Of All the Woods in the World…
Sunday, April 17, 2005
"Back so soon?" Jasper called from the stair rail. His brother had been finding odder and odder places to recline and read. Despite every peculiarity Edward had seen pass through the house, it was a wonder how Jazz had managed to balance his frame and weight on the steep rail. "You left to hunt an hour ago."
"Hardly anything worth pursuing. I had the usual and went on," Edward explained from the bottom. "How's the theorizing, professor?"
Jasper tapped the spine of his book to his chin. The overhead light shined directly on his face, highlighting the scars. "I thought I was on to something. Carlisle had a look at my whiteboard, though, and I'm two steps back."
Quantum mechanics didn't interest Edward, but he admired Jasper's pursuit of knowledge. It was like he wanted to know everything about everything. This life had hindered and helped him at once. More time, but limited avenues. Though, Edward thought, this was a new century. Jasper may not be the university professor he dreamed to be, but perhaps he could teach or tutor somewhere, when his thirst had calmed.
"What's this?" Jasper smirked, picking up on Edward's emotions. "Optimism? In my favor? Sans pity?"
Edward inclined his head. "I've been known to feel hopeful."
"Thrice a year is your record, odd duck." Jazz pointed to his face. "You got a little something."
Edward considered pushing him off the rail. "Goodnight," he harrumphed, heading upstairs.
He nodded, his mind already traveling somewhere else.
It was almost eight but the sunset glowed into his bedroom, so he didn't bother with the light. In the bathroom, he looked himself over in the mirror. Inexplicably, his face displeased him today. His shirt bore a grass stain across a sleeve and fur always seemed to cling to him but other than that he was impeccably clean. He angled his head. Under his jaw, a streak of rust red lined his neck. He swiped it off, licked his thumb. Then he splashed water onto his skin and rested his forehead on the edge of the bowl basin. When he heard a click, he straightened to see a crack forming in the glass.
No, no. Thinking would not do. He needed to write. He sat down at the desk, put pen to paper.
Roughly twenty months of this madness and only five months of knowing of it. To this day, I am not sure what to make of it. Blessing, curse, blessing. It matters not, for I have one great purpose to fulfill - to protect her through the end. So today, I will simply label it a tool in my arsenal. But -
The pen stilled. That was not what he wanted to say. It was the surface monologue he'd been carrying for months. His journal bore pages and pages of other renditions. There was something else, something pressing, hitting the back of his skull. He skipped a few lines and resumed.
Does love ever fade? I look around at the people I care for most and I see three unbreakable bonds. Ours is a world where eternal youth guarantees eternal affection. We are unchanging, our emotions and inclinations rigid. However, if one can break from stasis to "fall into" love, then what is there to prevent "falling out"? This is a question I should pose to a human, I think. They're in the business of falling. I often hear "He never apologizes" or "Her job always comes first" or "Why can't you open up" - guilt, resentment, boredom, annoyance. It's so easy to fall in...and back out.
He continued like this, getting nowhere, but composing himself, breaking from the animal he'd been in the woods earlier.
"Why are you in the dark?" Alice said, appearing in the doorway. She was wearing a dress with beads on the hem that jingled, but he had found little motivation to leave his writing just to bar her entrance.
Edward covered his journal with his arm. "The door was closed."
"And I opened it." Alice chassēd across the floor of his room. "Come outside, I want you to see something."
Edward leaned away from his desk and closed his eyes. "I can see it from your mind. It's lovely."
"And I can see you'll be down in three minutes, anyhow." She pirouetted. "Checkmate."
He followed her outside, where the night was pitch black and spring-time warm. Jasper, Emmett, and Rosalie were already on the roof. Edward and Alice jumped up to join them. When he ascended, Emmett pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You're late!"
"What's going on here?"
"Astronomy class." Emmett had chosen the elective expecting it to be a sleeper. He mostly used the time to listen to the television in the teacher's break room or read books on martial arts or fencing under his desk. He swung his arms as he spoke, nodding too much. "Just...getting my study in."
