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.

13. Killing Me Softly

Chapter 13- Killing Me Softly

March 1, 2005

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Eating homemade apple pie and overhearing conversations about pink bunny costumes (all while being squished up against the boy that I have been obsessing over for the past month) is not how I pictured my day would go when I woke up this morning.

To handle the awkward situation, I go with a strategy of feigned indifference. I pretend that I am not a girl that freaks out just because a boy is sitting next to her. I try to act as though being practically on top of him while his family looks on is completely normal and no big deal to me. Hopefully, no one will notice that I am on the verge of hyperventilating. That would probably tip them off that I am slightly on edge.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edward's fork cut his pie up into small, manageable pieces before he places them into his mouth. He hasn't said a word to anyone since Esme handed him his plate. But, to be fair, I haven't either. I don't have the strength to chitchat when I am too busy trying to remember how to eat without choking.

After I place the last forkful of pie into my mouth, Esme swoops over from her perch on Carlisle's chair. In no time, my empty plate is removed from my lap and is balanced on the palm of her hand. "Bella. If you'd like to clean up, there is a bathroom right down the hall," she says, pointing her free hand to an area towards the back of the house.

The thought of escaping from the room for a couple of minutes sounds fantastic, so I nod my head and gratefully accept her hospitality. Unfortunately, my butt is wedged so tightly between the arm of the loveseat and Edward's hip that it makes it difficult to get up. He tries to make room for me by leaning his upper body in the opposite direction, but he is too big and this loveseat is too damn small for this action alone to do me much good.

Before I am reduced to begging Esme to fetch a crowbar, I get the idea to rock back and forth in place. This creates some momentum and seems to help. It isn't long before my body is successfully pried from his side and I'm free to go hide in the bathroom for a little while.

Walking as fast as I can without appearing as if I am running, I make it to the long hallway and covertly scan my surroundings. There are no family photos on the walls, only art and other similar decorations hang here. I pass by an immaculate kitchen boasting steel gray appliances that Julia Child would have been envious of, and then what looks to be a pantry stuffed with dry goods and extra kitchen supplies. I find the bathroom at the very end of the hallway. Once I am safely inside, my back slumps against the door and I release the breath I have been holding in for the past fifteen minutes.

I stay in this slumped position for a minute or so, occupying myself by studying the bathroom which appears to have jumped from the pages of an edition of Better Homes & Gardens. It's easy to see that it is far larger than my bedroom and probably much cleaner. Everything is in spotless white. The floor is made from a gorgeous ivory marble with faint gray veins. An elegant claw foot bathtub sits in front of a slatted window. And I have no doubt that the faucet handles on the sink are made from real crystal. These things combined makes the bathroom at Charlie's place seem more like a primitive outhouse.

I wander up to the mirror above the pedestal sink and stare at my reflection. What I see makes me cringe. Cheeks that are in an embarrassing shade of fire engine red. Eyes that are wide and glistening. Mouth slightly parted and almost panting. It looks like I've gotten into the Cullens' liquor cabinet instead of just sitting around eating baked goods with a bronze idol. My only conclusion is that being that close to Edward is not good for my health. My poor body is misinterpreting the situation I am in and disregarding direct orders from my brain to keep my excitement under wraps.

Cupping my hands under the faucet, I splash my face with cool tap water and pat it dry with a fluffy white towel, hoping that this will make my face appear less red. I manage to get it to go from scarlet to a faint coral pink. This is an obvious improvement and is probably as good as it will get considering the circumstances. Any minute now, I will have to go back out there and sit by Edward again on that ridiculously small piece of furniture. What will I do if I miscalculate my trajectory and accidentally land on his lap? Will he think I did it on purpose?

Just thinking of that makes my cheeks' color deepen to salmon pink. I wish I could get them back to normal, but I don't think I have that kind of time. I've been gone so long that Esme is likely wondering if her pie is reacting negatively to my stomach. If I'm not careful, she might try to bring me a dose of Pepto Bismol. I need to get back out there before that happens. I can only take so much embarrassment today before I put myself at risk of dying.

Taking another glance in the mirror, I smooth down my hair and straighten my back in determination. I don't want to walk out of here looking the way I did a few moments ago - a shy, trembling girl that blushes at everything in sight. At least until Edward drives me back home, I will try harder to at least seem unfazed.

