. I'll be back for you."

I wanted to believe him ... so I did.

What other choice do I have?

I sat on the bed with his pillow in my lap while love took a quick shower. We didn't speak, but it wasn't awkward. In fact, for the first time the entire night I felt content. I watched him get dressed. He sat next to me while he tied his shoes. He kissed my forehead when he got up. He put his wallet in his back pocket and his cell phone in his front. He buttoned up his black and gray flannel and put on his belt.

He wouldn't meet my eyes, though. But he held his hand out for me, so I took it.

Fuck his eyes, I thought.

"You don't need your hat?" I asked as we took the steps downstairs.

He shook his head."No."

Edward led me right to the front door, but I remembered my purse was still in the kitchen.

"I'll get it for you," he said, leaving me on the front porch.

"And my phone," I called after him, holding myself to keep warm.

"It's broken," he called back.

I stepped through the doorway just as he was coming back outside. He had my purse, but no phone.

"I'll get you a new one," he said.

I walked around him; I could tell he was lying. I know every time he lies.

"Bliss," he groaned, letting me by.

There's nothing wrong with my cell phone. Alice cracked the glass when she tossed it, but it still works. I didn't know why he didn't want me to have it. I didn't ask.

My heart is in my throat when we pull up in front of my house for the second time tonight. Edward kills the engine, but leaves his hands on the wheel. I don't move. I don't even look at my parents' home.

"Promise me," I say through the quiet.

My boy breathes through his nose before turning his body toward me. "I said I'd be back."

"When?" I ask, keeping my eyes on my feet.

"I'll call you," he replies, patting his pockets.

His white and red cigarette pack is on the dashboard.

"Come inside with me. It doesn't matter anymore," I say, finally looking over just as he turns the end of his smoke cherry-red.

Nicotine fills the cab of the car. Edward cracks his window.

"It does matter, B," he says with tobacco filled lungs.

I shake my head. "Edward—"

"Bella!" he cuts me off. With his hands under my chin, he forces me to look at him. He studies my entire face: my eyes, my nose, my mouth.

He licks his lips before saying, "I'll be back."

With tears that feel like fire, I pull my face free from his grasp and open the car door. The grass looks wet and the air is thick. My house is as dark as it should be at after three in the morning.

I thought I might not come back here; I'm disappointed I was wrong.

As I'm getting ready to push myself out of the car, not knowing if I'll have to meet my parents on the inside, Edward grabs my elbow and pulls me back in. There's a rashness in his expression that wasn't there a second ago. His hand trembles on my arm and there is a slight quiver in his chin. My boy's eyes are glossy, like he might cry.

"What?" I ask.

"I love you," he says, clearly. "Only you, you know. I love you only."

He sniffs.

I pull my arm free and get out of the car.

Before I close the door, I lean in so he can see me as clearly as I hope he can, and say:

"I love you too, boy."

.

.

.

Two hours later, the sun is coming up and I have my bedroom torn to pieces.

By the grace of God, my parents were in bed when I walked through the back door. They didn't hear me come in, they didn't hear Edward's Lincoln drive away, and they didn't hear the neighbor's dogs.

Those mutts were a little more excited than normal.

I might have kicked the fence as I snuck by.

Fuck those dogs.

Once I was upstairs, the first thing I did was take a long, hot shower. I pulled my shoes off and bent my toes a couple of times before I finally lifted my red dress over my head. Under the water, I took my time and washed my hair and reshaved my legs. I stood until standing became tiresome. Then I sat back and opened my legs, allowing the hot water to beat down on my sore middle.

I stayed in until my fingers and toes pruned and the water turned cold.

Wrapped in a towel, I slowly opened the bathroom door and tiptoed down the hall.

I didn't get far.

"Isabella!" my mom hissed in a whisper.

Holding my towel together, I closed my eyes before slowly turning around. She stood halfway out of her bedroom door, dressed in a white nightgown. Her face was sleepy, but her disappointment was unmistakably apparent.

"We're talking about this in the morning," she said before she closed her door between us.

Deciding what to wear was harder than it should be.

What does someone wear when they run away?

That is what I'm doing.

I'm only seventeen.

I settled on pink sweats and a gray tank. After I braided my hair, I started to take my closet apart. Now, everything is thrown across my bed and spread across my bedroom floor. I can't bring it all, so I have to choose what I need the most, which is proving difficult. Just about everything I own means something or reminds me of whatever I did while I was wearing it.

With only socks and underwear in my duffel bag, I text Edward.

I don't know what to bring.

He replies right away:

It doesn't matter.

I smile and drop my phone back in my purse.

Twenty minutes later, my hair is starting to fall out of my braid and I've decided on a couple different pairs of jeans and my four favorite sweaters.

