March 26, 2013 – Word prompt: Threat. Dialogue flex: "Are you always so competitive?"

. . .

Back home, the four walls of my apartment seem colder, somehow. Dimmer. Emptier. The memory of Bella's warm, cozy apartment is bright in my mind, and I want to be back there already, despite having left it only hours earlier.

I'm sliding my phone out of my pocket and dialing her number before I even realize it. "Did you forget something?" I sort of love it, how she doesn't answer with hello.

"You should come to Seattle," I say without any preamble of my own.

She's quiet for a moment, treating me to the sound of her slow, even breaths. "Why?"

"Well, I know it's not quite as culturally diverse or even as exciting as San Francisco, but I'm sure we can show you a good time."

A beat of silence, then, "No, not why should I come. I mean…why do you want me to?"

This feels like a test, and I turn the question over in my mind, pick it apart, try to find the cogs that make it turn. "I want you in my life," I say finally, and when she's silent, I know it was sort of a cop-out answer.

"Why?" she asks, voice all soft, and it isn't lost on me that now she's the one pushing me.

I muster up the courage to say, "Because it isn't complete, otherwise."

More quiet. I wonder, as I wait, if we've spent more time listening to airwaves during these conversations than to each other. Keep waiting, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest. Finally, I hear her exhale. "I told Charlie I'd come home for Easter. Maybe I can…detour. To you."

"Okay," I say immediately, too thrilled that it wasn't a no to feel even a shred of disappointment that she might still consider me nothing more than a detour. "That would be great."

"Edward, I should probably tell you something." There's a note of forewarning in her voice that I don't like, and I try not to let apprehension cloud my brief moment of anticipation.

"Okay."

"I have a date tomorrow night. A friend of a friend…it's sort of a setup. I agreed before your visit." When I don't say anything, she sighs. "I don't even know why I'm telling you. I just…felt like I should."

"Okay," I say, and it doesn't escape my notice that I've said that three times already.

Doesn't escape hers, either. "Please say something else."

"I'm not sure what to say," I tell her honestly, and I don't. I know how I feel – disappointed, irritated, dejected, rejected – but I don't have the right to feel any of those things. "I guess…have a good time?"

There's a beat of silence. Then, "Do you really want me to have a good time?"

"No," I say immediately. "I hope he's overweight and balding and has a hunchback. And halitosis. And that he's unemployed."

When she laughs, the knot in my chest loosens slightly. "Wow, how did you know exactly what my type is?"

I snort. "I know exactly what your type is. Halitosis-hunchback doesn't stand a chance." But there's a thin thread of despair that her date will be none of those things; that instead, he'll be the one who captures her heart just as I feel like there's the tiniest chance I could make it mine again.

"You know my type, huh?" Her voice is teasing.

"You like baseball players. Tall ones. With superb math skills and sappy parents."

"Hmm. My friend said he bakes. I've always wanted to date a man who bakes." More teasing. Surely she wouldn't be teasing me if she were serious about dating some random guy, right?

I blow out a dismissive breath. "I make the best hot chocolate you've ever had. And any jackass can read a cookbook."

"Are you always so competitive?" Still laughing. Jesus, I missed her laugh.

"When it's important."

"Hm."

I don't know if the quiet that follows is just another way for her to tease me, but into it, I pour my courage. "Don't go."

"What?" The teasing is gone from her voice, replaced by a wary confusion.

"On the date. Don't go."

"Why?" Another test.

"Date me."

"You live in Seattle."

"I can love you from Seattle."

"Edward—"

"Sorry. Shouldn't have said 'love.'"

She's quiet again, and God, her quiet is going to be the death of me. But I will myself to be patient – my new promise to myself, where anything Bella is concerned. I don't follow up my Seattle comment with the truth: I would love her from anywhere.

. . .

I've sort of gotten used to the pain of having lost Bella. I don't expect to hear from her anymore, don't expect our paths to cross when I go home to Forks, don't expect my mother to fill me in on the details of her life. My relationship with Bella has been pretty firmly relegated to the past, despite any feelings that may still linger in the present. Which is why I'm so taken aback when I return home after my junior year of college to see a small box on the bed in my childhood bedroom. When I peek inside, I see things that launch me right back to the place I thought I'd left behind.

One of my old hooded sweatshirts.

One of my movies.

Three of my CDs.

Two of my books.

All things I'd lent to Bella, once upon a time. It seems an odd sort of kick, given the time that's passed, and when I ask my mother about it, she glances up at me before quickly returning her focus to the cookbook in front of her. "Charlie dropped it off last week. Said Bella had been going through her closet to give some clothes to Goodwill and came across an old box of your things. Thought you might want them back."

"Oh."

I realize, as the word leaves my lips, that I'd been hoping this was some sort of sign that she still felt something for me, even if it was anger. But the truth – that things she once loved of mine have since been banished to some dark corner at the back of her closet – is surprising in its pain. And when I retreat back to my room and pick up the sweatshirt, stupidly hoping that it smells a little bit like a happier time, I'm disappointed yet again.

Because all it smells like is dust and desertion. Like something left behind long ago.

. . .