I guess we could call this a bonus chapter? Never have I written a chapter so quickly; but this one just flowed. I suppose it's a Mother's Day gift – particularly apropos since Mama Whitlock is in Seattle for a visit.

Thank you for all the love, my darlings; and for your patience with me as I lead them through this journey.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. What I do possess is a pretty sweet gig as a wife, mama and friend, and I'm grateful for all of it. Happy Mother's Day. xoxo

-o-

Jasper

My mother arrives in Seattle early Sunday afternoon. Despite my protests, she maintains that I don't need to pick her up at the airport, insisting that she has arranged for a car service to bring her to my apartment. She says she wants me to stay home and relax. After sleeping hard, though, for most of Saturday and all of Saturday night, rest is the last thing I need. I decide to go out in the morning and pick up some groceries; knowing she'll worry about me eating properly if she doesn't see all the right things there. Memories of last Sunday morning with Edward try to force their way into my consciousness; but with Herculean effort, I manage to suppress them, and I get through the grocery store without a tear shed.

At around 2 pm my mother rings the security intercom at the front door of the building, and I press the button to let her in. I open my door and step into the hall, waiting for the doors to slide open. I am more comforted than I could have realized, by her coming here to be with me; and I'm anxious to see her. The elevator bell chimes, the door slides open, and out steps Mama.

My mother – Anneliese Whitlock. If angels existed, certainly she would be one of them. She is reasonably tall, about 5'8", with softly-curling blonde hair; a smile that is gentle despite its broad expanse; and dimples, which I inherited from her. Rosie looks so much like her, minus the dimples; but Mama is, as my dad says, "the original and still the best." My dad must have told me a hundred times when I was growing up, that my mother's name means "grace"; and though when I was young I had no idea what grace meant, it is abundantly clear, now, how aptly named she is.

As soon as I see her standing there in the hall outside the elevator, I run to her. She drops her bags, opening her arms wide; and despite her being seven inches shorter than me, she manages to envelop me in an encompassing hug.

"Jasper," she murmurs softly as she rubs my back.

I am determined – bound and determined – not to cry, and so far today I've kept it in check. I'm tired of crying. I feel as though I never stopped yesterday; my eyes were even wet when I would wake up to use the washroom or have something to eat – it was as though I was waking up in the middle of a sob. So today, with massive effort, I have managed to fight them back.

Now, with my mother hugging me and telling me how sorry she is, it's definitely difficult to keep it under control. One tear does manage to escape, and it trickles down my cheek. I release her, saying, "Let me take your bags, Mama." I grasp them and carry them into my apartment and to the den, where she'll be staying.

Inside, she looks around, inspecting the interior of my apartment. "It's a beautiful space, Jasper; and you've done a lovely job," she says proudly. "It looks like you've been living here for months, instead of two weeks!"

"Thanks," I smile weakly as I hang up her coat in the front hall closet. "Are you hungry? I haven't had lunch yet."

"Nor I, dear," she replies. "Let's make some sandwiches, and we'll have a cup of tea and a chat."

Several moments later, the tea is brewing and our cucumber-and-cream cheese sandwiches are cut in thirds, the way Mama always cuts them. We sit at my table, catching up on what she and Dad have been up to the past few months, since the last time I visited Austin. Mama didn't work outside the home while Rosie and I were kids; and since we're both long grown up and moved out, she has thrown her time and energy into volunteer work. She has been volunteering with the Austin Resource Center for the Homeless since it opened in 2004; and her eyes sparkle as she talks about how rewarding it has been for her.

I pour our tea and for a moment we sip it in silence. Finally, she broaches the question she's clearly wanted to ask since Rosie told her about this, yesterday morning.

"Jasper, how did this happen? How did you get so involved with this boy in such a short period of time?"

I sigh deeply. It's a fair question, considering I've asked it of myself more than once in the past 24 hours. "It was just...intense, Mama."

"But you were with Jacob for three years, and lived together for two; maybe I'm wrong, dear – I don't mean to minimize what you had with Jacob – but you seem so much more upset now than when you and he broke up." She's right, of course. She is a very intuitive woman, and she knows her children well.

But she doesn't know everything. "I broke up with Jacob," I admit. "It was my decision."

"Jasper!" she exclaims, looking surprised and hurt. "Why on earth didn't you ever tell us that?"

"I don't know," I shrug. "I guess...I guess I felt like I didn't have a really good reason for breaking up with him. I mean, everything was good enough, I suppose. He loved me. He was stable, and trustworthy. Everybody loved him." Mama nods – she and Dad had liked him very much. He was kind and pleasant, and very good to me; and as long as they thought I was happy, he was aces in their book. "I was happy for the first while. But eventually I felt like I was settling for someone who just wasn't the one for me." I wince, remembering the conversation with Jacob when I ended it. He was completely blindsided, thinking everything was just fine. I sigh at the memory.