As I'm stepping over all the shit Esme's bought for me over the years, I realize none of it matters. I choose articles of clothing at random, throwing cotton and silk and lace and whatever-the-fuck-else in my bag.

I can buy more clothes later.

I'm going to be with my boy.

That's all I care about.

After shoving a couple of different pairs shoes inside my bag, I zip it up and toss it beside the door. I fill a second bag with my haircare products and makeup and curling irons, and finally, a third bag with things I can't leave behind: pictures and books, my iPod and every single friendship bracelet Alice ever gave me.

Once I'm packed, I leave my room before my parents come in. They're awake, now. The house smells like coffee and syrup. The TV is on, playing the local news. My mother must have opened the front curtains when she woke up, because the dull gray light from outside is coming in.

I kneel on the recliner by the window and look out, rocking back. I stare at the spot where Edward dropped me off last night.

I wish he were here already.

"Is it going to rain today?' I ask, knowing one of them will answer.

"You're asking me about the weather?" Mom replies in a dumbfounded tone

I move away from the window and the recliner and head into the kitchen. "Yeah."

Mom, still in her nighty, leans against the stove. My dad, who's sitting at the kitchen table, stabs at his pancakes. He looks up and nods his head, shoving a syrup-drenched mess into his mouth.

I sit across from him.

"What time did you get home?" she asks, looking over my shoulder toward her husband, awaiting her backup.

I pick at my already-chipped-polish under the kitchen table, and shrug. "About one." Lie.

Mom scoffs.

Dad points his fork at me, swallowing his bite. "I told you to be in early, Bella."

I shrug again. "Sorry."

Mom makes another noise.

I leave the kitchen before they start asking more questions, and after retrieving my cell phone from upstairs, I grab a blanket from the closet and wrap it around me before I park myself on the couch, waiting for Edward.

My parents try to call me back into the kitchen. My mom even come into the living room to glare, like I fucking care.

"This is why we don't let you out, Bella," she says. "You won't be one of those kids who disrespect their parents," she scolds. "We didn't raise you to be this way, Bliss."

You didn't raise me at all, I think to myself.

I ignore her and text Edward instead.

I'm ready.

I don't get a reply before I fall asleep.

.

.

.

I wake up to my mother trying to reach under the blanket for my cell phone. It's clutched not-so-snugly in my hand, and she already has her fingers on it. I tighten my grip around the only way I have to get a hold of my boy and pull it deeper into the blankets, away from her. I slip it between my thighs and hold onto red fleece with both hands so she can't get in.

Mom stands straight. While I slept, she changed into a pair of jeans and another one of my dad's flannels.

"It was ringing," she says, like she wasn't trying to invade my privacy.

She begins to clear off the coffee table, stacking together a few loose magazines. Mom wipes away some dust with her open hand before brushing it off on her jeans.

Groggy and so overtired, I take in my mother's words and wonder if it was Edward. My heart beats with a hard mixture of anxiety and hope. My chest fills with pressure—at any moment now he'll be here, and we'll leave.

He's coming for me.

He is.

"You know, Bella," mom says, restacking the Home and Garden magazines. "You've never given me any reason not to trust you..." she trails off.

I sit up and clear my throat. I can't be still, and I can't be down here at all.

"But after last night," she starts again.

With the blanket still over my shoulders and my phone in hand, I stand and head upstairs. I don't listen to what she tells me as I go, because no matter what she says, neither one of my parents have ever trusted me a day in my life.

Nothing's changed.

But halfway up the stairs, I ask, "Where's Grandma and Grandpa?"

Mom scoffs, but answers, "They left."

.

.

.

Back behind a door to a bedroom I never loved as much as Edward's, I drop the covers and walk over to my bed, shoving clothes I don't need anymore onto the floor.

It's already noon.

I don't have any missed calls.

Nothing.

From no one.

But still, I tell my speeding heart to calm. I bite on my bottom lip while I slide my finger across cracked glass, unlocking my phone. I check my text messages just to make sure my mother wasn't lying. Hoping that maybe Edward sent something while I was sleeping and she read it first.

My inbox is empty.

I scroll through my call history.

Renee said it was ringing.

She was lying.

The last call I recieved was from Garrett, yesterday before the party.

I pull my legs onto the bed and cross them while I sit back against the headboard. I press Edward's number and watch until the call goes through and I hear it ring. Bringing broken glass against my ear, I twirl a lock of hair that's fallen out of its braid around my finger.

My arms hurt, pressed down with anxiety.

My heart wants out of my chest; it's fighting so hard. My stomach, full of knots, bunches and twists. I curl and uncurl my toes. And the doubt I've been holding back for months is beginning to surface behind my eyes, in my joints and my jaw and my fingers.