Entering the living room, I observe that no one has left. Some of the Cullens are chatting quietly amongst themselves while others are only listening. Edward's eyes lock onto my face as soon as he spots me, his expression piercing and brooding. It's the look I imagine Edgar Allan Poe would wear whenever he put his inked quill to paper. I suck in a breath and glance away before I become so intrigued by his expression that I trip over something expensive and breakable.

As I continue walking, I find another sight to occupy my thoughts. Despite the overcast sky, daylight from outside is reflecting off the top of the grand piano, giving it an unearthly glow. The instrument looks to be made from some sort of dark wood that has been polished and buffed until its surface is reflective as a glacier lake. It is a beautiful work of art which rests by a giant window overlooking the front yard. You might see an instrument as fine as this at Carnegie Hall being played by a famous pianist. Or, if it had a candelabra and some gilded accents, I could imagine Liberace once displaying it in his house in Vegas.

Curiosity bubbles inside of me. Why do the Cullens have a piano? Does someone here actually use it, or do they regard the piano as merely a decoration? Or maybe they only use it as a convenient conversation starter. And I guess it works, because before I can stop myself, I'm already asking about it.

"That is such a beautiful piano. Does anyone play it?" I say to no one in particular while I carefully sit back down on the world's tiniest loveseat.

Everyone in the room lapses into silence and turns to stare. Esme's mouth broadens into a large smile and her golden eyes sparkle when she answers my question. "Only one. That's Edward's, dear."

For a moment, I wonder if my ability to interpret words is malfunctioning. Surely she didn't just say that the beautiful piano belongs to Edward.

In disbelief, I turn to look at him in hopes that he will confirm or deny what I just heard. I'm surprised to see that Edward's face looks slightly distressed, his mouth pressed into a fine line.

"You play the piano?" I question once I catch his eye.

Before he can say anything, Esme answers with a gleaming smile. "Oh, my, he certainly does. Every day, in fact. And, wonderfully, if you don't mind me saying so. I was just telling Carlisle the other day that Edward could go on tour if he were inclined to, but-"

From beside me, Edward pointedly clears his throat and interrupts her. "Esme, please. You are exaggerating," he says between clenched teeth.

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and dismisses both his claim and his irritation. "Pish posh. Don't be so modest," she says lightly, sounding eerily like my own mom back when I told her stop proudly telling the cashier where I bought my first box of Tampons that I was now officially a woman.

Esme focuses back on my face, tilts her head a few degrees, and confides more information to me as though her adopted son isn't in the very same room. "He gets embarrassed so easily when I try to tell him how well he plays. I really would like to know where he gets that from," she exhales, her manicured finger tapping thoughtfully against her pale chin.

He huffs a humorless laugh and shakes his head. "I've acquired it after months of enduring your unfounded praises."

"How about letting Bella hear you play so then she can make up her own mind about it? Hmm?" Alice pipes in, her lips set in an odd smirk.

Esme gasps and whips around to look at Alice. With her hands excitedly clasped together at her chest, she fondly smiles and says, "That's a lovely idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

Edward wets his lips and swallows, appearing uncharacteristically nervous. "I don't know..." he trails off.

"It's been a while since I've heard you play, son," Carlisle adds from his chair, his leg balancing casually on his knee. "I'd like to listen, too."

Edward's shoulders immediately droop and his head falls forward into his hand. Pinching the bridge of his nose, I hear a faint sigh escape his lips. He doesn't seem very thrilled by their idea. I'm thinking that he is either very shy when it comes to performing, or he is right about Esme exaggerating his talent and he isn't too keen to demonstrate that fact to an audience.

"Go on, Edward! What are you waiting for?" Alice urges in a loud voice.

He makes no move to do or say anything in response. I watch as his fingers seem to press harder into the flesh of his nose. If he pinches any harder, I have no doubt that he will be leaving a mark.

Assuming that he just needs extra encouragement, I say in a lowered tone, "I'd like to hear you play."

"See, Edward?" Alice chirps with raised brow. "Bella wants to hear you play, too. You don't want to offend her, do you?"

His hand drops from his face and he briefly shoots her a glare, appearing to want to tell her off. However, surprisingly enough, he makes no comment to what she said. Instead, he shimmies out of the loveseat and stalks over to the grand piano. Slowly lowering himself onto the piano bench, he stiffly sits there for a short time and stares forlornly down at the black and white keys.

