So…I wrote this last summer for the Fandom For TwiFanG compilation, and I always said I was going to post it, but I had three follow-up outtakes I wanted to do, so I told myself, nah, wait until they're all done.

9 months later, those three other outtakes aren't done, but maybe posting this will give me a kick in the pants? And even if it doesn't, well, it seems silly to leave it sitting around collecting dust in my archive.

Anyway, you all have been so amazing and so supportive, especially of my original fiction work of late, that I wanted to give you something, and I had this, so… here it is?

Context: This is a Bella POV prequel to String Theory. It takes place about two years before String Theory begins, when they're in their first semester of grad school together.

Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. Lyrics from I'm Going To Go Back There Someday, as performed by Gonzo the Great.

Special Thanks: Mad4Hugh was such an incredibly supportive reader and an amazing person. I miss her very much.


Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.

Is that a song there, and do I belong there?


November 2009

"Your problem set for next week is on the board." Banner points at it and smiles. "Have a good weekend, guys."

I grunt something that isn't quite a laugh out under my breath. As if.

There are only seven problems in the assignment, at least. Maybe I'll be able to knock a few of them out while I'm waiting at the doctor's office – Lord knows when else I'm going to have time to. With the questions copied down in my planner, I throw everything together and toss it all in my bag, already rising from my seat and making for the door. My phone buzzed about halfway through the lecture, and that's never good. Dad knows enough not to bug me during class unless it's something important, so it's probably the therapist's office. Or worse, Jake.

I really have to do something about that situation, soon.

Halfway up the aisle, I stumble, and my bag goes flying.

"Shit, shit, shit." I mutter the swear words under my breath, scrambling for my things. At least no one laughs.

One thing I can say for grad school, there aren't too many assholes left. In the couple months I've been here, everyone has been nice enough, considering I never have time to actually talk to any of them. Hell, a few have been entirely too nice.

It makes something wistful twist inside my chest.

"You okay?"

I hazard a quick glance up as I shove the contents of my bag back in. Double shit. It's the cute boy, of course. Edward. I mumble something about being fine as I stand back up and toss my bag over my shoulder, pushing my hair out of my face.

He frowns. "You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah." I manage to shoot him a quick smile.

His answering one is too sweet for words. Someone jostles him from behind, and his cheeks get red. He palms the back of his neck and opens his mouth again, looking at me like I'm not the clumsy girl who never talks to anyone. Like I'm something more. Before he can get a word out, though, my cellphone buzzes again.

"Crap." I dig around until I find it. It's the therapist's office after all. I'm not sure whether or not to be relieved. Holding up the screen, I manage, "Sorry, I have to…"

As I trail off, his whole face falls. "Sure."

I don't have time to think about it. With an apologetic glance at Edward, I start back up the aisle toward the exit, answering the phone at the same time. Fortunately, there's nothing major wrong. It's just the receptionist, calling to reschedule one of his appointments for next week. Great. Now I'll have to talk to our home-care nurse and try to rearrange her visit, too.

"Hold on one sec." I pull off to the side of the hallway, juggling my phone and my bag and feeling around for my planner, but my hand comes up empty.

"Um…"

I look up in shock to find Edward standing in front of me again. As if that wasn't a nice enough sight, he's holding my planner in his hand.

He adjusts his glasses and fidgets, looking so uncomfortable I kind of want to hug him just to set him at ease. And for other reasons. Obviously.

"You dropped this," he says.

"You are a godsend." I snatch it out of his hands and open it to next week, shifting the phone to hold it squeezed between my shoulder and my ear. Speaking to the receptionist again, I say, "Yes, yes, I'm still here."

With just a little bit of negotiating, we manage to arrive at a time that'll work for everyone. After hanging up, I turn back to Edward with every intention of thanking him properly, even though I'm now running very, very late.

Only problem is, he's not there.

And it should be a relief. I don't have time to talk to anyone right now. I never do.

But it's not a relief. Not even a little. Not even at all.

#

Edward drifts into my thoughts from time to time that weekend. Never consciously or anything – just in passing when I'm distracted or bored. Doing dishes or sitting at the doctor's office, pointedly not making any progress on my problem set.

On Monday, I have every intention of going up to him and thanking him for his kindness, but when I get to class… I don't know.

