Remember Me

Chapter Two

Upside Down

. . . . .

Dad told me I wasn't ready for something once: that I couldn't go down the sidewalk without my bike's training wheels.

The older kids in the neighborhood had been teasing me for a while, but I hadn't minded much because I was almost able to keep up with them anyway. Training wheels didn't slow me down.

"Just makes you a cheater," Mike liked to say.

Then Mary Alice Mulligan moved into the neighborhood. She was a year younger and almost a foot shorter than me, but when she brought her purple Swinn out of the garage, sans training wheels, that was it.

I say when I'm ready, I told my dad and insisted that he take the trainers off. Even though I wound up with a scratched knee and a sprained wrist from falling off my bike, no way did I let him put them back on.

But now I'm being told that I'm not ready again, and it's by him.

My hands scrabble against his chest. I'm hitting him, pushing him, but he doesn't let me go. "Not ready for what," I ask, and hear the ugly way my voice cracks.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it's a broken whisper against my ear. More, it sounds like he's letting go. Giving up. On what, I don't know, but it terrifies me.

"Not ready for what?" I demand again.

He finally lets me push him back far enough that I can see him. There's tension in his face, tightening his jaw, furrowing his brows. I always thought his eyes were luminescent in joy or fiery when he looks at me that way, but it's as if something dilutes the color now. They're full of pain, and it looks like he's swallowing back poison.

Without the easy, gentle tease of his smile, he looks cold, ferocious even.

Once he sees my reaction, he turns his face to the side and clenches his teeth, jaw flexing. A shudder runs down his body and his shoulders hunch slightly, and my gaze follows his arms down to his hands, which are balled into fists. It looks like he's trapped in a cage.

"Who am I?" he asks.

It takes me by surprise.

He's never asked such a thing before.

You're YOU. Mine. My green-eyed dream boy. Now a man. Always here for me. My friend, the one who gives the best hugs, who drives me wild with his kisses and his touch.

I'm trying to form a response when he aims a desperate look my way. Why does he look so anguished?

I make a sound, something between fear and despair.

"Who am I, Bella?"

But I don't–I don't KNOW, I don't know, how can I NOT know who he is?

"I don't know," I gasp. "You've never told me. Aren't you a dream?"

He's never looked away. He's seen every mess and mistake cross my face, he's heard every bit. And I can see that I'm slowly killing him, but I don't understand why or how.

"You are dreaming, but I am not a dream. Who am I," he asks, gentle as a kiss.

It feels like he's trying to coax something impossible from me, and it bubbles up unbidden. "You are the one I love. Have always loved," I say shakily.

Although he doesn't move or react, I can tell that it's not the answer he's looking for, though.

"When are you going to make love to me?" I ask and go to him. He visibly shivers when I wrap my fingers around his wrist. "Please. Can we?"

His eyes darken and he scowls, then his fingers wrap around mine. Tug them away, then both of his hands are on my wrists and moving me backwards until he pushes me against the wall. Something rough brushes my cheek–it's the canvas covering in my bedroom.

I look up at him in shock because we've never been in my bedroom before.

"Wrong," he breathes as he bends close to me, close enough to bury his face in my hair. "We've only ever been in this bedroom. Only here, all the time, in this room, just feet away from that bed. Oh my God, Bella, do you know how long I've–" and here, he runs his nose up my neck and exhales shakily. "–do you know how long I've waited for you?"

I'm arching to get closer to him, but he keeps me just out of reach, holding my wrists down at my sides, and no amount of twisting will let me escape. "I'm here. No more waiting needed," I breathe. "Let me put my hands on you."

When he moves his lips a hair's breadth away from mine, I think he's going to kiss me. But instead he just hovers there. "Not yet," he says and I feel his breath against my mouth.

