Shoefreak37 and Alby Mangroves make this better.


Edward awoke the next morning to complete silence, the space beside him in the bed empty and cold. He groaned and rubbed his forehead, lamenting the dry, dirty taste in his mouth. He reached down and adjusted his morning wood before throwing the covers back and heading into the bathroom.

The mirror was still coated in steam and the walls of the shower were wet; he'd barely missed her. Edward wondered why Bella didn't wake him up to say goodbye, or at least wait until he woke before she left. It wasn't as if anything had happened, like it was a night she needed to be ashamed about.

Though he had felt the heat radiating from her in bed all night, their bodies—with the exception of their hands—had remained apart. From the moment he'd felt her soft hand slip into his, he'd held on tight. There was something very comforting about the gesture and Edward felt like it was a step in the right direction. They were simply two friends sharing the same space, but it was the first time Edward had felt that close to a woman since Angela's death.

After taking a piss, he noticed the clothes stacked neatly on the vanity, but they didn't all belong to him. The pajama bottoms were his—the ones Bella had foregone wearing the night before—but the tiny, black shirt and set of matching underwear were not. He stood there for a beat too long, staring at the garments as he washed his hands.

Unable to control himself, Edward reached out with wet, tentative fingers and gently stroked the lace that ran around the edges of the panties. It felt coarse beneath his fingertips. The bra was decorated with the same lace, the molded cups rising from the counter like two small mountains. They looked to be about the size of his hands—completely average.

Realizing what he was doing—stroking a pair of worn underwear—Edward jerked his hand away, embarrassed. He felt like a pervert and wondered why Bella had left her things. Did she simply forget them? Or was she planning to come back?

Padding into the kitchen, Edward began rifling through the cabinets, cursing himself for not even being responsible enough to buy food. He was a grown-ass man; he should buy his own groceries, not rely on his mother. He'd thrown out all the stale cereal and poured out his spoiled milk, which left even fewer options than before.

Edward found an old granola bar in the junk drawer, outdated by more than six months, but he still considered eating it. It wasn't as if granola tasted that great anyway; he probably wouldn't even notice the difference. Just as he was about to peel off the wrapper, he heard his front door open, and then a string of muttered curses filled the air.

Peering into the living room, he saw Bella standing in the foyer, a coffee carrier in one hand and a mangled mess of shopping bags on the floor around her feet. Edward moved to help her, picking up the plastic bags and shoving the fallen items back inside.

"Where did you go?" he asked, even though the answer was fairly obvious.

"I was hungry and hungover and there's no food in your kitchen, so I walked to the gas station on the corner. They didn't have a lot of choices, but it was better than what you had. Who doesn't even have coffee? Or eggs? Or milk and cereal?" She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, her arm flailing about as she chastised him.

"My mom usually buys my groceries. I don't—I've never done my own shopping." Edward stopped himself from saying the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He'd never done the shopping because Angela had. Neither of them were very good cooks, so most of what they dined on was simple heat and eat stuff, but even knowing what to buy to make those sorts of meals confounded him.

He found himself eating easy stuff, like entire boxes of macaroni and cheese or pasta from a can. It wasn't exactly healthy, nor did it taste particularly good, but it was better than nothing. Esme tried buying him fresh fruits and veggies, but most of those just spoiled, aside from an occasional apple or orange he'd lift from the bowl on the counter when he was in a hurry.

Edward busied himself putting away the groceries Bella had purchased while she worked on frying sausage and eggs. He felt useless just standing there watching her, leaning against the counter drinking a cup of coffee. When the sausage was done and she started cracking eggs, Bella shoved a loaf of bread in his direction without a word. He smiled as he pulled out the toaster, putting in four slices of bread and hoping he wouldn't fuck even something that simple up.

Watching Bella move about the kitchen, Edward was surprised by how at ease she seemed in his house. She looked different in the morning light, his vision no longer clouded by alcohol or the lingering smoke and dim lighting of a bar. He found himself staring, noticing things he'd otherwise missed—the light smattering of freckles across her nose, the plumpness of her lower lip, and tiny star tattoo behind her ear. With her face scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, he thought she looked prettier than he'd ever seen her.

