I do not own Twilight.

Another long(er) chapter. I'm getting towards the end, here. It's going to be sad for me to see them go.

Edward's not up when I go downstairs in the morning and Esme seems a little concerned.

Quietly, I tell her about the letter. I regret it as soon as she moves for the staircase, her expression shocked. "What did it say?" she asks as she makes her way towards his room. I stop her before she can go in.

"I don't know," I admit. "But I don't know if we should go in. He might be processing, or sleeping." As much as I'd love to run in there and make sure he's okay, I know he will be. He just needs time to himself. It's how he copes with things like this. He does it alone.

But Esme shakes her head and opens the door, whispering, "I just want to make sure he's okay."

I let her, because I'm not his mother.

I can see him when she walks in. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, his hair a mess. I know he's been pulling at it and I know even more that he wants to be alone. "Esme," I start, but the damage is already done.

He's glaring at her as she moves into the room.

"You read it?" he asks her, his voice like venom. I watch Esme flinch, but I don't know what to do.

"I didn't…" she starts, and then glances back at me. She's begging me with her eyes to do something; to say something.

I shake my head. "He gave it to Charlie," I tell him and his eyes snap to me. He looks like a cornered animal. This was exactly why I didn't want to come in here. You can't corner Edward. He would have come out when he was ready. We're forcing him, and I hate it.

"Come on—" I start to say, trying to redirect Esme, but she's moving towards him again. He recoils and I watch him reach down and grab his hat. He shoves it on his head, hiding his mess of bronze hair. I bite my lip.

"Edward," she's saying, coaxing, almost, but he jumps up and away from her, towards me.

"I need to go for a run," he tells me, and his words are careful, like he's afraid to say anything that will upset me. I want to tell him this wasn't my idea. I want to tell him that I tried to give the letter back, but I don't because I don't know what he wants to hear; what he needs to hear.

I nod and he starts for the door, moving around me.

"Edward," Esme calls after him. "Don't leave. We can talk about this. Peter and I can—"

I don't know if it's the mention of Peter or Esme's breaking voice or, again, the idea that she's suddenly trying to parent after nearly three years of nothing that breaks him, but he turns at the door, his hands fisting so tightly that I'm afraid he'll dislocate his knuckles.

"I don't need anything from you or him," he hisses, staring down his mother. His eyes are serpentine and I stand still, watching the image with a racing heart. "And I definitely don't fucking need anything from dad."

He turns before he leaves and grabs something from the trash bin by the door. It's the letter, crumbled into a ball.

"Here," he says, handing me the paper as he smooths it out. "I know you want to read it."

His tone is clipped, angry and I stare at the paper in his hand for an immeasurable amount of time. "I won't if you don't want me to," I finally say.

"Read it," he demands. It's not up to me anymore; he wants someone else to see it. I take the paper, keeping my eyes on him until he disappears down the hallway. As soon as he does, my eyes stray down. They catch the first word, written in a scratchy pen: Son.

I can feel Esme's eyes on me as I read, probably trying to gauge my reaction to each subsequent line, but I feel numb. There's nothing left to feel, because Edward's said it all.

I look up at her once I've finished reading and hold out the letter. She shakes her head, a few tears glistening on her lashes. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

"What does it say?" she whispers, but I'm not about to read it word-for-word to her.

"That he's in AA," I say. "That when his entire family up and left him, it put things into perspective. That he wants Edward to call him if he wants to talk."

She doesn't say anything for which I'm glad, because there's still a part of me—a very large part—that holds a grudge because she didn't take them with her when she got out. She was selfish, even as a victim.

"Did he tell him he was sorry?" she asks, her voice breaking. I stare at her and for a moment I see the Esme that I knew; the mother that Edward and Emmett knew. The one that stands by and watches.

"No," I answer and she has the audacity to look angry. I stand up, putting the letter on Edward's desk so she can read it in private, like I know she will. "But, sometimes, a simple sorry doesn't cut it."

I turn and leave Esme alone in Edward's room.

Esme finds me in the kitchen before she has to leave for work and asks me if I think Edward would let her speak to him tonight. I tell her that I honestly don't know, and that's all I say. I don't encourage her to speak to him, because it's up to her to find the courage. I can't be the middle man for them. This is something she needs to sort out on her own, just her and Edward.

When Edward gets back, he's in a better mood. I don't know if it was the run alone, or the combination of Esme leaving and my not immediately wanting to talk about the letter.

"I'm sorry," he says, hesitating outside the door to the guest room, where I'm sitting in the middle of the bed. I shake my head and wave him in. He looks relieved.

