I do not own Twilight.
High School: Senior Year
Edward's home life issues travel with him to school and I'm constantly worried he won't keep up with baseball enough to keep the scholarship he was awarded.
He can play for Montana with a full ride, so long as he finishes out his last season in high school.
But I don't know how well that will work out when he keeps missing practices.
Jasper motions towards the parking lot when I glance over at him suspiciously. He's in the dug-out with a few other players, but Edward is nowhere to be seen. Of course, Jasper had to first make sure Alice wasn't watching before he gave me any pointers as to where Edward was.
Jasper may not hate me, but Alice still does.
I send him a quick grateful smile and grab my bag, high tailing it across the field towards the still-full parking lot.
There's only two weeks left of class for Seniors, and everyone seems to be staying late these days.
I spot him from a hundred yards away, leaning against his car, dressed in full baseball uniform.
He's smoking when I reach him and I grab the small joint from his fingers before he can stop me and toss it to the ground, stubbing it out quickly. I know it's a waste and anyone watching would be mad, but this is not him.
The Edward I know doesn't skip baseball practice to get high in the parking lot.
The Edward I know doesn't glare at me from beneath the lowered brim of his baseball cap.
"Why aren't you at pract—"
"What were you doing with Eric?" he cuts me off and I'm left reeling.
"What? When? What are you talking about?" I ask, but I'm already running through every scenario in my mind. Honestly, I can't remember if I was with Eric or what we were doing, but if Edward is bringing it up, then it is something he saw.
"Yesterday, after lunch," he says, and I can see how angry he is by the way the corners of his eyes crease. It's just one of his tells.
I shake my head, at a loss for words and then shrug. "I don't know," I say, my own anger quickening.
"You were at his locker," he reminds me, his voice as harsh as his expression.
I think hard, not looking away from him because I know he'll think I'm lying even though I'm not.
"We have to present together next week," I say. "I was asking him if he had finished his poster."
Edward thinks for a minute, before crossing his arms. He's taller than me and, with the way he is standing, he towers over me. I'm completely immersed in his shadow and I know that if I don't get through to him, I'll be immersed in his skepticism.
"What class?" he demands and I scoff, moving to step around him because this is just ridiculous and, though I know where this is stemming from, it doesn't seem fair that I have to explain my every move to him.
He's following me, an angry curse flowing from his lips, but I'm already at my car.
"Go to practice, Edward," I say, and quickly get inside my car, locking the doors for added emphasis.
He won't treat me like this. He doesn't get to think I'm doing something wrong. He doesn't get to think that I can't talk to anyone else.
When he shows up at my house later that night, I roll my eyes but move off of my bed to slide open my window. The tree he climbs to get up here has seen better days and I'm always worried that if crouches on the branch long enough, it will snap beneath his feet.
It's late, so he's quiet, but so am I.
He doesn't look like he knows what to say, but he's still in his uniform and, when he pulls off his cap, I see the beginnings of a black eye. I suck in a breath.
"I got hit with the ball," he says quietly, not looking at me, but I'm not sure if I believe him.
Why can he lie to me, but I have to tell him everything I'm doing, everyone I'm talking to?
I'm scared to see what Eric looks like tomorrow, but for right now, I decide to believe his story.
"How?" I ask, because Edward's always had a great eye for that small red and white stitched ball.
He shrugs and then moves to sit on the edge of my bed. He drops his face to his hands and rubs his eyes like he's suddenly exhausted.
"Lost focus, I guess," he says and then glances up at me.
The anxiety in his emerald eyes is contagious.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice catching with real grief, real apology, and I'm already moving towards him, letting him reach out and pull me down to him.
In the muted darkness, I let his fingers pull at my night shirt, my legs falling to either side of his hips while he whispers apologies and words of sorrow, of love against my skin. His thumbs move simultaneously across my breasts, my already trembling desire, and I am lost and found at the same time.
I forgive him with my body.