"Translation: The final paper due tomorrow," Rosalie interjected. "You could've composed it throughout the day."
"I'm not good with words if I don't care about the subject! My brain melts." He sat down. "But this," he pointed at the moon, "this is actually good stuff."
Edward sat on the edge of the roof. The moon looked incredibly close, like he could reach out and touch the rough surface. Just a sliver of it was in shadow, hiding from them.
"Waxing gibbous," Jasper noted.
All of them fell into silence. Edward allowed his eyes to relax and he sat there taking it in, marveling at the surface. He might live his whole life and never see the moon. He might not even see every part of the earth, not every country. So what was there to do in his corner of the world?
He started for the edge.
Edward slid down to the grass. "I'll be back."
He drove without knowing where he was going. What was he doing outside, away from his habitat? School days required more socializing than he'd like, so nights were when he got to be alone. But here he was, seeking.
Something finally caught his eye. Furati Fortitudo. The old bookstore he used to visit when they'd first moved to Forks. There were no windows on the front, but he heard the light activity from inside.
The farmhouse-style building was a welcome contrast to the rest of Poplin City, even if the café was too industrial. Once, Esme had gone here with him and argued that the styles complimented each other, especially since the color palette was consistent across the materials. After he coaxed her honest opinion out of her, she admitted the masonry was "all wrong".
The music in the car nor in the bookstore was unsuccessful in suffocating his thoughts. His mind flickered between the present and the past.
"There is so much resilience in you, it grounds me. It's oddly comforting."
"You couldn't say things like that and be a monster. Sometimes I think you're more human than I am."
He had only meant to encourage Leah. He'd wanted to comfort her. It worked, didn't it? She seemed truly happy. Then why did he feel sick inside when she returned the favor?
Why did he feel sick when saw her and agitated when they were apart? Why was he shaken by her smiles and sighs alike? It wasn't healthy or natural for one to entwine their feelings so tightly with another person's. No one had ever affected him this deeply.
Furthermore, it was getting harder and harder to see her. Once or twice a week was too rare. She was always studying or fighting with the princess. Or Alice and Emmett were hovering around, which wasn't unpleasant or unwanted, just unnecessary. They had their own things to do. No, no, that was illogical. By all definitions of the word Leah was their friend fist. But even now, he wanted to see her, alone preferably. Likely because...in just a few months the time between their visits would stretch into a hiatus, which would all become radio silence. In a few months there would be little reason for her to see him at all. In a year or two, she might leave town altogether and start the normal life of which she dreamed.
Which was why he had to distract himself. He had a goal, to see Leah through her task, and he'd be damned before he let anything prevent that - even his own selfish feelings.
He stopped in the aisle and took a look at his watch. Eight forty-seven and - oh. Forty-seven. The forty-seventh person he killed -
The first five were mistakes, and whether he counted them or not depended on the day. Then Carlisle had hammered a conscience into his brain and he spent a few weeks in his own personal hell. That evolved into a few months of consternation, which became a few years of struggling. And when his family had finally begun to knit itself together, he ripped it apart by running. If he had been able to sleep, time would have gone by faster. Instead, he fed and fed, even when he was full, a glutton.
Number one was a specific target: Esme's swine of an ex-husband, that blackguard, that devil. A murder which he wouldn't lament in a million years. What followed were others like it. But number forty-seven was a vampire. He had only killed him because when you were alone people wanted to pick a fight for the fun of it. Edward didn't look like much of an opponent compared to some men, and he still bore a dewy-eyed look back then, before he had closed in on the hundreds. The woman had been weak and young, about his age. The skirmish had been short, but he was inexperienced, so it felt long at the time. When he burned the pieces, he sat down and waited. She was alone, but if she had a coven, it would serve them right if they exacted their revenge. After three days, no one came and he went on.
He did regret not talking her down.
Why had that thought come? He pulled out a random book and stared at the cover.
Sorry, Leah, he thought with a wry smile. I ruin everything I touch.