"You did good," I say.

"She told me in therapy to run when I feel angry. When I feel like I want to hit someone."

He lays back onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge, his feet still grounded to the floor. He has a sheen of sweat across his forehead and his eyes are brilliantly green. I run my fingers through his hair, moving strands from his face. "Does it help?" I ask.

"Yeah," he sighs.

"Beth?"

He closes his eyes, relaxing more into the bed as my fingers smooth along his head. "Yeah."

I have a million questions about her; the therapist at the jail. Did she like him? How did he feel when she touched him? Did he like her? As a therapist, or otherwise?

His eyes open and he stares at me, at my silence.

"Did she ever…why did you stop seeing her?" I finally ask.

He shrugs and then he gets this look to his eyes and I know he has an actual reason. I hold my breath, bracing myself. His voice is low when he answers. "I felt like I was in some sort of psych ward with her. Like I wasn't just doing my time. Everyone thought something was wrong with me and I started believing them."

I stay quiet, letting him get everything out.

"When the first month was up, they asked what of schedule I wanted to keep and I said I didn't want to do it anymore." He smiles and lets out a short laugh through his nose; a sound of disregard. "They said it would help, but all she ever wanted to do was talk about you and your boyfriend." He spits the word and I take up running my fingers through his hair again. He relaxes and closes his eyes. "She said we were toxic for each other. That if I really loved you, I'd let you go because it would be better for you. That you were happy now."

I'm sure he's keeping some of the conversations from me, like the ones where she would explain to him just how and why I was toxic to him. And I don't have a doubt that I was toxic to him, just like he was toxic to me. But we're different now. We're growing. We're changing.

He looks up at me and his eyes take me in, in that way that makes me think he can see right through me. "I'm going to therapy here, now. At the school."

I'm shocked by this news, but I try to keep it hidden. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugs and then sits up, facing away from me. I study his back. Broad and lean in all the right places. I want to trace my hand over his spine.

"It's embarrassing, I guess. To be so fucked up that you need someone else to tell you how to live your life."

I do touch him now, because what he's saying is heartbreaking and not true. I move towards him on my knees, running my hand up his back. "You're not fucked up," I whisper. "And it's not embarrassing. God, Edward, when will you understand that it was your childhood that was fucked up. Not you."

"Emmett's fine," he counters after a second.

I move closer to him, leaning up on my knees so that we're eyelevel. "Emmett wasn't taking the brunt of the beatings," I remind him. He doesn't say anything. "And I'm sure he has his own shit to deal with." I motion towards the door, towards the house in general. Edward may not necessarily like Peter or agree with everything Esme has done, but he's a hell of a lot better at accepting it than Emmett is.

"Yeah," he grimaces and then turns an inch so that he can look at me. His eyes trail over my face. "I'm doing it for you. I have to get better for you."

I shake my head and grab his hand. "You have to get better for you, Edward. And if you think you're going to run me off because of the way that you are, the way you grew up, you obviously don't understand what's been happening these past six months."

"You left me because of how I was," he says quietly, staring out our hands.

"Yeah," I agree. "How you were. You're not like that anymore. You're calmer. You know how to vent your anger." I motion towards his running shoes and then towards myself. "You trust me more."

His fingers tighten around mine. "I never distrusted you."

I sigh and lean forward to press my lips to his temple. "I love you for you. If this past half year wasn't enough proof of that…" I trail off, not needing to remind him about the jail visits, the therapy sessions, our reunion…

He stares at me for a moment before his expression softens. "I love you, too." He sighs and then drops back to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I guess I should apologize to my mom."

"If you want," I say and move to hover over him. He grabs my hips, making me straddle his waist. "But she fucked up your childhood, too. Don't forget that. Being a bystander doesn't make her innocent." I stare down at him, hesitating. His fingers tighten against me, egging me on. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask. "The letter?"

He groans and throws a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes like just the thought alone gives him a headache. "He's in AA. Writing the letter is probably one of his steps." He looks up at me. "What more is there to say?"

I let it go because I don't want to push him, but now I'm wondering if he wrote a letter to Emmett, and if there's one coming for Esme.

"Thank you for not giving up on me," Edward whispers after a minute. "I'm sorry for what happened this morning."

I kiss him as my answer.

"Let's not waste our few hours alone," I suggest, changing the subject because I know he doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He seems to fully agree as he flips us over, pushing me into the mattress. I laugh when he pinches my sides, squirming away from him, but he catches my mouth with his before I can tell him to stop.

He lets me be as loud as I want this time.