Chapter 23

The bus rolled to a stop in the parking lot of a desolate piece of land. A big field, a small road, one building, not much else.

But here we were, at the Ute Indian museum, a stop Jake insisted on despite loud protests from the others just so he could celebrate a fellow tribe.

They let him win. Honestly, everyone just wanted off the bus for an hour.

Jake and Leah went inside with Jasper following mainly out of boredom. Yorkie curled up in his bunk to nap grumbling about how Jake used his heritage only when it was to his advantage.

A bad documentary on Netflix was playing through my headset as I waited for something to do.

Waited for something to do while I stared at the back of Edward's head. I should've gone to the museum.

I could straighten up. Fix the cupboards. Check the calendar for the fiftieth time. Call my parents.

But I just sat there, pathetically picturing my hands reaching out to run through his hair.

A few minutes later, Edward grabbed his guitar and stood. Walked towards the open door. Stopped at the top step.

Looked at me.

Kept looking at me.

Until he descended.

I stared at the spot he'd vacated.

Wondering if I'd imagined the small, beckoning nod.

Watching out the windows, I saw him amble across the lot and cross the road to a lone picnic table under a big, shady tree.

Carlisle was on the phone with his feet propped up, not moving anytime soon.

How I wished Emmett were here, not miles away on the other bus.

Someone to take my attention from the abuse I wanted to subject myself to.

Looking back at Carlisle one more time, he wasn't paying any attention to me so I casually made my way towards the exit and went down the steps. Stood on the asphalt, telling myself to go into the museum. Safer.

But way less educational.

Crossing my arms, I deliberately strolled towards the trees.

Cool as a cucumber.

I heard the strumming as I neared. The same melody.

Baby baby baby.

My feet stopped at the grass, afraid to move on. He played two more chords. Three. Half a song.

"You gonna just stand there?"

As I moved closer to the table, he patted the top beside him. I climbed up, placing my feet on the bench seat, right next to his.

I wanted to just stare at him, but knew that would be weird and creepy. So, I looked out over the flat landscape and single, small road, distracting myself with the branches the bus had hit to make it through.

He played a while as we sat in silence. Nothing I really recognized, then a section of a Dylan song, then back to nothing. Just his fingers making music only he knew.

I was in another world. Sitting on a dilapidated table while Edward played beautiful music so easily, like it was nothing to him. I'd always been amazed by his talent, but being with him, listening to him play with no real focus or song to follow was truly the best moment of my life so far.

Tranquil. Nice. Easy.

"Do you play anything?" he asked, startling me. His voice was curious, not bored.

"Um, two years of piano that didn't stick. My talent lies more in the listening of music."

I chanced a glance at him, caught his smirk.

"Well you do have excellent taste, namely me."

My face flushed hot and I looked away. It took him a moment to realize the innuendo and a small huh-like laugh escaped him. He chose not to tease me and continued strumming.

He hummed and played, and I watched his beautiful face. So serene. At peace. No demons eating him up at the moment. At least none I could see.

His eyes shifted towards me. "What? You're staring."

"Sorry." Not sorry. "I just… like watching you play." I sighed, my truth hanging between us.

"I am pretty good." He smiled. "Do you want to try?"

"I can't… play that." I nodded towards the guitar. An item that was pure trophy to me.

"I seem to recall you had no problem touching it before." His eyebrow lifted and I instantly tensed up, waiting for a reprimand. Edward must've sensed the apprehension in me. He shifted the guitar out of his grasp and smiled. That warm, true one. "Here, take it."

I sat up straight, hand lifting tentatively for the guitar. He placed it gingerly in my lap. "Don't drop it," he warned. I shook my head. Never.

"Okay, put your left fingers on the neck. These sections in the wood are frets. Put your pointer finger on the third string down on the second fret." He coached my other fingers and I followed his instruction. "Hold them down, strum with the other. Try to only strum the first two strings."

I clunkily ran my right hand across the strings at the gaping mouth of the guitar.

"Again."

I tried again, the guitar sounding like a four-year-old was at the wheel.