Nervously, I tug and twirl and curl on my hair until some of it pulls from the root right as Edward's voicemail picks up.

I don't cry.

I call him again.

When his voice mail picks up a second time, I still don't cry.

I call a third time.

And a fourth.

It doesn't even ring the fifth time I call; it goes straight to voicemail—he's turned his phone off.

Instead of panicking, I lie flat on my back and stare up at the ceiling with my cell on my stomach, and I wait.

He'll call.

I know he will.

.

.

.

I've been lying in bed for over an hour, staring at the walls until my eyes burn and water. I don't move or make a sound, afraid that if I do, I'll miss his call. I force my body to be calm and quiet. I don't breathe too hard or roll up and cry like I want to. I keep my arms at my sides and my head on my pillow.

During my quietness, I consider packing up my car and leaving. I can go to him instead. Edward can meet me at the dock. We'll leave my Rabbit, and my parents can pick it up later, once we're far enough away.

But I can't leave.

What if we miss each other?

What if he's coming here as I'm going there?

I can call Pete or Ben. They probably know where he is. But after last night... I'm not sure. I'm not sure I have anyone to call anymore. I don't even know if I have any friends left.

Taking a chance, I check the time. It's almost two.

I dangle my cell phone between my pointer finger and my thumb.

I want to call him.

I could.

I could call him a hundred times in a row if I wanted.

I'm just afraid he won't pick up.

Instead I get out of bed. I leave my cell on my nightstand and move to my feet. My room is a mess; cleaning it will give me something to do. It'll keep my hands busy.

I open my curtains first. Then my window. I turn my on my stereo for noise, even though I'm not listening to what's playing. As I'm picking up clothes from the floor, the bruises on my wrists that weren't so noticeable earlier are beginning to darken and show. My stucco-cut elbow hasn't bled since last night, but as I bend my arm it throbs. My hands are still scraped up and tender, and my feet, from running around in wedges last night, have marks where leather chafed my skin.

As I move around my room, every physical ache and pain surfaces.

My scalp hurts from having my hair pulled. My knees are rubbed sore from Edward's comforter. My center aches, even though he loved me first, he fucked me so hard after. The insides of my thighs are bruised, and my fingernails are bitten down too low.

Everything hurts.

Everything.

But nothing suffers as much as my heart.

My heart is in agony.

Dropping the dress I'm holding, I go to my nightstand and pick up my phone.

"Please, please, please—" I whisper achingly as I dial his number. "Please answer."

It rings.

And it rings.

And it rings.

When his voicemail picks up, I crumble.

I fall onto my bed and cry.

Like I've wanted to all along, I hide under the safety of my blankets, roll up and let go. I sob into my pillow. I scream. I dig my toes into my mattress and pull at my sheets. I cry until my lungs burn and my face tingles. I cry until my body goes numb.

I cry until I sleep.

.

.

.

When I wake up, my room is exactly as I left it. The radio is playing some random station, and a song I'm still not listening to is belting its chorus. My curtains are open and my window is letting in the breeze. The sky isn't gray anymore, though. It's pink and orange and purple, coloring my room with its setting sun.

I'm buried by my blankets, and my sheet is bundled underneath me, tangled at my feet. My pillow is still wet from when I was crying.

The only difference:

My bedroom door is wide open and my mom is standing in my doorway.

I blink a few times, trying to clear my head. I reach for my phone, knowing already that he hasn't called.

It's a little after seven, and my heart still sinks when I see I was right about Edward.

"Are you going somewhere?" Mom asks, her tone partway condescending and partway afraid.

She steps into my room and picks up some clothes from the end of my bed. She kicks my packed bags with the toe of her shoe.

I don't answer. I don't know what to say.

The person who birthed me walks around my room; she looks inside my empty closet and stares at my bare vanity. Mom brushes her hand over the cork board on my desk that used to have tons of pictures of me and my friends pinned to its surface, but now stands naked. She opens the top drawer of my dresser, but says nothing when she discovers it's not filled with my socks anymore.

"You've been up here all day..." she trails off, picking up the smaller of my three bags from the floor. She unzips it and looks in. "It's a little early to be packing for college, don't you think?"

I shake my head.

"No?" she asks angrily, slightly raising her voice.

She drops the bag to the floor, knocking it over. Some of my things fall out.

"Get out of that bed, Isabella," she orders, more upset than I have ever seen her.

I immediately start to cry again, but I don't get out of bed. I don't even move.

Her feet pound on the carpet as she storms over to me. Mom pulls the blankets off of my body and grabs me by my left wrist, sitting me up. "So help me Bella, get out of—"

I cry out, and she lets go.

Stunned, she takes a few steps back with her hand over her mouth.

