A/N: Hey there! Back once again.
Long chapter again this time. Much longer than the original Midnight Sun chapter, but considering how important it is, I really felt like it needed it. (The conversations have been the trickier part of this project, mainly because I feel like the rough draft for Midnight Sun often left them somewhat skeletal, without always incorporating very much information that felt new or surprising. I guess that's the problem with writing a story from one point of view, then trying to go back and look at it from the other side—making it feel like a story of its own versus just a mechanical replaying of the same events yet again doesn't always fold out naturally.)
Thanks so much for reading so far, and for all your thoughts! Hope you enjoy, and see you at the end!
Chapter 5: Invitations
Life went back to normal.
I was being extra responsible now, to make up for my erratic behavior. Of course I had to stay in Forks—as they had pointed out, I was the lookout, and it was my responsibility to be there. Once again I was the perfectly polite, model student, and every day I sifted through hundreds of thoughts looking for any new gossip about the Cullens. But of course, there was nothing.
I made sure to hunt regularly, but no more than the others. I attended every class, did every assignment, and achieved perfect scores on every in-class test. I listened to see if he said anything new about the accident, but he only repeated my story, again and again until people got bored of hearing it.
Everything seemed set to go entirely back to normal—except for the fact I was in complete and all-consuming misery.
I'd always found going to high school and playing my role tedious. I'd often longed for sleep, anything to make the time go faster. But it was nothing like now—like I was trapped in my own personal hell.
I got through the first day telling myself the first day would be the hardest. It didn't take me long to realize that was pure delusion.
It was hard to ignore someone who was the focus of all your thoughts. I was beginning to see why Archie had been so confident in only two possible outcomes—I was like a far-gone alcoholic or chain smoker, claiming I wasn't addicted, that I could quit anytime I wanted, but the moment I did I was in instant withdrawal. But I still believed I had a choice, and my willpower could win out so long as I kept my focus on what was important—letting him have a future different from those he had been condemned to in Archie's visions.
Of course, it would have been only too easy to forget Archie's visions, and do what I felt like doing. And the unfortunate possible would-be victim in all this didn't make it any easier.
On the first day back, when he came into Biology and took his place beside me, he said in an unusually warm, friendly voice, "Hey, Edythe."
It was a one-eighty switch from our last encounter at the hospital, and the desire to find out what it meant was nearly overpowering. Did this mean he was over the fact I had lied to him? Had he finally decided he must have imagined the whole thing? Or had he just decided to be patient?
I was burning to ask, to just talk to him. But if I was going to change the future, I could not afford to have even one lapse.
So I simply moved my chin an inch in his direction and nodded once without moving my eyes, barely acknowledging him.
He did not speak to me again.
It bothered me—in that conversation at the hospital, I'd acted furious, resentful, did everything I could to beat him down. So with my attitude now, he probably thought I was still angry, still annoyed. He was probably still worrying over it—he didn't like lingering feelings of hostility, after all. He probably would have wanted to clear the air somehow, even if he was still frustrated with me for not giving him an explanation like I promised.
However, it was better this way. Better there be some kind of barrier between us. He might feel a little uncomfortable, but it was nothing to the alternatives.
So I kept telling myself.
That first day, the moment I was out of school, I ran through the mountains all the way straight to Seattle, as I had done the previous day. I was too wound up, too restless to keep still, and it all seemed slightly more bearable with everything around me nothing but a blur, the feeling of the wind against my face and my head empty of all thoughts but my own.
The run became my daily ritual—a time to clear my head, and renew my resolve, which always seemed to weaken over the course of every long, unbearable day.
Was I in love? I didn't think so, at least not yet. But now that Archie had pointed it out, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that that was exactly where I was heading.
I was already falling—irresistibly, like the pull of gravity drawing me to earth. It was natural, like following the flow of the tide. Not falling in love was the opposite—like trying to swim upstream against the current, like fighting gravity, had I no more than mortal strength.
More than a month passed. And I was dismayed to realize I'd been more than wrong about the first day being the hardest—in fact, it was the easiest. The easiest, because every day got progressively worse. The pull of gravity seemed to vastly increase, trying to pull me in with greater and greater force. Some days I was nearly deranged, and I was almost on the point of changing my mind—and then I would run again, and remind myself of Archie's visions and how my selfishness would destroy his future, and I would have strength—just enough strength—to last through another day.
I ignored him completely. Even when he was sitting next to me, barely a foot from where I sat, I never looked his way, never even glanced at him.
Just accomplishing that much took all my self-control, all my discipline—it took every bit of my concentration to appear to be completely oblivious to someone who held every thought, who constantly had my complete attention.
I was constantly intensely aware of him, tormented by the thirst, and my never abating, raging curiosity. I was in the habit of simply never breathing in Biology—except, there were always those times I had to take in some air through my mouth to answer a question from the teacher, and the fire would sear down my throat, filling me with all the dark, primal desires of my instincts and threatening to turn me into a savage beast with only a hint of reason, just like the first day.
The curiosity was almost as hard to endure, and it was even more constant. Every twitch, every movement—when he sighed, or tapped a finger on the desk. I listened to every conversation he had with other students, and I gazed at his face through their minds, trying to decipher his expressions.
How often did he speak his real thoughts, or was he just saying what he thought other people wanted to hear? I knew he didn't like to lie, but he seemed to have ways of saying things that were true, but not the full truth. He seemed to always hold things back, keep some things to himself. Was that because he was trying to be tactful, because he didn't like confrontation or lingering feelings of animosity? Or was it simply he didn't want to let anyone get close?
He didn't smile very much, and if he laughed, it was a quiet, reserved sound, more out of sociability and politeness than real humor. The way he kept others at arm's length, never showed his emotions, never got angry or joked around or complained about his problems—it almost reminded me of us. But it was strange. While we had reason to stay on the outside, keep ourselves apart, he was just a normal teenager. He didn't have any reason to keep apart. Did he?
The thirst and the curiosity, my two old torments, both of which I was long used to. However, there was soon a new torment to add to the list—and her name was McKayla Newton.
McKayla was about everything someone might ask for in a normal teenage girl. She was responsible and got good grades, so the teachers liked her. She was smart enough she was by no means considered a ditz, but not so smart she was relegated to the nerd category, like their other friend Erica. She was athletic, and legitimately friendly—outgoing enough that she was considered fun to be around and involved in all the social events, but not pushy or domineering. She was also considered very pretty, for a human. In other words, she was quite popular among the boys at school. However, she only seemed interested in Beau.
Of course, I knew a little more about McKayla than the average member of the student body. She was not so nice as she might have pretended—she had a surprisingly broad vocabulary of curse words she had picked up from rugged hikers and trail-goers at her parents' sporting goods store, which she mentally used liberally in reference to Erica, and now Taylor, her would-be rivals. She also had a proclivity for concocting the silliest fantasies, particularly elaborate princess-prince scenarios, with Beau naturally always cast as the prince. She wrote about Beau in her diary, analyzing every little thing he did to find out if he liked her—though her image of him was more like the prince from her fantasies than any actual living boy on earth—and there was also a section at the back of her school notebook where she had written McKayla Swan in fancy cursive over and over again, though she was careful not to let any of her friends see it.
In other words, she was your average, normal teenage girl. With a penchant for romantic silliness perhaps, but cute, reasonably smart, and nice enough without being so nice as to be boring. A good catch for any boy of her grade.
I despised the ground she walked on.
Of the ten girls I counted with a particular interest in him, and those few with the nerve to openly vie for his attention, McKayla spent the most time with Beau. Over time, she grew more confident that she was the one he preferred. And she had good reason—he didn't seem as comfortable talking to Erica, and where Taylor was concerned, even if Taylor didn't seem to be aware of it, he seemed to try to avoid like the plague. Taylor was still apologizing for the accident and offering ways to make it up, and it was obvious he dearly wished she would forget about it.
