Forwarded To My Future

by Foenix2phorks

Complete. Bella is resigned to living a boring and unfulfilling life until she's old enough to graduate. But that was before fate stepped in. Looking up from her lunch tray, she sees four perfectly sculpted, pale faces - plus a bronze-haired, green eyed boy known for his gentility. He's not like the other boys in Forks. Can he help make her life a little more interesting? AU.

9. Getting To Know You

Chapter 9- Getting To Know You

February 5, 2005- Port Angeles

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Grabbing our food, Edward and I leave the display case and cross the café to find a table. We choose one that is positioned between the corner of the room and a nearby window that overlooks the dark, lonely street. Most of the businesses in downtown Port Angeles are closed for the night, so traffic in the area is extremely light. Only occasionally does a vehicle pass by.

The café is quiet. Other than the barely audible background muzak playing over the sound system, there is very little in the way of noise to take away from the peaceful, harmonious environment. Edward and I practically have the place to ourselves. Not including the cashier, there are only three other customers here - two of whom seem too preoccupied with their reading material to even give us a second glance.

Pulling off my jacket and hanging it on the back of my chair, I sit down on the wooden seat and greedily inhale the scent of the brownie that I am about to consume. It smells wonderful. I haven't eaten anything since earlier today and my stomach is not shy about reminding me. I can't wait to see if it tastes as good as it smells.

Pinching off a small piece, I take a bite and discover that it's even better.

Since I am concentrating on my food, I'm only half aware of what Edward is up to. Vaguely, I see him shrugging off his leather jacket and then place it neatly on the seat of a vacant chair. It isn't until he makes a little noise while pulling out his chair do I reluctantly look up from my brownie, my fingers already preparing to place yet another delicious bite inside of my mouth. However, once I get a good look at what he has had on underneath that jacket all evening long, all thoughts of my brownie disappears.

He has on a green turtleneck that is distractingly form fitting.

It looks nice on him. Too nice. It sticks to him, highlighting a surprising amount of muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest that I never noticed before. Then there's the color. It's nearly the same shade as his eyes. Somehow, his shirt makes his eyes appear even more green and hypnotic than they usually are - which if someone had told me before tonight that this was even possible, I would have called them a big fat liar.

This development leaves me stunned - and a little suspicious. Is he doing this to me on purpose? Did he intentionally decide to mess with my head by wearing a shirt which not only clings to his body like a second skin, but also just happens to perfectly match his eye color? And if so, why?

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he is completely unaware of the affect this is having on me right now. It is possible that he has absolutely no idea that my heart temporarily stopped beating once I got a good look at him. Even GQ cover models may not understand how attractive they are to us mortals, I guess.

Tearing my attention away from him, I drop my eyes back down to my food and try to concentrate on something other than what he is wearing. If I'm not careful, I might spend the remainder of my night ogling at him. And friends shouldn't stare at their male friends like that. It's rude. And not to mention pretty damn creepy. I don't want Edward to ever look at me with the same sort of dread that appears on his face whenever Jessica comes to talk to him.

As I try to recall how to eat, I shove the small morsel of brownie that I've been holding on to for the past fifteen seconds inside of my mouth. It still tastes good, but the butterflies flapping around in my stomach are keeping me from enjoying it as much as before. In fact, I'm practically running on autopilot now.

Pinch off bite-sized piece of brownie.

Gently place in mouth.

Do not look at boy sitting across the table.

Try to enjoy the chocolaty sweet flavor.

Chew a few times.

Swallow.

Continue to not look at boy across the table.

Repeat.

As I attempt to distract myself with my food, Edward hasn't said a word for the past few minutes. I assume he is enjoying his food, but I haven't had to courage to look. It is not until my brownie is around one-thirds gone does the silence at our table end.

"Why did you choose that?" he abruptly asks, forcing me to acknowledge his presence once again.

I hesitantly look over at him, noting that his eyes are alternately glancing between my face and the partly devoured brownie laying in front of me. His fingers are absentmindedly tearing apart the humongous cinnamon roll he bought, sending its spicy scent into the air while he waits for me to speak.

Swallowing the remnants of my last bite, I frown a little, feeling confused by his odd question. "What? The brownie?" I ask, keeping my eyes centered on his face.

When he nods, his eyes partially shut. "Uh, huh," he relaxedly confirms.

While he casually tosses a piece of cinnamon roll into his mouth, my brain is struggling to come up with an answer. I have no idea what to say. It's just a brownie.

Eventually, I decide to answer with the obvious - at least it is to me.

"Cause brownies always taste good?" I awkwardly reply, my face slightly scrunched together.

Edward cocks up his brow skeptically, as though my answer is the lamest thing he has ever heard.

His reaction ticks me off a little bit. It took me whole seconds to come up with it. I'm not sure what kind of a response he expected. Did he really think that my answer was going to be even remotely interesting?

Using my irritation to regain my confidence back, I straighten my posture and make sure to look him dead in the eye. "Why does it matter?" I counter, arching my eyebrow right back at him.

His head tilts to the side as he thinks, his lips slightly pursed. Gradually, he leans forward in his chair, his left elbow placed on the table while he contemplatively rests his chin in his hand.

"It's just that I have a little theory," he replies with a half smile. "When faced with a choice, I believe that people will choose what is most meaningful or familiar to them most of the time. I'm curious as to why you would choose that brownie over everything else."

I am on the verge of rolling my eyes at his "little theory" and laughing at the absurdity of the question. Sometimes the decision you make is based upon how good something tastes - like I said before. No deep significance is required.

Yet, right when I am about to vocally scoff at what he has asked me, a distant memory jolts me into silence.

Since Mom has never been the best cook (to put it mildly), we were usually limited to heating up TV dinners and cans of Chef Boyardee for our meals at home. We both grew to hate living that way, but it was either eating crappy dinners made in a factory a thousand miles away, or risk dying from food poisoning from the home-cooked meal Mom would occasionally attempt to make in our kitchen. This is no exaggeration. One time I caught her trying to gauge our Thanksgiving turkey's temperature with a regular thermometer, the same type most people have in their medicine cabinet. Since the turkey didn't have a mouth anymore (obviously), she stuck the thermometer in its neck cavity. I still shudder to think what could have happened to us if I hadn't discovered her mistake. Spending Thanksgiving at the ER would not have been a pleasant way to celebrate the holiday season.

