A/N

I know a lot of you are desperate to know why Edward is the way he is. You'll find out, I promise. Just remember, it'll be a slow process; things will be revealed as we go —not all at once.

For Meg, because she's bored at work LOL.

Enjoy!

—-

It's dark now, the room illuminated by a single lamp on a desk in the corner. I can't move, too scared to leave his side.

Emmett left a while ago, assuring me that Edward would be fine if he slept it off.

If that's the case, I have no idea why I was called. Emmett was worried, there was no mistaking it, no matter how much he tries to shrug it off.

The house is eerily silent, no sign of Edward's adoptive parents. I can't piece it all together; for a second, I consider the possibility that Edward is as fundamentally lonely as I am.

I know my phone has been ringing non-stop, but I've ignored the incessant vibrating in favour of watching Edward sleep -watching every damn breath he takes. Counting them.

Mind reeling, I close my eyes, my head propped on the edge of Edward's bed, my hand resting lightly over his.

Exhaustion takes over.

Slowly, I blink my eyes open, feeling disorientated for a moment before I remember …

Looking up, my eyes meet Edward's. He's awake, and they're green. I breathe a sigh of relief. He's pale, but he's lucid.

"You sleep cute," he observes after a beat, voice groggy, face relaxed and content, acting like nothing happened.

That makes me angry.

"You sound like you've lost a few brain cells." Sitting up, I stretch my aching body, quickly regretting falling asleep whilst sitting -my ass and legs on the floor, arms and head on his bed.

"Why are you here?" he asks, looking genuinely perplexed. Dumfounded, I stare at him, torn between slapping him and hugging him.

I don't really know the answer, so I give him all I can. "Because your brother called me. He was worried about you."

Rolling his eyes, he shifts himself so he's sitting. "He's not my brother. And he knows not to worry."

"Have you told him that? Because regardless of what you think, he was worried. Hell," —throwing my hands into the air, I scowl— "I was worried."

When he's silent, studying the comforter under him, I stand, stretching out my aching limbs, feeling agitated by his complete disregard of other people and their feelings.

Typical Edward.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, still refusing to look at me. His apology falls flat.

"I'm just … I'm glad you're okay." It's all I can offer right now, and it's the truth. I'm glad he's not dead.

He scoffs, but not at me. At himself. And for a second he looks vulnerable … scared; opening his mouth to speak, he thinks better of it a few times.

"Say it," I urge. "Whatever it is, just say it. Lord knows it won't be the worst thing you've ever said to me." He reacts as though I physically slapped him, recoiling a little at my words, his eyes still anywhere but me.

"I don't know how to without sounding like a prick."

"That's never stopped you before."

"I know." He sighs, finally looking at me, eyes so green and so exhausted. "But I promised myself I'd leave you alone, that … I'd stop with the games and I hoped … it'd get better."

Tilting my head, I regard him closely. He doesn't hold eye contact for long. "What would get better?" I ask carefully.

"Better? Easier? I don't know …" his voice is small, almost as though he's talking to himself. Maybe he is. "I can't figure it out." His face scrunches, as though he's in pain. He sniffs, I cringe.

"Can't figure what out?"

"You," he answers immediately, eyes on me once more, "I tried. And then I tried to forget and then…" letting his words trail off, he looks towards his window, lost in thought.

"Then what?" I push, keeping my voice low, unsure of whether or not I really want these answers. It's not as though I'm hoping for anything, not any more. Edward has made it glaringly obvious that he wants nothing to do with me.

I'm used to that by now. I've come to terms with it.

"Then …" he swallows hard, eyes narrowing towards the window, anger and venom. I wait. "I hear that you're going to that fucking dance with Tyler Crowley."

For a moment, I'm confused. Why would that matter? Beyond this unhealthy possessiveness he feels for me, he has no claim. He wanted no claim. He degraded me and walked away —constantly. I can't figure out why he looks so upset at the prospect of me having a date for the Snow Ball.

"Why would you care about that?" His head snaps in my direction, eyes blazing, exhaustion giving way to disbelief. But he doesn't answer, so I continue, airing my thoughts like they're dirty laundry. "You can't blame me for being surprised. You … pull me in and then push me away as though I'm nothing. You flaunt yourself and your sexuality in my face, for what? To get a rise out of me? You degrade me and humiliate me in front of the whole school." I keep my voice even —numb. "You open yourself up and then close yourself off. You're arrogant, possessive, angry, rude, fucking brutal most of the time …" taking a deep breath -praying for the strength to continue, to keep my emotions in check- my eyes stay focused on him. "You couldn't have made it more clear that I'm nothing to you. I'm a toy, here for your entertainment until you get bored and throw me away … again."

It's so silent I can hear the humming of the heating from within the walls, the wind outside as it brushes the house. His intense gaze is locked on me, his jaw ticking, his blinks slow.

"And then," I continue, "there's … whatever that was," I notion with my hand towards him. "Cocaine? Is that it? Is that your escape?"

He looks away, his jaw still taut, his eyes vacant; though I can see his brain working overtime, his mind reeling.

"What's your escape?" He looks right at me, a challenge. "What do you have, Bella? What helps you forget the pain?"

Instantly, I'm defensive. "I don't need to escape."

He laughs, one short bark of sound that's shrill in my ears. "Bullshit. You don't think I see the same darkness that haunts me, in your eyes? Reflected back at me clear as day?"

My silence speaks volumes. He sees his opportunity and takes it. Turning his whole body in my direction, his feet land on the floor, his torso leaning forward, elbows on knees. "You hide behind a mask, just like I do." His voice is low. It's not bitter, it's not cold, it's accepting. "You flaunt yourself and you pretend to be someone you're not, and for what? Validation? Does it help you sleep at night?" He's not looking for answers, he's taking his turn to vent. "You flirt and you laugh, you're cute and you're desired. That's your armour. I hide behind my fists and my temper. I escape through sex and drugs. But you," he watches me silently for a moment, "you escape by leading people on, feeling desired, playing the game. You take and you take with no intention of ever giving back. You're selfish and shallow."

I can't even argue. I want to, but he's just laid bare every insecurity that plagues me and I've got to hand it to him, he's more observant than most. The desire to defend myself is overwhelming, but for what? He's right.

But so am I.

So I do what I always do, I close down.

"Right." Nodding, I pick up my purse and turn to leave. "Thank you for that. It was enlightening."

"Bella, for fuck's sake! Stop." His voice halts me, he's not angry, he sounds as exhausted as he looks. When I turn to look at him, his hand is in his hair, tugging harshly. "Don't you get it? We're the same! We're two sides of the same fucking coin."

"I don't get what you're trying to prove," I tell him, voice quieter than the house that surrounds us. "I don't understand what you hope to achieve here?"

"Yeah? Me neither," he snorts. "And trust me, I've thought about it, over and over again." When I turn to leave once more, he continues. "You think I don't want to take you to that damn dance?"

I can't face him, not right now. It hurts more to look at him. "No, actually. I never once thought you would."

"Well," he sighs, "I really do."

A/N

Jemster23 is my Toxic right-hand-woman, and I love her for it. I don't know what I'd do without our late night plotting and discussions.

Thank you for reading!