As McKayla's confidence increased, she got so she routinely came to sit on his side of the table before Biology, and she would chatter about something or other, encouraged by the way he would give her his full attention, occasionally smiling a little or nodding. As for her attitude toward me, she basically considered me a non-entity, hardly a threat. She had been worried in the beginning—first when I had been so unusually friendly that second day in Biology, and then she had been worried again after the accident, that we might have formed some kind of bond over the shared trauma. But now she was satisfied everything was back to normal, with me ignoring him as thoroughly as everyone else and finally acting like a Cullen again. She had completely dismissed me as a real rival.
During those few minutes before Biology, often I amused myself by imagining getting up and—lightly—backhanding her across the room. Not hard enough to be fatal... maybe just a short trip to the hospital, a few stitches and splints...
Unfortunately, as McKayla was with him more often than the others, and her thoughts were more often focused on him, she generally made the best set of eyes through which to watch him. Additionally, because she was legitimately interested in finding out more about him, she asked him a lot of questions, and it was through these conversations I began to learn things I never knew, for which I was simultaneously grateful and frustrated.
Very much the way he answered my questions that second day in Biology, seemingly out of politeness, he answered McKayla's questions, too. He never said anything too personal—McKayla wasn't nearly so rude or demanding as I had been—but he talked more about himself than I'd ever heard, which he rarely did around the others, such as Jeremy, who was generally more interested in talking about himself.
These conversations went a little ways to feed the unreasonable, burning curiosity, but the fact it was McKayla was both depressing and aggravating. The fact that she was the one getting to know him, and I was no more than a spectator, the fact she was the one he was speaking to, the one he was making an effort to answer—it was all I could do to keep myself from doing something extreme.
After so many weeks of this, I knew I should have eventually come to a point of resignation. Eventually, I ought to cease to care what McKayla Newton was thinking or scheming. But I couldn't. Even as I sat ignoring him, I couldn't stop picturing myself being the one to ask the questions, taking note of the subtleties in his expressions that McKayla missed and forming a more accurate picture of the person he was, and asking better, more specific questions. Maybe that was why it kept getting harder.
However, far worse than McKayla was my last and final torment, which occasionally seemed to plague me more than the other three combined.
After that first day, he ignored me, as completely as I ignored him. He never tried to speak to me again.
The irony was that this should have made it easier. Surely if he had kept trying to restore us to the status of at least friendly acquaintances, then it would have been harder to keep from looking at him, to act like he didn't exist. Instead, it was like a physical pain—the uncertainty, the sense that he had decided he didn't care that I existed, had no desire to talk to me again, and was probably relieved and happier now that he didn't have to worry about the prospect of talking to me. The pain was so deep that there were moments I was almost in danger of giving up my resolution—of just turning, and making a polite comment, just so he would turn and look at me.
However, I knew he hadn't forgotten me. Because sometimes he would still turn, and stare, like before—across the cafeteria, across the school parking lot, right toward me. Archie was always sure to warn us when he did, as the others were still wary of his problematic knowledge.
I never looked at his face directly, but I watched him through the eyes of others, and as always, I wondered what he was thinking. Probably still wondering exactly what I was, and if he was ever going to get his explanation.
"Oi," Archie muttered, one Tuesday in March just loud enough only we could hear him. "Time to look normal again."
By now, everyone knew what he meant—he was about to look in our direction. They all shifted, fidgeting a little just enough to look human. Absolute stillness was a marker of what we were.
Archie sighed audibly. This really sucks, you know. I didn't know you could be so stubborn. You'll be happy to know you've got the future all tied up in knots again. You know, if we don't end up becoming friends, it'll be like losing a friend. How will you make it up to me?
I was sitting at the table with my arms folded and my legs crossed, and I didn't reply. I wasn't in the mood for this kind of conversation just now. In fact, I was so tightly wound, I was surprised Archie and the others didn't feel it radiating off me in waves. Jessamine did—but I was in such a poor humor all the time these days that she disregarded it.
Every day was progressively harder from the last, but today was likely to be an exponential spike downward.
McKayla Newton—who once upon a time I had viewed generally as a relatively nice girl, as teenage girls go, but I had come lately to see was a silly, fairly useless girl with absolutely no redeeming qualities—had plans to ask Beau to the school dance.
The dance was girl's choice. At the moment she was a little upset, and in a bit of a quandary. Jeremy had told her that Beau had said he didn't do school dances. McKayla had been working up to asking him for weeks, and this news came as a shock. She realized that if Beau wouldn't go, she would have to ask someone else—she didn't want to miss the dance altogether—and Jeremy had hinted he would be available to go.
However, it occurred to her that Jeremy may have been lying, if he was trying to get McKayla to ask him instead. She was angry at the very thought—but she also knew she couldn't know that for sure.
So at the moment she was torn between hurt at Beau apparently refusing to go to the dance, angry at Jeremy for possibly lying about what Beau had said for his own ends, and nervous at the prospect of trying to get it all sorted out. The night before she had been too embarrassed at the prospect of asking Beau if he really didn't attend any dances, and almost decided she would avoid the whole thing and just ask Jeremy. Then she had pictured Beau showing up at the dance with some other girl, and then him finding out she had just taken Jeremy's word like a coward—and that had made up her mind. She'd been up half the night screwing up her courage and planning out exactly what she would say.
I was tense and coiled as a loaded spring. Whatever conversation Beau and Jeremy had had—if they'd had it at all—I had missed it, so I was as much in the dark as McKayla. Had Beau really said he didn't do dances, or had Jeremy made that up? Or if he had said he didn't want to go to the dance, would he change his mind when McKayla asked him?
I wanted to sigh at myself. To think it had all come to this—utterly absorbed in the petty high school dramas I'd once held in such contempt.
McKayla was going over what she would say for the thousandth time as she walked with Beau to Biology, steadying herself, working up her nerve.
She sat down on the edge of our table again, again going over what she would say, reminding herself Beau probably wouldn't like someone too wishy-washy to make it clear how she felt.
I had to admit, under normal circumstances, I probably would have had to have some respect for the girl. But it was hard to respect someone when you were suddenly wishing you could spit in their face.
Just say it! McKayla shouted at herself.
"So," she said, eyes on the floor, trying to make her voice nonchalant, but not quite succeeding. "Jeremy said that you don't do dances."
He shrugged. "Yeah, that's true."
I should have relaxed then, but I didn't. He always had a way of pulling out the completely unexpected during a conversation, and McKayla wasn't done.
McKayla finally forced herself to look up. Her face was pink, and her emotions were all in a jumble. She was still mad at Jeremy, in spite of the fact he was now seemingly vindicated. There was a chance Beau was just covering for him—he was such a nice guy, after all.
"Oh," she said. "I thought maybe he was making it up." She watched his expression carefully, and I watched his expression through her eyes.
He looked bewildered. "Uh, sorry, no. Why would he make up a story like that?"
McKayla frowned, and decided honesty was the best policy. "I think he wants me to ask him."
"You should," he said. "Jeremy's great." His mouth stretched into a smile, but it looked painful.
McKayla immediately picked up on the false note in the expression, and her hopes rose. "I guess," she said slowly, making her voice deliberately unenthusiastic.
You have to ask him straight out, or you'll regret it the rest of your life! she told herself, with her usual teenage melodrama.
She took a deep breath, then looked up, and she smiled nervously. "Would this 'I don't dance' thing change if I was the one asking you to go?"
I probably would have respected her. In another life.
I was so tense waiting for his response, without meaning to, I unconsciously tilted my head slightly in their direction.
He was silent, and in that moment, it struck me. Like a hammer blow to the chest.
What had me so concerned about this girl? What did it matter if he went to the silly dance with her or not? Maybe he secretly liked her, maybe he didn't, but even if he didn't choose her, eventually he would choose someone. Once again I saw flickers of that future I had imagined—college, career, a wife and children.