It's weird – I've never exactly been shy. But the way I started things off here… My dad had his stroke a week before I started grad school and it threw everything off. Instead of going to pizza night with the other first years or happy hour at the bar on Tuesday nights, I rushed from orientation to the hospital, from a meeting with my advisor to a consultation with a rehabilitation specialist. I spent hours on the phone with Dad's insurance company. I kept my head down, not because I wanted to be aloof. Because I was overwhelmed. Close to breaking. I still am, sometimes.

And I don't know how to get past that now.

As I walk into the room, Edward's already sitting with a bunch of other people, laughing and talking. I should just buck up and go over to them, but my feet take me to my usual seat in the back. I curse myself under my breath and tell myself to just woman up already, but it's no use. By the time I get my courage up, Banner's striding into the room, and my chance is lost.

After class, Edward's officemate—Jasper, I think—is giving him shit about something. I'm packing up my bag and watching on in amusement as Jasper goes so far as to reach over and pull up Edward's shirt, revealing the top of—

Are those Green Lantern underwear?

I stifle my giggle with a cough, but Edward's eyes flash over to me all the same. He shoves Jasper away and pushes his shirt back down, but not before I catch a glimpse of bronze-colored hair and toned, pale skin. I dart my gaze up to see Edward looking down, his cheeks scarlet, and he looks…not just mortified but mad.

He storms out of the room, and I feel awful. I wasn't laughing at him, but he might have thought…

The next few days, I keep looking for a chance to say something, but the longer I wait, the more ridiculous it seems. And what would I say, anyway? Thanks for helping me with my planner last week. And by the way, I thought your boxers were cute.

His face would probably catch fire, the implausibility of spontaneous combustion aside.

He never looks my way, regardless. If anything, his eyes seem to be downcast, like he's avoiding me.

After a week goes by, I pretty much give up. I'm busy with other things – we're trying out a new speech therapist for my dad, and his regular nurse has had to switch around her hours. And final exams are coming up. There are more than enough responsibilities to bury myself behind.

My chance passes me by, and I watch it go.

It seems like just one of so many. But for some reason, this missed opportunity bothers me more than most.

#

"Jesus, Bells. I'm not even sure why it's worth trying with you anymore!"

Jake's voice rings out over the line, through the silence and the static. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard, make a fist and hold it tight. Everything is clamping down.

Because I don't know either. I don't know why we keep having these fights I don't have the energy for or why I feel this way. I don't have a lot of experience with love, but it's not supposed to be this way. It isn't.

The person you're with isn't supposed to make you feel more alone.

I'm barely even cognizant as he clears his throat and starts to speak again. "Bella? Aren't you gonna say something?"

With effort, I force my body to relax. I used to love him – once upon a time in what feels like a different life, I did. But that's not my life anymore. I'm not the girl who floated from the classroom to the lab to my friends' place to the bar. The one who had sex on Sunday mornings. Who knitted and read and watched TV.

I'm the woman who does my research and my coursework. The one who comes home and has to cook and clean and take my father through his exercises. The one who's juggling so hard to keep all these balls from falling down around me.

I'm not the girl who fell in love with Jake. And more and more, he sounds like a stranger to me.

"I'm not sure either." It's like I hear myself saying it. Like I'm not really there behind the words.

For the first time, Jake's the one who sounds unsure. "What?"

"I'm not sure why we're bothering either."

"Hold on a second, Bells…"

But I can't. The words are out there, and with every one of them, a little piece of the weight on my shoulders seems to ease. "You're not going to move here. I'm not going to quit school and move there. You're not happy. I'm not happy. And I'm dealing with so much here…"

"I know you are, baby—"

I can't believe he has the gall to call me 'baby' right now.

Before I can stop myself, I'm lashing out. "Then why aren't you supporting me?! All you do is ask for more, and I don't have any more to give."

It's supposed to be different, isn't it?

For a moment, I let myself indulge the fantasy. What would it be like to have a boyfriend who did understand? One who helped and who got me? One who gave me room when I needed it and pitched in and who made it … someone who made it easier? Someone I could lean on. Talk to.

Love.

Jake swallows audibly. When he speaks again, his voice is far away. "Is there someone else?"

It's ridiculous – like he's reading my mind but getting it completely, completely wrong.