"Oh, my dear," Mama says, reaching out to take my hand. "I had no idea you felt that way. You know Dad and I just want you to be happy. We never wanted either you or Rosie to just settle for anyone. Your happiness is an excellent reason, Jasper." I just nod, and after a few more silent moments, she continues, "So, what was different about Edward? Did you think he was the one?"

"I did," I nod, staring into my cup of tea. "When we were together, Mama, I felt whole, alive. I thought that if we had a chance to work out the issues, things could be so right. He could have been...forever."

"So in hindsight, would you have done anything differently, if you could change it?" I know what she's doing. My analytical mind comes from my mother, and she's trying to help prompt me through the mental steps I need to take, to analyze it objectively.

I think about her question for a few moments. "Sometimes I think I should have been completely open with him about his dad as soon as I found out. Other times, I feel certain that if he'd known earlier, he just would have ended it that much sooner. Even if I'd told him right away and he didn't bolt, how long could we have sustained that? It would have been disingenuous not to tell Carlisle the truth."

"Carlisle is his father?" Mama clarifies, and I nod. "Is his wife named Esme?" Another nod. "I remember her. Pretty woman; reddish brown hair. We volunteered together at one of the charity yard sales the school sponsored, the year before we left Seattle. Hmmm," she muses. "Such a shame they didn't accept him when he came out. But I guess you never know how people will react until it happens in their family."

"Wait, Mama," I have to interject. Clearly Rosie didn't share the nuances of the situation with her, in classic Rosalie "black and white" fashion. "I don't know if that's the case," and I fill in the missing pieces of my conversation with Carlisle, when he had shown nothing but pleasant acceptance of my sexuality.

"Puzzling indeed," she concedes once she's fully apprised. "I hate to have to suggest this, but..." She hesitates.

"Say what you're thinking, Mama," I encourage.

"Well, dear, maybe the fault doesn't lie wholly with the Cullens," she suggests. "It sounds to me as though Edward is..." Here again she stops, hesitant.

"Broken," I glumly finish her sentence.

"Well...I hate to think anyone is completely broken, my darling," she says sadly. "But, badly damaged seems appropriate."

"Yeah," I whisper, fearing my voice will break if I speak it aloud.

There seems to be nothing else to say. She reaches out and takes covers my hand with hers, gently patting it. We sit in silence for several moments, each lost in our own thoughts.

"I don't remember Edward," she eventually murmurs. "I can't picture him."

"Oh," I answer. "Wait here, I'll be back in a sec." I slip into my bedroom and collect the three photo frames, then return to the table, placing them in front of her.

"Wow," she muses as she examines them closely. "Who took these?"

"He did," I reply. "He's a photographer."

"Wait a minute," she says, and this time she's the one to get up from the table. She retrieves a magazine from her carry-on bag and brings it back to the table. Sitting, she flips through it to the "Contributing Artists" page. She points to one of the entries and says, "This Edward Cullen?"

I peer at the monthly magazine. There's no photo of Edward, but the description is clear enough. "The same," I confirm, flipping to the article containing his photography. It's the article on the San Francisco Children's NICU, and the photo on the title page is a 26-week pre-term baby surrounded by tubes, wires and monitors. My heart wrenches, not only at the sight of such a small person fighting a huge battle; but at the thought of Edward, tears in his eyes, photographing this tiny human.

Mama leans close to examine the magazine with me, then returns her gaze to the photos of Edward and me. "He does lovely work," she says thoughtfully.

"He's brilliant," I reply, before my voice is cut off by the strangling sob that escapes from my chest. I lay my head on my arms on the table and surrender to the tears I've been fighting all day.

I feel Mama's arm slide across my shoulders, and her other hand gently caresses my hair. "It's okay, my darling," she murmurs gently. "Let it out."

And I sob, letting the heartbreak rip through me again; but the sharp edge seems blunted slightly by the warm comfort of my mother's gentle presence. She allows me to grieve, silently maintaining a vigil with me until my sobs quiet.

-o-

The rest of the day we spend in quiet communion together. She insists I lie down while she makes dinner. I relent, assuming I won't sleep; but to my surprise, I find her gently waking me up an hour later to tell me dinner's ready.

I go to bed early, not looking forward to having to return to work tomorrow. Again I wake up and find myself surprised by how deeply I've slept. The emotional havoc has taken more of a physical toll than I realized, I guess.

I kiss Mama goodbye for the day, encouraging her to give her friends a call today; and make my way to work.

Kathleen is at her desk when I arrive. She looks up, clearly expectant; and when I greet her with a wan, "Good morning," her face becomes a bit wary.