Something cold and sharp seemed to pierce straight through me, and all at once I was filled with a storm of emotion, grief and rage and regret—They screamed inside my mind, and suddenly, as I pictured this girl as the wife in that future, all my petty resentments turned to blackest hatred. I wanted to break her fingers, I wanted to take her skull between my hands and crush it to powder, and for any other girl who might dare approach see the warning and flee while she was still able.
I didn't understand the emotion that filled me now—I couldn't remember ever feeling anything like it, not so powerful. It was like my longing for his blood—a monster, an ugly part of myself I didn't want to see.
He finally answered. "Um, sorry, again."
McKayla's disappointment was crushing. She couldn't help but ask, "Would it change if someone else asked you?"
McKayla had sharper eyes than I'd given her credit for. She'd seen the way I'd inclined my head toward them, as if I were listening, and now her eyes darted to me, suddenly suspicious.
A flicker of new emotion colored her thoughts, and as I felt it, I realized with surprise that it was the same as mine. Not so powerful, not so violent, but it had the same flavor.
Jealousy. Envy. That was my new monster. Not that I hadn't felt it before—not that I probably hadn't been pricked by it all along—but this was the first time I'd put a name to it. Before, they had just been irritated bits here and there, immature—now the monster had progressed suddenly and abruptly into adulthood, fully grown and utterly repulsive.
Remorse flooded through me at the vicious thoughts the monster had sent through my mind. I knew without a doubt that if there were a second version of me sitting nearby listening to my own thoughts, I would be so appalled I would probably want to kill her. No, I would probably consider it my duty to remove her from the world as soon as possible as a likely hazard to public safety. For all my derisive thoughts concerning McKayla's silly fantasies, they were all relatively harmless. She wasn't daydreaming about breaking anyone's face, or hurling them up against brick walls—at least most of the time. She wasn't constantly fighting instincts to murder him and drink his blood. Of all the girls in this school who daydreamed about getting Beau's attention, innocent girls as soft and naïve as sheep, I was the prowling wolf.
"No," he said, answering McKayla's question. He added, a little too quickly, "It's a moot point anyway. I'm going to be in Seattle that day."
The tone of his voice didn't sound quite right. I couldn't help but suspect he had come up with this trip on the spot, as a convenient excuse to soften the blow of his refusal.
"Does it have to be that weekend?" McKayla asked. Now that her defeat was certain, she seemed to have gotten a sudden burst of courage—like a wounded soldier on the battlefield. A final blaze of glory before falling with the rest of the slain.
"Yeah," he said, sounding apologetic. "But don't worry about me. You should take Jeremy. He's much more fun than I am."
McKayla's last bit of strength failed her, and once again she was crushed.
"Yeah, I guess," she mumbled. She turned and drifted dejectedly back to her seat, slumping down in her chair. The conversation played again in her mind and, depressed, she wondered if Beau liked her after all, as she had been so sure he did, or if it was someone else.
McKayla was staring down at her desk, no longer looking at him, so I could no longer see his face.
My thoughts were scattered, my emotions all over the place—I was relieved he had turned McKayla down, but my mind was also still full of the imagined future. The normal human wife and children, and the mix of longing and anger—jealousy—that filled me when I thought of it.
Above all, I wanted to know what he was thinking.
Slowly, deliberately, knowing I was undoing all my efforts all these weeks, I turned my head to look at him.
It was the first time I had looked at his face with my own two eyes since we'd spoken at the hospital a month and a half ago. The relief was immediate and profound—like a first gasp of air, after being submerged underwater.
His eyes were closed and he had his fingers pressed hard against his temples. He looked clearly agitated, upset.
I stared at him intently as I tried to interpret the look. His smiles had seemed forced, strained throughout the conversation, when he had told McKayla she should go with Jeremy. It occurred to me—maybe Jeremy had asked Beau for help setting him up with McKayla. And Beau had agreed, saying he would turn her down if she asked, and even going so far as to set up the Seattle trip as an excuse and putting in a good word for Jeremy. But maybe, secretly, Beau did prefer McKayla, did want to go to the dance with her, but he'd decided to step aside for Jeremy. Either because he didn't want to start a fight or, more likely, he always put other people's needs ahead of his own. Wouldn't that be just like him?
I felt a sudden, intense dislike for Jeremy—how selfish could he be, when it was obvious who McKayla liked most? What right did he have to ask Beau to step aside, when he knew Beau was so generous and thoughtful he'd do it without a second thought?
I quickly pushed the thought back. I didn't know that was going on—I had no idea what he was thinking. As usual.
Mrs. Banner spoke, beginning class, and Beau's eyes finally opened. As he lifted his head, his eyes immediately met mine, and he blinked, startled at my stare. He didn't look away, just continued to stare back, bewildered after my weeks of not even acknowledging his existence.
I felt strange. Elated. I was almost jittery with something like excitement. I was suddenly soaring on a high—as if I had triumphed, rather than lost.
I could see my own reflection in his wide blue eyes. My expression was too intense, and my eyes were black with thirst—perhaps not the best day for my willpower to wilt and crumble. Especially since, as he stared back at me, his face began to color.
I wanted to ask what he was thinking, but just then Mrs. Banner called my name.
"Miss Cullen?" she said. I think Mr. Cope must be right, she must really have something against him, though I can't imagine what. Look at her, glaring at him again... I better do something to break them up, poor Mr. Swan looks as though he could use rescuing.
It took all my willpower to pry my eyes away from his face long enough to glance briefly at the front of the room. I had completely missed the question, but I picked the answer from her head.
I sucked in a quick breath. "The Krebs Cycle," I said.
The thirst burned down my throat, venom filling my mouth. The hollow ache in my stomach was suddenly nearly overpowering. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate through the thirst, the hunger.
The thirst felt stronger than before—perhaps because once again there were only two possible futures, and in one of them the beast inside me that longed to taste his blood in my mouth won. My attempt to create a third option had failed—brought down by a brand new ugly brute inside me. Raging, out-of-control jealousy.
I remembered again what this meant, his being down to merely two options—and I suddenly felt sick with guilt at my weakness. But I knew now I simply wasn't strong enough. I couldn't change the future.
Knowing the battle was lost, there seemed little point not giving in to exactly what I wanted. So I turned to stare at him again, unblinkingly, unashamedly.
He'd bent his head toward his desk, and his eyes seemed to be riveted to the textbook. But I would have guessed he was still aware of me from the way his entire body remained rigid with tension, and his face slowly changed color.
The blood in his face set the venom to filling my mouth once more, the hunger sharp in my stomach.
He didn't look at me again, just kept his head down, eyes fixed on his book. Occasionally his long fingers would fidget with a page before flipping it over, or reach up to scribble a note in his notebook.
I found myself staring at his hands. In spite of how large they were, there was a fineness, a slender, fragile look about them. The bones were almost visible beneath the pale membrane of his skin. I imagined what it would feel like to run my fingers over each knuckle, tracing the bones down to the tips of the finger.
Fragile, I thought again as I stared at his hands. Breakable.
I felt a pain in my chest—this was all wrong. He was a good person, a kind person, who didn't deserve this fate. How could I let my life collide with his? How could I take away his future?
The brief hour passed all too quickly, as I vacillated between giving in—I knew now Archie was right, and I couldn't stay away from him—and continuing to cling to my hopeless plan. By the end I felt mentally drained, and I still hadn't found my resolve.
As the bell rang he gathered his books together, without looking in my direction.
It was unbearable, and for a moment my weaker side prevailed.
"Beau?" A thrill went through me, saying his name aloud for the first time in over a month.
He hesitated, his eyes remaining fixed on his books. Then at last he turned reluctantly to look at me, his expression wary.
