I do not own Twilight.
High School: Fall of Junior Year
I bite the cap to my pen, staring down at my homework, but not really paying attention to any of the calculus problems that are laid out before me.
There's too much swimming through my head; too much to think about. Too much to be excited about.
Edward's sitting across from me and I can feel him looking at me every once in a while. Every time we make eye contact, he just smirks and looks back down at his biology homework. I want to kick him, or kiss him, or take him up to my room and make him do dirty things to me, things we haven't done yet, because I know he knows he's distracting me.
I'm not sure which I want to do yet, but every time he looks at me, I get closer and closer to the last one.
But I'm also nervous because we just made this, us, official yesterday, after he told me he didn't think we needed labels, and then after he texted me and told me I was the only girl he'd ever felt things for, and there's another step that we need to take that I'm not sure he wants to take.
But I want to take it because I'm tired of trying to get him out of the house before my mom gets home at six, or before Charlie stops by the house during a patrol. Edward always parks a street away, just in case, but I'm tired of the sneaking around.
It doesn't feel real when we have to sneak.
"Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow?" I blurt out, and then hold my breath because I hadn't wanted to ask like that.
Edward looks up at me, surprise in his green eyes. He looks doubtful, like he's not sure it's a good idea.
"It's too soon," I say with a nod and look back at my homework, trying to forget I even asked, but the blood is rushing through my ears and that makes it hard to forget.
I scribble out a math problem, certain I'm not even using the right formula, but the pen is plucked from my fingers before I can solve the equation. I look up quickly, startled, but Edward isn't looking at me. He's studying the pen like it's something interesting, reading the wording on it and then touching the cap with the tip of his index finger. It's covered in bite marks.
"You're the first girl I've really ever dated like this," he says and my breathing shallows. I like that he thinks I'm different than the other girls he's been with; I like that I think I'm different than the other girls he's been with.
"I've never sat at a girl's kitchen table before, doing homework," he adds.
"Well, I've never even had a guy in my kitchen," I say and he looks over at me and smirks.
"I'm glad I'm the first," he says.
"Me, too," I agree quietly.
I'm smiling because he has that lopsided grin on his face in reaction to my blush. It makes me blush harder.
His smile drops just as quickly as it came and he tips the pen over, tapping the cap against the table a few times. "I don't know if I'm the kind of guy you want to introduce to your parents," he says quietly, but seriously.
My breathing hitches because this doesn't sound like something a boyfriend would say, and now I'm beginning to doubt we really are official, or real, or whatever the correct term is. I frown and stare at him.
"Why not?" I ask.
He sits back and grabs his baseball cap from the table and pulls it on so the brim sits low. It's something he does when he's thinking, when he's unsure about something and the sight makes my stomach drop because I feel like he's about to tell me we shouldn't see each other anymore.
"Your stepdad knows me," he says and I make a noise of inquiry in the back of my throat, but he's still not looking at me.
"I know," I say and his eyes snap to mine. "I've told them about you," I add.
He shakes his head. "No, I mean, Officer Swan knows me. He knows my family and I don't think he'd like it if he found out we are together."
"What does that mean?" I ask, because he always says things like this, hints at things that make no sense in the context he says them. I feel like he's always trying to keep me at arm's length, but at the same time, telling me that we're 'together' and it's extremely confusing.
"It means my dad is kind of a well-known asshole," he says.
I stare because I don't know what to say because this has never come up before. Charlie has never said anything to me about Edward's dad, but now the slight looks of relief when he asks if I'm going to Edward's house and the answer is a no makes sense. As does the way he brushes off any knowledge of Edward's family when my mom asks.
"What does that mean?" I repeat because I honestly don't know and I'd like to know because I'd like to know Edward, inside and out.
He stares at me, his brim pulled so low that the shadow over his eyes almost hides them from me, but I can see the indecision warring through his mind before, finally, his tense jaw relaxes. He leans closer to the table and stretches his arm out to me. I think for a second that he's extending his hand for me to take, but he's never been like that, so the movement surprises me and I just stare until I see a faint scar that leads from the side of his wrist, up to the center of his thumb. I'm surprised I've never seen it before, but then again, if his hands are that close to me, they're usually on me.
He leans over to trace the line.
"I was seven," he says. "I pitched a ball to Em and it hit the mirror of one of my dad's cars." He pulls his hand away before I can fully comprehend what he's saying. "He used a shard of the glass that had broken off," he says drily.
I feel like crying. Or throwing up.
He shows me his other arm and I have to fight from looking away because I don't want to see these scars, I don't want to hear these memories, but I have to if I want to be with him.
He points to his wrist and though there's no physical scar, I know there's an emotional one.
"Broken in three places because I talked back."
I bite my lip.
"How old were you?" I ask.
He shrugs, "Fourteen?"
I'm biting my lip so hard that I think I might break skin. I'm trying not to cry because I know he wouldn't appreciate that.
"He's only like this when he's drunk, but that's enough of the time," he adds and the uncaring tone to his voice, the way in which he holds himself as though he's just another normal teenager has my heart bleeding for him.
"Where's your mom?" I ask, because I can't believe someone wouldn't step in to stop this, but again, Edward shrugs.
"Sometimes at work, sometimes at home."
"She doesn't do anything?" I ask. My voice wavers.
"If she did anything, it'd be worse for all of us," he concludes and I sit back in my chair, contemplating a childhood like the one he's described. I've never even been hit before. I can't imagine such violence coming at the hand of your own father, such disregard coming from the silence of your own mother.
"Don't pity me, Bella," he says and his voice is harsh, demanding, like he was afraid of this the whole time.
I look up at him quickly and I know there are tears in my eyes. I just hope they don't track down my face, but I refuse to wipe them away because it'll be a sign of defeat.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, but I don't know if I'm apologizing for his fucked up childhood, or for feeling badly about his fucked up childhood. Probably both, but I hope he thinks it's the latter.
He doesn't say anything, but his expression softens and his eyes roam my face. I don't feel like kicking him, or kissing him, or making him do dirty things to me anymore. I feel like holding him until the morning; I feel like protecting him and telling him that I'll protect him, even though I know that I can't.
Finally, he relaxes against his seat and there's a semblance of a smile on his calm face.
"So," he says. "What time should I come over for dinner tomorrow?"
The smile on my face is watery, but matches his.