Twilight and the characters of Twilight belong to Stephanie Meyer. But honestly? I don't trust her with either.

"I hate you," I growled at my brother.

"You can hate me after you finish your last two reps," Emmett said coolly. Although he was engaged in his own insanely difficult workout, he was somehow able to still keep tabs on me.

The two dumbbells in my hands felt heavier than the numbers written on the sides. I sucked in a breath and curled them up towards my shoulder and back down to my hips. Slow and controlled, just as Emmett instructed. I wasn't sure I could do it again.

"Why can't you torture Jasper one morning?" I nodded towards our other brother, left peacefully alone on the treadmill.

"Jasper already went through my training program when he came into the family two years ago. You think he got that sculped ass of his just by… uh… sculpting?"

"So, this is just an extremely painful family initiation process?"

"It's brotherly bonding," Emmett said matter-of-factly, deadlifting an impressive-looking barbell over his head, "No girls. No parents. Just us bros."

"Yeah," I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes, "because normally this house is super uptight." With two parents under their thirties and three college kids, living in this house felt like living with a fraternity rather than a family.

"Come on, quit distracting yourself," Emmett encouraged, "one more, then you can cool down."

I curled up the weights once more and immediately released them. Emmett and I both flinched at the thud they made when they landed on the rubber-padded ground.

My arms fell limp at my sides—they were going to be jello for the rest of the day. "Why do we have to end every workout with arms?" I griped.

Emmett chuckled, "Moody today, aren't we?" He dropped his barbell onto the ground as well.

I answered him with a scowl.

"Curls for girls, my dude," Emmett raised his arms and flexed them in a Herculean fashion, "All those little girlies at your school are gonna thank me when they see you shirtless."

I felt my ears get hot at the thought of anyone at school seeing me shirtless.

Emmett laughed when he noticed my discomfort, "I knew it! I knew there was a girl to curl for! Let's see," he began circling around me, his hand stroking his chin, "Rosie thinks it's that Angela Weber, but I don't buy it. If you wanted her, you'd have her by now. Is it… Jessica Stanley?

"How do you know I know Jessica?" I've never mentioned my friends around my family.

"Rosalie keeps tabs on you for the fam."

Rosalie was spying on me?

It made sense; I should have figured that out by now. She knew about my incident in the pool, and she knew about my study sessions with Angela. At least she didn't know about rejecting Jessica or my lunch date with Bella today. If she did, Emmett wouldn't be asking me these questions.

"So, it's Jessica?" Emmett pressed, "I think I remember her being cute."

"Edward turned down Jessica yesterday," Jasper called from the treadmill.

I gaped after my brother. What? Did he have his own agent watching my every move at school, too?

Jasper, however, just continued his run, like he didn't just drop a bomb into the conversation.

Emmett was also floored, but for an entirely different reason, "Did Rose tell you something before she told me?"

"Jessica Stanley told Bree Tanner who told Alice," Jasper explained.

Emmett rubbed his hands together, "Ooh, I never know stuff before Rose. I can't wait to be able to tell her something she doesn't know."

I dragged my fingers down my face, "You're all worse gossips than the girls at school."

Emmett shook the room with one of his guffaws, "You haven't bothered to tell us anything. It's not our fault we gotta result to more creative means to get to know about our newest brother."

"You brought this upon yourself," Jasper agreed.

I shook my head, "You're all insane."

"Back to the girl you curl for…" Emmett continued, "It's not Jessica Stanley, and it can't possibly be Lauren Mallory…" he snapped his fingers and pointed at me in one motion, "That little weird girl. Rosalie said she was late to both homeroom and sixth period yesterday because she was seen talking to you."

"That's also the girl Edward saved from being thrown into the pool," Jasper reminded Emmett.

Emmett's eyes brightened with realization, "It is! That Gabriella Duck or whatever."

"Isabella Swan," Jasper corrected.

"You're into Isabella Swan," Emmett declared, crossed his arms across his chest and giving one, solid nod.

I couldn't deny it, "Drop it."

"You're blushing," he smirked.

"I'm sweating," I retorted.

"Deny it all you want, little bro," Emmett held up his hands and shook his head, "I see it in your eyes. And I will speak of this day in my Best Man's speech at your wedding."

I did roll my eyes at that.

"Why are you Best Man?" Jasper asked.