Once when I was younger, Mom and I travelled to our local grocery store - the one we often shopped at back then. As we pushed our cart full of tin cans and frozen meals down an aisle, we passed by a display of boxes that showed pictures of cakes and easy to bake pies. My attention became riveted on each box which promised that with just a couple of ingredients and the proper cooking time in the oven, even you could make something delicious. I swiped a box down at random from the shelf and thrust it Mom, begging her to allow me to experiment with it. She was uncertain at first since I had only recently begun using the stove to reheat things, usually Campbell's soup or take-out food. But after I put enough emphasis on my "please", she agreed to let me try as long as she could supervise.

Back home that evening, I didn't waste any time. I went straight into the kitchen and began following the instructions on the box. Once it was finished cooking around an hour later, Mom and I tried my very first attempt at baking. The proud smile she gave me after that first bite of the simple brownie I made is something that I'll always remember.

After that day, I took over kitchen duties. Over the course of a couple of years, I progressed from making easy to cook dinners of Hamburger Helper to making complete meals from scratch. Our dependence on Lean Cuisine and Stouffer's frozen meals became a thing of the past.

But the first thing I ever made must have stuck out in my mind more than I ever realized. Now that I think of it, I almost always choose to go with a brownie over everything else. I never realized the connection before.

So, I guess Edward's theory maybe has some merit after all...

He's still expectantly sitting there, chin resting in his hand, waiting for me to say something. I have an answer - a real answer now - but I'm unsure how it will be interpreted. It probably sounds incredibly boring. He will probably regret asking me anything in the first place once he hears what I say.

"It was the first thing I learned to cook by myself," I confess, suddenly feeling exposed.

"Oh, so you can cook?" he replies, his voice sounding faintly surprised.

"A little," I shyly answer, not wanting him to assume that I'm some sort of world class chef or anything.

Edward leans in a little more, his eyes never leaving my face. "How often?" he questions.

"Nearly every day," I truthfully respond.

Briefly, his eyes flick down at our table as though he is pondering over what I told him. Then, seconds later, they're back on my face - his eyes gleaming in the muted light of the café. "You cook for your father," he states without a hint of hesitation.

"Yeah. I don't know how he survived before I came here," I quickly confirm. Soon, I'm smiling a little while I think of Charlie. Many years of living alone turned him into your classic, stereotypical bachelor. From what I have gathered so far, he really doesn't seem to care what he eats as long as he doesn't have to cook it himself.

My nose crinkles in disgust as I recall the exact way he did live before I moved here.

"TV dinners and the diner, I guess," I mumble, unable to fathom how my dad survived for so long on the slop they serve down at the Forks Diner. Evidently, the cook there believes that gravy makes up a large part of the Food Pyramid.

Pausing for a moment, I start to wonder how Mom is faring now that she doesn't have me to cook for her anymore. Since she is travelling with Phil and his baseball team, I'm sure they have been eating out more than before. She hasn't complained about it during our phone calls or email exchanges. But, then again, she rarely complains about anything. Mom is stuck in a perpetually happy mood.

"I cooked for Mom and Phil, too," I say aloud as an afterthought.

Edward's head lifts up a couple of inches from his hand, his expression confused. "Your mom?" he asks, bewildered.

I nod my head, silently confirming his question.

Appearing uneasy, his brows smash together. "Why did you cook for her and her new husband?"

"Because I like to," I respond, slightly surprised that he even remembered our conversation about my new stepfather from nearly two weeks ago.

"When did you start?" he rapidly fires next.

This question is harder for me to answer. I bite down on my lip as I try to calculate how old I was that day when I first baked that brownie. "Umm. Well..." I hesitantly reply while I think back. "I couldn't touch the stove until I was nine... So, I guess it was when I turned nine."

Edward stares back slack-jawed for several seconds. Then, his mood abruptly changes. The apparent shock slowly disappears from his face. No longer relaxedly leaning forward, he's sitting ramrod straight in his chair. "Why would your mother allow her daughter to cook at nine years old? Why didn't she do the cooking for you?" he stresses in a voice laced with outrage.

My eyes harden as my fingers grip down on the table. I can hear the disapproval in his voice, which only serves to anger me more. Mom may not have been able to make a decent meal or balance her checkbook, but she always loved me and provided for our needs. If she couldn't make a batch of cookies for me to bring to my elementary school bake sale, she made sure to purchase the best dozen or so chocolate chip cookies from our local bakery for me to take. She may have had her faults, but being a bad parent was not once of them.

"She let me do it because I insisted!" I snap at him with narrowed eyes, not hiding how irritated I am. "It was either I learn to cook or we'd be both eating burnt tuna casserole and fast food for the rest of our lives."

Seemingly stunned, Edward lapses into a ruminative silence. His rigid posture gradually relaxes as his fiery eyes soften back to normal. "She can't cook," he eventually announces in a gentler tone, almost as though he is talking to himself.

Seeing that he understands now, I force myself to stop glaring at him and resume a more natural posture as well. "Not even to save her life," I sigh with a faint smile. "We lived off of frozen TV dinners and fast food burgers until I felt brave enough to try cooking on my own."

"A matter of necessity," he slowly drawls with a faraway look.

"Pretty much," I shrug in confirmation.

While I sip my Coke through my straw, I watch as he starts tearing his cinnamon roll apart with his fingers again. Based on his musing expression, it doesn't look like he's even aware of what he's doing.

A thought occurs to me while I watch him abstractly play with his food. He has asked me several questions since we've been sitting here. Maybe this is my opportunity to ask him a few myself.

"And what about you?" I ask him as his eyes dart back to my face. "You can't expect to ask someone a question without having to answer a few yourself - can you?"

With an amused smile, he tips his head. "Fair enough. Ask away," he pleasantly agrees.