"Good morning, Jasper," she responds cautiously. "How was your weekend?"

Repressing a sigh, I decide to just go for complete honesty and get it out of the way. "It was pretty rotten," I reply. "The guy I was seeing...I'm not seeing him any longer."

"Oh my god," she gasps, and she jumps up from her desk to wrap me in a warm, spontaneous hug, which I return. When I pull back to look at her, her eyes are actually brimming with tears, and my heart is warmed at her empathetic response. "You were so happy last week about how things were going with him. Jasper, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Kathleen," I reply gratefully.

"Are you okay? Should you be here today?" she asks with concern.

"Well, honestly, I'd rather not be; but there's a lot to do, and it's not like I've earned any personal days yet," I reply.

"Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help, Jasper," she insists. "Really, anything – don't hesitate."

"My mother came up from Austin to say with me for a few days," I assure her. "She's taking good care of me."

"Thank goodness for moms," she avers.

I nod in agreement; then, inclining my head toward my office, I sigh, "I should get at it, I guess."

"Can I get you anything? A coffee?" she asks.

"I'll let you know," I smile as best as I can.

"Okay," she replies. "I'll do what I can to fend off the non-emergencies for you today, okay?"

"Thank you," I nod, appreciative of her compassion. "And Kathleen, I want to tell you how much I'm enjoying working with you. You're a very capable assistant; but you're also a pretty great person."

"Thanks, Jasper," she beams. "And as long as we're being all warm and fuzzy, you make it easy to work for you. It's really my pleasure."

"Thanks," I smile; then turn and step into my office. Getting myself organized, I throw myself into an analysis of the budget for the paediatric inpatients department. The hours start to slip away, and before I know it, it's nearly time for lunch. Kathleen sticks her head in my office door to let me know she's on her way out, and asks if she can pick me up something. "No, thanks," I reply, "I'll get out for something soon."

"Please make sure you do," she replies kindly. "Don't hide yourself away in here all day."

Several moments later, I hear a knock on my office door. "I promise I'll get some lunch, Kathleen," I respond, not looking up.

"It's not Kathleen," a male voice replies, and I look up in surprise.

In my office door stands Carlisle Cullen. My heart jumps into my throat. Of course he's here. He probably feels he's owed an explanation for what happened Friday night, and for my lack of candor when we met last week. I'm not sure I have it in me to explain it all today. And damn it, I honestly don't know if I want to. Haven't I been put through the wringer enough by the Cullen family in the last few days?

I stand, attempting to summon Jazz with no advance warning. "Carlisle," I reply calmly. Perhaps a bit more coldly than is strictly necessary; but it's a self-preservation instinct.

He looks uncomfortable, but determined; as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, but has no choice. "Jasper," he begins, "I debated coming to see you today. You don't owe me anything, and I'm sure I have no real right to ask you. But I hope you can understand how upset Esme and I were on Friday night, after seeing Edward; and realizing that you obviously know him better than you let on." He pauses, looking out the window. "And then watching him flee the restaurant without a word to either of us...you can't imagine how we felt..." His voice trembles a bit, and he breaks off, as though afraid to continue.

I wince a bit. I'm pretty sure I can imagine how they felt. I was right - they are hurting. If only I could be proud of myself for being right. "Carlisle, I don't know what to say. I agree that you deserve an explanation; but I don't think I'm the one to give it. I can say this: Edward and I...we were seeing each other briefly. He ended it on Friday night."

He looks back to me, his eyebrows knitting together. "Because of us," he says. He's not asking; he knows.

"Well, to be honest, yes; it's partly because he saw us talking, but certainly not entirely. I didn't tell him you and I worked together. I was going to...but it's a poor excuse. I wasn't honest right away. I handled it badly. When he saw us together, it was a huge shock for him."

"Well, it would be hypocritical for me to criticize you for handling a situation poorly." He strides to my window and stands, looking out it, his hands clasped behind his back. It reminds me so much of Edward's posture on Friday night, when he stood staring out the windows of his apartment. "I feel like Esme and I are the poster children for it. Did Edward tell you about when we found out he was gay?"

"No," I shake my head. "And I didn't get to the point where I was comfortable asking. He's such a private person."

He turns back to me, his eyes full of understanding. "Believe me, I know. I can only imagine what his reaction was when he found out you and I knew each other, no matter how superficially." He waits, as though he expects me to share this with him.

"Carlisle, I don't want to be disloyal to Edward by discussing him without his knowledge." I'd be doing exactly what he accused me of. "If I am going to have any chance of mending things with him, I can't go down that road – not even now, while we're apart."

