I do not own Twilight.
So, I guess instead of quick updates, this story has turned into a few updates once a week :/
I'm sorry about that, I promise I'll try to do better.
High School: End of Junior Year
"You should work for Edward's dad."
I look up quickly at Alice from the job opening list posted in the hallway of the high school. It's for summer jobs, specifically. Her face is alive with the idea; she thinks it's grand, but one look at Edward and I know it is not.
"Can't she do, like, temp work or something? Filing? Payments, maybe?" she continues on, speaking to Edward now. We're at the picnic table outside—we're finally allowed to eat outside for lunches since the Seniors have graduated.
Edward smiles at Alice. It's kind. Calm, but I know the smile is only surface submission, to keep her happy, to keep her from questioning his father too much. I bite my lip and change the subject, talking about an opening at the library down the street that's listed on the page.
Later that night, Edward drives me to his house. The ride is quiet, but I can tell Edward's mind is anything but. His fingers keep tightening over the wheel until his knuckles are white with the tightening. I want to tell him it's okay, or grab his hand, but I refrain. Sometimes it's better to let him simmer.
In his house, his mom is in the kitchen. She smiles when we walk in, says hello to me and pats Edward on the cheek as though she knows, instinctively, that something has upset him. She doesn't ask him what it is, and I can tell by the slightly faraway look in her eyes that it's just not something she can deal with today.
I smile to her, hoping she understands that he'll be okay; that I will help him.
She closes her eyes and turns away. I catch her staring out of the kitchen window unseeingly as Edward pulls me down the hallway towards his room. It's across from Emmett's, but he's still away at school. We're practically alone here, now. Edward's mother never says much.
I catch his eye when he moves to sit on the edge of the bed and I sit next to him quietly, knowing that he'll know I will listen if he wants to talk. He grabs the baseball sitting on his nightstand, tossing it between his hands a few times before dropping it to the floor and running a hand through his messy hair.
When he looks up at me, I'm already watching him.
He reaches towards me and brushes the hair from my face, pushing it back behind my shoulders, exposing the top of my chest, my clavicles. His fingers drag softly along my throat, to my collarbones before he stops, his thumb pressing gently to the hollow at the base of my throat. He looks at me, his eyes bursting with olive tints. "You know I can't let you work for my dad."
"I know," I say. There's no judgement to my tone, no question. His words are simply fact.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Don't be." I shrug. "I don't want to work with cars anyways." I smile, but the doubt begins to creep in. His thumb is brushing an invisible pattern along the base of my throat. It's distracting, but not distracting enough from the memories he's entrusted me with. I swallow. "You shouldn't work with him, either."
"I can handle my dad."
His voice is soft; he doesn't want me to worry, but that's impossible. "When he's sober," I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, but it's a sad smile, if it can even count as a smile. He pulls me towards him, presses his lips to my forehead. He kisses me twice, and then a third time before mumbling against my heated skin, "Let's not talk about this."
It's a plea, not a demand.
I pull away from him, staring into his lost eyes. They're less heavy now; less burdened. He simmered, then released. Now, he'll be okay.
I lean forward and press my lips to his.
"Pick a movie," he says, jutting his chin towards the laptop on his desk. His hand moves from my collarbone to my waist, sliding beneath the cotton of my tank top. His fingers tickle, and then make me gasp as they move higher. He kisses me again and this time I can feel the smile on his mouth. "And we can pretend to watch it," he murmurs.
I laugh and move away to do as he said. He's smiling and the moment is gone. The pain is always fleeting, but it's always there, hidden inside.
I think about his mom in the kitchen, about the hollow look to her eyes, the one I always see when she's around, and I pray Edward never gets that look. The one of total vulnerability, of helplessness. But I know as I sit, watching him hook up his laptop, studying the intricate details of his sharpened features that I'll make sure he never takes on that look.
I'll make sure he's okay.