I feel giddy with power. I can finally ask him whatever I want. I've been so curious about him, I literally have a list of questions sitting on the desk in my room that have been playing through my mind for days. Too bad I didn't bring it.

I want to ask him what happened to him last summer in the national park. Did he become lost by accident?

I want to ask if he remembers Charlie helping him that day.

I want to ask how badly he was hurt.

I want to ask him if it's normal for him to so easily put helpless teenage girls into dazed trances. And, if there's any chance that he could give me a break and lay off it for a while.

But, of course I can't really ask him any of those questions. They are either too personal for him to answer or to embarrassing for me to admit.

So, I decide instead to use his own curiosity against him for starters.

"Same question first," I smugly smile. "Why did you choose that cinnamon roll over everything else?"

I expected that he would need to think long and hard on what to say, but instead he answers almost immediately. "That's easy," he nonchalantly replies, completely unfazed. "It reminds me of home."

My forehead wrinkles downwards as I try to make sense of what he just said. We've only been gone from home for a couple of hours. And why would he even want to be reminded of Forks anyway?

Picking up on my confusion, Edward patiently hints, "My first home."

My eyes fly open wide, horrified at my stupidity. I knew that he lost his parents and came to live in Forks only last year. Yet here I go forgetting all about it. And, inadvertantly, the first question I pose to him turns out to be the very one that I shouldn't ask.

"Oh. I'm sorry," I ruefully apologize, avoiding looking directly at his face and wishing that I had just kept my big mouth shut. "I didn't mean to bring anything like that up."

But Edward fervently shakes his head, not appearing offended at all. "It's OK, Bella. This is a good memory," he reassures me, pointing at his cinnamon roll. "This reminds me of home because Martha (she was our family's cook and housekeeper), she would make these every Sunday for breakfast. I remember waking up smelling the scent of this wafting through the house." He pauses to fondly smile. "It was the best alarm clock. She used to say that the only way I would willingly get out of bed in the morning was when I could detect this scent in the air."

Relieved that his story isn't about his parents, I allow myself to smile along with him. I don't know why, but the fact that he evidently has a problem with waking up in the morning makes him seem more relatable. More human.

"That's nice," I warmly remark. "Does she still make them?"

The grin on Edward's face quickly drops into a frown, the warmth in his eyes fading. His attention darts down to the table where he proceeds to break apart his roll until it is little more than crumbs. Without looking at me, he answers my question. "No. She passed away, too," he softly replies, his tone grim.

My eyes briefly snap shut, wincing guiltily. By habit, my teeth nervously clamp down on my bottom lip. I only asked him two questions and both turn out to be the wrong things to ask. I don't think that I have ever felt so ashamed.

Edward lifts his head back up, appearing somber but still composed. Seeing that all trace of amusement on his face is long gone only makes me feel worse.

"I'm sorry," I falteringly announce, trying to maintain eye contact even though I really don't want to. "I don't seem to be very good at asking questions. I keep asking the worst possible ones."

"I disagree," he says consolingly, firmly shaking his head. "You have asked completely normal, legitimate questions. You couldn't possibly help it that my life became such a disaster."

Edward falls sient, his face nearly expressionless. But I can see in his eyes what he doesn't say in words. I see desolation. And maybe a little loneliness. I don't know his full story, but I think I can safely assume that it hasn't been a happy one for a long while.

"Is it still a disaster?" I ask tentatively.

He says nothing for a short time as he watches me. Then, he weakly heaves out a breath and closes his eyes for a moment before he speaks.

"If you had asked me that question last summer, I would have said 'yes' without an ounce of doubt," he muses aloud. "But now, it's not quite as painful of a subject as it once was." The anguished look in his eyes gradually disappears as he continues on. "I suppose you could say that my life is in recovery mode," he adds.

His casual mention of "last summer" makes me recall the conversation I had with Jessica my first day here. She mentioned that he moved in with the Cullen family a couple of months before the school year started. So, that would put Edward's near death experience close to his arrival in Forks...

But then I remind myself that Jessica also informed me that she heard that Coach Clapp wears women's undergarments during gym class. Obviously, she isn't the most reliable source of information.

In fact, I can't rely 100% on any of the information she gave me about Edward that day. After all, she is the same girl that lives under the delusion that he is secretly pining for her but he's too shy to admit it.

"Where are you from?" I ask, deciding that it's best to get my information confirmed by Edward himself rather than taking Jessica at her word.

"Chicago," he quickly replies.

Slowly, his mouth curls into a small, knowing smirk. "I'm astonished that no one filled you in on all the Cullen gossip when you first arrived here," he jokes, teasing once again. "I'm very disappointed that you missed out on all the juicy details."

"Oh, but they did," I admit, wanly smiling. "But, I don't put much stock into what people say unless they know what they are talking about. You hear lies and exaggerations more often than the truth... I usually ignore it."

"That's highly commendable of you," he compliments. Lightly wetting his lips, he leans forward a bit in his seat. "Though, just for curiosity's sake, what did they tell you?"

Quickly deciding to be honest with him, I say, "That you were adopted by a doctor and his wife and that you are the newest addition to their family. And, according to Jessica," I continue on, trying to not burst out laughing, "since you are the only single member of the family left, you'll be expected to change that status soon. It's just a matter of time before you give in to your attraction and declare your undying love for her."

Edward's face visibly pales, suddenly looking sick. "I hope that you consider Jessica's statement to be apart of that 'lies and exaggerations' category that you spoke of earlier," he crossly grumbles with furrowed brows.

I force myself to stop grinning before I respond. It kind of feels nice to be teasing him for a change. "Well, after seeing your face tonight when she was practically begging for you to sweep her off her feet, I realized that any attraction between the two of you was entirely one sided," I lightly comment.

He huffs a laugh as he dips his head in my direction. "I congratulate you on your perceptiveness, Miss Swan," he smirks.

Mildly giggling, I lean forward to take a drink from my cup. Meanwhile, Edward's hand vanishes under the table and he subtly moves around in his chair, evidently going for his pocket watch again. Moments later, he carefully glances down to his lap and begins to move around as though he is about to shove it back into his pocket.

"May I see?" I uncontrollably blurt out before I can stop myself.