I know what she's seeing.

My wrists are discolored and swollen, and I'm holding the one she grabbed against my chest.

I go for the blankets, but my mother reaches them first, pulling them completely off the bed. She runs to my bedroom door, and with her hands on both sides of the door frame, she yells for my dad.

I lie back down, still cradling my hurt arms against my body. Mom doesn't let me be, though. She sits me up again, this time by my shoulders. She clutches my chin and moves my head back and forth, searching for something. When my dad comes into the room, she has my hands in hers.

"Did you do that to her?" he asks, taken by surprise. Like he doesn't understand what he's seeing or what's happening.

Mom turns my arm over and finds my elbow.

Dad takes a few more heavy steps into my room.

"Who did this to you?" Mom asks, down on her knees in front of me.

Victoria, Garrett, Alice ... Edward.

"Answer her, Bella," Dad's deep voice echoes off my bedroom walls.

I shake my head, pulling my hands from my mother's. I wipe my nose. "It was nothing," I lie. "There was a fight and I got pushed into—"

Mom falls back on her heels, and she looks at me like she never has before: suspiciously.

"You're lying," she says, her voice eerily calm.

Our eyes meet, and she sees through me, staring every lie I ever told her right in the face.

I look away first.

Mom stands and hold out her hand. "Give me your phone."

I hold it tighter. "No."

Mom reaches for it, but I turn away.

She turns to my dad, whose ample and daunting presence makes him look more like a cop and less like my father. His arms are crossed over his chest while he watches how I react, looking for evidence to prove my untruth.

"Ask why her bags are packed, Charlie," Mom suggests, looking back at me.

Dad's entire body stays as it is, but his eyes move. They notice the same things my mom's did when she came in: my closet, my vanity, my dresser, and my bags.

The only familiarity in my dad is in the same eyes that are roaming over all of my things. They're soft, light brown unlike my green, unwrapped. While his chest fills up with a frustrated breath and his arms drop to his sides, his eyes are unwilling to believe while taking in what he sees: the evidence he was looking for.

"What's going on?" he asks me, clearing his throat from any real emotion.

"Dad," I say softly, looking away from him.

"Answer me, Bella. Now." His voice is steady, controlled. Firm.

Meanwhile, my mother, who has walked away from me, opens all of my bags. She pulls most of my clothes out and unzips every zipper. She searches through everything, even my purse and wallet. She takes my car keys and puts them in her pocket. She opens my makeup bag and dumps it out; pink Jadeite falls with lip gloss and blush. My mom has no idea of it's significance and looks right over it.

"Give me your phone," she demands one more time.

Compared to my dad, she's only half as intimidating and easy to ignore. I hold onto my cell, turning my knuckles white. The pressure in my wrist hurts, but I won't let it go.

Losing it would hurt so much more.

"Bella, don't make me—" she starts, but Charlie cuts her off.

"Renee, enough!" he finally yells, not even looking at her. "Tell me what the hell is going on, Bella, or I will turn this whole room upside down."

He's not lying, and they'll find out eventually.

I look up at him, and as calmly as I can, through steady tears and shortness of breath, I say,

"I'm leaving."

With mom at my side and my dad in front of me, I keep my head down while they take a moment to process what I just said. Mom scoffs, and as I look back up, Dad runs his hand through his dark hair, like he doesn't know what to do.

"What?" he asks.

I give him my eyes; this might be the most honest thing I've said to him since I was nine years old.

"I'm leaving ... with Edward."

I've never taken much consideration into the way my parents look. I've always noticed that my mom isn't as extravagant as Esme, and my dad is exactly what a small time chief of police should look like. My mother has always worn her hair the same way, and my dad will never shave his mustache off, but they look just about the same to me as they did when I was two, or five … or ten. They're typical—they're my parents.

But if it's possible to age a person with words, I've just done it.

Like lifting a veil, they're seeing who I am for the first time. The light from both of their eyes dulls. Wrinkles I've never noticed on my mother's face suddenly appear. My dad's hair looks more gray than black. Their shoulders sink and their expressions change, making them seem less alive, wary of everything.

My mom and dad look older.

"You're not going anywhere," Charlie says, his tone thick.

I bite my bottom lip, tasting my salty tears. "Dad," I begin, so sorry I've hurt them.

But I knew.

I always did.

As hurt as they are, and as bad as I feel, none of it makes a difference. They will be my parents no matter what happens, but a life without Edward wouldn't be living at all.

They can't keep me here.

"You're not leaving this house, Isabella," my dad speaks loudly, making me jump.

As my family is breaking apart, my cell phone finally rings. I don't answer it, but I look down and see his name and picture.

Then I hear his car.

So do my parents.