He was quiet, waiting for me to continue, but I didn't. I just gazed at his face. It was such a release—to be able to look at his face for myself again, to feel him looking at me. I felt like I would have been satisfied to stay like this the rest of the day, the rest of eternity, studying his face, trying to decipher the thoughts behind it.
"Yes?" he said at last, uncertainly.
I didn't answer, still warring with myself, between what I knew I should do, which I was increasingly beginning to believe I wouldn't be able to do, and doing what I so desperately wanted.
"So..." he said at last, clearly uncomfortable. "Um, are you... or are you not talking to me again?"
The war continued.
"Not," I said, saying what I obviously knew I should say, but my face betrayed me as I smiled at the obvious irony.
"Okay..." he muttered, apparently deciding to take me at my word. He ignored my contrarily inviting expression.
I should have let that be the end of the conversation. He was turning away from me—already ready to let it drop. But I was suddenly desperate—desperate to keep our first conversation in weeks going a little longer, to savor it.
"I'm sorry," I said seriously. "I'm being very rude, I know. But it's better this way, really."
As my weaker side had hoped, he turned back to me again. His brow was furrowed, his eyes confused. "I don't know what you mean," he answered.
"It's better if we're not friends," I said. "Trust me." Saying what I should say with my mouth—saying everything wrong with my body language and tone. If I was trying to achieve what I said, I should stop this conversation now and go back to ignoring him, and let him ignore me. But I wasn't. I was just going to keep going—saying one thing and implying another.
At this, his eyes narrowed. He suddenly looked irritated, almost angry. Perhaps he didn't appreciate someone who had already lied to him once asking for trust.
However, there was also a coldness in the look he gave me I couldn't remember ever seeing. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "What are you thinking?"
He hesitated, his deep frown still in place. Then he said in a low voice, "I guess... that it's too bad you didn't figure this out earlier, saved yourself the regret."
I blinked. Somehow, even though I ought to have grown to expect it by now, it still always caught me unawares—the fact he always managed to say something I couldn't have expected.
"Regret?" I said, my eyebrows knitting. "Regret for what?"
"For not letting Taylor's van crush me when it had the chance," he said, and though his voice was still low, it had a hard edge to it.
I stared at him, stunned. For a moment I couldn't respond. I felt like he'd slapped me across the face.
Irrational as it was, a sudden, white-hot burst of anger flashed through my mind. He had no idea what I had been through—all the demons I was fighting, all the regrets and monsters. Saving his life was the one good thing I had done, the one redeemable part of this whole mess. He didn't know anything. He could accuse me of being a monster, a freak—that was true. But was he going to undermine the one noble thing I had done? The one legitimate reason Carine could have to be proud of me?
"You think I regret saving your life?" I said, very quietly.
He looked away from me, toward a couple of other students still lingering at the front of the room. They weren't paying attention to us, but one happened to glance over and meet his gaze. The boy seemed to sense the intensity of the conversation, and at a hard look from Beau, he quickly turned away again, uncomfortable.
Beau turned back to me, and when he spoke his voice was even lower than before. "Yeah," he said, still with a touch of antagonism. "I mean, what else? Seems kind of obvious."
Again, I couldn't immediately answer. Everything about the way he said it made the anger burn all the stronger. Seems kind of obvious. So certain, when he obviously didn't have the faintest clue. The unfairness of it burned like a firebrand, twisting in my stomach. How was I ever going to figure out how his mind worked when it was so unfathomable? When it defied logic?
"You're an idiot," I said abruptly, spitting the words at him.
For a moment his eyes flashed, and he looked more angry than I could ever remember seeing him. Thoughts seemed to race behind his eyes, but I couldn't even begin to guess what they were.
He seized his books from the desk and abruptly stood up. He turned for the door without a backward glance. He almost made it out, but then his foot caught on the threshold, and he stumbled for a second, off-balance.
I half stood up from my chair in alarm, afraid he might go all the way down—that would be just what we needed if he fell down and scraped his arm, exposing his blood—but he caught himself in time. However, the books weren't so lucky. They fell to the floor in a series of resounding thuds.
He didn't bend to retrieve them right away. His face was red, and he looked like he was seething. He stood where he was, staring straight ahead, looking as though debating whether or not to just stalk off down the sidewalk, leaving the books where they were.
However, he was too responsible for that, and finally he sighed, bending.
I was there before he had even gotten all the way down. He blinked, startled, as I offered him the neat stack of books.
He took them, but refused to look at me. "Thanks," he muttered reluctantly.
"You're welcome," I answered, stiff.
He straightened and, still not looking at me, headed back down the sidewalk toward his next class.
I stood there and watched him go, his shoulders tense, his head bent, watching until I couldn't see him anymore.
I was in Spanish in body, but not in mind. It was fortunate Mr. Goff always gave me a great deal of latitude in his class—he knew my Spanish was better than his—because I didn't think I could have paid attention even if I tried.
My thoughts were in a jumble, whirling dizzily through my mind like a cyclone. My anger at his unfair accusation had faded now, and I was filled with a kind of buzz instead. I was on edge, restless, excited.
So, I couldn't stay away from him. That was out. But did that mean I would necessarily destroy his future, as Archie had predicted? Or could there still be another way?
I was so absorbed in my thoughts I barely noticed Eleanor sitting beside me, watching me with some bemusement, and it wasn't until the hour was almost up my focus briefly flickered to her.
Eleanor wasn't one for picking up subtleties, but even she noticed the obvious change in me—my ever-present scowl was gone, and she tried to find the word to describe how I looked now. Hopeful, she decided at last.
Hopeful. Hmm.
If that was true, I wondered exactly what I was hoping for.
I considered the question as I left the classroom, walking on out to the Volvo. However, my thoughts were interrupted when the sound of his name in thoughts nearby caught my attention. By now, I was sensitive to any thoughts about him in my immediate vicinity.
These particular thoughts belonged to Erica—having heard that Beau had turned McKayla down, she was preparing to make her own move. She had positioned herself against his truck, ready to ambush him the moment he approached.
There was another set of thoughts I noticed centered on him too, for the same reason—Taylor Crowley was being held back late in class to receive an assignment, and she was desperate to catch Beau before he went home.
Assured now that he really wasn't intending to go to the dance with anyone, I smiled. I had to see this—it should be entertaining.
"Wait for the others here, all right?" I murmured to Eleanor.
She read my expression—bright-eyed, excited—and she shook her head.
Okay. But you know you look crazy right now, right?
I turned away from her, and circled back around the parking lot. I caught sight of him coming out of gym, and I kept out of his sight line until he was almost to his truck, then approached, setting my pace so I would pass by at the right moment.
When he first caught sight of the figure leaning beside the truck, he froze for a second, coming to a complete stop. Then he seemed to recover and kept walking.
"Hey, Erica," he called, his voice unusually friendly. He sounded relieved to see her—or happy?
My complacency abruptly evaporated, and I suddenly wondered if Erica was the one he'd been wanting to ask him all along. He'd always seemed more uncomfortable around Erica than McKayla I'd thought, but maybe that was because she was really the one he liked.
"Hi, Beau," she answered.
He went on past her to his truck door. "What's up?" he asked casually. He glanced down at her for the first time, and he nearly dropped the keys in his hand. He abruptly looked nearly as nervous as Erica.
She looked down, so I no longer had a view of his face.
"Um, I was wondering if you would go to the spring dance with me?"
Silence, for a moment. I was in nearly as much suspense as Erica.
"Sorry, Erica," he said finally. "I'm not going to the dance."
Erica's eyes remained fixed on the ground, so I couldn't read his expression.
"Oh, okay," she said in a small voice.
"Because I'm going to be in Seattle," he added. "It's the only day I can go. So, you know, oh well. I hope it's fun and all."