"I don't know what to play," he eventually grumbles, his mouth frowning.

I expect for someone to suggest something simple like Chopsticks, or maybe even a rousing rendition of the classic Row, Row, Row Your Boat.

"Why don't you play Für Elise? I'm sure Bella would enjoy it," Esme proposes, smiling at me.

Stunned by the song choice, my head snaps back in Edward's direction. Für Elise is a bit more complicated than what I was anticipating. It's a classic piano solo by Beethoven. For Esme to suggest it must mean that Edward is a bit more advanced than what I had assumed.

I catch him nod his head once to acknowledge her before he closes his eyes, shutting himself off from all outside influences. He sits that way for a span of at least ten seconds, breathing slowly through his nose.

The moment before he strikes the first key, his eyes reopen. And what I see there is something that I have only received brief glimpses of on rare occasions.

I finally see him. His true self. And I am left reeling.

There is spark behind his eyes that wasn't there before, which ignites the instant he begins playing. The room soon fills with the heartfelt melody coming from his piano. He plays as though his life is at stake, the music consuming him completely. His body sways fluidly as he appears to not merely play the song but actually feel it. Every movement he makes is precise and exudes confidence. And, in spite of his perfect posture, he somehow looks to be more relaxed and at peace than he was just three minutes ago.

My mouth gapes open like a fish. Esme was right. Edward is talented. How can the fingers of the boy that tutors me in trig cause the piano to make such a heavenly sound? All those times when I heard him hum some classical tune or tap his fingers rhythmically on a table now has an explanation. He is a musical prodigy. And he never once hinted to me at what he can do.

Awestruck by his performance, everyone in the room except him evaporates from my consciousness. I can't look away from him. It feels as though I am witnessing a miracle - something that I'll still fondly recall many years from now. My range of vision is frozen solely on his face, not wanting to miss even an eye blink or twitch of his mouth.

The musical notes floating in the air penetrate my soul, simultaneously inspiring and seducing me. And I am forced to amend my earlier assessments of Edward. He isn't just a refined, polite boy that opens doors and saves damsels in distress from falling on their faces. He isn't even merely a brilliant musical prodigy. The truth is that he is a modern day Pied Piper. Armed with his piano and crooked smile, he lures me away from the fortress I constructed inside of my mind. Step by step, he leads me further down the path until I am left exposed and vulnerable.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to forget about crushes on handsome orphaned boys and gradually fall back down to reality. But the opposite has happened. In a month's time, that stupid crush grew until it has transformed into something stronger and much more worrying. And a few key strokes from a piano was all it took for Edward to finish damning me to an unknown future.

This isn't fair. Not at all.

A freezing cold hand suddenly takes me by the elbow, yanking me into a standing position and reminding me that there is more to this world than just Edward and his piano. In a half daze, I force myself to look away from him for a split second to see who has grabbed my arm. I vaguely see Alice walking backwards as she drags me across the room, her lips curved upwards. She says nothing, which is a relief since I don't believe I could understand anything being said to me right now. Although, if I could, I would ask if she and Emmett regularly shove their appendages in buckets of ice water. Then, I would ask her what a shy and reserved girl with absolutely no experience should do to save herself after she has fallen for someone she can't have.

The next thing I know, she carefully places me on the wooden bench beside Edward and backs away, disappearing from my line of sight as well as my mind almost instantly. Without removing his fingers from the piano keys, Edward turns his head until our eyes meet. His solemn expression steadily morphs into an entrancing smile.

In spite of the fact that my abrupt appearance should have distracted him, he continues to play flawlessly. Spellbound by my close view, I watch his fingers fly here and there on the keyboard. One second, his fingers are calm and produce gentle sounds. The next, they press the keys in a frenzy and concoct a flurry of musical notes that I can feel vibrating up my spine. It's easy to see that he plays with everything he has, holding nothing back.

I take a brief glance at the sheet music that rests nearby, expecting it to be Für Elise. But it is not. The sheet reads "Take The 'A' Train By Duke Ellington". That is definitely not what Edward is currently performing. He has to go and have the complicated piano solo that he is playing memorized - as though being some smart, ridiculously good looking musical prodigy isn't enough to leave me flabbergasted.