All three of us look toward the window, but my mom is the only one who moves.

I don't need to see. I know it's Edward.

I know he's down there.

With her hands on the windowsill, Mom leans out. "Charlie," she trails off.

But that's all she has to say; my dad is already halfway down the stairs.

When I hear the front door open, I rush off the bed. My mom stops me before I can go out my bedroom door, though. Her arms act as barricades, and when I try to push past her, she has no problem pushing me back.

"Please," I plead desperately.

My hands are shaking. So are my arms and my legs and my eyes and my teeth. I can hardly see straight. I can't breathe or cry or scream. I feel trapped, and the walls are closing in on me. Everything I want in the world is outside being confronted by my father, and I can't do anything about it because my mother is holding me back.

"You're not leaving this room, Bella," she says with tears finally falling from her eyes.

My heart beats against the inside of my chest. I feel it in my throat and in my bruised wrists. I feel my pulse race in my stomach and under my fingernails. It echoes through my shoulder blades and my knee caps. I even sense it in the ends of my hair.

Besides panic, my heart is the only thing I do feel.

I turn away from my mom and run to my window. The curtains have fallen back down, and instead of pushing them apart, I rip them down.

Wearing what he wore when he dropped me off, my boy is standing at the end of the driveway with his hands in his pockets and his head down. Charlie is about five feet in front of him. Even though I can't hear his words, I know he's threatening and forbidding.

To anyone else, it may seem like my dad has the upper hand. He's bigger and older and louder than Edward. He's the chief of police. He's a father. He's feared and respected. But love has never had much respect for titles. This is his world. Edward doesn't have to shout or cuss or hit to get his point across unless he wants to.

He can fuck you up with one look.

As my dad speaks, walking closer and closer toward my so-apparently-high boy, Edward finally looks up, and smirks.

It sends my dad over the edge he was barely teetering on.

I don't watch anymore; I turn and push through my mom's arms. She grabs the back of my tank top as I pass her by. Stuck, I twist until her grip slips and I'm let loose. I take the stairs three at a time, watching my feet as I go. The front door is partly open, but when I reach for the knob, my mom comes from behind me and slams it shut.

I manage to open it again, but she's stronger. It slams closed a second time.

With her chest to my back and one hand on the door over my shoulder, Renee uses her other hand to pull me away by my upper arm. I stumble back a few steps, but catch myself before I fall. With me out of the way, she uses her entire body to block the way out.

"Get back into your room," she demands with a shaky voice. Her eyes are glossy and her cheeks are red, but she isn't crying. She's too worked up.

I turn and run through the kitchen instead of fighting with her. The back door is unlocked and open by the time my mom catches up with me. I let it hit the wall, not caring if it strikes her or not, and I force my feet to move. I run through wet grass and over rocky gravel. I run past the barking dogs and around my car. I outrun my shouting mother, who's behind me, but nowhere as desperate as I am.

As I circle around the house, the sun is almost all the way down, lighting the front yard in dark purples and heavy blues. The street lamps have turned on, and the front porch is lit by a 40 watt bulb.

Edward and my dad have moved from the driveway to the lawn. My boy sees me as soon as I come into view, but my dad has his back facing me. Love's dark eyes linger my way before slowly shifting back to Charlie's. Edward holds his hands up, as if surrendering. He shakes his head. He looks down.

Then my dad pushes him.

I scream, "Dad!"

Like I did when my mom pushed me, Edward stumbles back but doesn't fall.

My mom grabs my wrist, out of breath and panting, just as Charlie pushes Edward again. This time love falls to one knee, catching himself with his hands.

Too dire to care about my bruised wrists, Renee holds on to my right forearm with both hands. I groan against the pain, but fight for my arm.

"Mom... Mom, please! Please!" I cry, outrageously.

If she only knew that this is why my arms look like this in the first place.

I pull down on her hands, but she doesn't let go. I tug and jerk and push. I scream in her face. I scream until what's left of my voice goes out. I think about biting her, or pulling her hair. I consider pushing her into my car. I almost kick her. I dig my nails into her hand. I cry. I beg.

It's not until the next door neighbor comes out of the house to see what's going on that she lets me go.

With both of my hands free, I hurry and slide my thumb across the damaged glass on my phone. It slices me open this time, drawing blood, but the pain doesn't register.

While the phone rings and my mom tries to explain to the neighbor that everything's okay, I hurry away from her and run toward my boy.

Halfway across the lawn, Petey picks up.

"Hey, princess," he answers, easily.

My dad pushes Edward, and this time love laughs as he stands back up.

"Petey!" I cry into the phone.

"What's wrong?" he asks frantically.

Before I can answer, the phone's knocked out of my hands. It falls to the grass; I can't tell if the call has been disconnected or not. As I bend down to get it, my mom circles her arms around me and spins me around.

