I do not own Twilight.
Sooner than I thought :)
High School: Senior Year
"What are you doing?"
I look up into the mirror positioned on the wall of my bedroom where I've been standing for the past five minutes, my eyes meeting Edward's, our reflections exactly that of each other—reflections. We both have the same look about ourselves: wary.
His green eyes glow with curiosity and a hint of derision.
"Picking out a skirt," I say, not yet daring to look back into the open drawer before me. I know if I look away from his gaze, he'll take it as defeat.
"For what," he says, though he already knows and I can tell he doesn't like it.
I sigh and turn around, leaning against my bureau so I can look at him. Actually look at him. For once, he's not wearing a baseball cap, though his hair has grown so long that locks of it hang across his forehead, practically obscuring his eyes. The stubble across his jaw is more than just a day old, and I wonder how much longer we're going to keep doing this, this strange back and forth. A push and pull.
"Jessica's pre-graduation party is tonight."
His brow furrows, irritation clear on his otherwise beautiful face.
"I know. I said I'm not going," he states. It has a second meaning though, one that I've become all too familiar with in the past two months.
If he's not going, neither should I.
I cross my arms and stare.
"I want to go," I say.
He shakes his head, but the answer is already on the tip of my tongue.
"I want to go."
"We'll find something else to do," he compromises, his voice becoming softer, but I don't want to find something else to do. I want to go to Jessica's party where the rest of my friends—the small amount that I have left—will be. It may be the last time we see each other like this before finals ramp up. And then, in five days, we will no longer be high schoolers.
"I'm going to the party," I say and then turn back to my bureau because, whether he likes it or not, I'm allowed to do things like this without him.
I hear the bed creak and I know he's walking to stand behind me, but I refuse to meet his eyes in the mirror. He leans against the light-yellow wall-papered wall and stares at the side of my face, arms crossed.
"Eric's gonna be there," he says.
I shrug, ignoring the implication in his tone. "Okay? And so will Jackie, his girlfriend."
"Jake will be there, too," he warns, ignoring my comment, but this time I stay silent, continuing to look through my clothing. It's relatively warm out for May, but I don't want to be too cold.
"And Ben."
I slam the drawer shut and turn on him. He doesn't look surprised or amused. His eyes only hold anger, disapproval.
"And what, exactly, is wrong with Ben?" I demand. "What, did he look at me? Is it because I let him borrow my history notes? Or because I sat next to him that one time at lunch?"
His eyes are blazing and I can see the tendons standing out in his curled fists, pressed tightly to either side of his chest.
"What about—Matt Stanley? Jess's brother will probably be there. I think he's back from college now. I bet he's inviting his friends, too." My tone is harsh, the words spewing from my lips as I step closer to him, not wanting to deal with this shit for at least one night.
Edward's eyes are blazing with fury, his jaw clenched, but he only raises his chin in defiance. "Then you're definitely not going."
"Do you not trust me, Edward?" I yell, my own anger barreling through my chest like fire. "Do you think I'm going to go home with the first guy I see? Do you think I'd cheat on you or something? Because that's what it sounds like."
He's still not looking at me, but I can see the tension in his jaw. He spots something on my desk—my keys—and reaches over to take them before I have a chance to realize what he is doing.
"You're not going," is all he says.
I make a grab for my keys, but he has them clenched in his fist again, his arms crossed too tightly for me to pry them apart.
"Give me my fucking keys, Edward," I hiss, grabbing onto his forearm, but he refuses, only pulling away from me.
"Give me my fucking keys," I try again, but the words are masked by the tears and I can feel the hyperventilation just seconds away.
I'm about to do something else—make another pass for the keys, yell at him, cry at him—I'm not really sure what I'm about to do, but he shoves my keys into his pocket and moves away towards the window, his muscles tense, his expression violent.
"Fine," he counters between gritted teeth. "We'll go to the party."
But it's not about the party anymore. Not really.
"I don't want to go," I cry, and I can feel the heat building on my face as my tear ducts take on minds of their own. I don't think I could stop myself if I tried. It's embarrassing to have crying as your default response to anger. "Just give me the keys," I sob.
He looks lost, like he's not sure what to do. I can see the fight in him—comfort me, or stick to his guns, but guns seem to win out as pushes his hands into his pockets and leaves them there and even though I know he would never hurt me, I'm suddenly paralyzed with the weight of the situation.
"I said I don't want to go," I whisper, staring at the curtains beside him because I really, really don't want to look at him right now. "I won't go," I repeat, "so give me back my keys."
"You'll stay home tonight?" he asks, his voice balancing on the edge of relief and fury.
Still, I don't look at him, but nod my answer.
Finally, he drops my keys to my bed. They glisten against the lingering sunlight streaming through the window.
"Bella," he starts, but now it's my turn to turn away from him because I don't want to hear the apology or explanation or lesson or whatever the fuck he's going to say.
"Just go," I say to the wood of my bureau, sliding all of the drawers closed and kicking a pair of shoes back into my closet.
I hear him walk up to me this time, because he does so slowly, considerately. His fingers touch my cheek and I'm sure he can feel the stains of salty tears, but I pull my face out of his reach, glaring up at him. He looks sad, but not as sad as he will feel if he stays and I continue speaking to him. He needs to go or I'll say something I regret.
His expression contorts into some kind of pain before he masks it away.
"I'll call you tonight, before you go to sleep," are his parting words before he's ducking out of my bedroom. I can hear him on the stairs, and then the closing of the front door before his engine sparks to life. I stand where I am, glaring at the set of keys, knowing he's only going to call to make sure I really haven't gone to the party.
I have half a mind to ignore the call when it comes, but I know I won't because I'm helpless and there's still a part of me that thinks that, in a few months when the pain of his mom leaving isn't as fresh, he'll be back to normal. He won't be so paranoid, so aggressive, and everything will be normal again.
Later that night, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, twirling uneaten spaghetti around on my fork when my mom comes home from work.
She looks at me funny, though I avoid her gaze.
"I thought you were going to the Stanley's party tonight?" she asks.
"I decided not to go," I say drily, not wanting to dig this up with my mother of all people. But, when I stand up to empty my plate, I catch her eye as she's opening the fridge. There's a look of perception, of concern.
But, above all, there's a look of disappointment.