"Stop teasing me," I whine. "Let me gah-oh!" I gasp when he thrusts his hips against me. I suddenly feel every inch of him. His belly, his thighs, the outline of his cock against my stomach. With a heavy-lidded gaze, he stares down at me as he pointedly moves against me, but he's too high. Everything is a bit hazy, but I think I see his eyebrow crook and then he's bending, hoisting me up against the wall. I wrap my legs around him and feel him just where I want him. We groan into each other's mouths, but he still won't kiss me.

"I can't," he says.

I growl and throw my head back, and my head smacks it hard enough that it jolts me abruptly awake.

I'm sitting in my bed, mouth agape, heart racing, and bubbling like a peach cobbler from the waist down. I have never felt so disappointed, so aroused, so confused.

"Edward," I sob, and my mind is racing with the name. I've never known anyone named Edward, don't know where the name even came from, but it feels right. It feels like everything.

It's two a.m. Only two a.m. I roll over under the sheets, trying to get comfortable again, trying to fall asleep.

It's impossible, and I sob like a baby. I roll over and pound my pillow again and again until I no longer have the strength to continue.

Edward.

. . . . .

On Saturday night, I'm in the living room watching TV. It's after eleven, hours after I'm usually upstairs in bed, but I've not been able to fall asleep for two nights now. My eyes burn and my body feels like it's a wet rag that's been wrung slowly dry.

I keep repeating Edward's name in my mind. It's all I've had of him for the past two days. Between replaying the way he moved his hips against mine, the way he felt against me, how big he felt, is the thought that he'd read my mind.

He'd never done that before.

I'd also never been so rudely jolted awake.

"I'm not a dream," he'd said.

Then what was–

"–said you'd dropped the scholarship," Dad says and I gasp, because I had no idea he was down here.

He gives me a look like I've lost my mind, and I know I have. I know.

"Jesus, Bella, what's going on with you?"

I blink at him, then at the TV. Wasn't I just watching a Friends episode?

"I turned the channel a while ago," he said. "You've been in your own world over there. I repeat: what's going on with you?"

"What, er, what do you mean?"

"For one thing, you're never down here at this time of night," Mom says and I shriek in surprise.

"What the hell!" I yell and turn. She's bent almost backwards across the end of the couch, hand pressed against her chest, her own face a mirror of my shock.

"Please don't yell at your mother," Dad says. "She's been here all along also. What is going on, Bella?"

He's mad because I scared Mom. Because obviously I've been oblivious. I'm gasping, shaking my head no, trying to make sense of things. I don't know what's going on.

They're both in black and white pajamas, looking like disapproving twin penguins.

Don't cry. Don't you dare.

"I'm sorry, you're right: I have been out of it. I haven't been sleeping well is all."

"Why not?" Dad asks. "Is it because you're giving up the opportunity of a lifetime?"

"What?"

"The scholarship. Olena? Danilo? Worthy? The flowers that can't die?"

I stiffen. "Ms. Denali called? That's so unfair," I say.

"She's worried," Mom says. "The woman was almost in tears and I could barely understand her."

I raise my legs and wrap my arms around my thighs. I know it's a defensive move, but I can't help it-I feel vulnerable and taken by surprise, and there's no hiding that. Mom resettles on the couch beside me with a sigh.

"Look," I say. "I know she's disappointed. Everyone is disappointed, but I just don't care about the project any more. It would be a mistake to keep working on it. And if it is a mistake, it's mine to make."

We all sit in silence after that, and then Dad says, "So you plan on paying for your own college tuition then?"

I'm not going to college. "If I have to, absolutely," I say.

"So brave," Dad drawls. "So stupid. It's not like you, Bella."

Mom scoots close enough to press her hand against my arm, and I fight the urge to flinch away. "What else have you given up on?" she asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it burns, so I stare blearily at the TV, seeing nothing. Dad snaps it off anyway.

"What else, Bella," Mom whispers.

I look at her in surprise. What did she care what I did, as long as I kept my grades up and promised to go to prom? "I don't know what you mean," I tell her. "I don't understand why you and Dad are mad at me. Nothing has changed."