We're about the same size, but a mother's strength is incomparable. I kick and I struggle and I pull us to our knees, but she doesn't let up.

"Mom!" I cry, pushing against her chest. "Let go!"

It just makes her hold tighter.

"What's wrong with you?" She forces us from our knees to our bottoms.

Between her knees, with her arms wrapped around mine and her cheek pressed on the top of my head, I can't answer. There are so many things wrong with me. Everything is fucked up.

Our friends were never supposed to find out the way they did. Alice was never supposed to throw my purse at me. My mom was never supposed to block the door. My dad shouldn't be pushing Edward into the fence.

This is where we've fallen, though.

Literally.

My hair has come undone from my braid and water from the lawn is soaking into my sweats. I've stopped fighting, only because the harder I fight, the stronger she holds.

Our neighbors from across the street have come out of their house.

"Renee, should we call the police?" they ask, standing on their porch.

Dad has Edward backed into a corner, but steps away from my boy long enough to answer. He holds his hand up and manages to speak without yelling.

"Everything's okay, you can go back into your house," he says. His hands are trembling.

Crying in my mother's arms, unable to move, I watch my dad and Edward. I can tell by looking into my boy's eyes that he's spun. They're entirely black and wide. His face is still busted, swollen from his fight with Garrett. Love's lip is red, but scabbed. He's patting his pockets nervously, looking for his cigarettes. Charlie asks him a question and Edward spews the answer. He's pacing, but my dad won't let him by.

"I just need to talk to Bella, Charlie," Edward barks angrily.

"You're not going near my daughter," Dad replies, shoving Edward back as he tries to move past him.

Edward looks at me and spits in the grass. He straightens out his flannel before meeting my father face to face.

"Do you think you could keep me away from her?" he asks, smirking condescendingly. "You haven't done such a great job so far, cop."

Charlie grabs Edward by the front of his shirt and slams him onto his stomach, shoving his knee into love's back like he would some criminal. Edward goes down hard, the wind knocked out of him. My boy coughs, gasping for air, but recovers quickly, laughing and keeping his eyes on me as my dad holds his arms down.

I lose my fucking mind. I dig my heels into the ground and push back until my mom falls. Her hold on me loosens and I'm able to get onto my knees before she pulls me back down. I'm crying for her to let me go. I bury my fingers into the grass. I fall and get back up. My sweats are grass-stained and wet. My hair is crazy. My tank top is stretched out. My mom grabs my wrist and I scream.

"He didn't do this!" I yell, cradling my hurt arm against my chest.

She actually lets me get up, but she stays close. I try to go around her, toward my boy who is still under my father's knee, but she stands in my way.

"I don't even know who you are," she says lowly, brushing curly hair out of her face.

"You can't keep me here, Mom," I cry.

Mom's head snaps in my direction. "You don't think so?" she asks, sternly. "You're only seventeen years old, Isabella."

"I don't care," I answer defiantly.

She's taken aback, but before she can say anything more, Petey's black and white Caprice pulls into the driveway behind my Rabbit. He's alone, and he doesn't even bother turning off the car before he opens the door to get out.

I go straight to him.

"Bella!" Mom calls, but she doesn't chase after me.

I run right into Petey's arms, crying into his neck. I need him to protect me like he always has.

"What the hell is going on, little sister?" he asks, circling his arms around me for just a moment before he pushes me back by my shoulders, looking at my face.

I'm crying while I explain, shaking my head, trying to breathe. "We're leaving … We're going, and he showed up. My dad keeps pushing him, and my mom won't let me go."

"You need to slow down. I don't understand a fucking—"

He's cut off by the arrival of a second car.

The black Mercedes I know so well screeches to a stop right behind the Lincoln, facing the wrong way in the street. Esme is out of the car first. She runs around the front of the vehicle, dressed in a white top and black pencil skirt. She has Alice's Vans on, though, like they were the only things she could find in a hurry.

Carlisle exits the car next, as collected as he always is. In slacks and a light blue button up, he's rolling up his cuffs as he walks up the driveway.

"You called them?" I ask Petey, who just nods his head.

"Get away from my son, Charlie," Carlisle demands, with just the slightest hint of rage in his tone.

Staying back with Petey, I watch as Esme runs heads toward my mother. They immediately start arguing. My mom is pointing her finger like she always does, and Esme is standing with her arms crossed, stunning, even now. But as my mother continues to explain what's going on, I see Esme's defenses fall and confusion take their place. My second mother looks at me from over her shoulder before giving her attention back to a woman she could never really stand.

"Did you know?" my mom asks madly. "Did you know about them, Esme?"