"Here," he said, and inched his body closer. His arm wrapped around my back and he laid his fingers against mine on the strings. This close, I could inspect the tattoos that adorned his left hand. Lettering, a dagger, a tornado. There was a shark tattoo on the side of his ring finger I'd never seen before.

"Don't be afraid," he said. His words right next to my ear. "It's harder to break than you think. I've tried." His chest pressed into my shoulder and he swayed us as he gave a laugh. I died a little inside and giggled nervously.

His fingers pushed mine down harder against the neck, and his other hand strummed. "You don't need to be gentle, she can take it."

So can I.

"Try again."

I did, and it sounded better. Stronger.

"Good, now slide your fingers down a fret, no the other way, and strum again, pointer on three. Now pointer back on one, middle on three, ring finger on two."

I did that a few times, until he told me to move them up again. He had me repeat the motion after each strum. Moving my hand up and down under his. Dun du dun, du dun, du dun.

The string of chords became recognizable. I looked up at him in wonder. "I'm playing the blues!"

He laughed. "Yup. Every guitar player should know at least this so they can fake it like the rest of us."

"You don't fake it," I said, giddy and smiling like a fool. "Teach me another one!"

"Okay. Try this." He reached around me again, placing my fingers where he wanted them. That one was harder, my hand straining to reach where he instructed. "Pretty good, niece" he said, approval in his tone.

"Wow. Best day ever!" I exclaimed. "Approval from Edward Cullen!"

His entire body tensed next to me.

Fuck.

"Oh my god, I didn't mean it like that. I mean like, wow, Edward Cullen is teaching me guitar and I'm not sucking too badly!" I could feel my whole face flush with mortification. "Not, you know, like that you wouldn't give praise or whatever, you know?" I rambled.

He relaxed, but his fingers didn't move back to mine. His arm snaked back around my body, where he rested his elbows on his knees and picked at his thumb. "I know I'm an asshole, trust me."

He said it so quietly, like he didn't want to disturb the nature around us.

Or like if he admitted it softly, it wouldn't be true.

"You're not," I replied lamely, because what else could I say?

He smirked. "You're too sweet."

I looked down, face flushing even more but for a much better reason. I watched my fingers strum that last chord again a few times, perfecting the position of my left fingers on the frets.

"Sweet, innocent girls like you…" he trailed off.

I stopped playing. Turned my head to find him looking at me. The sad back in his eyes.

I swallowed. "I'm not that innocent, regardless of what Carlisle might make you think."

"Not just him," he said and lit a cigarette. "You. If you don't watch out, someone is going to hurt you."

Was this a warning? Like the song? I held my breath and let my knee fall against his. Such a little gesture, such little contact, but I hoped it spoke volumes. "I think you need to experience hurt to really know what living is."

He sat up slowly, his mouth in a thin line. Eyes dark. Heat radiating off him and coating me. "You don't deserve to be hurt."

"How do you know?" I asked quietly. "Maybe I do." An invitation. "Isn't that what the blues are all about?"

His elbow moved, then his arm, and then his fingers.

But not towards the neck of the guitar.

Towards my neck.

Once again.

I wanted to close my eyes in anticipation but didn't dare for fear he'd vanish into thin air. Wanted to savor the moment and burn it into my life like a scarred, graffiti-carved table.

Waited for the rush of his touch on me.

"Bella!"

"For fuck's sake," I said, annoyed. I could feel Edward retreating from me. Physically sliding his body away as I turned towards Carlisle standing by the bus, hands on hips.

I waved the guitar at him and raised a finger in a 'one moment' gesture.

Turning back around, I could see the Edward from just seconds ago was gone. He was back in his sullen form, staring out over the landscape. He reached for his guitar and I gave it back reluctantly.

"Thanks for the lesson," I said, stepping off the table but keeping my eyes on his face. Searching, hoping.

"Sure thing." He turned to face the field, shutting me off.

I started back towards the bus slowly as the guitar resumed strumming, the soft notes playing across the road.

It wasn't the baby baby baby song.