They ate breakfast at the counter, pulling out the stools that Edward was almost certain had never been used. He and Angela always ate breakfast huddled around the toaster, hastily shoving down Pop-Tarts or bagels, burning their tongues on coffee that was too hot. Edward was constantly in a rush to get to the hospital and Angela's days were filled with of weddings, new babies, and other portrait sessions.

Sundays were the only days when Angela cooked. Breakfast was the only meal she was proficient at, and even then there were only certain things she made well. That was the one meal they tried to share at the dining room table each week. It was their one chance to decompress, to concentrate on one another. Even when he pulled her away from the stove and interrupted what she was doing, they would still end up at the table with microwaved plates of food.

Dinners were usually from a box—whether take-out or Hamburger Helper—consumed while sitting in front of the television. There was a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away that Edward still frequented; Angela liked Chinese, but her favorite were those five dollar pizzas they advertised on TV. Edward found them to be revolting, with their heat lamp seared cheese and greasy pepperonis. Still, he found himself eating them several times per week, just to appease his wife.

Most nights were a fight for the remote control. Edward liked to watch reality TV and cop dramas. Angela, however was addicted to soapy, medical dramas. Hospitals didn't really work as they were portrayed and Edward found the shows to be frustrating. He'd explained to Angela countless times that there was no way such gifted surgeons would have so much time to spend screwing nurses in the on-call rooms, but she wouldn't relent. She would roll her eyes and huff when Edward would switch the channel to real life medical shows, ones that she referred to as "gross."

Angela usually won their nightly battles, mostly because she didn't play fair. Edward would even say she played dirty, making full use of her feminine wiles. She'd lick her lips and "accidentally" put her hand on his cock when wrestling for the remote, or rub herself up against him. When Edward tried similar tactics—palming her breasts or grinding himself against her—she'd laugh and shove him away, calling him a pervert. Maybe she'd been on to something.

After breakfast was finished, Bella gathered her things and headed home. She told Edward she had work she needed to take care of, but part of him wondered if she just wanted to get away. He feared that his inability to be open and forthcoming with information would make her shy away, but when she hugged him tight and kissed his cheek before walking out the door, he thought that maybe she was okay with that. Maybe she was willing to be patient.

/|P|\\

Edward sank the toe of his shoe into the sodden earth, digging up a small divot of overgrown grass. He stared at the fresh bouquet of flowers he'd brought along, the red standing in stark contrast again the grim, gray stone. The bench beneath him was damp and cold, the chill radiating through the layers of his clothes. The clouds were moving quickly across the dark sky, signaling an impending storm, but Edward couldn't bring himself to move.

Angela Weber Cullen

Beloved wife, daughter, and friend

He thought more about the word that was missing from her tombstone rather than the ones that were written, chiseled in stone for eternity. Mother. Images of a little girl with Angela's dark hair and his green eyes flashed quickly through Edward's mind, evaporating as swiftly as they had come.

They'd always wanted children, always felt they were meant to be parents. But there was never a rush to turn those dreams into reality. They were young when they married and assumed that they would have plenty of time, a wealth of years together in front of them. Instead, they wanted to enjoy the moments when it was just the two of them, to cherish their time alone.

Their careers became most important as Edward continued with school and Angela concentrated on getting her business off the ground. When they were finally settled, in a place where they were secure enough to handle the added expense of a child, they decided to put it off once more. They enjoyed being relatively carefree, able to waste money on frivolous things because they didn't have to worry about saving for a college fund or preparing for a new addition to their family.

Angela fell prey to the cliche and bought an imported red convertible. It only seated two, which was one of the reasons she bought it. She claimed that she wanted to enjoy her youth, to embrace the impracticality of the vehicle before she had to start driving an SUV, or even worse, a mini-van. Edward had teased her relentlessly, yet even he had to admit that she looked damn good driving that little car.

The year they turned thirty, they started to prepare, looking at houses in the suburbs. They put their condo on the market and Edward traded his jeep in for a more practical SUV with four doors and plenty of space in the back. Angela sulked for a while, but eventually sold her car. She refused to buy anything that could belong to a soccer mom, claiming she would be the cool parent that their children's friends would adore. Eventually she bought a little hatchback and Edward didn't have the heart to tell her it was something a soccer mom would most definitely drive.