I take a few steps in their direction. Petey grabs my hand and follows, holding me back when I get too close.

Esme shakes her head, visibly crying. "I thought... I—"

Both women look at me, disappointment so apparent.

"I thought maybe, but not like this," Esme finally answers.

They turn away.

"I trusted you with my daughter!" my mom shrieks. "I trusted you to take care of her!"

"I did!" Esme defends. "I did. We love her, Renee … I would never!"

On the other side of the lawn, Edward is back on his feet. Carlisle and Charlie are not having a much different conversation than my mom and Esme are. Except, Charlie is noticeably upset and Carlisle is cool.

"Do you think I would allow this under my roof if I knew, Chief Swan?" Carlisle asks, eying his son with nothing less than choler.

Charlie laughs spitefully. "I don't know, Carlisle. Do you know about anything that goes on under your roof?"

Carlisle takes a step forward. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Look at him!" Charlie roars, pointing at Edward.

Maybe for the first time in a while, Carlisle does.

.

.

.

We're two kids who fell in hopelessly in love.

Our intentions were never vindictive. Although we accepted we probably would, Edward and I never wanted to hurt anyone. We're selfish, not malicious. Our souls are not made of ice; they're warm. All we ever wanted was to be together. Addiction and dependence and jealousy and spitefulness changed a lot of things. Our circumstances made true liars out of us, and turned our innocent love into crazy love.

Somewhere along the line it shifted from hopelessly to helplessly.

While Petey holds my hand and our parents fight, Edward and I look at each other through the chaos. We're both broken, busted and scarred, but my heart beats for him. He's my life. He has been since I was a little girl. He's it for me.

The beginning.

The end.

I slip my hand from Pete's and walk across the lawn.

Edward meets me halfway.

He's crying, slowly and silently. Love's eyelashes are wet and his black eyes are soft, as caring as cocaine can be.

My boy reaches for me, sliding one hand to the back of my neck and placing the other on the side of my face. He pulls me in close, and leans down until our foreheads touch and our noses brush.

"Baby, baby, baby..." he whispers breathlessly. His tears fall onto my cheeks.

"Edward, let's just go," I say, clutching onto the front of his flannel. I'm afraid our parents will pull us apart. I'm afraid of what will happen when I let go.

Edward smiles sweetly. His eyes are on mine.

"I remember the first time I ever saw you, Bliss. I think about that shit all the time." He presses his lips together before continuing. "I loved you then, you know."

I nod my head. My vision is blurry. Hot tears roll from my eyes.

"We can talk about this later, Edward," I say, moving closer.

Edward's hand falls from my face, to my shoulder, and slides down my arm. He takes my discolored wrist and holds it up, showing me.

"I'm looking at you, girl," he cries, choking on his words.

I glance away from him, and away from my arm. I stare at the ground. I try to process what he's saying. But I come up with nothing, because who cares about my fucking wrist? Who cares about any of it? I've been through worse. We've been through so much more than this.

"What?" I ask, pulling on his flannel with my free hand.

He closes his eyes and I see the shadow of the boy he used to be underneath. He's still there behind pale skin and addiction. He's hiding under Dusty, declared mini-foul before he even had a chance to be anything else. He's mixed with the purple under his eyes and the cut on his lip. He's in the sweetness in his smirk and the kindness of his touch. He's there.

I haven't forgotten him.

I haven't given up.

"Bliss," Edward says under his breath.

"Edward," I whimper, pulling him down.

He hugs me. He kisses down the side of my face with wet lips. He cries against my skin, holding nothing back. He sobs. He shakes. He whispers love.

"I wish I could take your eyes with me," he says, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth.

I shove him away and stare, trembling with a thin heartbeat.

"I'm going with you, Edward," I insist.

He pushes his hands into his hair, looking over my head, toward the willow tree that means so much more to me than I've ever told him.

We walked through those branches. Those leaves.

It's where he came for me.

His eyes fall from the tree to me. With his fingers tied up in his hair, he shakes his head. "You're not, B."

Refusing to believe what my heart is already telling me, I ask, "When are you coming back for me?"

Love's hands drop. He wipes his eyes in the elbow of his flannel and takes one more step toward me.

"I'm not coming back."

He looks down before meeting my eyes. His face is expressionless, like he's turned everything off. The black in his eyes has shifted from soft to hard, and all too consuming. My boy is still crying, but he can't help it. He can't turn that truth off.

"You're lying," I answer without air.

He clears his throat, patting his pockets. Love looks at me; he breathes in through his nose, flaring his nostrils. Edward's eyebrows draw together. His chin quivers.

There is no light in him when he says, "I promise. I promise I'm not coming back for you."

The breaking of my heart is unlike anything I have ever felt in my entire life.