"Because I gave him the pecs that helped him win the heart of the fair Isabella," Emmett responded.

"Oh my god," I muttered, walking towards the stairs. Jasper and Emmett continued with their conversation as I left the room.

"Please," Jasper scoffed, "She signed up for his puppy-dog eyes and his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. She didn't even notice his pecs."

"She didn't even notice his pecs?" Emmett repeated in disbelief. Even from up the stairs, I could still hear Emmett's booming voice, "You know what's under his pec, bro? His heart."

oOo

Just like the day before, Bella waited impatiently beside my homeroom, looking flawlessly beautiful as always. She wore the little, white sundress that I always imagined her in, and like every day her thick hair was pulled back into a ponytail. But today, her chocolate eyes warmed and melted when they met mine and she greeted me with one of those heart-stopping smiles of hers.

A guy could get used to this.

"Good morning," she signed.

"Hey. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?"

She bit down her smile and ducked her head—her usual, adorable reaction to receiving anything close to a compliment. With her gaze still lowered, she rifled through her bag for a moment and forced a packet of paper into my hands.

"What is this?" It looked like a test. Paging through it, I read some of the questions—What is your favorite feel-good movie? What is your guilty pleasure? "Did you make this? Is it like a personality test?" I flipped through the packet all the way to the last three pages, which were blank aside from the single question along the top, "With an essay section?"

She held her chin high and gave me one, firm nod.

"You little dork," I chuckled.

She scrunched her nose at my ridicule and lunged at me to take it back. However, I was taller than her by a good amount and easily held it up high out of her reach, "No! I'm filling it out."

She took a step back and looked me up and down—as if she was sizing me up to see if she could take me on. She either decided she couldn't or decided to let me live another day because she straightened her stance and clasped her hands together in front of her.

"You want this done by lunch?" I asked.

"Yes, please," she signed.

She glanced up at the clock—she needed to leave to get to her homeroom soon or she would be late. I didn't want her to face any negative repercussions for me. I didn't need anything stacked up against me, no matter how trivial. "You need to go," I muttered.

She didn't look thrilled at the idea, which pleased me immensely.

I remembered my conversation with my brothers this morning—how my every action was watched by Rosalie or one of her friends and then reported back to the family. These causal moments with Bella felt too intimate to be shared with anyone else just yet. I didn't want any sort of gossip to interfere with our fragile, budding relationship.

Then, there was also Lauren. The girl began to bully her own friend at the mere concept of taking something she wanted. When she discovered that I actually belonged to the sweet, silent Isabella, she would not be pleased. And Bella would receive the brunt end of that displeasure.

It was for the best that Bella and I kept things quiet for now—at least until things between us felt a little more solid. I couldn't bear it if family gossip or the wrath of a petty girl scared Bella away from me.

"Do you mind if we meet in the library during lunch?" I asked.

Her eyebrows drew together as she considered the implications behind my question.

"Not anything like that!" I babbled in an attempt to reassure her, "It's not like I don't want to be seen with you. Of course, I want to be seen with you, because, well, wow." I gestured at her. Her eyebrows were still knit together, but her eyes sparkled in amusement and her mouth twitched. My ears felt hotter.

"But, I—I just want some privacy. Somewhere you would feel comfortable." I would explain the more sensitive areas behind this decision when I was confident they wouldn't scare her off.

"So… Library?"

"Library," she signed back.

She turned to leave, and I tried with all my might not to gawk at her as she walked down the hallway, but I failed. My eyes followed the end of her ponytail as it swung back and forth along her lower back until she was out of my sight.

I spent the rest of my morning ignoring my lectures and filling out Bella's packet. I didn't put as much thought as a should have behind its purpose. There was nothing substantial on it—it basically asked me all of my favorite things in various subjects. I assumed it was some silly personality quiz or compatibility test that virtually meant nothing. Girls liked personality tests—one girl in one of my foster homes made me take all sorts of online quizzes with her. Ones that told me the color of my aura to what kind of bread I was.

Green and sourdough.

All that mattered was that Bella wanted me to fill this out, and I wasn't about to fight against anything she wanted. Hell, I would have done her actual schoolwork for her at this point.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was practically bouncing out of my seat to get to Isabella. I walked to the cafeteria at an embarrassingly quick pace, but I couldn't squander what precious time I had with Bella standing in line for lunch. I grabbed the first sandwich I saw and beelined for the library. When I got there, Bella was sitting alone at the table where she sat when I first tried to talk to her.