Erica was finally able to look up from her shoes, but his face was partially obscured by the black fringe of her bangs. She was still disappointed, but she felt a little better. "Okay," she said again, with a bit of a smile this time. "Maybe next time."
"Sure," he said, smiling, but then hesitated, as if rethinking the wisdom of encouraging her.
"See ya," she said quickly, already turning. Slightly mollified by the excuse or not, she was eager to be out of there.
I was passing the front of the truck just as Erica hurried away down the walk and as I caught sight of his back—his posture tense and awkward, hand half-raised in a wave Erica had missed, I couldn't stop the soft chuckle that escaped me.
He heard it and stiffened. His eyes shot back to me, but I stared straight ahead as I passed, my mouth set in a straight line, as if I hadn't noticed him.
He turned sharply away and pulled the door of his truck open with more force than necessary, as if he were angry with it, then slammed it behind him.
I could hear Taylor's frantic thoughts as she raced, desperate to catch him before he left. Taylor was not nearly so nervous as the other two—she had never had a problem asking a boy out in her life. She would have asked long before now, had she not thought it more fair to let McKayla try first. When it came to guys, Taylor had a strange code she lived by—she believed in solidarity among girls, up to a point.
Amused by the thought of this particular encounter, I was determined that Taylor have her chance, and I strode quickly toward the Volvo.
I didn't think I had much to worry about where Taylor was concerned. Since the accident, it seemed Beau found her repeated apologies a little exasperating, and even if Taylor was oblivious to it, he seemed a little put out. From what I could tell, he tended to avoid her when he could.
Then again, maybe he avoided her because she made him nervous. What if she was the one after all? Could she be his type?
As I quickly slipped into the Volvo, my hand hesitated on the gearshift.
I remembered again what Eleanor had thought of me—I looked hopeful. But what was I hoping for? That I could compete with these normal, human girls? That I could win him over, get him to choose me?
Could I really be entertaining thoughts so ridiculous? Eleanor was right, I was crazed. Delusional.
I should let him go. Escape. Let the situation with Taylor play out however it would naturally.
But my will was inexcusably weak today, and I knew if she didn't ask him now, she might find a way to contact him later at a time when I would have no way of knowing the outcome. If Taylor was the one, I had to know.
I slipped my car out into the narrow lane, blocking the exit.
Eleanor and the others were all together now, and they were slowly making their way across the lot toward me. Eleanor had informed them of how I was acting, and now they were watching me, trying to figure out what on earth I was up to.
I watched him in my rearview mirror. He raised his eyebrows slightly when he saw what I was doing, then looked away, toward the other side of the lot, where he saw my family's slow approach.
He seemed to sigh, then settled in to wait, deliberately not looking in the direction of my car. Still annoyed about our confrontation in the classroom, probably.
Taylor, delighted at my inexplicable rudeness, made it to her car and pulled up right behind Beau. She waved wildly, trying to get this attention, but his eyes dipped toward the dashboard and he didn't seem to notice.
Taylor waited a second. Then, deciding to seize the moment, got out of her car and sauntered up to the passenger side window of his truck. She rapped on the glass.
He jerked slightly, then turned and saw her. He stared for a second in confusion, then fumbled with the manual crank for the passenger window. He got it down about partway.
"Sorry, Taylor, I can't move," he said, obviously trying to sound apologetic, though I heard a trace of annoyance Taylor didn't pick up on. "I'm pinned in." He gestured vaguely in the direction of my car without looking at it.
"Oh, I know," she said cheerfully. "I just wanted to ask you something while we're trapped here."
The look of horror that flitted across his face made me pretty sure he knew where this was going, and I grinned as I leaned over the steering wheel. I was glad I didn't miss this.
"Will you go to the spring dance with me?" she asked.
"I'm not going to be in town, Taylor," he said, unable to keep his impatience from his voice.
"Yeah, McKayla told me that," she said.
"Then, why—"
She shrugged. "I was hoping you were just letting her down easy."
"Sorry, Taylor," he said, sounding distinctly peeved now. "I'm not going to the dance."
Taylor nodded, accepting the excuse. "That's cool," she said. "We still have prom."
His mouth fell open, and the look on his face was priceless. But before he could answer, she had already sauntered back to her car.
I watched him in my rearview mirror. Patches of red were blooming across his face, though from anger or embarrassment it was hard to tell.
I laughed, clutching the steering wheel as though I needed it to keep myself sitting upright.
I felt giddy. It seemed clear now—he didn't have any interest in these girls. I still couldn't be entirely sure on the McKayla situation with Jeremy's involvement, but my gut told me he legitimately wanted to avoid the dance, and if Jeremy liked McKayla, he was eager she pay attention to him so he wouldn't have to hurt her feelings.
I was giddy for another reason, too. Giddy because I'd looked at him again today, spoken to him, and he'd looked at me, and the long drought of ignoring and being ignored was over. Giddy because there was hope again... Hope for what, I still wasn't sure.
My family had reached the car now and were sliding inside. They all stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
He saw them getting in too, and as he watched, his eyes briefly met mine in the rearview mirror. Seeing my laughter, he scowled fiercely and revved the engine threateningly.
"Wow," Archie said, glancing back. "He looks kind of peeved. What did you do to him?"
Royal's arms were folded across his chest, and he glowered at me from the back seat. Way to go, genius. That's just what we need.
I laughed again, too delighted to be irked at his tone.
I pulled away quickly, before he could make up his mind to really mess up my paint job, and soon we were off down the road.
No one spoke to me on the ride back. Every now and again I would giggle to myself, and a few of my passengers would glance at each other, wondering if I had lost it.
Unfortunately, as we turned onto our drive, Archie ruined my mood.
"So do I get to talk to him now?" he asked brightly. He hadn't considered the words first, thus giving me no warning.
"No," I said sharply.
"Oh, come on," he said. "What are we waiting for now?"
I shook my head. "I haven't decided anything."
He snorted. In his head, the two opposing destinies were crystal clear again.
My high was gone now. "What's the point?" I muttered. "Why do you want to get to know him if I'm just going to kill him anyway?"
Archie hesitated. He didn't answer.
We were there, and I brought the car to a screeching halt inside the garage. I didn't wait for anything else as I hurled myself out of the car. I barely caught Royal's disdainful mutter on the way out. "Have fun running."
However, instead of running to Seattle, I went to the edge of the mountain to go hunting. If I was going to be out, I might as well be doing something useful, and I couldn't afford to be distracted by thirst now. I came across a small herd of elk, and I was lucky enough to find a black bear, too. I gorged myself like before. Again, I knew it would make little difference in the face of his intoxicating blood, but it made me feel a little better, a little more prepared.
I was done hunting far too soon, and knew I couldn't force down any more blood if I tried. The remaining hours of the night loomed ahead of me, and I couldn't begin to think what I was going to do with them. There was only one thing in the world I wanted at the moment, and of course I couldn't have it. There were far too many hours left until sunrise, until school tomorrow—when I would see him again.
And yet...
A completely inexcusable idea flickered at the back of my mind. I tried to dismiss it as soon as it came—but it wouldn't go away.
Before I could stop myself, I was racing back to Forks.
I just wanted to see where he was, just wanted the barest glimpse of his face. That would last me through until morning. The monster inside me eager for his blood, though still there, was unusually quiet, and I could keep a safe distance.
It was just past midnight when I reached the house—the house I had never been to, but visited a thousand times in my mind that first day when I had plotted to murder him. All was dark and still, the truck parked out against the curb, and his father's police cruiser in the driveway. There were no conscious thoughts anywhere in the neighborhood.
I remained on the edge of the forest for a moment, concealed by the shadows.
This is wrong, I thought, as I stared at the plain house, the windows dark. I shouldn't be doing this. Bad enough that I stalked him with my mind wherever he went at school, watched every thought anyone ever had about him. But now I was following him to his home, too, contemplating violating the one place he was supposed to be safe.