"You're losing weight," she says, tracing under one of my eyes. "You've got circles under your eyes."

"I know. I told you I'm not sleeping."

"But why would you give up on the scholarship?"

I look away from her too-knowing eyes, my heart beating too fast. She was beginning to see too much. They both were. Where were my self-involved, happy-go-lucky parents?

"I. Lost. Interest," I stressed.

It was the wrong thing to say.

"You don't just lose interest in one hundred thousand dollars!" Dad yelled at the top of his lungs. "So help me, God–are you on drugs?"

I was so tired. Depressed. Confused. Angry about my situation from all angles. None of it made sense, but I was going to have to lay it out for Mom and Dad the same way I did for Ms. Denali. It would be next to impossible, but I had to do it. They had to leave me alone. And they had to believe I knew what I was doing.

I pushed myself up from the couch slowly so I wouldn't stumble, and turned to face my dad. I made sure my face was open, yet firm. I gave him my best level-eyed stare. I gave Mom my best level-eyed stare.

"I. Lost. Interest," I said again. "I didn't want the project to suffer. Ben and Angela have put too much into it for it to fail. It's my decision. Please understand."

"I could never," Mom said.

"You don't have to," I say and see her jerk.

"Go to your room," Dad says. "Get some sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

I shake my head. "It won't matter. I already spoke with the RIF officials and removed myself from consideration. Jasper Hale is replacing me."

"You had no right to do that," Dad says. "You are a minor."

"You're breaking our hearts," Mom says and bursts into tears. "You obviously don't know what you're doing. A teenager's ability to rationalize isn't fully formed until 25 years of age!"

Just because she is crying doesn't mean I have to. "Do I seem irrational?"

"You seem way out of touch," Dad snaps. "And since you're intent on destroying any chance at success, you're going to get a job and you're going to pay for your own car and gas. You may as well get used to it now. Do you understand?"

I nod reluctantly. Damn Ms. Denali for calling Mom. Why couldn't people just mind their own business?

"What about swim practice? And my mentoring?"

Dad stands from the chair and walks over to loom over me. I stand my ground, but have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His eyes are both stern and . . . unhappy? Something that tugs at my heart.

"Darlin' girl, if you don't care about one hundred thousand dollars, you don't care about swimming or tutoring."

I exhale. "I guess I don't, then," I say and run away like a child.

. . . . .

I'm still pacing back and forth in my room at one a.m.

I tried sit ups, push ups, stretches and breathing, but I can't calm my mind or body down.

"Edward," I whisper at the girl in the mirror. "What have you done to me? Please." I raise a hand to my cheek, but then it's his face I see. Intense eyes that don't let up until he smiles. His slightly crooked nose. The thick eyebrows that can sometimes make him look scary.

"I miss you. I miss you. I miss you, Edward."

At three, I remember the Ambien in my parent's bathroom. Mom's prescription from last April when she had trouble sleeping after Grandpa Higgenbotham was murdered during a robbery at a Circle K.

I've lost someone, I told myself. I can't sleep. I deserve an Ambien.

So I sneak into their room. Dad snores like a freight train, which means Mom sleeps with ear plugs every night.

It's easy, and I leave with the entire bottle.

. . . . .

His eyes are unhappy, and his face swims in front of mine.

"What have you done," he asks and presses a thumb against my lower lip. My eyes close because it's too hard to keep them open, too hard to focus.

"Ed. Werd," I hear myself slur. "Ed. Werd."

He pulls me into his arms and it's the last thing I remember.

. . . . .

Ay-yi-yi, the pressure of wanting to continue this story, and fearing that I'd bitten off more than I could chew with the prologue. I'm not a plotter or an outline writer, I'm a "write by the seat of my pants" kind of girl. It's more fun that way for me.

I'm sorry it's taken so long, and I hope I'm back for good this time. No promises.