Hopefully, I could reign in my idiocy this time.

I put down my sandwich on the table and my backpack on the chair beside her. There was already a blank notebook sitting in the middle of the table—I assumed it would be used for communication. I placed the packet in front of her next to the notebook and smoothed down the pages with both hands, "Your assignment, Ms. Swan."

She immediately began flipping through it.

"It was pretty extensive. I was surprised it didn't end with questions asking me my mother's maiden name and my social security number."

The joke didn't land. She looked up at me with a 'what are you talking about?' expression.

I sat down in the chair beside her and unwrapped my sandwich. In my haste, I didn't even realize what kind I grabbed. I checked the insides quickly to make sure there wasn't tuna or onions or eggs. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato seemed safe enough. I took a bite of sandwich before I realized that she didn't have any food in front of her.

I immediately panicked.

Did she expect me to pick her up something to eat? This was a date in my mind, after all. Did that mean it was a date in hers as well? I should have been a gentleman and paid for her food. Or at least thought to bring her something.

I launched out of my seat like a rocket, "Do you need me to get you anything?

Without looking up, she shook her head.

I sat down, relieved. As I took another bite, I watched her take out three different colored highlighters and arrange them neatly beside the packet. She picked up the green highlighter and make a little checkmark next to the first question. I left her to her reading while I finished my sandwich in comfortable silence. When I finished, I looked over to see she was still engrossed in my answers and making little symbols with her highlighters.

"Are you grading me?" I asked. I chuckled at her gumption; I didn't realize I was taking an actual personality test this morning, "You can't grade me on my option!"

Instead of responding, she picked up the red marker and circled the number of one of the questions.

"And I'm getting things wrong!?" I exclaimed. Again, she said nothing. She picked up a yellow highlighter and drew a line over something.

"What could I possibly be getting wrong?" I laughed, trying to snatch the packet from her.

Hunching over, she wrapped one arm around protectively her work and used to other to mark the page with that offensive red marker of hers. I wrapped my arm around her and snatched it from the other side.

"Let's see here," I looked at the red circles scattered across the page, they were all over my favorite music. The only answer that didn't get a circle was my favorite instrument, piano.

"You can't mark Stevie Nicks as incorrect! That's sacrilege!" I exclaimed.

She scribbled something into the notebook and slid it over towards me. Red = look up later.

When I turned back to her, her gaze was downcast, her cheeks flushed from embarrassment. I flipped back through my test, looking over all the little red circles—all the things she didn't know. The amount of red surprised me, but who was I to judge? There were plenty of pop culture references I was left out of growing up due to lack of internet, or cable TV, or anything else.

This morning, I thought this packet was a silly game to see what we had in common, but it looked like she had intended to use it as her own sort of study guide. "You were going to use this to look up all of my favorite things?"

She didn't say anything. Her eyes were locked onto the hands on her lap, nervously twisting the end of her ponytail.

I let my voice grow soft., "That's incredibly sweet of you. But, Bella, I don't want you looking up these things on your own. I'm not a test that you need to study for. During our friendship, I'm going to share these things with you. And I'm going to want you to share things about yourself with me."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Something I used to do when I wished I could be anywhere else.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered what caused her to be this way, and if it had anything to do with her mutism. Just as quickly, I shoved the thoughts aside to focus on the girl in front of me. Until she disclosed anything to me, she would just be Bella, and I would just be Edward. And Just Bella needed a bit of guidance on how to be friends with Just Edward.

"We can start with my favorite music, okay? Then, I want to learn something about you."

I pulled my iPod out of the smallest pocket on my backpack. It was one of the oldest models—the one that didn't have a touch screen or even a backlight. I plugged in the headphones and stuck one into my ear and offered the second to Bella. "Please?" I said, holding it out in front of her face where she could see it.

Leery, she accepted my offer. I suppressed a smile when she used to hem of my own shirt to wipe it off before sticking it in her ear.

"The first place I can remember living was with this gruff, old man on his farm. He was a man's man—big bushy, beard, ripping torso, tree trunk arms. You know the kind I'm talking about?"

She nodded.