He looks up, appearing bewildered. "See what?"

"Your watch," I reply, trying to be brave now since I've already asked anyway.

When driving at night down dark country roads, it's common to see wildlife freeze once your vehicle's headlights hit them. They become paralyzed in place, too overcome by the light to move.

And that's almost exactly what Edward is doing right now. He hasn't moved a muscle since I asked to see his watch. Even his eyes are frozen wide open, unblinking for almost half of a minute. On the movies, this is around the time when you would either throw a glass of water in your friend's face or slap them on the cheek until they snap out of it.

But I don't think Edward would appreciate either one of those ideas. So, instead I choose to go with an alternative approach.

"I've seen you with it a couple of times," I gently press.

Hearing my voice, Edward blinks once or twice, slowly coming back to life. Unhurriedly, almost cautiously, his hand disappears back underneath the table. His eyes stay glued to me as he pulls out the pocket watch and sets it carefully on the table. Pushing it towards me until it reaches the middle, he removes his hand and leaves the watch for me to examine.

It's more beautiful than I imagined. An elaborate design decorates its golden front case, but I can't quite make it out from this distance. Moving my plate out of the way, I drag the watch until it is right in front of me. Now that it is closer, I can study the ivy vine design which adorns it. Each engraved leaf looks incredibly life-like, the lines of the design darker than the gold background. My index finger strokes the etching, amazed at the detail that went into it.

Tearing my attention away from the design, I notice that the watch has a small metal loop at its top. Idly brushing my fingers against it, I wonder what its for until my fingertip hits the tiny knob hiding under it. That's when it hits me that this watch is a lot older than it looks.

This is a wind up. No battery runs this thing. It has to be an antique.

Now I'm terrified that I'll break it.

Why did I have to push him to let me see it? If I keep touching it, I'm sure to do something dumb and destroy it. Like, dropping it on the floor. Or spilling my Coke on its delicate mechanisms.

I should just thank Edward for letting me look at it and push it back to him...

Swiftly, a hand appears over the watch, presses a tiny clasp on its side, and the front case opens up wide - revealing the watch's face. I jump a little in my chair, caught off guard by the sudden movement. My eyes flick up to catch Edward's arm leaving the area. He places it back on his lap and resumes watching me, his eyes calm but guarded.

Looking back down at the object before me, I see that the watch face is plain and simple. Dark black hour and minute hands point at 8 and 18 respectively, its design simple but charming nevertheless. On the inside of the case, I spot something more interesting. Writing. Squinting my eyes, I bend down to read it.

"Time marches on. Don't let it leave you behind. Obadiah A. Masen," I murmur aloud, vaguely puzzled. The sentiment is nice. You could even venture to say that it's inspirational. But...

Obadiah?

Who in this day in age outside of Amish country is named something like that?

Unless...

Darting my eyes up, I peek at Edward and scrutinize him thoroughly.

Nope. I can't picture him looking like Abe Lincoln in a zipper-less suit while he plows a field by hand. Besides, I think that he loves his car too much to use a horse-drawn carriage.

"My grandfather," he reveals in a low voice.

I glance at the engraving and meet his gaze once again. "It's beautiful. Did he give this to you?" I ask curiously.

Edward chews the inside of his cheek for a few seconds before he barely shakes his head. "He left it to my father, who then gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday."

Now that I examined it fully, I carefully push the watch back to him. He reaches out to retrieve it at the same time, his palm lightly brushing against my retreating fingers as I pull my arm away from his watch. "Why do you hide it?" I question him, not able to understand why he would ever want to conceal something so meaningful to him.

After placing it back into his pocket, Edward leans back in his chair, his arms folded across his pectorals. "Who says that I hide it?" he replies in a detached voice.

"Whenever you pull it out you seem a little tense," I gently point out to him. "Then you stuff it back into your pocket."

He says nothing at all for a while, his mouth twisted to its side as his eyes stay zoned in on my own. After a short time, he takes a small breath and slowly releases it. "Pocket watches aren't exactly fashionable anymore, as you probably know," he placidly explains. "People tend to ask a lot of questions about why I carry it around that I don't usually like to reveal."

It feels like someone punched me in the gut. That's the guilt making its presence known, I guess. I realize that I am no better of a person than the gossiping, big-mouths down at Forks High that attempt to suck out every single drop of information out of a defenseless victim. They're worse than vampires.

"Like what I just did," I contritely whisper.

Briefly closing his eyes, he shakes his head. "Don't worry, Bella. I don't mind if you ask me questions. I've asked you plenty of questions myself," he soothingly replies. A playful grin then spreads across his face. "Besides, you don't seem to be the type to go running around Monday morning revealing all my best kept secrets," he teases lightheartedly, his eyes shining brightly once again.

Then - damn him - he winks.

Freakin' winks.

My brain shuts down. All I can see now is that stupid, gorgeous smile that won't leave his face. If I keep dumbly staring at it, I have no doubt that it will be burnt into my retinas for the rest of my life - exactly like if I were to go look at the midday sun without the proper eye protection.

Plucking my eyeballs away from his blinding grin, I snap my head towards the nearby window in order to recollect myself. This really isn't fair. He shouldn't be allowed to smile and wink like that without giving a fair warning. It's dangerous. A hazard. If I wasn't in good health, I'm almost positive that he would have given me a heart attack just now.

After an embarrassingly long time goes by, I bravely shift my head back in his direction. His face is scrunched together confusedly, quietly observing me. The cheerful grin is gone for now, helping me to relax but also making me feel a little guilty about destroying the positive vibe at our table. I find myself wanting to bring it back.

"Only if you promise not to tell Mike and Jessica that I don't have an Aunt Beatrice," I softly counter, faintly smiling.

Edward chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "Now that sounds like a deal," he smoothly agrees.

With a growing smile, I pop another bite of brownie into my mouth as I listen to him laugh. It's a beautiful sound. And I wish he would do it more often.

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We finish eating a few minutes later and walk back to his car. It's colder now than it was earlier. A stiff northerly wind is passing right through my jacket. Edward quickly unlocks the passenger side door while I silently freeze to death. Yanking open the door, he patiently waits for me to get inside before he pushes it closed - even after I told him that I could do it for myself.