"A very good book," said a voice.
Edward turned, his affable expression already cued up. "Patrick?"
"Or at least, that's what my father claims." The young man was leaning against an old, creaking bookcase (which seemed ready to fall over any minute) and tapping his fingers on a shelf. A sagging backpack hung on his shoulder and the sleeves of his denim jacket were rolled up to reveal tattoos on his forearms. "Good to see you, man."
"Likewise. You're looking better."
"I've been staying out of trouble." He clapped Edward on the shoulder, and surprisingly didn't process or comment on the unusual rigidness of his muscle. "How have you been?"
"Well." A foreign feeling of guilt seeped into his heart. He barely knew this boy. "And you?"
"Trying not to let school kill me." The bags under his brown eyes rivaled a vampire's. "Man I never thought I'd see you again. You and Leah owe me food."
"I'll tell her to contact you," Edward said stiffly, before remembering to relax. The approachable look returned. "So...you like books?"
"Not as much as my dad. He owned this place."
"Owned?"
His face closed down. He didn't want to explain. "He passed. There's a sort-of a legal struggle, but for now it's mine."
"Lucky you, a business owner at twenty."
"Man, it's a beautiful place, but sometimes I wish I had a sibling to pass it onto. I don't know jack about books or coffee. I'm a music major! It's stress more than anything."
"Is that why you're here so late?"
"No, I keep it open late so people can use the study section around finals. Hey but you should, too! You're in your junior year, right?" He scratched his head. "I swore we talked about this on New Year's, but I can't remember. We all got pretty drunk that night."
Edward tensed. Did Leah drink that night? Ah, no, she hadn't. She only acted like it half the time. He laughed. "You're right. I'm a junior. Are you studying tonight?"
"Pfft, no. Working on a song." Patrick sat down on a couch.
Edward didn't want to sit too close, but he knew it'd be awkward to choose the chair across the end table. He kept tight to one armrest of the sofa. "What've you got so far?" he asked.
Patrick hummed the melody, which was quick yet a little melancholy. "The lyrics are tripping me up," he explained. "I've written a new draft every day for the last month and they all suck. But it's supposed to be about heartbreak, I know that."
"Like 'Red-eye'?"
"No, like, not a petty, go-fuck-yourself kind of heartbreak. Sort of that feeling where, you've accepted it and you're comfortable with it. Get it?"
Edward shook his head. "Not really"
"It's like…" Patrick cocked his head like a dog. "This girl I was seeing. It was casual, but early on, she said she wanted something serious. I didn't feel the same, and we continued on for a few months. When it ended, she told me her heart was broken. I apologized, but she said it didn't matter. She was just glad to have that relationship any way she could."
Poor girl. "It's from her perspective?"
"Not exactly. I didn't understand then… but I do now. I know what it's like to be in her shoes. To want to be close to someone, even knowing it's going to hurt."
Edward watched images flash by of a girl's face from Patrick's perspective. In most of them she looked miserable, her blue eyes downcast. In one memory, an especially striking one, there was life in her smile. She was leaning against the bar of a balcony and the wind was whipping her indigo hair around. He recognized her. It was Gracie from the band. So there was some truth to the drunkard's accusations. Edward did a little searching. It was especially hard because Patrick always seemed to be thinking in the present. (The little quirks between individual thought processes was both interesting and a thorn in his side.) Patrick's thoughts again turned to the drummer girl in tears. For some strange reason, this image was accompanied by an intense love, one of the strongest he'd felt from a human. It nearly stilled his breath.
"Hand me a pen," Edward commanded.
Patrick reached into his backpack and passed one, along with a notebook.
Edward's hand flew across the page, the words coming to him with ease. He hadn't written lyrics seriously in ages, but the song came to him as if he'd been listening to it all his life.
Patrick looked over his shoulder. "Dude, you're on fire!"
"What? Oh." Edward's hand slowed. He carefully crossed out some words and switched out others. A few spelling mistakes were thrown in. "This is just my idea of how it should go."