"The only music this man only listened to was…" I scrolled down on my iPod for the song I was looking for, "Fleetwood Mac," and I played Dreams for her.

She put both hands over her mouth and shook—a gesture I figured was her way of laughing—as she pictured the silly juxtaposition between the man I had described and the music she was listening to now.

"Behind his intimidating demeanor, Harry Clearwater had the kindest, gentlest soul. He never had a wife or kids of his own, but he always had two or three kids in his care. He was just giving like that. I wished I could have grown up on that farm with him and listened to Stevie Nicks for the rest of my life…" I stopped, letting Bella enjoy the rest of the song in silence.

"But eventually I was moved out of his care…" I scrolled down my iPod for the next song and played the start of my favorite Sam Cooke album, "And I was sent to live with a black family: the Washington's. They were picture-perfect: doting mother, hardworking father, elder daughter, younger son. I never figured out why they wanted a little ginger boy to live with them. I loved them so much. So much so, that the mother had to sit me down one day to explain to me that I wasn't black like they were," I chuckled, "I cried when I found out."

Bella smiled back at me, the shame in her eyes entirely replaced with delight. She didn't shy away or look uncomfortable at the mention of my unusual upbringing. Her nonreaction was a gift my stories rarely received, and it encouraged me to continue.

"Now, the dad was a jazz teacher at a high school in Seattle. He poured his heart into his music collection. He loved Soul music: Otis Redding, Nina Simone, Smokey Robinson. On the last Christmas I spent with them, his wife bought him a new iPod and he offered me," I held up my iPod, "his old one. He asked me if there was anything I wanted to add to it, and the only other music I knew was…"

Bella pointed to Stevie Nicks' name on my packet.

"Exactly, Stevie Nicks. So, he added Fleetwood Mac into his precious music library for my sake. Then, the father got a great gig down in New Orleans and the family had to move. They weren't allowed to bring me out of state, so, I was sent to the next house. And that was the end of that," I sighed.

"I can't ever put any more music onto this thing," I explained, stroking my iPod with my forefinger, "because he had the computer with the library, and if I connected it to any other library, I would lose it all. So here I am. A seventeen-year-old white boy with the same taste in music as a fifty-year-old black man."

We smiled at one other—she enjoying my story, me enjoying the memory.

"There you have it," I took the green highlighter from her row of markers and drew a green checkmark over the two red circles on Favorite Artist: Stevie Nicks and Favorite Genre: Soul. "You know two more things."

She traced the check marks with her forefinger then smiled up at me. Her smile felt like an accomplishment.

"Here," I offered her my iPod, "play whatever you'd like."

She took the iPod and I showed her how to use the dial to pick out a song. It took her a while to choose one—she would play something only to immediately start the next one. Eventually, she chose a Dusty Springfield song and let it play past the first fifteen seconds. Immediately, she began bobbing her head up and down along with the music.

"Wow," I teased, "You're really jamming to this, aren't you?"

Embarrassed from being called out, she stopped abruptly. She held her chin up a little higher and shook her head.

I chuckled, "Yes, you were. This is your new favorite song. I'm going to tell everyone in school how much Isabella Swan loves old man music."

She shook her head.

I turned my head towards the book stacks, "I can't see that."

She took my chin in her hand and turned my face to hers, but I closed my eyes before she had a chance to shake her head again. "I'm not seeing any disagreements coming from you."

She placed both of her hands on my cheeks and used her pinky fingers to pull down on my bottom eyelids and force my eyes open. Slow and deliberate, she turned her head from side to side.

"Oh!" I smiled, "I see now. Isabella Swan doesn't love old man music."

She attempted to scowl at my teasing, but her eyes—bright with humor—gave her away.

As her soft, cool hands lingered on my cheeks, I listed the pros and cons of bending down to brush my lips against hers at this moment. Before I reached a conclusion, the warning bell rang like the stroke of midnight, effectively breaking the spell.

Her hands fell away from my face and I immediately yearned for her touch again. I was reluctant to go, but Bella had further to go than I did and began quickly packing her bag.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I confirmed.

She nodded.

"Here?" I clarified, "At lunch?" I didn't want the brief encounters we've had near my homeroom before school to count as seeing her for the day.

She nodded her head again.

"Good." I approved, "Because tomorrow, I get to ask you my questions,"