Soon, the song slows to an end and I assume that he is done wowing me. Of course, I am wrong again. His hands appear to not want to rest. Without pausing, the classical song blends perfectly into another melody. Something modern and catchy. And something very familiar.

I laugh when I realize that he is now playing a Coldplay song, the one that features that piano earworm that gets stuck inside of your brain. Edward grins back tantalizingly with bright eyes, evidently pleased by my reaction. And since he appears unaffected by almost all distractions, he keeps right on playing. I'm sure both Beethoven and Chris Martin would be proud to have that ability.

Waking up from my speechless spell, I narrow my eyes at him. "Why didn't you tell me you could play?"

His mouth twists to the side ruminatively for a couple of seconds. "Have you told me everything that you can do?" he counters in a breezy tone, alternating between looking down at the keyboard and watching my face.

I wait a moment to see if he will laugh at his little joke. But once it becomes clear that he is serious, I stare cynically back at him. He's kidding me, right? He plays musical instruments like a professional. I can balance checkbooks without using a calculator. We aren't exactly equals when it comes to impressive talents.

"No, but I can't do anything like this," I stress, tipping my head towards the piano. "How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was five years old," he says without hesitation. His eyes look down at his hands as he continues playing, appearing to think hard over something. Slowly, the corners of his mouth tilt up until I see a faint smile. "I was a...trying boy at the time, or so I was told," he goes on. "I drove my family up the walls with my childish antics. My mother was forced to find something that would occupy me for at least a little while everyday just to give them a break. Piano lessons were deemed to be the most appropriate... At first, I struggled with the fact that I had to stay in one place for an hour or more everyday. However, over time, I grew to love it."

"Do you plan to start a career in music one day?"

The music abruptly comes to a halt. His hands slide off the piano keys and fall to his knees. "I haven't really thought much about my future," he murmurs, his eyes temporarily darting away from my face to stare at his lap. "Basically, I have been taking things one day at a time. Though, my father - my real father - wanted me to become an attorney like him. He thought that the piano should stay as a hobby of mine instead of a career... He believed it was my destiny to join his firm one day and fight in court alongside of him."

I can see bleakness on his face and even hear it in his voice. Being an attorney may be an admirable career goal, but it isn't right for everyone. And after seeing what Edward can do with a piano, I can't believe that anyone - let alone his biological father - could ever think that he should do anything else. This is no mere hobby or just a fun way for him to pass his spare time. He has a rare gift. And I cannot imagine him being stuck inside of a courtroom for eight hours a day when he should in actuality be performing inside of packed concert halls.

"And, let me guess, you didn't share his enthusiasm for becoming a lawyer," I say in a gentle tone.

"I had no interest in following in his footsteps," he confirms, his index finger gliding lightly over the keyboard. "But I wasn't prepared to go against his wishes either. So...I went along with the idea and kept quiet."

I blink back at him, bewildered by his admission. How could he not want to stand up for himself? If Charlie ever had the assumption that I would be soon joining the police force, I would squash that idea right away. Being forced into a career you don't want doesn't sound like a nice way to live.

"Why?" I ask, staring at him confusedly.

Edward squirms in place and takes a breath before answering my question. "My family was well-known in the area - and where I come from - people looked down upon artists and people who had blue collar types of jobs. If I were go against his wishes, it would have hurt both his personal and business reputations. I really had no choice," he finishes in a flat tone, his eyes downcast.

My brows smash together at his explanation. What messed up part of Chicago did he come from? The Cullens are wealthy and seem eager to encourage his music abilities. So why would his own parents not want to do the same just because they lived in a snooty section of town? We live in America - the land where you have the ability to achieve any dream that you may have if you work hard enough. This isn't Jane Austen's England where your father dictates who you can marry and decides how your life will play out.

"But, isn't this something that you love?" I press, unable to picture him doing anything else now. "How could it be wrong if you feel that deeply and passionate about it?"

His soulful, jade green eyes move back my way, his face appearing as enigmatic as Oedipus's sphinx. "I may love it, but that doesn't mean it would be the right thing to pursue," he slowly remarks.