He looks disappointed at my reply, and for a moment says nothing. After a moment's reflection, he concedes, "You're right. I'm sure that's the wise course, Jasper. I'm disappointed in Edward's reaction. But I hope the two of you can find a way to work it out. I think you'd be good for him, and it's evident to me that you care a great deal for him."

There's no harm in being honest on this point. "I do care. Very much. We weren't together long, but..."

"I know, son. Just let me say again, that I'm so sorry for how Edward has chosen to react to this situation."

"Thank you, Carlisle," I return, though Edward's reaction is his alone – there's nothing Carlisle can do to change that. The sentiment is very kind, though. "Would you please pass along my apologies to Mrs. Cullen? I can only imagine how she's hurting in this situation; both of you, for that matter."

"That's very generous of you to say," he smiles gently. "Do you have a supportive family, Jasper?"

"Yes, sir," I reply. "My mother flew from Austin to Seattle yesterday after she found out about all of this."

He nods. "I'm glad to hear it. Never take it for granted, son."

"No, sir," I assert. "I certainly won't."

"Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you, Jasper," he says kindly.

"Thank you, Carlisle; likewise."

He shakes my hand, and hesitates for a moment, looking as though he's deciding whether he wants to say something. Clearly deciding in favor, he murmurs, "I'm sorry we won't have the chance to get to know you better. I would have liked that." Then abruptly, he turns and leaves my office.

-o-

Edward

I go to Spin on Sunday night. The twinks, with their short attention spans, forget about my Tuesday night visit after I take a couple of them by the hands and pull them to the middle of the floor, sandwiching myself between them. I dance with several; then take one home and fuck him on my couch. He asks to stay. I kick him out.

-o-

Early Monday morning, I fly to Chicago. The flight is turbulent, and the guy beside me groans repeatedly, suffering from motion sickness. I usually fall asleep as soon as the plane takes off. This time, between the turbulence and my noisy seatmate, I'm repeatedly woken, and arrive in Chicago feeling rather irritated.

The first shoot is a night-time shoot at the Navy Pier. It's fucking freezing, and the models wrap up in blankets between shots. When the blankets come off, though, and the camera starts to click, they are transported back to a time when teenagers went to the hop in their saddle shoes and bobby socks; when high school teachers carried a ruler with them at school dances, to indicate how close was too close; when voluminous skirts and hair grease were de rigueur. I know exactly what the client wants from this shoot; and I talk the models through it, encouraging them. "Nice...beautiful, Karina...you're at an amusement park, Jamie – try to look amused...hold her hand, Stephen – perfect...great smile, Laura...let's try some dance moves, guys – good..." and it goes on. The kids do really well, getting into the spirit of the evening; and everyone has fun. The shoot goes off without a hitch; and we pack it up around 1 a.m.

-o-

Tuesday is an early morning, despite the late hours the night before; because I have a 9 a.m. shoot on the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Today's shoot is just the girls, and they're modeling the glamorous side of 1950s fashion – the sleek hair, the beautiful fabrics, the feminine details. I've worked with both Laura and Karina before, and they're complete professionals – no bullshit behavior I've so often encountered with other models. Again, we run into no major roadblocks, other than me having to almost shout at the models so they can hear me over the Chicago traffic.

After the shoot, I head back to my hotel room for a nap and some dinner. After dinner, I catch up on some emails; then I head to mosphere, on North Clark. It's my favorite Chicago gay bar, and I can be pretty well assured of picking up a hot fuck there.

The bartenders are friendly, the dancers are hot; and when the club closes, I bring one of the dancers back to my hotel and I fuck him. He asks to stay. I kick him out.

-o-

Wednesday I fly back to Seattle. No turbulence this time. No seat mate, either.

At home, I get to work on editing the photos. The girls were almost flawless; they require almost no work from me. I sigh, realizing the client will likely have their own staff airbrush the photos to make the girls look even skinnier. It's no wonder young people are growing up with such unhealthy body image these days.

I shut down my computer, frustrated. I've found myself distracted when working this week; something I'm not used to. Normally I lose myself in the work, whether it's the shoot or the post-production. This week, there's been something tugging on the edges of my consciousness when I'm immersed in it, fucking with my creative process. No, not something...someone. Damn him.

It's about 11 p.m. I take a quick shower, change, and head to Spin. As usual, I have my pick of the boys there. After dancing for a while, I choose one, take him home, and fuck him on the kitchen counter. He asks to stay.

I kick him out.

-o-

**ducks** I'm just going to talk to you from here behind the couch, so as to avoid the tomatoes and shoes that I fully expect will start to sail in my general direction. Yes, he went to Spin after all. Yes, he slept with other boys. No, he didn't freak out.

There were two things he did not do with the other boys, though...one may be obvious, the other perhaps not so much. Any guesses? You could let me know, oh, I don't know...in your review? ;)