I'm coming to realize that he is pretty stubborn when it comes to doors. He always wants to be the one to open or close them. It has to more than just wanting to be nice. As he strolls around to the driver's side, I conclude that he must have an obsessive compulsive disorder. Maybe he doesn't like for people besides himself to ever touch them.

Edward slips in and cranks up the car, sending us speeding back to Forks. Once the car's engine warms up, he fiddles with the buttons and knobs of the climate control until the interior is filled with blissfully warm heat. Soon, it feels so nice that I shimmy out of my jacket and throw it on the backseat. He keeps his jacket on, something for which I am thankful. If he were to pull it back off now that we're in a confined space, it might become a problem. I don't want him catching me doing an inventory of his muscles or anything embarrassing like that.

Once we leave the Port Angeles city limits, the street lights end and the car plunges into darkness. The small, two-lane highway that leads to Forks feels almost deserted. His car doesn't pass anything other than the countless looming trees until a log truck zooms by a few minutes into the trip.

"Do you like music?" Edward wonders aloud, ending our quiet spell. Though it is pitch-black outside of the car, the lights on the dashboard illuminate his face enough for me to see him.

"Who doesn't?" I snarkily respond.

"Touché," he says, his lips cocked up into a smile. "Actually, I was asking if you'd like to listen to some music. There's some CDs in that compartment in front of you. You can choose whatever you'd like if you want," he continues while pointing at a spot below the airbag.

Snooping through his things sounds like a fantastic idea. However, it comes at a great risk. I have already been a wee bit nervous about breaking something in here. So far, by keeping as still as a statue and not allowing my hands to roam around, I've kept disaster from happening.

But there's absolutely no way I can pass this opportunity up.

With shaking hands, I grab the small handle on the compartment and pull, praying that it won't snap off. The compartment pops open, revealing dozens upon dozens of CDs. He has more discs crammed in this tiny space than I have on the shelf in my room. He either really loves music or he works as a CD salesman on the side.

As I browse through his collection, I see that he has a wide variety. Some artists I recognize. There's Elvis before he went through his bloated, jumpsuit-wearing phase. Several 50s era Doo-Wop singers. A scattering of psychedelic 60s bands with painted flowers on their cheeks. Some Alternative Rock bands from the modern era that like to scream sing. Several 1980s musicians with puffy bangs and tracksuits. And a whole lot of Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, and the like.

Then there's quite a few musicians that I've never heard of before. Cab Calloway, an early jazz singer. Glenn Miller, a big band composer from the World War II era. And one guy the CD says composed something called "Rag" music back during the early twentieth century.

After I spot his fourth Beatles disc, I start laughing and can barely stop. What kind of a teenager collects CDs like this? He has nearly every genre of the last one hundred years represented in this compartment, not to mention the Classical music that's from long before that.

It feels as if I have crawled inside of his brain. I can see his personality hinted at in his music preferences. He loves the classics. Likes some modern music. And he isn't ashamed to have his love of 1980s big hair, Glam bands known.

"What is it?" I hear him ask through my giggling.

Smashing my mouth shut to stop laughing, I look over at Edward. He's trying to watch me as he drives, his faintly worried eyes constantly darting back and forth from the road to my face.

"Nothing," I smilingly reply. "It's just that I've discovered that Edward Masen has an eclectic taste in music."

His attention leaves the road and stays on me for longer than usual. "And is that a bad thing?" he asks in a low voice, suddenly sounding unsure of himself.

I roll my eyes to the heavens and dramatically sigh. "No, of course it isn't. In fact, it's comforting to know that somebody is keeping alive Ella Fitzgerald, Elvis, and Frank Sinatra while simultaneously being a fan of Green Day and Linkin Park," I reply, straight-faced.

His mouth pinches together while his eyebrow cocks up. "Am I detecting sarcasm or is that just how you give out compliments?"

Tapping my finger contemplatively on my lips while I squint, I take my time in answering him. Yes, it was a compliment. But I can't resist making him sweat it a little.

'Which would you prefer?" I ask, struggling to contain a smile.

"I suppose since I had such a vexing evening earlier tonight that a compliment might be helpful in raising my spirits," he dryly replies.

Seeing that he is taking my teasing like a good sport, I no longer hide my smile. "Well, Edward, I give you my full permission to take it as a compliment," I grandly decree, trying to sound like a queen bestowing knighthood on one of her subjects.

"Why, thank you," Edward amusedly smirks. "Did you find anything that you like?"

Picking up one of the CDs from my lap, I place it onto his outstretched hand. "Yes," I answer simply.

With his eyes flicking away from the road for a couple of seconds, he goes to open the case but freezes before he does so. His head snaps in my direction. "Debussy?" he mutters with furrowed brows.

"Yeah, is there a problem?"

He continues to stare at me off and on as he drives, not answering the question right away. "No. There's no problem," he hesitantly replies, his hand rubbing his square jaw. Snapping his mouth shut, he concentrates on the road for around ten seconds before his head swings back towards me. "You do know that there's no singing? It's just a piano," he carefully discloses.

Well, duh.

I shoot him an annoyed scowl in response. The CD advertises that information clearly right there on its plastic case. Besides, I'm not completely ignorant about Classical music. Mom and I used to listen to it when one of us had a bad day and needed to cool off.

"I know. That's why I chose it in the first place. It's relaxing," I evenly respond, trying not to snap at him for assuming that I'm an uncultured moron.

Nodding his head musingly, he pops the CD out of its case and shoves it into the car's CD player. The first song that plays is one of my favorites - Clair de Lune. It's soothing and peaceful. I instantly begin to relax, my body losing some of the tension that I have been dealing with ever since we got back into his car. Edward remains silent as we drive, which helps me mellow out further. That's one thing that I can really appreciate about him - he doesn't constantly talk. If he has something to say, he says it. But he doesn't monopolize the conversation or yap his mouth off until your eardrums burst and bleed.

Unlike some people I know.