"Is this because you think people here will look down on you?" I say, angered by the disturbing thought that he has devoted vast amounts of his life in trying to please a bunch of arrogant snobs instead of making himself happy. "But, you don't live in a place like that anymore. Your past is behind you. You can do whatever feels right to you now."

The look of isolation behind his eyes appears to strengthen as he stares back. "Even if I really don't belong here?"

My mouth pinches together at his question. This must be the result of being around some of the less welcoming people of Forks for the past several months. Mike has told me on several occasions and in various ways that he believes that Edward and the Cullens are freaks that shouldn't live here. God only knows what he has said to Edward to his face.

But the alternative is much worse. What if Edward never moved here? What if - after his parents passed away - one of his parents' acquaintances in Chicago decided to take him in so that he wouldn't have to leave? Then, he would have been stuck living in a place where he would have felt forced to conceal his talent forever. And that is an unfathomable fate that leaves me chilled to the bone.

Forks may not be much of a town. It rains here most of the time. The newspaper has no interesting stories to report. The busiest part of town boasts exactly one red light and only a few stop signs. But one aspect about this place that I am proud of is that you can be whatever you want to be here. Most of the citizens of Forks don't mind what you look like or what you do as long as it isn't illegal. If you want to start up a shelter for neglected hamsters, the townsfolk will pat you on the back and say that it's a swell idea. If you want to talk to the plants in your garden and yell at squirrels for digging into your flowerbeds, people here might talk but no one will try to stop you as long as it makes you happy.

If Edward truly wishes to do something with his ability, Forks is the right place for him to start doing it.

Armed with this epiphany, I look back at him brazenly. "How do you know that you don't? Maybe you were supposed to come here. Maybe this is kismet."

Edward's eyes become as round as saucers while the rest of his body seems to have become paralyzed. "Kismet?" he says in a gravelly voice.

"You know. Fate. Destiny. Maybe coming here was the only way for you to become what you are supposed to be."

His Adam's apple moves up and down in his throat. By degrees, the corners of his mouth begin to lift into a small smile. "You bring up valid arguments, Miss Swan. I'll need to think about it."

I smile back at him, even managing to refrain from rolling my eyes at his antiquated use of Miss Swan when referring to me. "Good," I say softly.

My eyes flick away from him and survey the room, wondering why Esme or Alice never tried to help me vanquish those despondent thoughts from his brain. But all I see as I look around the living room is an empty couch and two chairs with no occupants.

"Where is everyone?" I wonder aloud, turning back to Edward.

He gives a cursory glance around the room and casually shrugs. "I'm not sure. They must have had work to do," he replies, sounding strangely indifferent.

Before I can ask if the Cullens are magicians in the style of David Copperfield where they can make themselves vanish at the drop of a hat, Edward clears his throat. "Would you like to go to the library now?" he offers, one bronze brow arched.

My head immediately bobs up and down, my thoughts no longer bothered with mysterious beautiful people with golden eyes that dematerialize like ghosts. There are more important things to consider first, like the fact that there are books hiding somewhere in this joint. And I need to check them out now while he is still willing to show them to me.

I follow behind him as he leads us across the living room, up the grand staircase, and onto the second floor. A few steps later, he stops in front of a large double door. Edward turns both knobs at the same time, throwing the doors open wide and then standing to the side so that I may enter first.

When I was a child, there was only one female Disney animated movie character that I could identify with. I thought that most of the rest were either very dumb or very strange. Ariel didn't seem very bright - she took all of her advice from wild animals and thought that forks were combs. Snow White was weird because she seemed to enjoy cleaning up after seven grown men that lived like slobs. Jasmine couldn't figure out that the guy that showed up at her palace claiming to be a prince was clearly the same, kind thief that she met the day before. These three examples alone should be considered solid proof that Disney royals need to broaden their genetic diversity. Cartoon peasants are usually sharper than they are.

So when I enter the inside of the Cullen library and take a look around, I almost believe that I stepped into another realm. This wonderful book-filled room should only exist in either my daydreams or a hit animated film. I half expect to discover a dancing candelabra crooning a musical number for my benefit. Or maybe I'll even spot a gigantic Beast with pointed canines but pure heart hiding in the corner. Belle herself is probably curled up somewhere reading one of the Cullens' books.

