April 8, 1996
You're not at school today. You called this morning to tell me not to pick you up. Sore throat, you said. At lunch, I take advantage of the solitude and arrange to meet Mike Newton down by the football field. My Altoids tin is empty.
"You fuck her yet?" he says when our deal is done.
"Shut up," I growl. It's not just because it's none of his damned business. I won't have guys talk about you like that.
Anyway, when—if—we do…have sex, it won't be like that. It won't be fucking. I won't say making love, because that shit's just corny and sounds like something uptight, old people do. I don't have a word for it, and I think it's because I know it'll be unlike anything I've ever experienced. Nothing I could even imagine. I've never…you've never…neither of us has ever…
I'm building it up in my head, and maybe it'll be a long time before we do it anyway, if we ever do, but I'm afraid my high expectations will jinx it, and I'll disappoint you. Just you, though. Because I'm pretty sure it will be the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Second best. The first best would be the day you said yes to me.
"Valid question, man," he shoots back. Sometimes I really hate Mike Newton. I don't think he even knows your name. He just thinks he can say whatever he wants because no one wants to cut ties with him. Newton doesn't really belong anywhere. It's probably a good place to be, and I sort of envy that.
His friend, Emmett McCarty, tells him to shut up. "She's Rose's friend, man. Don't talk about her like that." I learned recently that Rose is the blonde cheerleader you were sitting with the second time we ever talked. That's another thing I love about you. You don't buy into the whole high school social stratification thing. You're the opposite of Newton. The exception to the rules. You fit…everywhere.
"Psh," Newton scoffs. "Both of you are pussy whipped."
"Fuck off, Newton," Emmett says, shoving him in a way that could be playful or serious. Since he's a big guy, he can get away with shit like that. I like Emmett, even though he's the epitome of everything I left behind when I entered high school. He's worshipped as the starting quarterback of our school's football team and takes advantage of all the perks that come with his status. But somehow, his "status" or whatever has never gone to his head. He's still a good guy. And apparently, he knows you. I didn't realize. The fact that he just stuck up for you is what makes him cool in my book.
I give him a small smile and nod, then walk off, stuffing my new Altoids tin into the smallest pocket of my backpack.
I want to call you after school, but you probably don't feel like talking on the phone with a sore throat. Since I had no reason to prolong the trip to school, and since it's drizzly outside today, I slept in a little and drove. On my way home, I war with myself over whether or not I should stop by your house, just to check in. At the last minute, I park at the curb in front and sit there with the engine turned off.
This is stupid. There's no reason my pulse should be racing and my palms sweaty. Eventually, I blow out a deep breath and force myself out of the car. I ring the doorbell and take a couple of steps backward, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
Aaaand there in the doorway is the thing I didn't know I was nervous about. Your mom. Or at least a lady who I assume is your mom. She looks a lot like you, but her eyes are blue and a different shape than your pretty Bambi eyes. Her hair is lighter, too. She grins like she knows exactly who I am. This is not how I wanted to meet your parents.
"I'm under strict instructions not to let anyone in," she says with a wink.
"I'm—"
"I know who you are." She laughs and holds the door open wider. "Don't think I haven't peeked between the blinds to spy on you two."
"Oh, God. Mother."
The sound of your raspy voice draws my attention inside. The door opens right up into the living room, and there you are, lying back on a pile of pillows on the couch, looking small and cute and—admittedly—like you don't feel well at all.
Your mom laughs again. "Come in, Edward," she says pulling me inside the house by the elbow.
"Sorry, Mrs. Swan," I mumble, but I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
"Sorry, shmorry, and call me Renee." She shakes my hand and nudges me toward the sofa. "I'll leave you two alone. Don't let her talk too much."
Evidently, your mom's not a hoverer like mine probably would be. I'm thankful for that, and I'm beyond relieved that your dad's not home.
I step around an end table to sit on the edge of the couch, my hip touching yours.
"Don't get too close," you whisper. "Strep throat."
"I'll risk it." I grin and take your hand, kissing the backs of your fingers.
"Trust me, you don't want this."
"I'm pretty sure if I was going to get it, I'd have it by now. I seem to have this faint memory of having my tongue down your throat yesterday."
You snort and groan, then punch me lightly in the arm. I'm pretty sure you'd be blushing if you didn't already look feverish.
"Sorry," I say with a deep chuckle. I hesitate before trailing a finger down your neck. "You probably shouldn't be laughing, huh? I hate that you're sick. Do you need anything?"
"This is nice," you whisper, leaning into my touch and closing your eyes. "I really didn't want you to see me all gross and sick."
"You're still pretty to me."
"God, that's cheesy."
I shrug. "It's the truth."
"Edwarrrd," you whine.
"Whaaat?" I whine back.
You just shake your head and sigh.
"I'm gonna go, okay? Let you rest. I just wanted to check in."
"I'm sort of glad you did. Edward?"
I glance down at your hand that's resting above my knee. It looks good there. It feels good there. "Hmm?"
"I really wish I could kiss you right now."
"Yeah? Me too." My laugh is quiet as I lay a hand on your hot cheek, rubbing my thumb over it softly. "You sure you don't need anything? Chicken soup? I can't cook worth a damn, but I can open a can of Campbell's like a pro. Sorry," I say when you laugh and groan again.
"I'm okay. Really. I'll be back at school like Thursday."
I nod. "I'll see you Thursday, then."
"I'll even be showered and dressed. Pants and everything, probably."
Raising an eyebrow, I glance down at the blanket covering your legs. "You're not wearing pants?"
You twist your mouth to the side, trying and failing to hide a sneaky smile. "I'll never tell."
"Jesus, Bella." I sigh and stand up, running a hand through my hair and trying to think about something else. "On that note, I've gotta go. Call me if you need anything."