He always gets everything wrong.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and stare up at the ceiling, unsure when I started crying. It's going to stop now. My sigh only shakes a little. "No, Jake. There's no one else."

But even as I'm saying that, a face floats across my vision. A sweet face, framed by floppy, auburn hair. Glasses and a blush and pretty green eyes. I could laugh if I wasn't trying so hard not to cry.

No one should have to deal with my mess right now. Especially not someone as nice and shy as Edward. If there's anything this conversation with Jake is proving to me, it's that. I may long for companionship, but that doesn't mean I can have it.

And it's not like I have any real reason to think he'd want something like that with me, anyway.

It takes me a second to realize Jake's still talking. "…Because if there is someone—"

This time, I do laugh. "That you would even suggest that, Jake… It just proves how little you understand about how things are for me right now. I go to school full time, and I take care of my dad who almost died. Who is permanently disabled." I sound my words out like I'm talking to a five year-old. Sometimes it feels like I am. "God, if you would just listen to me for one second you would know that."

"I listen."

"No, no, you don't." I huff out a breath. It takes effort, but I soften my voice. "Jake, you know how much I care about you."

Jake's chuckle is raw and resigned. But it doesn't really sound all that sad. I think he knew this was coming, too. When this is over, I just hope he feels as relieved as I do.

"But I think…," I start.

"Yeah. I think, too."

And that's really all there is to say.

"Don't be a stranger, you know?" I ask.

"Sure, sure. Give Charlie my best, okay?"

"I will."

After a couple more minutes of awkwardness, we say goodbye, and I think we both know it's probably for good. I hit the button to end the call, then toss my phone to the side and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. It's a relief. It is.

But I still feel so, so alone.

I give myself a few minutes to wallow, but before long, I drag myself up. I check myself out in the mirror and dab a little more at my eyes. They're kind of red around the edges, but I don't look too bad. It's not like my dad could have missed the more heated parts of our conversation anyway.

When I emerge out into the main part of the house, I find him sitting on the couch in the living room with the television on. He turns the volume right down as soon as I enter the room, and from the expression on his face… Yeah. He heard everything he needed to.

"You okay?"

The slur to his words has gotten better in the past month, but it's still there. That's okay. I've gotten pretty good at understanding him around it.

I sniff and nod, forcing a smile. "Fine."

He narrows one eye. "That boy still giving you trouble?"

"No." I debate how much to tell him, but then figure…whatever. If I don't tell him, he's just going to keep asking when Jake doesn't call. "And he won't be. Not anymore."

The right side of his mouth drops into a frown. "You kids broke up?"

"Yeah." I turn to go into the kitchen, hoping we can breeze right over this. I'm about to ask if he wants anything when he stops me.

"Bella."

"Yeah?"

"C'mere. Please."

Shit. Shit shit shit. I'm never going to be able to keep from crying if my dad tries to hug me.

I keep my eyes cast down as I cross the room and sit beside him. His arm is held out, and I hesitate for a moment.

"Come on," he insists. "Indulge me."

I give up and give in, leaning my head on his shoulder and letting him put his arm around me.

I'm really not all that upset, but no matter how old I am, no matter how much our roles have switched since his stroke…there's just something about my dad being all fatherly that makes me feel like a little girl. And like he's going to make all my problems go away.

I shudder with the force of my sob, the block in my throat giving way, and he holds me tighter, rubbing up and down my arm.

"There, there," he says quietly. He rests his chin on the top of my head. "Let it out."

I shake my head. "I didn't even like him all that much anymore."

"Doesn't matter. You're still allowed to be sad."

And in that moment, I wonder just how much he knows. If I had this all to do over again, all the tough choices about giving up my apartment and moving in with him, about giving up so much for him, I'd do it all in a heartbeat. But it's lonely. It's scary and lonely, and sometimes…

Sometimes I'm all too aware that my dad is all I have.

I cry it out for a couple minutes, but I dry up pretty fast. When I pull away, he lets me go. I shift back across the couch to grab a tissue from the box on the side table and mop my face up as best I can.

"You sure you're okay with this? You don't want to…you know…talk or anything?"

"Nah, I'm good."

He hesitates, as if sizing me up. When I meet his eyes, the concern in them breaks, and he gives me a lop-sided smile. "If it helps, I never thought that guy was good enough for you, anyway."