However, as if I were drawn by some kind of irresistible magnetic pull, I crept swiftly and silently across the open yard. I decided in a moment I wouldn't try the front door—it was probably locked, and I didn't want to leave a broken door as evidence. The last thing we needed was a scandal about a burglary at the police chief's house. I fixed instead on the upstairs window—not many people would bother to install a lock there.
It took me less than a second to scale the face of the house, and I gripped the eaves above the window, hooking a toe on the small level space between the grooves along which the window slid when it was open, and the window pane.
My eyes flickered to the dark room inside—and my breath stopped.
It was his room. I could see his bed, and he was there, lying on his side, his back to me. He seemed to be having a restless, fitful sleep. He'd shoved the covers off onto the floor, and the sheets were twisted up around his legs. As I watched, he twitched and jerked, clutching at the material of his pillowcase, as though he were having a nightmare. Did he somehow supernaturally sense my presence? Did he sense the danger so close by?
My conscience burned at me again. This wasn't right. I shouldn't be here, doing this. I didn't have the right to intrude on his personal space without permission, to stalk him wherever he went—I remembered the way he grimaced and sighed at the way Taylor followed him around after the accident. And that had only been at school. What would he think of me now, shamelessly invading the place that should have been a sanctuary?
I relaxed my fingers, preparing to let myself fall back to earth, and slink back into the dark, dank woods where I belonged. But as he jerked again and turned restlessly onto his other side, facing me, I allowed myself one long look at his face.
His brow was furrowed. He looked uncomfortable, upset. He drew in a heavy breath, as though his lungs couldn't get enough air, and his mouth opened.
"Sure, Mom," he grunted, the words slurring together.
I paused, my fingers still clinging to the eaves.
Apparently, he talked in his sleep.
A silent, ferocious battle went on in my head for a minute. Wrong! my conscience screamed at me. The word continued to repeat itself like a chant in my mind, even as I slowly, cautiously reached down with my free hand and tried the window.
It was not locked, though it was stuck in place from long disuse. I pushed on it, then froze as it creaked against the metal frame.
However, he did not react. Holding my breath, I pushed on it again, slowly, wincing at every small creak and groan. I would have to bring some oil along to lubricate the sliders next time...
Wrong! my conscience insisted severely. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I knew what I was doing was completely wrong, in every sense of the word. Unethical. But the lure of his unprotected, unconsciously spoken thoughts was too strong to resist, at least right now, when clearly my willpower was so weak.
I slipped down through the half-opened window, landing with perfect silence on the wooden floor.
The room was small and remarkably well kept. There were no clothes laying about—even the laundry hamper in the corner only had a few articles in it. The only things out were the few books he had stacked next to the bed, the spines facing away from me, and CDs stacked beside an inexpensive CD player. There was an antiquated computer sitting on the desk, which looked as though it was used only rarely. A pair of sneakers had been set neatly by the bed.
I was tempted to go look at the books and CDs, just to see what he was interested in, but I didn't think it wasn't a good idea to go that close. I noticed a rocking chair in the corner, and I went to sit in it, on the far side of the room.
I leaned my head against my hand, gazing across the dark room at his face. His mouth was slightly open as he breathed through it, but he didn't speak again. Maybe his dream had ended.
I stared at him unabashedly, my raging conscience receding for the moment, as I took in every detail. His ragged T-shirt and sweat pants, his tousled dark hair, half smashed against the pillow. Such a beautiful face, a gentle face.
As I gazed at him, I felt the future twist and flicker in my mind. Vague shadows of possibility.
If I followed one of Archie's options, I would wreak havoc on his life. Destroy him, one way or another. The thought broke me inside—it was unbearable. But obviously I couldn't keep away from him, not as long as I was here. What if I left, then? The others surely couldn't argue there was any danger now. They had to know he could be trusted, that he would keep his word.
But it didn't seem possible. I couldn't imagine leaving for one day, let alone staying away for a year, a year and a half. Staying away from him the rest of his life.
But how could I compete with the others anyway? Those normal, human girls. I was a monster straight out of a nightmare, and if he ever knew it, he would run from me, screaming. And why shouldn't he? How close had I come to murdering an entire class full of children just so I could drink his blood? How close had I come to following him home, murdering him in his own kitchen? I was the villain, the monster from a horror film, and he was the would-be victim. If he had the slightest idea what I was, my all-consuming obsession with him, that I stalked him to his house and now watched him as he slept, he would be terrified. He would probably leave Forks and never come back.
I bent my head, burying my face in my hands. There was no denying it anymore—I wasn't merely in danger of falling in love.
But I knew what I had to do. I had to do the right thing—back away, let him live his life, the life he deserved. Someday, he would meet a girl, even if she wasn't any of the girls he knew now. And he would want to talk to her, open up to her, and be thrilled if she wanted to do something with him, whether that was a dance or going to a movie or just walking together in the evening twilight. And I couldn't let myself hunt her down or run her off, because he deserved to have whoever he chose. He deserved to have a life of love and happiness.
I wasn't breathing. I hadn't been since I entered this small room. As I bent, my lungs ached, and my dead, frozen heart felt like it would break.
"Edythe?"
I froze. My eyes flashed up, horrified. The idea of being caught here was almost too ghastly to consider.
However, when my panicked gaze came to rest on his face, his eyes were still closed. His brow was furrowed, and he rolled back onto his side.
"Edythe," he sighed.
I sat, frozen, trying to make sense of it. Was he dreaming—dreaming of me?
I sat where I was, listening hard, but he settled back, and said no more.
I didn't move. My mind was a blank. Though of course my heart was still as it always was, I could imagine it pounding in my cold chest, beating in my ears, drowning out everything else. The sound of his voice kept repeating itself in my mind—the way he said my name. Not fearful, not like he was having a nightmare.
Like it was a beautiful word. Like it came out of a wonderful, magical place.
Something was spreading through me. Slowly—but as inexorable and impossible to stop as a lava flow. An emotion that seemed beyond words. I felt warm—down to the very tips of my fingers, to the deepest depths of my frozen soul.
Life as a vampire was eternal midnight. I had accepted that. Time stood still for me—the moment my mortality ended, I became something more like stone than flesh, unyielding, unchangeable, my body and even my personality forever frozen at the age of seventeen. I had emerged from the change in a place of eternal dark and cold, and I had accepted that was where I would always be.
But I had seen one thing that could move even solid stone—hot enough it melted even the hardest rock, letting it solidify into something entirely new.
Love. Like Carine's love for Earnest, Royal's love for Eleanor. It was a permanent change, irreversible—I could feel the sun rising on my midnight, the warmth seeping deep into my frozen limbs, settling into every part of my frozen heart and mind.
He had ceased his restless shifting, and now he lay silently on his side, facing me, his breath coming deeply and evenly.
I gazed on his face again, but it was different from what it had been before. My turbulent mind felt more peaceful than it had in months. Peaceful, because all my uncertainty was gone. I felt—strong. Not strong enough to leave, not yet. Perhaps that would still be my ultimate goal in the end, but for now I felt confident in myself—confident there was no longer any danger I would give in to the monster inside me, the monster that yearned for the taste of his blood. If I killed him now, it would only be a horrible accident.
Because he was all that mattered—he was the sun in the midst of deepest night, and all that mattered was that he was happy.
I remembered Archie's other vision—the one where he became one of us. The vision had confused me—how had it happened? But it seemed only too obvious now. If I so feared to see him broken, that I might break him, I might be driven to the unforgivable selfishness of asking Carine to make him unbreakable for me. Ask her to take his life and soul so that I could keep him forever.
I still couldn't accept that future. Even less so now, my feelings being what they were. I'd rather my own existence end, than condemn him to eternal night with me, put an end to his human life. His happiness was everything, and for him to sacrifice anything, lose anything, was intolerable.