"You should help us with more songs. We'd pay you."
"Really?" Edward's eyes lit up. He reminded himself not to smile too wide, lest he frighten his companion. "I'd consider it."
"Of course, you gotta bring Leah to another gig."
"Why?"
"She's hot."
Edward's eyes darkened. He heard the faint crack of the pen beginning to break.
Patrick cackled. Was he too dense to back down? "Dude, you look terrifying! I'm joking." When he finally calmed down, he said, "Seriously, I appreciate it. Louis, that freakin' asshole, he wrote some good songs, before he left us to try to make it on his own. Now the writing has been left to me. It's hard to keep up with. It's hard to open up, write what's real."
"My pleasure." Edward hesitated, before taking a chance. "What do you usually write about?"
"I prefer lighter stuff, about freedom and having a good time. Stuff you can drive with or drink with. It's easy. But this is personal. It's just something I've got to do."
"Why?" Edward found himself asking. "Why do you want to be close to that kind of pain?"
For a moment, Edward felt a flicker of something from his descendant, a pinprick of pain. It was difficult to discern if it was physical, emotional, or both. But just as quickly, it fizzled out.
"I don't know," Patrick shrugged. "Because it's real and it matters. I kind of hope it will go away if I write it. And if it doesn't, I'll at least feel better for a while. Nothing good came from bottling things up."
Edward nodded and scribbled out his next stanza. Write, reread, revise. The song was completed in a few hours.
Sunday, May 1, 2005
"Let me get this straight. You want me to spend six hours dancing with you? Right now?" He leaned against the doorframe. A tiny part of him whined that he'd been itching to lock himself in his room and write for the rest of the day, but she looked exhausted, in a mismatched tracksuit and her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Lovely as always, but exhausted.
"I get it, you're busy," Leah grumbled, already stomping back downstairs.
He was an idiot. He grabbed her wrist. "No, wait. I was just thinking that we'd be competent in three, at the most."
Her face brightened. "Really? I owe you one."
He looked around him. The others were somewhere...though he could hear the girls talking by the pond. The living room was large, but he didn't want to have Emmett heckling him when he returned. His bedroom would be the safest.
Leah followed him with uncertainty. 'I've only seen Alice's room. This is weird.'
It hadn't been intentional to ban her from exploring the house. There was so much familiarity between them all, due to her friendship with his siblings, that a tour felt formal. There was just little reason for her to go anywhere but the kitchen and bathroom. "Afraid of the crypt?" he couldn't help taunting.
"Maybe." She bit her lip. She pictured his room with burgundy curtains and a coffin. "Knowing you, it's probably a padded room."
"I'm no more insane than you are."
"That's not very creditable."
"Blame yourself for rubbing off on me." He led her down the uncommonly silent hallway and up the next flight of stairs.
"Holy crap, sometimes I forget there's a third floor." She checked herself for her impertinence.
"It's unnecessary." But then he scolded himself, too. What must he sound like to her, complaining over his own fortune? Ungrateful. And phony - he relished what little privacy he could procure.
"Wow." None of that mattered when his bedroom passed through her viewpoint. She shifted her weight, testing the luxurious gold carpet on her bare feet, running a slender hand across the velvet dark honey curtains. She skipped over to the windowed wall, fogging the glass, where a splash of sunlight met the winding river. "It's different."
Quite a bit. While Alice was currently obsessed with art deco and Rosalie preferred warm colors, no one had changed much about Esme's signature white house. "I don't like the way dust and dirt cling to white."
"It's warmer here. Comforting."
He smiled. Exactly his intention.
"What's on the agenda?"
She held up her reading material. "Echo left me this ancient, dusty book on fairy ballroom dance."
"How long will the queen suspend her?"
"Even she doesn't know that. I wouldn't be surprised if we didn't see her until the wedding."
"It's not right." The words barely covered it. He was worrying again, unsure what to make of Echo's rash behavior or Ella's even more harsh response. The princess was not allowed to visit her pupil, only send information and books through messengers. He feared for the young woman's safety, for though he didn't much like her, he trusted her. Even if she had scarred Leah for life with that cursed memory, it had been in warning.