They finally settled on a house in an up and coming part of town. It was within walking distance of a small shopping district with bars and restaurants, yet still allowed them to have a yard and some extra space. The community was very family friendly and Angela liked to sit on the porch, watching the neighbors walk their dogs and push their kids in strollers. It was also a short commute for both of them, a huge added bonus of the location.

Angela stopped taking her birth control and started attacking Edward more often. He wasn't opposed to that idea, thoroughly enjoying the times when she would join him in the shower or wake him in the middle of the night. They even let the back seats down flat and christened his new automobile, pulling off of the road in a wooded area not far from their new home.

As the months began to pass, however, and her period continued to show up regularly, Angela began to grow more and more frustrated. Edward convinced her that they should both get checked out, just to make sure everything was okay. He wasn't worried, knowing that some couples just had a harder time conceiving, and he thought having a doctor's opinion would ease her mind.

The doctor called a few days later, but everything wasn't okay. Edward remembered the frantic call he'd gotten at work, a tearful Angela speaking so rapidly between loud gulps of breath that he couldn't understand what she was saying. There were more tests, more poking and prodding, and then finally a diagnosis.

The outlook was grim from the start, but Edward refused to believe it, wanting her to be in that small percentage that made it, the small percentage that could be helped. There would be no children for them, at least not biological children. Edward accepted it fairly easily, more concerned for his wife, but she grieved that missed opportunity, blamed herself for all the years she had wasted waiting.

When her surgeries and treatments began, they looked into adoption. They knew it wasn't possible while she was ill, but he wanted to give her that comfort, to know that once things went back to normal, she could get the baby she always wanted. The filled out their paperwork and put it on file with an agency, taking every step they could so that things would be simple and easy when the time finally came, but the day they had planned for never showed up.

Sometimes Edward wished they'd had a child, that he still had that living tie between them. He wondered if he would have reacted differently to Angela's death, not allowed himself to sink so far if there was another person depending on him. He always imagined a little girl, one that looked a lot like the pictures of Angela he kept stowed away in the closet. His eyes were the only link between him and that imagined little person.

Other times he was glad that there was no child, that he didn't have the added burden and responsibility of another person, a person that couldn't do things on their own. He didn't know anything about babies or how to take care of them. Edward had grown up with Rosalie and there wasn't even a year between them; people often mistook them for twins. He never got the experience of helping to care for a younger sibling. Angela had been a natural, but her mother had given birth to twins when she was in high school, giving her plenty of experience at an age when it was actually useful.

Edward's rotation in pediatrics during med school had been nothing short of a disaster and he disliked taking care of the children that came into the ER. He never knew what to say to them, how to soothe them and make them feel better. Edward talked to them like they were just small adults which often resulted in funny looks and questioning scowls from the mothers that accompanied their children. He'd always hoped that would change when he became a father, and Angela had assured him he would figure it out.

Losing track of time as he remembered his life with Angela, Edward let out a long sigh and rose from the concrete bench when the tiny drops of rain began to fall on his forehead. His ass was numb and his neck was stiff from sitting for so long in one position. He moved over and lightly touched the tombstone, saying a silent goodbye before heading to his car.

/|P|\\

His mother dropped by on Saturday, unannounced, ruining his plans for the day. Edward wanted to protest, but he doubted she would agree that spending the day on the couch in his boxers, eating Cheetos and scratching his balls actually counted as plans. Though he knew his mother meant well, her visits usually left him feeling worse than before she showed up. Esme was constantly trying to make him feel better, yet her attempts only made him feel worse.

Edward was able to escape her, at least momentarily, expressing his need to take a shower. He was sure he smelled and he wasn't exactly comfortable chatting with his mother while he was sitting around in his underwear.

Standing in front of the mirror waiting for the water to heat up, Edward took notice of his stomach, mostly the pudgy little pocket of fat just beneath his belly button. He poked it with his fingers, watching it move and jiggle. It hadn't always been there, but in the days since its arrival, he hadn't really cared. He felt odd standing there, scrutinizing his naked form.

When Angela was alive, they liked to run. She always forced him out into the sunshine—or sometimes the rain. Angela loved to feel the warmth on her face, the sweat beading on her brow as she ran along the trails at the local park. Sometimes they would just jog around the neighborhood.

Edward had stopped his exercise routine during her illness, often too tired to do anything other than collapse into bed after spending long hours working and then caring for his ailing wife. After she died, he no longer cared what he looked like. But standing in front of the mirror, he realized he didn't like what he saw.