But there was one more choice, growing in my mind, solidifying. Before, I knew I could never have been strong enough. But now, I was stronger. So much stronger.
I knew if I were around him, it would only be too easy to kill him by accident. All it would take was one mistake, one moment when I wasn't paying enough attention. So if I was going to do this, I would have to be inordinately careful—I would have to control my every breath, my every movement. I would have to be consciously aware, my guard up all the time. I could never make a single mistake.
Could I do that? If I somehow, inconceivably, was the one to win him over, if he chose me to be the one to make him happy... could I help him find happiness without taking away his life? Let him live it out as a human, and be with him, even as what I was?
I closed my eyes. Then, slowly, deliberately, I drew in a long breath through my nose.
The scent seared my throat like a wildfire, assaulting me, intoxicating me. It seemed to envelop me like a heavy cloud of noxious fumes, muddling my thoughts. His scent was everywhere, thick in the air, layered on every surface. I breathed again and my lungs burned.
But I held on tightly to myself—the temptation was still there as ever, but the monster that wanted to succumb to the temptation was nowhere to be found.
I breathed again, and again, savoring the agony—because being able to endure this pain meant I had a chance at something I wanted a thousand times more than blood.
Outside, the sun rose behind the eastern clouds, as I continued to breathe and burn. A song seemed to be playing at the back of my mind—soft, light notes I didn't recognize. They served as a backdrop, a theme, as I began outlining the opening moves of my campaign. School—that was where it would begin. And I'd show all my numerous rivals how hard I intended to fight.
I breathed deeply in and out.
I didn't arrive home until after the others had already left for school.
Earnest was in the living room as I came inside, and he immediately saw the change in my face, the feverish light in my eyes.
He watched me with mingled worry and relief. He knew he'd never seen such a look on my face before, but he was glad my long bout of depression seemed to be over.
I didn't give him the chance to ask any questions as I rushed up to my room to change into fresh clothes, then hurried to start off for school.
They had already taken my Volvo, and even though I could have simply borrowed one of my siblings' cars, that would probably attract attention unnecessarily. Besides—I wanted to run.
I arrived at school barely a few seconds after they did, my eyes bright, feeling exhilarated. There was a light drizzle falling now, and the droplets settled in my hair. I waited in the thick woods that bordered the pavement for a moment. None of my siblings turned, though Archie probably knew I was there. I held back until no one was looking in this direction, then emerged from the trees, casually strolling onto the parking lot as if I had been there all along.
I heard the distinctive coarse rumbling of his old truck not a moment later, and I stopped behind a Suburban, so I could watch without danger of being seen.
I expected him to park in his usual place, a few spots down from where I usually parked the Volvo, but he kept on going, until he reached the far end of the parking lot, possibly the most inconvenient place for getting to his first class.
I smiled a little. It had become almost a comfort now—that familiar inexplicable behavior.
I approached cautiously, trying to figure out what excuse I could use to start a conversation. I felt suddenly, unaccountably nervous. Last night, when I had been listening to him say my name in his sleep, the idea of moving his heart toward me, winning his affection above the others, had seemed more than doable. Here in broad daylight, where it seemed just as likely he had been having a dream about Biology class as something deep or meaningful, I didn't even know where to begin. Especially when half of me was still convinced it would be far better for him if he turned away any attention I showed him as thoroughly as he did McKayla.
Now that I thought about it, the best way to describe the way he acted when girls seemed as though they liked him was uncomfortable. That fit with his generally humble disposition. The attention wasn't a source of some kind of ego-trip, like it probably would have been for Jeremy. It seemed to make him edgy, the possibility of hurting anyone's feelings. I was even more convinced than before that he had come up with the Seattle trip purely to make it easier on the girls he turned down.
I decided it was best not to come on too strong at first. Declaring undying, eternal love and devotion did not seem wise at this stage. Better to keep it subtle—just stick to regular conversation for now.
Regular conversation—I was almost in ecstasy at the prospect.
As I was still figuring out what to say, I passed by the truck at the moment he was climbing out. As he did, he fumbled the key and it fell into a deep puddle. I saw my chance and seized it.
He stood there a moment, glaring down at where it had fallen, making me think he was not having a particularly good day. Then he sighed and bent.
However, I was already there, and I picked it out easily before he had to get his hand wet.
He jerked as though he had been electrocuted, his head coming up so fast it nearly collided with mine.
"How do you do that?" he demanded.
I leaned against the side of his truck casually, as if I had been there all along. "Do what?" I asked innocently as I offered him the key. He held his hand out and I let it fall into his palm.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, taking in his scent, and taking a kind of masochistic delight in the way it scorched down my throat and into my lungs.
"Appear out of thin air?" He raised an eyebrow at me.
"Beau, it's not my fault if you are exceptionally unobservant," I said. I was suddenly giddy again, and I had to fight a smile at the irony of the statement—he was probably the most observant human I had ever met.
However, I felt a flicker of worry. I wondered if he would notice how my voice seemed to fold around his name, how it sent a charge of wondrous delight through my system as it passed my lips.
Subtle, I reminded myself.
He stared back at me. Something in his expression changed. His eyebrows were tense, and a look flared in his eyes I couldn't interpret. Anger? Disgust?
Before I could say anything, the look faded. His heart rate sped up, and his eyes dropped.
What was he thinking? It was almost physically painful not to know. Just annoyance? Or was this response out of some instinctual fear?
At last he finally looked up, but his eyes didn't return to mine. Rather, he stared past me toward the school.
"Why the traffic jam last night?" he asked suddenly, unexpectedly. "I thought you were pretending I don't exist."
I made a split-second decision and answered honestly—maybe it revealed too much, but as he had already seen me stop a van with my bare hands, I didn't see what harm it could possibly do.
"Ah," I said. "That was for Taylor's sake. She was figuratively dying for her chance at you." I smiled conspiratorially as though the two of us were in on a joke.
He stared at me in open-mouthed disbelief. "What?" he sputtered.
"And I'm not pretending you don't exist," I added. Far from it.
He stared at me, and again, that look came into his eyes. Frustration, anger—as if there was something he desperately wanted to escape, but couldn't. Like a trapped animal.
"I don't know what you want from me," he said, his eyes boring into mine. Always too observant. Always too quick to see what I didn't want him to see.
My amusement vanished and I was instantly sober. "Nothing," I said, maybe too quickly.
It was like he was already on alert—already knowing instinctively that I was plotting to derail his existence, to change the course of his life. Because even if he didn't become one of us as Archie's vision predicted, choosing me would still mean a significant change. I would never be able to give him a completely normal, full life. I would always have to be on my guard, careful, keeping some distance between us so I didn't hurt him by accident. He would always have to live somewhere overcast and cloudy, rather than in the warmth and sunlight he preferred, wouldn't be able to share normal things like going out to eat together. I wouldn't even be able to give him children.
It would be better for him if he didn't choose me. If he turned me as completely away as he had the others.
But even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn't stop trying all the same.
"Then you probably should have let the van take me out," he answered coolly. "Easier that way."
Anger pulsed through me, as it had the previous day. When I spoke, my voice was hard. "Beau, you are utterly absurd."
Splotches of color stained his face. Wordlessly, he stalked straight past me.
I was instantly penitent. "Wait," I pleaded, turning toward him.
He ignored me and kept on going, his shoulders stiff.
I had to walk fast to catch up, faster than I normally would have walked around humans.
"I'm sorry, that was rude," I said in a rush, trying not to let my desperation show through. I added, "I'm not saying it wasn't true, but it was rude to say it out loud."
"Why won't you leave me alone?" he asked, glaring straight ahead.
The question hurt. It wasn't even my first day of my campaign, and already he was more desperate to be rid of me than any of the other girls constantly fighting for his attention. Leaving him alone was what I should do—but I wouldn't. Because there was only one thing in this world I wanted and the chance to fight for it was worth weathering any and all annoyance and rejection.