Warning of what, though? To be careful in the field, sure. But the brief interaction between the dead Prince Florian and his daughter hinted at some tyranny and injustice on the queen's part. Did this maltreatment extend past the royal family? If so, how long before he and Leah were on the receiving end of it?
"Uh, Ed? You done reading that?"
He snapped back to the present. "It seems simple."
"Thank God. Troy is supposed to be here, later. Military business."
"Are you sure you don't want to wait for him?"
She recoiled. "Absolutely not! I'm not gonna make a fool out of myself in front of him."
"Whereas I'm, what, your lowly manservant?"
She stood in the middle of the room. "Get over here."
He caught her hand. She reached out and guided his other hand to her waist. Just like when he lifted her out of the lake, she seemed small, light. In every other moment, Leah was only solid and warm, but when holding her she was something else.
Then again, this could be because Leah seemed too fast, too ahead of time for slow dancing.
He hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want music?"
"That's going to mess me up. Their songs are very particular."
The opening dance reminded him of regency sets in England, a fond memory of Carlisle's from his bachelor days. Plenty of twirling and skipping and gliding. Slow movement, but not at all relaxing. It was pleasant to watch, torturous to execute.
He nearly crashed into his partner for the second time. "Leah."
"Huh?"
"I'm supposed to be leading."
She huffed dramatically, her dark eyes heavenward. "Who cares?"
He guided her out of the way of an ottoman. "For one, it saves time if we already know which person will do it."
"It's not such a long conversation."
"If one of the partners is inclined to argue, it would be. And besides, I'm taller."
"By, like, six inches!"
"And like most men, stronger."
"But -"
"Not by much."
She narrowed her eyes at him. His answer was insufficient. "Are we dancing or fighting?"
He started a reply, but she launched herself at him. In a swift move, he was on his back, pinned to the ground. He looked up at Leah, who was panting. She'd used too much energy in that brief move.
"You've gotten faster," he complimented.
"And you've gotten slower. Not fun on the other side, huh?" Leah managed to smirk.
She was still angry about that? "Point taken, I'll never trip you again. Provided you don't tease me."
"I'd like a promise," she teased, tightening her grip on his wrists.
Her hair spilling over her shoulders and her skin smelling of the forest… Looking up at her like this… He gaped like a fool. He felt like he must have been shaking but that couldn't be. What was wrong with him?
"Unless you want to fight," she grinned wolfishly.
He considered flipping them over and giving her a taste of her own medicine. It would be hardly an effort. Yet for the first time, touching her felt wrong and right at once.
"I'm not keen on losing, so I'd prefer dancing," he muttered, looking over her shoulder so she seemed farther away.
"Coward." To his relief, she let him up. They resumed.
Leah twirled away, striking a showy pose, more confident this time. The first time, he let it go. The second time, he tried to anticipate it but she did a box step instead. The third time, she dipped him to the ground.
Coming up, he admonished her. "That's not a part of the dance."
"I'm trying to make an impression. Jazz it up."
He stepped away from her. For some reason, he felt annoyed beyond the degree the situation called for. "You're not taking this seriously and wasting time."
"Can you blame me?" She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.
He couldn't blame her, not when she looked at him like that. He guided her to the leather sofa, then brought her a glass of water from the bathroom. Her nose scrunched up at the sight.
"You have to drink something other than soda," he told her.
"Like you would know. My body is perfection. I don't need water."
He tried not to watch her stretch across the sofa and marvel in how at home she looked there.
She chugged the entire glass in five seconds. "Where's my prize?" she asked, wiping a drop off her chin.
He dropped down by the couch, by her head. "A break."