My laugh is choked. "You'd never think anyone was good enough."

"Probably not." There's something rough to his throat as he continues. "But someday you're gonna find someone who makes you feel like the most special person in the world. And when you do…that'll be good enough for me."

My lip wobbles as I smile at him. My dad has always been a little rough around the edges, but every now and then he has to go and say something like that. And everything I've been through in the past few months feels like it's been worthwhile.

As if he knows how hard my heart is squeezing, he grabs for the remote again and looks away. In a voice that's a shade too raspy, he says, forced-casually, "Thought I saw Muppets Take Manhattan on one of the cable channels when I was flipping through. What do you say?"

I don't have time. But…

"Sure, Dad. Sounds great." I reach over, and for just a second clasp his hand. "I'll go make some popcorn."

"Extra butter on mine."

I roll my eyes. Salt-free and fat-free is more like it. "Right."

I'm half-way to the kitchen before he stops me. "Hey? And Bells?"

"Yeah?"

He's pointedly staring at the screen and not at me. "When you do find the right guy… If he doesn't make you feel like that?"

"Yeah?" My stomach does a little flip.

"I will not hesitate to shoot him in the face."

#

After Jake and I break up, I find myself drifting along a little more aimlessly. There's my research and my classes and my dad. But everything else…

And there's a bitterness in the back of my throat.

Thoughts of Edward come to me more often, and they're some of the few untinged by that faint hint of anger. I wouldn't say I pine for him. There's no love-sick puppy behavior, no illusions of love at all. More like just a passing fascination.

He's my 'might have been'. If only everything had been different.

I watch him a little more carefully in my classes and in the halls between our offices. It's not like I was unaware of him before, but my eyes are now open in a way they hadn't been. I stand by my original assessment: he's cute. Not gorgeous – at least not classically so. But there's something I like about his face, something soft to his mouth and yet hard in the angle of his jaw. His eyes are pretty, and his body… Well, his body is pretty hard to get a read on, honestly. He's lanky, but he seems to have a thing for oversized T-shirts with goofy sayings. They're long enough that you can rarely see his ass, even through his jeans. Not that it would matter. His jeans don't quite fit right on him either.

But still. Cute.

In the summers, he wears shorts, and he has nice-looking (if pale) legs. Covered in rust-colored hair, they're lean and muscled like a runner's, but nothing about the musculature looks fake. He isn't a gym rat to say the least.

And sometimes, when he sits with his chin in his hand…

He has these long, slender fingers. And I feel really, really weird to be perving on his hand.

The whole acting-like-he's-avoiding-even-looking-at-me thing only lasts a couple weeks, and then… Is it weird to say he becomes more casual in his non-interaction with me? He doesn't seem to be consciously trying not to glance at me.

And after a while, I think, sometimes he might be intentionally looking at me.

It's hard to tell, though. Every time I think I catch him looking, he darts his gaze away, cheeks flushing. But it doesn't feel uncomfortable. Really, it feels like the least interactive kind of flirting I think I've ever seen. And it sets my imagination reeling.

It has me dressing up or even wearing heels. Not often because I don't like people looking at me, but sometimes it's just nice to feel pretty. Like I'm something more than just a student or a nurse.

He eventually starts taking his coffee breaks around the same time I do. And he's always walking past my cubicle, and I think, Maybe. Maybe.

He doesn't talk to me, though. I don't talk to him either, and I know it's for the best. The conclusions I came to after Jake have still held true: romance isn't meant for me. I can't have it. Don't even necessarily want it. Definitely don't have time for it.

But every now and then, as I step around him to get to the coffee machine, I think he's going to. He's going to speak to me.

I steel myself, wanting and not wanting, hoping and not hoping.

But if he did…

I think maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing.

#

The problem is, he doesn't.

Not for two long years.

#

But when he does, I'm ready.

.

.

.

.

.


This may be incredibly gauche, but if you didn't know, my original fiction is under the pen name Jeanette Grey, and I had a new book come out yesterday. It's a short college romance and it's full of, well, let's be honest here, smut. No pressure. Just thought you might like to know.

www dot jeanettegrey dot com slash bookshelf

Thanks, as always, for reading, and for your incredible support.