An idea suddenly occurred to me.
Deciding to take a leaf out of Taylor's book and act oblivious, I said, almost cheerful, "I wanted to ask you something, but you sidetracked me."
He sighed and slowed down. Apparently he couldn't keep up being uncivil for long, no matter how he might feel. However, he eyed me warily. "Fine," he muttered, looking as if he wasn't sure if he was going to regret this. "What do you want?"
"I was wondering if, a week from Saturday—you know, the day of the spring dance—"
He abruptly stopped walking, and spun to face me, appalled. "Is this funny to you?"
I paused beside him, staring up at his furious expression. Funny, how uncomfortable he got around the other girls, worried he was going to hurt their feelings. He tried hard to be nice. But me—it was like he didn't regard me as a normal girl, with feelings. Or maybe, he simply disliked me so much he just didn't care what my feelings were.
I remembered how, at the beginning, I'd thought of him as my enemy. It seemed silly to think of now. But maybe he had picked up the cue more than I'd guessed. I was desperate to know what he thought of me—but as he stood here, staring down at me with eyes full of loathing and disgust, maybe it was better I didn't.
However, as I gazed up into his face, I realized I wasn't afraid of his dislike. Or at least, it wasn't enough to deter me. I wasn't afraid to do everything I could to try to overcome it.
I smiled. "Will you please allow me to finish?" I asked pleasantly.
He stared down at me for a second. I saw a conflict in his eyes.
However, he didn't move, so I continued, "I heard that you were going to Seattle that day, and I wondered if you wanted a ride."
I knew he wouldn't agree to go to the dance—going to a dance with a girl probably made him feel like it opened him up to future obligation. And even if, remote as the possibility was, I was the one he wanted to go with... I would imagine after spreading his excuse of Seattle so far he might feel wrong about it, after turning so many others down. I wouldn't have wanted to put him in that kind of bind, just to prove he liked me more than the others.
This way carried less of a threat of romantic entanglement, but, if he willingly agreed to spend the time with me, it felt like that would still be a kind of victory.
He gaped at me. "Huh?" His brow creased with confusion.
"Do you want a ride to Seattle?" I repeated. My mind flitted ahead, to the thought of being alone with him in the small, enclosed space of a car for hours. My throat was already burning—but in an odd, perverse kind of way, I could already feel myself looking forward to it. It would be perfect practice. If I got what I wanted, the burn—like it was burning now—was going to be my ever-present companion.
If I got to spend the time with him, it seemed like a fair trade.
"With who?" he said uncertainly.
"Myself, obviously."
He stared at me like I was from an alien planet. "Why?"
"Well," I said, making this up as I went along, "I was planning to go to Seattle in the next few weeks, and to be honest, I'm not sure if your truck can make it." I figured that would make him more comfortable, if he didn't think my plans were entirely for him.
His eyes flashed again, and he turned away from me. He started walking again. He added in a low mutter as he turned, "Make fun of me all you want, but leave the truck out of it."
I followed him again. I knew I was being as relentless and pushy as Taylor, but I couldn't help it, especially as he hadn't actually said no.
"Why would you think I'm making fun of you?" I asked. "The invitation is genuine." I wondered if that sounded too formal—like I was trying to make some kind of business deal.
"My truck is great, thanks," he said shortly. He kept on walking.
By this point I had definitely long surpassed Taylor on pushiness, but as it began to occur to me he might really turn me down, desperation began to seep down into my lungs.
"Can your truck make it to Seattle on one tank of gas?" I pressed, grasping at anything.
"I don't see how that's your problem," he grumbled.
I was determined I wasn't going to stop until he gave me a definite no. I'd make him say it straight to my face. I noticed his heart rate had accelerated a little, and his breath was coming faster. He seemed more nervous than angry now as I backed him further into a corner.
"The wasting of finite resources is everyone's problem," I answered loftily.
He sighed. "Seriously, Edythe, I can't keep up with you. I thought you didn't want to be my friend."
In spite of his aggravated tone, a thrill shot through me when he said my name. I thought again of last night, and I had to concentrate to keep my breathing from accelerating. I felt dizzy again, from the wonder of the emotions pulsing through me.
"I said it would be better if we weren't friends," I said quietly, "not that I didn't want to be."
He had stopped walking again, and he looked at me, annoyance back in place. "Oh, wow, great, so that's all cleared up."
His eyes met mine, and his mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing more. I wondered what he saw, as he gazed into my eyes. I noticed his steady heartbeat turn irregular again—Did he guess what was really going through my mind? What all these roundabout games really portended—what, in the end, I wanted from him? Did the thought terrify him? Or was it simply that he was disgusted with the way, unlike McKayla, Erica, and Taylor, I disguised my real intentions behind jokes and light conversation?
"It would be more... prudent for you not to be my friend," I said slowly, honestly. I stared back into his eyes. They were wide, sky blue, and filled with so many secrets. I had to work to keep my breathing even.
I said softly, "But I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Beau."
My voice was low, too intense, betraying the depth of my emotion. I wasn't sure whether I meant to sound so serious—wasn't I trying to be subtle? Wasn't I trying to keep from scaring him out of his wits? Or did I think he would respect me more if I put my fragile, frozen heart on the line, without games, without holding back?
He didn't look away, but held my gaze. His expression was impossible to read, but his breathing had stopped.
"Will you accept a ride with me to Seattle?" I asked. My voice was no longer light or teasing.
It was more difficult than I expected, asking such a serious question. Because I knew he would have to give me a serious answer—and I didn't know what I would do if he said no.
He paused for a long moment, and it seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Then, at last, he nodded once.
Relief washed through me, and I was suddenly buoyant. My mouth split into a brilliant smile—and then it faded just as quickly.
It was like being torn in two. He had agreed to come with me, just as I fervently hoped he would. But would my triumph now mean his downfall? Would I eventually drive him to despair?
"You really should stay away from me," I said, as if saying that would somehow alleviate my conscience later. And then, because I knew deep down I selfishly didn't truly want that, I added, "I'll see you in class."
With that, I turned and left, as quickly as I had come, eager to be somewhere I might think clearly again.
A/N: Yeah, super long chapter this time. And it's not even the longest chapter. (Actually, I don't think it's even the second-longest chapter.)
On the portrayal of McKayla and the other rivals—I decided to go for a bit more favorable view than Mike got in Midnight Sun. It felt like McKayla and the other girls were portrayed in a slightly more positive light in Life and Death, maybe partly because the situation was different, with it being perfectly appropriate for them to be asking Beau to the dance. (Unlike in Twilight, where you've got Mike, Eric, and Tyler all essentially asking Bella to a girl's choice dance.) So it felt like it would make sense for McKayla's thoughts to come across a little differently.
However, a little more than that, I was never really comfortable with Mike's portrayal in Midnight Sun. In spite of the kind of uneasy relationship Bella has with him and those moments he proves not to have the most stellar character (switching to Jessica so quickly, seeming to ask Bella out when Edward's gone for his weekend trips when he knows they're already boyfriend-girlfriend, etc.), he was a reasonably good friend to her throughout the books. It seemed a little distasteful to me that he had to be made out to be this complete loser in Midnight Sun, seemingly just for the purpose of creating this contrast to make Edward's superiority clear.
I really think there are ways to make characters who aren't the most upstanding still feel nuanced and real, just having some good qualities as well as bad. (Granted, in Midnight Sun we are seeing Mike through Edward's view, which we can imagine might be colored by jealousy, but judging from the thoughts Edward hears from Mike, it doesn't feel like we're supposed to see his judgment as clouded or unfair.)
Well, that's it for now. If you have a moment, let me know what you thought this chapter, and as always, I'll be working on the next one! See you next time!
Posted 7/30/18