She ruffled his hair. "Sounds nice." He thought she would continue, but after a few minutes, her breathing evened and slowed. He considered offering her a blanket, a cup of tea, or something, but she seemed to be falling asleep. Her thoughts quieted down and her muscles stilled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her features relax. She looked odd without an expression, no hint of a smile on her full lips or a scowl scrunching up her nose. It could've been her strong jawline or her arched eyebrows, but she did seem serious and focused. He'd always felt Leah had the face of a leader.
He had a strange urge to paint her. To preserve this picture of her, even though he was one of the lucky few, who would have this moment on hand to replay in his head for centuries to come. But he turned away to give her some privacy. It was enough to sit by her and listen to the steady beat of her heart.
Her hand found his hair again. "What're you doing, Red?" she mumbled. But he didn't reply before she crawled off the sofa and leaned against his shoulder. "Carpet's softer. Leather's nice, but when you're all sweaty, it sucks, y'know?"
He smiled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know."
"Is this okay?" she asked, resting her weight into his arm. She felt featherlight but he was hyper aware of every shift in her position.
"Yes."
'Can I ask you something? What will you use your wish on?'
"What's it matter now?"
'If I were you, I'd wish to be human again.'
He laughed. "Really? Human?"
"If you were human," she sighed, eyes closed, "you wouldn't be mixed up in all this trouble. Your family might eat you, but they seem nice enough to try not to."
"I don't like these odds," he teased.
"You seem to hate it so much though." Oh, she was more serious than he'd guessed. "More than the others."
Maybe he did hate it more, though for their own reasons, some of his siblings were neck-in-neck - Rosalie, openly and Jasper, quiety. He thought it over. "I think that's because I felt I was something before I was someone."
Now she was paying attention. "You are 'something'?"
He nodded. "After the change, all of my vampire senses came first. It was no longer just about music or the war or school like when I was a kid. My first thought was - is - blood. Can you imagine if your strongest emotion was hunger? If your steadiest need was food?"
"I don't think I'd be able to focus on anything," she admitted.
"That's what it was. I was an animal. Base. All I could think about was survival. And when your existence relies on the need to kill others?" He thought of the rebellion. (The day wasn't complete unless he thought of it.) Those days were long behind, but the ghosts trailed after him, especially when he hunted. "My way of thinking was completely different. It was hard to cope. I think I hate this because of my self-control. I have been with Carlisle the longest, yet I've killed more than most of them." All but Jasper, but it needn't be said.
"So you don't think you're good enough?"
"I know I'm not."
She smiled teasingly. "So every person you care about is perfect and never did anything wrong and will be canonized this weekend?"
"I know it doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't make sense at all. But everybody thinks like that. I'm always waiting to ruin everything so badly my parents just kick me out and be done with it," she laughed. "But he wouldn't be your father if he didn't hug the life out of you after you royally screwed up."
"Perhaps I've just forgotten what family is supposed to be like." When he first met Carlisle, he was feverish and drifting between life and death. Memories of his biological family were hazy and undetailed. "My father was tough on me."
"You remember that?"
"Yes. He was a little cold and spent most days at work. I wonder what he'd think of me now. That was one reason I didn't regret staying with Carlisle, in the early years. I remember thinking he was everything a parent should be, even if he didn't feel like mine for a while."
"How did he compare to your mother?"
He grinned. "I remember that clearly. She taught me piano. She read to me at night after dinner. No one could hold a candle to her." Maybe that was the crux of it all. He was missing a person that no longer lived. If she hadn't passed that year, he could never have gone on with Carlisle. "I wonder what she must have been thinking, to ask Carlisle to save me."
"She must have loved you a lot to have you changed."
But was it love to condemn your child to this fate? Or selfishness, refusing to have your child pass on because of the heartbreak it would bring you to your final hour? He'd pondered similar questions on and off regarding Carlisle, but never his birth mother. "I'm not sure she knew what she was asking," he finally replied.
"She took a chance. I can't say I blame her."
He exhaled. Right. That's all it was. She took a chance. She had assumed that what goodness she saw in Carlisle would be instilled in her son. Thank goodness she didn't live to see how wrong she was. "At least the worst of this deal is gone, thanks to Ella."