Floor to ceiling shelving encircles the room, each one boasting dozens of titles. Unlike the rest of what I have seen of the house, this room isn't composed of shades of white. Instead, it is made of a rich, warm wood and carpeted with colorful Oriental rugs. A desk covered with stacks of paper rests in a corner by a window. Black leather chairs are scattered around the entire room, presumably to give plenty of places to read comfortably.

Once I have thoroughly surveyed my surroundings, I spin around until I find Edward. He remains standing by the door, his shoulder leaning against the frame. I notice a lopsided smile on his face that melts my heart. And, curiously, entices me to make a confession.

"And here I thought you were just exaggerating when you said your family had a lot of books," I admit with faintly curved lips.

His smile fades and his manner turns more serious. "I would never lie to you," he declares, his voice strong and unwavering.

Before I can become trapped by his intensive gaze, I whip my face away in the opposite direction and stare at an oil painting that hangs far across the room. "I know," I respond, almost in a whisper.

I wander up to a shelf and pull a book at random, thankful that I have a legitimate distraction to take my mind off of probing green eyes and charming smiles. The book I hold is leather bound, its pages yellowed with age. Thomae Bartholini Anatome Ex Omnium Veterum Recentiorumque Observationibu, it reads. Hand drawn, anatomical illustrations appear throughout the book. I glance at the text and realize that it is in Latin. And it was made a hundred years before the Thirteen Colonies revolted against King George III. Terrified that I will absentmindedly tear a page and destroy it beyond repair, I place it back from where it came.

After I slip it back onto the shelf, I curiously study its neighbors. Soon, I deduce that all of the books in this area are medically related. Some are old and outdated but are likely still very valuable. Others are more modern and feature nauseatingly accurate pictures of the human body in different stages of illness. This area of the library must be for Dr. Cullen's benefit.

As I wander to the next section, I take a secretive peek to see what Edward is up to. I find him sitting on one of the sleek leather chairs, his eyes following me as I cross the room. He leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees, posed as though a photographer is about to take a candid snapshot of him.

The new area that I am in is comprised of cookbooks and other how-to guides concerning domestic life. The cookbooks interest me. Charlie loves fish, and I am running out of new ways to prepare it.

I pull a promising cookbook down and flip through it. The recipes sound interesting, but the directions leave much to be desired. The author uses vague terms such as teacupful, a heaping pinch, and a few grains. Where were the measuring cups when the author wrote this up? Curious, I turn back to the title page. I don't recognize the author's name. But I do notice that this was written in 1889. Well, that explains it. Measuring cups probably weren't popular yet back then.

I give up finding a cookbook that suits me and head over to a more promising area. Fiction. Now this is more like it. The titles seem to be arranged by genre. I see Fantasy novels such as Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and every book written by J.R. Tolkien. Mystery and detective books written from the middle 1800s all the way up until the 1940s line the shelves. It appears that every genre is fairly represented.

I move like a sloth and closely examine the books' spines. I read each author's name silently, feeling as though I have found a dear, long lost friend with every step I take. Yet, I find my feet halting at one particular work and I scrunch my forehead, puzzled by an anomaly.

Hmm.

That's weird.

Someone accidentally placed Bram Stoker's Dracula in the Humor section.

Shrugging at the mistake, I move on until I find the romances. Some of the titles are ones that I have read before, but each one of these books are hardcover first editions. The Cullens could probably sell just a few of them and have enough cash to restock the Forks Library with decent books.

Esme was correct when she said that most of their books are twentieth-century novels, although I do still find plenty to interest me. It isn't long before I find three books that are just too tempting to pass up. Camellia by Frances Burney. Pamela by Samuel Richardson. And The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. All of them are first editions and smell sweeter than heaven itself. There are many more novels on that shelf that I wouldn't mind checking out, but I am limiting myself to these three.

I show Edward the ones that I have chosen and ask if it's all right to borrow three instead of just two as I originally planned. He cocks his head and huffs a laugh. "Of course," he replies as though I should already have known what his answer would be.

We stroll through the soundless house, not seeing another soul as we pass through. When we step outside, I warily peer up into the darkening sky and crush the books closer into my chest to protect them from any evil watery mist, rain, and sleet. However, for once I have good luck. The rain from this afternoon has ended and there is no precipitation in sight.