It's everything and nothing at all. It's the worst pain ever, but entirely numbing. It's maddening, but without passion. I want to scream, but I have no voice. I want to turn the world upside down, but I have no strength.

It's being put to death with no life to give.

It's being full of dread, but feeling entirely empty.

It's being completely still when all you want to do is collapse.

Heartbreak is having every moment play before your eyes like you're dying. It's pink spinning wheels and soccer balls. It's cake in baggies and teachers that smell like peanut butter. It's zombies and princesses. It's Reese's Pieces and no bake cookies. It's clothes that smell dirty and butterfly tattoos. It's finding the dock, and it's kissing for the first time. It's accidentally saying I love you. It's wanting to own your belly button. It's "If you were here, I'd probably eat your elbow."

It's scratches down his back, and boots that save the world. It's seventeen different shades of pink nail polish, and blue like his eyes used to be. Heartbreak is walking in on him in the bathroom as he's zipping up his pants, and "I can kiss you like she does."

It's seat belt bruises across his chest, and being a gentleman. It's when he kicked my backpack across the empty room, and "Tell me you're with Garrett so I can lay that motherfucker out."

Heartbreak doesn't feel a thing like falling. It's broken chairs, and too full bathtubs. It's when Edward told me Dim wanted to be teacher, not a drug dealer. It's concert tickets and looking for my ruca.

Heartbreak is being a back seat baby, and wearing heels on your birthday. It's a decade under the influence, and The Fault in our Stars. It's saying no every time he asked, and staying up all night until he got home. It's "Tell me a secret, Bliss. Come on, tell me something."

It's remembering the way his face looks when he's inside of me. The way his lips part and pout. The way his eyes close, but not for too long because he hates not looking at me. It's feeling him between my legs and around my body. Heartbreak is the memory of his muscles under my palms and his breath on my lips. It's his hair between my fingers and, "I knew it. I fucking knew it."

It's Sluts and Boys, secrets and lies, cocaine and peppermint marshmallow, and love is a traitor. It's birthday candles and gray bed sheets. It's creating dozens of rules to break and one to keep so it can never be broken.

"Rule number six: no promises."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"And that's it."

"That's the only one."

It's knowing.

Heartbreak is knowing.

My heart breaker is in front of me, lifting my chin, pushing hair away from my face. "It's okay, B. It's better... it is."

I snap out of it.

I grab the collar of his shirt and pull. I cry like I've never cried before. I fight like I have nothing else to lose, because I don't.

I have no best friend, no family, no Edward.

I have nothing.

The worst part is he lets me. This life taker just holds onto me while I tug and punch and yell. I rip his shirt. I re-split his lip. I scratch his face. I pull his hair. I take us to our knees.

"I've done everything!" I cry, collapsing against him. "You can't leave me, Edward."

Our eyes meet and they stay for a moment, remembering, loving, memorizing.

Edward reaches up and twirls a lock of my hair between his fingers. He watches strawberry blonde dance in his hand before letting it fall.

Then we're being pulled away.

My dad hugs me to his chest and pulls me to my feet, then into his arms.

When he carries me off, I watch over my dad's shoulder as Esme takes a few steps in my direction with her hands over her mouth. Petey helps Edward stand. He searches his best friend's pockets, and when he finds love's keys, he tosses them to Carlisle.

Mom opens the front door to the house, and Dad follows, with me held tight.

The last thing I see before the door shuts is Petey shoving Edward into the back of his car. My boy pushes back, crying … looking right at me.

.

.

.

The next morning, I tell my parents everything I think they should know. Which isn't much. Just enough to stop the questioning.

I assume they see the story I tell them as only a half-truth of what the last eight years were really like.

My parents choose to blame Carlisle and Esme. They blame themselves and Edward. They don't come out and say it, but they blame me too.

They should.

In the days that pass, the bruises around my wrists fade, but the ache in my heart doesn't. To make it worse, Charlie replaces the locks on all of the doors, and Renee has the home phone number changed. They never give me my cell back. They make me sleep with my bedroom door open, and they won't let me leave the house.

My mom goes through my room, confiscating anything she recognizes as a gift from the Cullens. She finds pictures of me and Edward and cries to herself quietly, but she doesn't ask me about them. She doesn't even take them away.

I let her have the hoodie that was already ruined with bleach, and I don't say anything when she carries my computer and iPod out of my room.

I keep pink jadeite, though.

As more time goes by, Mom and Dad have no problem reminding me that I won't be eighteen for another four months. Their house, their rules.

The conversation always starts with: "You're still our daughter and as long as you're a minor living in my home—"

I don't care.

Time doesn't mean much to me.

Nothing does.

I'm only a girl with a broken heart, half-alive.

Without him, that's my deal.