While the other ways he'd allowed himself to decline were visible to those around him, the fat around his middle wasn't, hidden beneath his clothes. His hair was long and shaggy, maybe a little bit greasy. He didn't take the time to shave most days, content to leave the scruff on his face. His clothes were no longer pressed and dry cleaned, instead wrinkled and worn too many times to count.

The bags under his eyes were the most noticeable, the dark purple sagging beneath the bright fluorescence of the bathroom. He poked at those too, trying to remember the last time he'd gotten a good night's sleep. Edward's rest was almost always fitful, tossing and turning throughout the nights. Sometimes he slept on the couch, just because he couldn't handle the pain of an empty bed.

When he really considered it, he realized that the last time he'd slept through the night was when he'd invited Bella to stay—well, not really invited, just sort of demanded. Edward wasn't sure if it was her presence or the amount of alcohol he'd drank that caused him to sleep so well, but he realized he missed that feeling. He wanted to be able to fall into his bed and not wake until the alarm sounded, wanted his nights to be restful, not haunted by a ghost.

Edward didn't resent Angela or her memory. He wanted to remember; he just didn't want to feel like his heart was being crushed. He loved that he still remembered so many things about her—the way she smelled, the little flecks of gold in her eyes, and the softness of her skin—but those memories were nearly debilitating in their intensity. Edward wanted to be able to smile when he remembered her, not feel the urge to hide away in the closet and cry.

Finally stepping into the shower, Edward rigidly moved through his routine, knowing his mother was waiting. Having taken notice of his poor appearance, he took the time to shave, even making an attempt to tame his unruly hair. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he moved back through the house to find his mother dusting the electronics in the living room. It looked like she'd vacuumed as well and he could faintly hear the hum of the washing machine.

"Mom, you don't have to do that," he said, reaching out to take the cloth from her hand.

"Oh Edward, you know I don't mind."

"I know you don't mind. I mind." When he saw Esme's face fall, Edward felt worse than ever, knowing he'd hurt his mother's feelings when she was only trying to help. "Shit, Mom, I didn't mean it like that. It's just...I mean, I should be able to do this stuff for myself."

Slumping down into the sofa, Edward heaved out a loud sigh, resting his forehead in his hands. "I'm miserable," he mumbled, unable to look his mother in the eyes. He felt Esme sit down gingerly beside of him, her hand gently patting his knee as she waited.

"My life is so fucked up and I don't know how to fix it." He felt her squeeze his knee, a silent admonishment for his language. For all of her prying and constant urging for him to move on with his life, Edward knew his mother only wanted the best for him, that she wouldn't intentionally push him to do something he wasn't ready for.

"I think you need to start small," she said. "Maybe you aren't ready for dating or going back to your old job yet, but simple things you can do, like vacuuming the living room or doing the dishes. Baby steps, sweetie."

Edward reached over and wrapped his arms around his mother, hugging her tightly. "Thank you," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

They spent the rest of the day together, trying to get his house back in order. Edward cleaned out the refrigerator and the cupboards, tossing away all of the expired food and rotten vegetables. He shoved the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and dumped in a bunch of detergent; he was sure he wasn't doing it correctly, but at least he was making an attempt.

That evening, when his mother drove away just before the sun had set, he pulled on his tennis shoes and jogged around the neighborhood. He only made it a few blocks before he had to turn around and come back, but it felt like an accomplishment and that put a smile on his face.

/|P|\\

The wheel on the cart was squeaky and annoying, but Bella refused to go back and get another. Not wanting to brave the grocery store alone, Edward had called her at the last minute, surprised when she readily agreed to meet him there.

Edward clutched the grocery list his mother had made tightly in his hand, marking off things as he found them and grabbing stuff that caught his eye. Most of the things she'd instructed him were simple meals that he could microwave or just throw into the oven. They were the kinds of things Angela had made, only this time Edward would be left to craft the meals on his own.

When they made it to the canned goods section, his eyes immediately searched for the bright orange cans. Edward began tossing them into the cart, wondering how many he'd need to get by for a month.

"What are doing?" Bella asked, wondering why there were suddenly twenty cans of processed spaghetti in the cart.