It's hard to believe that an hour ago Mike's hand was on the prowl behind my back while Jessica latched onto Edward and would barely let go. And no amount of hinting clued them to the fact that Edward and I didn't want to reciprocate. It was like their minds had been taken over by Pod People. Really handsy, annoying Pod People sent to Earth in an attempt to find human partners to repopulate their dying alien species.

If it hadn't been for Edward's escape plan, I might still be in that theater fighting Mike off. There's no doubt that the night would not have ended well. Mike would have either wound up with his feelings hurt or his groin smashed in by my knee.

All at once, a frightening thought slams into me.

"What are we going to tell them, Edward?" I gasp, feeling the anxiety rise inside of me by the second.

His head snaps my way, his face full of concern. "Who?" he questions, sounding slightly alarmed.

"Mike and Jessica," I guiltily mutter, my bottom lip between my teeth. "They'll probably ask what happened to us after we ditched them."

Relaxing back in his seat, he nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders as if there's nothing to worry about at all. "Tell them whatever you would like," he advises, his voice now tranquil and carefree. "I doubt they will pay close enough attention to the details to realize that your dear aunt is fictional."

"But I don't know what to say," I nervously explain. I thought that he realized by now that I am not an actress. Nor do I have the ability to make something up off the top of my head like he evidently can...

His dark green eyes leave the road for a moment and he wearily sighs. "Bella, those two are great at talking about things that they are interested in, but they are absolutely the worst listeners I have ever run across. You could tell them that it was your Uncle Fred that was sick and they probably wouldn't notice."

Edward is probably right about that. I've told Mike at least three times that I hate fishing, yet he still talks about it occasionally as though its inevitable that we will be casting our reels into Lake Meyer together soon.

Yeah. That's not happening.

But I'm still worried about being caught in a lie. I just know that if Jessica starts interrogating me Monday morning about what happened after we escaped, I'll freeze up and panic. If I don't have something to say already planned out, Jessica will easily see right through me.

While I nervously tug at my fingers, I feel Edward's eyes back on me. I glance over and watch him driving one handed, his right arm resting on the center console. "Just say that she is doing better now and she's out of the hospital," he confidently states, making up an excuse on the spot. "They won't bother inquiring much more than that. Trust me."

I take in a breath of air and slowly release it, trying to calm down. "OK," I nod a couple of times. I feel a tiny bit better about having a plausible story to give them if they ask, but another thought soon torments me.

Did Edward and I do the right thing tonight? Sure, Jessica and Mike were out of line and should have never behaved in the way they did. But, did lying and abandoning those two make Edward and I any better people? All they wanted to do was hang out with us. Maybe we could have found another way to deal with them without potentially hurting their feelings...

"What is it now?" Edward exasperatedly sighs, somehow picking up on my guilt.

"Is it wrong what we did? I mean...we lied and ditched them in the middle of a movie!" I groan.

His eyebrows rise up to his hairline as he incredulously stares at me. Moments later, a couple of dry laughs escape from his mouth while shakes his head. "If we had stayed you would now be Mrs. Michael Newton in his eyes. Does that sound agreeable to you?" he bluntly points out.

Without my consent, a horrifying mental image invades my brain. One in which I'm wearing a long, white wedding gown while Mike stands next to me at an altar. Nightmare Mike informs me that I should have worn a knee length dress instead of the fancy one that I have on because we're hiking fifteen miles to our honeymoon destination. Then he stares unabashedly at my cleavage and asks if I'm wearing a bra.

Great. Now I'm feeling guilty and nauseated.

"No," I huff out, answering Edward's question.

"Then, you did the right thing," he says, his lips slightly lifting at the corners. "You shouldn't be ashamed for escaping from an evening of involuntary fondling just because you were sitting next to that... boy."

"You're right," I concede with a sigh.

We both turn quiet once again. I feel so much better now after our talk. Soon, my head falls back against the headrest as I watch the trees fly past my window. The gentle Debussy piano piece playing in the background lulls me into a peaceful state, my eyelids lowering drowsily in the muted light.

"I'm sorry about tonight," Edward murmurs unexpectedly. I turn my head a little to find him stiffly driving, his left hand tightly bearing down on the steering wheel.

"Why should you be?" I ask, my brows knitted together confusedly.

His eyes dart back to my face while his head shakes sadly. "Bella," he softly sighs. "Instead of just taking you home after what we went through with Mike and Jessica, like I should have, I dragged you to some hole-in-the-wall café and bored you half to death."

I stare at him for several seconds, astonished at how he could be so wrong.

Is he kidding me? This night marks the first time in weeks that I'm not climbing into bed before ten o'clock. Edward could have flicked pieces of his food at my forehead at that café and I would have still had a better time than if we had stayed at the movies. I actually had a good time at that café. A very good time. Of course, I can't tell him exactly why I enjoyed it so much, but I can't deny that I did.

"It wasn't boring," I retort in defense. How could he ever think that way?

With his brow arched, he eyes me doubtfully but doesn't otherwise respond.

"Really," I emphasize. "This has been the most entertaining night I've had since I've moved here. If I had stayed at home I would have had an exciting evening of cooking, washing dishes, and watching Charlie while he watches ESPN while I attempt to finish my Trig homework. Tonight was definitely anything but boring."

Edward's mouth purses out a little to the side, his head tilting off balance. "Do you have trouble with Trigonometry?" he asks, veering us off the subject.

"A little. I hate math," I shrug indifferently. I'm a word person. I would much rather read a good book than find out what Y equals or calculate the square root of 117. To me, trigonometry is an evil byproduct of some cruel teacher from long ago that thought it up just to torment his or her students.

"What do you average?"

I take a moment to think. "If I'm lucky and study hard, a very low B... What about you?"

"Usually an A," he reveals, casually shrugging his shoulder.

Using my marvelous acting skills, I try to scowl. "Show off," I grouchily mutter, attempting to sound annoyed.

"What about your other subjects?" he grins, overlooking my comment.

"English and Government are easy, so an A in both of those. A's or B's in Spanish. And usually A's in Biology."

