September 17, 1996
A fucking twelve-hour drive. With my parents. I don't know why we couldn't just ship my stuff and fly down. Instead, we're driving my car down to Stanford, and my parents are flying back home. Jerks. Just kidding. I love 'em. But twelve hours in a car with my mom and dad? Without you as a buffer?
No.
God, I wish you didn't have to ride with your own parents.
The bad thing about mine being such busy people is that when we do have a good amount of time together, there are so many questions.
Questions like, "Are you being safe?"
Answers like, "Christ, Mom, I'm not talking about this with you."
Rambling statements like, "It's okay if you're, you know, sexually active. And it's okay if you're not. The important thing is that you're being safe."
Then, when they don't give up, there are rebuttals like, "Bella's on the pill, okay?!"
That seems to satisfy them, because they share an odd look and go back to whatever parents chatter about on road trips. I stick my earphones back on and press play on my Discman.
Officer Dad's calmed down a lot. It helps that our dorm rooms aren't in the same building. You're in Alondra at East FloMo, and I'm in Roble Hall. It might be a good thing. If we lived in the same place, it'd be too tempting to spend every minute together, and let's face it. Everyone needs space at some point. Luckily, our buildings aren't too far away from each other. Still, Charlie—which he eventually told me to call him—stalks the RAs and asks a million questions. He relaxes completely when he meets your roommate Angela's family, especially her dad, who's a reverend. I guess he's never heard that preachers' kids can misbehave with the best of them. Of course, I keep that to myself.
My parents and I dropped my stuff off at my dorm, met my roommate, Tyler, and wandered around a bit before making our way to yours. As soon as I hit the threshold, your wide eyes begged, Help me. I just stood back as my mom hurried to join yours, more interested in hanging your pictures and posters and rearranging your furniture than she was in mine. You duck under my arm, and I pull you against my side.
"I'll probably just change it all when they're gone," you mutter.
"They just want to feel helpful," my dad says, putting his arm around you on the other side. He and Mom have become as fond of you as I have…just in a different way.
I'm glad our parents get along. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky, wonder how my life changed so much over the last few months, so quickly and completely, but I never question it.
After dinner with our parents, we go our separate ways for half-tearful goodbyes. I'm actually nervous. Sure, I've spent a lot of time on my own, but I've always known where my parents were, always felt safe in our home when they were away. Now I'm in this unfamiliar place, and I'm not too macho to admit that I'm a little unnerved. Dad ruffles my hair and pulls me roughly into a hug. Mom, shorty that she is, wraps her arms around my torso and leans her head against my chest, inhaling heavily.
"Mom," I say, "did you just…smell me?"
She nods and sniffles a little.
"I swear this is a clean shirt."
"I can still remember your newborn scent," she says wistfully.
"Are you serious right now?" I'm half amused and half embarrassed, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one's within earshot.
"Sorry. You might be a grown man, but you're still my baby."
Though I'm technically an adult at eighteen, it feels really weird when she calls me a man. I still feel like a kid. Like they're dropping me off at summer camp and will be back in four weeks to pick me up.
"Esme," Dad says with a deep chuckle.
"Sorry," she repeats, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Well"—I check my nonexistent watch—"don't you guys have an early flight tomorrow? You should probably get to your hotel."
Mom's shrugs her shoulders and opens her arms for one last hug. "We'll probably find a bar somewhere with the Swans tonight," she says through a teary laugh.
I snort. "Great."
Dad pulls me into a tight embrace, clapping me on the back. "Love you, son." If I'm not mistaken, his voice sounds gruff, too. "See you at Thanksgiving?"
My throat's a little tight as I nod and tell them I love them once more. And then they're gone, and I'm alone in my room with no idea of what to do next. My roommate must've gone off with his parents, too. I figure now's as good a time as any to start unpacking, which to me, consists of unzipping my duffel bag and turning it upside down until all of my clothes shake out onto the bed. An envelope falls out of the pocket onto the pile of t-shirts and jeans. It's a note from my mom. And there's cash in it. Sweet. There's another one addressed to you in her handwriting. I lay it out on my bed so I'll remember to bring it when we meet in half an hour.
Tyler comes in after a few minutes, and we talk some while we unpack. He's from Portland, he says. He's got a girlfriend who, coincidentally, went up to UW for school, and he's not sure how long they'll last. I tell him a little about you. He asks if your roommate's hot. I tell him I honestly have no idea, because all I ever see when I'm with you is you.