"It did help you and me in becoming friends," she agreed.
"It's uncomfortable, though. I think this is as human as I'd like to get."
She laughed. "If you say so, weirdo." She frowned. 'If you mean it.'
He sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "Why are we even talking about this?"
"You don't talk about yourself all that much."
"I don't?"
"No. I like hearing about you." She pulled away to look up at him. "Sometimes I feel like I've brought all my problems to your life. And you don't ever complain. But you should tell me things, too."
He felt something unsung stirring in his heart. "Why?"
She frowned, but wasn't offended, only a little amused. "I want to know you better. Can't I?"
For a second, he felt his senses drift, his vision, his touch, as if he were hiding inside of his soul. He shuddered mentally. His mind was too vivid for its own good.
Every part of him screamed to shut down the conversation, to put out a stop sign, or better yet, a do not enter sign. She gave him so much while saying so little. That was her true magic. "Leah?"
"Hm." Did she realize how close their faces were?
He swallowed. "You're not trouble at all."
"You say that now -"
The door opened to Troy, sweating slightly, and a bruise forming over his right cheek. He half-smiled. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Major!" Leah leaped up. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing," the soldier remonstrated. He was swatting at her prying hands. Sometimes Leah's maternal side sprung up at the wrong moment. "There was a bit of a scuffle with some rebels on our way back west."
"Rebels? They dared to attack a prince? I'll kill them."
"It was nothing serious or unexpected. We outnumbered them and the prince held his own, to his credit." Troy shrugged his broad shoulders, then attempted a laugh. "There goes my pageant win."
"Rats. You had it in the bag."
Edward couldn't join in their cavalier attitude. How long would it be before Leah was sprouting bruises and shrugging them off? And (recalling Echo's story) after that, might she be lucky to get away with just a bruise?
"Let's go, Miss Leah," the major said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding the guardian out.
Edward's hands involuntarily clenched into fists. Who was he to be so familiar with her? Then the jealousy dissolved. What a dolt he was. To feel any sort of entitlement toward her. But still…
The worst part of every day with her was when she left at the end. Inappropriate as it was, invasive as it was, unnecessary as it was, why couldn't she stay?
Leah wiggled away from the major and darted over to Edward. She pulled him to his feet. "Get up, Squidward. You can play the piano for us."
He grimaced at the unflattering cartoon image her mind conjured to compare with him.
But more than anything, he was only glad to be near her again. A feeling he soon feared, he would soon become an addiction.
Because he wanted to take her hand all of the time, not just when she was tired or upset. He wanted to hold her until she stopped scowling and worrying. He wanted to come home to her, not his empty museum of a bedroom.
Feelings like that were dangerous, especially when they were about your human best friend who was still heartbroken over another man and who only saw you as an ally and occasional target for teasing. Did she even notice he was male? She knew he was attractive, sure, but in the way one knows the sky is blue - it barely merited acknowledgment or inspired response. It wasn't even the type of admiration one gave to a fine painting. And it would take a lot more than looks for someone to fall for him.
Why couldn't she be like the others? Why couldn't she whisper about his wealth or attack him with unpleasant lewd daydreams? Then he could hate her, instead of...feel whatever baffling emotion was coming to him.
He startled, disturbed as to how quickly he'd traveled down this mental path.
They reached downstairs. Leah pushed him toward the piano. "Try to keep up."
"Take your own advice," he muttered, his irritation becoming his shield.
Her high spirits had fully returned. She only winked and gave a thumbs-up.
No, he wouldn't hate her. Never could, really.
Oh, God. Was he that wicked? Was he that perverse, that cruel? Did he… the words were impossible to form, frozen on his mental tongue. He felt the need to crawl to the bottom of the ocean and lay there, scaring off sea creatures for the next millennia.
Playing would not help. Writing would not help. Talking would not help. He had been asking the wrong questions, hiding from the truth.
Of all the women in the world...
Twice, Troy had to politely ask him to keep up the tempo.