After I reveal this information, he goes back to focusing on his driving. His long, thick fingers begin rhythmically tapping on the steering wheel, perfectly matching the tune playing on the sound system. I silently watch them, spellbound. Turns out his eyes aren't the only things that can hypnotize me. Fingers work just as well. Who knew?

I probably need to see a specialist that understands my problem. It can't be normal for someone to find one boy so interesting. I don't want to turn into one of those girls that writes the name of their current obsession a trillion times in their notebook, usually adorned with miniature hearts along the borders. That's just pathetic.

I definitely need help before it's too late...

"I could help you," Edward's voice purrs, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.

My breath catches in my throat. Nearly hysterical, my eyes zoom over to study him directly.

Did he hear me? Was I talking out loud like a raging lunatic without even realizing it?

Or, is it whenever he hypnotizes me, he is actually peering deep inside of my mind? Reading my thoughts and trying not to laugh at what he has heard? If that's true, that means he probably knows all about the crazy thoughts I've had about him tonight. Heck, he'll even be aware of how I stared for an inappropriately long time at his biceps when he put them on display at that damn café.

Please. Kill. Me. Now.

Edward's eyes flick back to mine. "I could help you in Trig. I could tutor you."

Ooooh...

My lungs and heart jolt back to life, resuming seminormal operations. My jaw, however, falls wide open - half surprised by his offer, half greatly relieved that he evidently can't read my thoughts. The latter wouldn't have been good for me. I would have had to take drastic measures to stop that from happening. Like performing a lobotomy on myself.

As for his offer to tutor me, having someone help me out occasionally when I run into a tough Trig problem is actually not a bad idea. But having Edward be that person might be a problem. He's too distracting. I might concentrate on him rather than my work. If he was my tutor, I might come out dumber than I was before he started helping me. Besides, having him go out of his way to tutor me doesn't feel right either. I'm sure he has enough to worry about in his life. He shouldn't have to worry if I passed a trig quiz, too.

"No. That would be way too much trouble for you," I firmly refuse, shaking my head.

"Not at all. You would be helping me, as well," he insists breezily.

"Really, Edward?" I reply with suspicion burning in my eyes. "And just how would I be helping you tutor me?"

"You would be helping me bring up my grades in English, of course."

My doubt deepens. Edward has never struck me as being anything other than a perfect student. I've heard Jessica go on and on about how smart he is. And from what I have observed, I think that this is one fact about him that she isn't exaggerating. In biology class, he always has the correct answer when Mr. Banner calls on him. And I hear him everyday casually using words like "indubitably" and "aberrant" during conversations. Once during lunch at school, he took a bite of his lasagna and said that it was "insipid". Jessica then readily agreed that her lasagna "tasted great, too".

I keep my attention glued to his face. "You have trouble in English class?"

"I certainly do," he nods, maintaining eye contact with me for a few moments before his eyes dash back to the highway.

I carefully watch him for a while as I think things over. He sounds sincere, however I am now well aware of how convincing he can be when he lies. But no matter how hard I try, I can't see why he would lie about something like this. There's nothing he could gain from this arrangement other than what he is claiming. It's not like I'm the school genius and he needs to cheat off my work. And even if that is the case, he will soon discover that I'm an average student at best. My only true strength is English.

"OK," I tentatively begin. "If I were to agree, what would we do to help each other?"

"We could meet every so often and check each other's work. And if one person has any difficulty with anything the other person will try to help out."

"How often?"

"How often do you think?" he gently stresses.

"Twice a week?" I shyly volunteer after a moment's thought.

"That sounds reasonable," he nods. Then several seconds later, he asks, "Where do you want to meet?"

My teeth drag across my bottom lip. It hadn't occurred to me until now that if we meet up twice a week, we would need an actual building to conduct those tutoring sessions. I obviously was too focused on the "I will be seeing Edward after school" part to give much notice to anything else.

"My house, I guess," I reply. Then I realize that maybe he wouldn't feel very comfortable at my house. There's nothing spectacular about it. My house is the definition of middle class. It's old and not very roomy. Since it's just Charlie and me, we don't really mind those things very much. But, I'm sure that Edward is accustomed to mansions and luxurious penthouse apartments in Chicago.

"Unless you'd rather meet at yours?" I apprehensively remark, already imagining myself knocking over a priceless vase at the Cullen mansion and being roughly escorted off the property.

"Your house is fine. My house is pretty far away from town," he divulges. A slow grin then envelopes his entire face, his attention leaving the road to glance over at me. "I'm not sure if your rusting scrapheap with wheels could make it there and back without heavenly assistance," he jokes playfully.

Narrowing my eyes, I cross my arms at my chest. My truck may not be flashy or extravagant, but it does have at least one positive quality - it's built like a tank. When Tyler's van hit it, that truck shielded us from danger. I doubt this Volvo could have done that.

"Hey!" I yelp with flashing eyes. "No bashing my truck! It saved our lives, remember?"

Edward's mocking grin fades into a repentant, crooked smile. "You're right. I apologize if I hurt you or your truck," he purrs, his voice suddenly warm and velvety soft.

My mouth pops open a little at the sound that just came out of his throat, my irritation totally forgotten. Meanwhile, my attention is dizzily switching here and there between staring at his lopsided smile, the mischievous glint still shining in his eyes, and the rhythmically tapping fingers on the steering wheel.

Voice. Eyes. Smile. Tapping fingers...

Being hypnotized four different ways is a new record for me. And I can safely say that it is not one that I'm particularly proud of.

I tell myself to go look at something else. Anything else. Right now.

My head then whips away and I force myself to look straight ahead for the next couple of minutes. I only allow myself to concentrate on the soothing music and the sights that pass by the window, which mainly consists of scraggly trees and the occasional roadkill splotch alongside the highway. By the time we pass the Forks city limits sign, I feel in control of myself again. So, when he goes to ask where my house is, I give him the directions with some semblance of sanity.

He pulls his car into the driveway right behind Charlie's police cruiser, parking as close to the house as possible. Knowing that it's time for me to go, my hand wraps around the door handle and I turn my back towards him, readying myself to exit the car. But I can't seem to find the strength to push this door open. The sane part of my brain is joyful that I made it back home without leaving too much of a disaster in my wake. I had been terrified all night that I would make a fool of myself in front of him. Now that I am safely back home, I should be able to tell Edward "thanks for the ride" or whatever and just get out.