"Hey, you," you say when we meet outside your place. I can tell you've been crying, which I expected. You band your arms around my waist; mine go around your shoulders.
I press a kiss to your forehead. "Okay?"
"I found your note."
"Oh, yeah?"
You nod. "Sneaky."
During dinner tonight, I tucked the letter I wrote two nights ago into your purse. As I was lying in my bed at home for the last time—at least for a couple of months—mind racing with nervous excitement, I wondered how much has changed since I read your letter for the first time. How much we've changed. So I got up and pulled the letter, soft and wrinkled now, from between the pages of that same novel in my nightstand drawer. I remember how intrigued I was then. I remember how pretty I thought you were when Alice dragged you toward me at school that first morning. I remember when you grabbed me by the front of my shirt and kissed me.
My eyes swept over the page again and again, and my heart was so full. I had the strongest urge to call you and tell you how fucking much I love you, how much I want you with me always. But it was one in the morning. I did the next best thing and jumped out of bed, rummaging through my desk for a notepad and a pen. I'm not good with words like you are, and one piece of notebook paper could never be enough to accommodate everything I've ever felt for you, but that page overflowed with the best words I could think of in the end.
"I don't even know what to say except that I love you more than I could ever say," you whisper, squeezing your arms around me and tilting your face up for a kiss. "And I'm so happy we're here together."
"Me too," I murmur. "On both counts."
We meander around campus, which is still sort of bustling with move-in day excitement, despite the fact that sunset was a couple of hours ago. Eventually, we find ourselves at the main quad and seek out a grassy spot to just sit for a while. Our bubble of familiarity is sure to burst as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow and we try to navigate our way through this next phase of life.
Take care of my girl, your dad told me when he took me aside after dinner.
He has no idea.
Right now, all I want is to stretch out here in the cool grass, just like this, with you leaning back against me between my bent knees.
Right now, under the clear, dark sky and the bright moon, I have it all.
"Hey, Edward?" you whisper after a couple of minutes.
"Hey, dollface." I brush your long hair over one shoulder so I can plant a quick kiss against the side of your neck. You're quiet, though, so I jostle you with my knee. "What's up?"
"Oh. Nothing. Just wanted to hear you call me dollface."
I chuckle and, in one quick move, roll you over onto the grass so that I'm hovering over you. I kiss your lips once, soft and sweet. "What am I gonna do with you?"
You shrug. "Everything."
With any luck, yeah. Everything.
September 15, 1996
Dear Bella,
I don't know how I was ever oblivious to your existence. I can't even remember not knowing you. I don't remember what it feels like to not be in love with you, to not be completely annihilated by you and your pretty face and your blunt words on a daily basis.
I couldn't be more thankful that you took the time to notice me and basically call me on my bullshit. I was obsessed with your words. I was so afraid to meet you, because I didn't want you to be wholly unimpressed when I didn't measure up to your expectations…your assumptions. Truthfully, I was sort of nervous you wouldn't measure up to mine, either, because I'd built this perfect version of you in my head. You aren't anything like that version. You're better.
You're sweet and spicy, a Fireball, like I called you in the beginning. You're honest and straightforward, but sometimes you're shy. You're fucking gorgeous. The first thing I thought when I saw you for the first time was how pretty you were. You stood in front of me with these wide, Bambi eyes and told me to forget about the letter. As if I could just erase it from my mind. I don't know how I found the courage to approach you again at school. Actually, yes I do. Because I somehow knew that if I didn't talk to you again, I'd regret it for the rest of my life. Maybe that sounds melodramatic, but now I know it's the truth. But I did. I thought I knew how much I wanted you then, from the first time you kissed me. I had no idea what was coming for me.
I feel more things for you than I ever thought it was possible to feel. I don't even have words to tell you how big my love is for you. It's more than I can grasp.
Starting this new chapter in our lives together will be so many things. Exciting. Fun. Scary. Probably hard sometimes. But I know we can get through anything if we're together.
I'm so lucky to know you.
I'm so lucky to call you mine.
For keeps.
Love Always,
Edward
A/N: I'm so sad to post this! Rachelfish and I have been in mourning all day. Haha. There's an epilogue left, and that's it. I'm going to miss 90s-ward so much! I'll probably end up writing future-takes/outtakes in the future, so be on the lookout.