The ride home in his car is much the same as it was earlier, yet it feels different in a way. Soulful music plays over his car's speakers, its singers describing feelings of longing and heartbreak that I can relate to now. We pass by miles of lonely countryside with very few signs of human life. Neither one of us speaks very often. Edward looks to be working hard on maneuvering his car down the curving, county roads without crashing into a telephone pole. As for me, I'm lost in my thoughts.

Earlier at the piano, I had wondered what would have become of him if he had never left Chicago. But I failed to consider what would have happened to me. Forks without Edward sounds too horrific to contemplate. I'm not sure if I could have dealt with living here as well as I have without his assistance. He has become the best distraction, keeping me for the past few weeks from focusing on the gloomier aspects of this place.

But when I think harder, it becomes apparent that I have carved out a more dynamic life in Forks than I had all those years in Phoenix. I have friends like Angela and Jessica that I spend quality girl time with. I never quite had anything more than female acquaintances in Arizona. I no longer sit alone in a Phoenix lunchroom because many of the other students make me feel inadequate. In Forks, I always have at least one person that I feel comfortable enough to speak to. And, in addition to those things, I am well acquainted with possibly the only teenage boy whom I can say the term vexatious without him looking at me like I just spoke in Klingon. That alone makes the move worth it.

It's ten till six o'clock when he pulls into my driveway. I'm relieved to see that Charlie isn't home yet. That means I can ball up the note I left for him and toss it in the trash. He'll never know I left today. I have found that the less questions from him that I have to answer, the better it is for the both of us.

My hand wraps around the car's handle and I push the door open. One sneaker lands on the driveway, and I abruptly stop moving. I have neglected to do something very important, and I can't leave until I do it.

"Will you please tell your parents that I said thank you for the books?" I request, my teeth digging into my lip.

He nods his head up and down, his gaze never leaving my face. "Certainly I will."

"And thank you, too."

An engaging smile crosses his face, illuminating the poorly lit car interior. "You don't need to thank me, Bella. It's just a couple of books," he replies, his voice as melodic as his grand piano.

"I'm not thanking you for just the books," I hastily explain. "I'm thanking you for everything. I-I mean-"

I snap my mouth shut, well aware that I was very close to saying something stupid that would be difficult to explain away. Thanking him for crooked smiles and wearing pleasing scents which happen to brighten my ordinarily mundane existence would show my hand. I need to be smart. And verbally showing my gratitude for having the opportunity to study the intriguing shades of bronze and copper hair on his head is not a good idea. I need to come off as being more of a friend than a freak.

I take one more ragged breath and regather my wits. "Goodnight, Edward," I blurt out. Then, I hop out of Edward's car and close the door before he can ask follow-up questions concerning my near blunder.

In a near panicked state, I unlock the front door and rush inside of the house, slamming it behind me in the same manner I would do if a rabid dog were nipping at my heels. I take a moment to collect myself and to slow my rapidly thumping heart. Looking around at my surroundings, I see that the house is dark and still. The air has chilled somewhat since Edward and I were here studying earlier.

A noise from outside makes me peek out of the door's tiny, curtained window. The sound is his car's tires grinding against gravel as it backs out of the driveway. It makes me smile a little to see that I can make a gigantic ass of myself in his Volvo and he will still wait until he knows for sure that I am safely inside of my house. He's a good person - even if he may soon have plans to attend a dumb dance with a girl as beautiful but sour as Lauren Mallory. Hopefully, her unfriendly aura won't accidentally rub off on him.

I watch until the crimson taillights disappear from view. Instantly the house feels ten degrees colder. I turn up the thermostat, gently place my newly borrowed books on the kitchen table, and prepare a quick dinner of canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Thank goodness Charlie doesn't really care what he eats as long as it is prepared with butter, cheese, and topped with a generous helping of sour cream.

For the rest of the evening, I absorbedly read of the woes of fictional characters living in late eighteenth century England. It's nice to concentrate on other people's problems instead of dwelling on my own for a change.

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A/N- Things that help me write better and faster: Having quiet children that don't ask for snacks every ten minutes, and your review. The first one rarely happens. Can you help me out with the second? *insert big eyes and pleading hands*

Next Chapter- The boys at school act weird (well, weirder than usual). Jessica has a breakdown all because of Mike. And Edward creates some gossip to titillate the bored students at Forks High. Isn't that nice of him?

Thanks for reading! :-)