But another part of me feels like that isn't good enough.

And I think that's what's scariest of all.

He loudly clears his throat and I reluctantly turn back around. The nearby street lamp is casting him in a warm glow, the coppery strands of his hair shimmering in the half light. "At least I learned a valuable lesson tonight," he comments once he catches my eye.

"Yeah? And what's that?"

The green hue of his eyes deepens and dazzles through the darkness, as though he can flip this ability on like a light switch. "As long as you have a friend nearby," he throatily reveals, "even the worst night imaginable can become better than you could have possibly hoped for."

I can feel my brain beginning to shut down. Desperate to save myself, I frantically blink my eyes to fight the mental fog creeping up on me. And it works. It takes an enormous amount of self-control, but I manage to recover pretty quickly.

After snapping out of it, I mull over what he said and I find that I agree with him completely. Then I realize that this means that he had fun tonight, too. With me.

"I feel the same way," I say with a genuine smile. I feel all warm and tingly in my chest all of the sudden. This must be how the Grinch felt when his heart expanded.

Aware that I can't drag this out any longer, I push open the door and slide out. It's freezing out here. A watery mist is already beginning to cling to my skin and chill me to the bone. Being in Edward's toasty warm car for almost an hour spoiled me.

"Bella, wait!" he calls out.

I bend down and peer inside the car, watching him while he turns around at his waist and digs for something in his backseat. In seconds, he's back with something draped across his arm. "You forgot your jacket," he says, stretching his long arm across the passenger seat as he holds the jacket out for me to take.

My hand brushes briefly against his outstretched palm as I retrieve my jacket. Once it is back in my possession, I say a quick "thank you" as straighten back up.

"You're welcome," he smiles.

I take a step back, my hand resting on the car door frame as I take one last look at him. "Goodnight, Edward."

"Goodnight, Bella," he faintly replies as I shut the door.

I walk away from his Volvo and head up the sidewalk, my feet sporadically slipping on stray gravel and fallen leaves as I make my way to the front door. After I make it there without tripping, I pull out the spare key from the eaves, unlock the door, and head inside of the house. With the door knob in my hand, I am about to close the door when something occurs to me.

I haven't heard Edward leave.

Slowly, I turn my entire body around. His car still sits in the driveway. I can barely make out his silhouette in the driver's seat. I smile and wave my hand goodbye, touched that he was waiting until I was safely inside of my house before he leaves. Then, with my smile fading, I close the door.

"That you, Bells?" Charlie shouts from his recliner throne in front of the TV.

"Yeah. It's me," I breathe out as I walk into the living room.

Charlie glances at the clock and says, "Hmm. I thought that you said that you kids wouldn't be back home until closer to eleven? Nothing went wrong, I hope?"

"No. Nothing went wrong. We just didn't like the movie very much, so we left the theater and grabbed a bite to eat before we headed home," I tell him, not wanting to reveal the entire story. Saying that one boy tried to fondle me so I decided to run off with another boy that I like to gaze at from time to time is a story I will not be sharing with my dear, ol' Dad.

"I see," he mutters, sympathetically wiggling his mustache. "Too bad you kids didn't have a better time tonight. I know how much you were looking forward to it."

"It wasn't so bad," I admit in a near whisper, my brain conjuring up images of bronze hair and a cheeky smile.

Shaking the memory from my mind, I take a couple of steps backwards towards the stairs, wanting to escape the room before Charlie asks anymore questions that would require me to lie. "Umm... I'm pretty tired. I think I should go head up to bed."

"Sure," Charlie nods, taking a sip from his can of beer as he refocuses on the hockey game on TV. "Night, Bells."

Rushing up to my bedroom, I use my back leg to push my door shut and release a pent up breath. Flipping on the light, I wander to my bed and drop down on top of it like a ragdoll, my arms and legs dangling off the edge. As I contemplate everything I saw and learned tonight, I realize that it's time for me to admit something that I have suspected for days.

I like Edward Masen.

This is something that's tough for me to own up to. Bella Swan doesn't feel that way. Ever. She thinks a boy is cute or attractive, but "liking" them has never been much of a problem before now.

On the bright side, I guess I'm eligible to become a member of the Edward Masen Fan Club now. I'm sure Jessica will be thrilled to have me join the fold. She has probably been pretty lonely ever since all the other girls gave up on him so long ago. We can have weekly meetings and compare notes on how our lives have been impacted since we met him. I can introduce myself as though I'm in an AA meeting and say, "My name is Bella S. and I have been affected by Edward for two weeks now." Maybe she'll even let me be Treasurer or something like that.

Of course, I won't really tell her. I don't plan on informing anyone. I firmly believe that your feelings shouldn't be advertised for everyone to see. They should be beaten into submission, bottled up, and then buried deep inside of you until whatever it was that was bothering you withers away. That's how Charlie handles his emotions and he turned out OK. I plan on doing the same.

After all, it's just a crush. Nothing important. Everyone has one at least once in their lives - as Mom has warned me a thousand times. I guess it's my turn to put up with it now. But everyone knows they never last for long. They spark up inside of you and die out just as quickly. From what I have seen from watching the phenomena happen to other unfortunate victims, the average crush lifespan lasts only a few days. A few weeks at most. After that you wonder what you ever saw in him/her in the first place.

Plus, having Edward at my house to study with me twice a week will only help speed along the process. I'll get used to him - he will no longer be a curiosity to occupy my thoughts. Perhaps I'll even see some flaws in his personality. Like maybe he hates puppies, or he just adores to egg his enemies' houses in his spare time. I'm sure that something about him will wipe that infatuation right out of my mind.

By the end of the month, I'll be thinking of him as merely a friend. And all will be right again in the world.

00000000000000000000

A/N- Ha! Famous last words...

Next Chapter- A surprise at school. Edward goes to Bella's house. And a showdown between father and daughter.

Thanks for reading! :-)