"I like Italian," Edward replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Beefaroni is not Italian. I don't even think that stuff is made from real tomatoes. The sauce is technicolor orange."

"That's the best part. Well, besides the meatballs."

Bella shook her head and laughed, grabbing Edward's arm and pulling him down the aisle, away from his favorite food.

"When do you have an evening free?" she asked as they loaded groceries onto the conveyor belt. "Wednesday would be best for me."

"Ummm...yeah, Wednesday's fine," Edward replied, unsure about what that particular evening would be best for.

"I'll be over around six."

Edward wanted to question her motives, but instead found himself walking her to her beat-up, old truck and saying a hasty goodbye. He stood there watching her drive away, wondering what he'd gotten himself into this time, silently hoping it didn't involve alcohol.

When Bella arrived promptly at six on Wednesday night, he smiled and led her into his house, hoping she noticed the fresh pine smell and lack of clutter covering every surface. She grinned as she headed towards the kitchen, a canvas shopping bag hanging from her shoulder and a small box in her hands.

"Ready to cook dinner?" she asked, her eyes alight with mischief.

"I guess?" Edward replied, his answer sounding more like a question.

"Relax. It'll be fun, I promise." He wanted to remind her that the last time she'd claimed they'd have fun, he'd ended up drunk in a bar with Jacob shooting him evil glares. Instead, he gave a timid smile and waited to see what she had in store.

Edward stood by and watched as she unloaded the items from her bag, tossing a bright red piece of cloth in his direction. He'd never seen anyone besides his mother actually wear an apron in the kitchen, but he put in on without question, allowing Bella to take the lead in this endeavor. She pulled two large pots from the rack near the cook-top, instructing him to fill one with water.

Bella placed the other pot on the stove and turned lit the flame beneath it. She reached for a jar that looked like marinara sauce, but it wasn't from the grocery store. After popping open the lid, she stuck it under Edward's nose, allowing him to smell the fresh herbs and tomato.

"I made it last night," she said. "I didn't think you'd be ready for that step yet."

Edward couldn't hide the panic in his eyes when she began to dump flour onto his freshly-wiped counter. She made a well in the middle of the mound, cracking a few eggs into it and adding salt.

"Okay, Edward, you're up."

Approaching the counter slowly, Edward wasn't sure what she meant for him to do. He only ever mixed things with a spoon, inside of a bowl. He'd never met anyone that dumped ingredients onto the counter. Before he had a chance to object, she grabbed both of his hands and stuck them into the mixture, using her own fingers to guide him.

Edward's shoulders tensed momentarily as he felt her standing behind him, pressed against his back, their hands working together in unison. She was soft and warm like a woman should be, close enough that he could smell her shampoo. He forced the memories of Angela that threatened to assault him to the back of his mind, not wanting to ruin his time with Bella.

Once the flour and eggs began to come together, Bella pulled away, instructing him to knead the ingredients into a ball. His apprehension and uneasiness began to fade as the dough began to take shape. A genuine smile stretched across Edward's face as Bella stood nearby, laughing and cheering him on.

Edward pulled his flour covered hands away, victorious. Bella instructed him to cut the dough into four balls as she pulled a metal contraption from the box she'd brought over. She clamped the small device to the counter and showed Edward how to roll the dough through.

Once the dough was flattened and cut into long strips of pasta, Edward dropped it into the pot of boiling water, followed by a liberal handful of salt. Less than ten minutes later, dinner was ready. Bella cut off hunks of the bread while Edward opened a bottle of wine.

Carrying everything into the dining room, they sat down to share the meal they'd made. Edward was pleasantly surprised that the simple process had created something so delicious.

Once they were finished eating, Bella packed the leftovers away for Edward's lunch the following day. She helped him load the dishes into the dishwasher and then, noting the late hour, bid him goodnight. Edward followed her to the door, wondering when he'd see her again.

"Did you maybe want to do something this weekend?" he asked, nervously rubbing his hand across his forehead.

"Sure. How about Saturday? I have a rare day off. We should hang out at my place. I'll text you the address."

With another smile and wave, Edward watched her walk to her truck, startled by the loud noises it made when she started it up. Heading back inside, he couldn't wipe the smile off of his face. He'd had a fun evening with a new friend, doing something simple and easy. Maybe his mother was right.


A/N: Just wanted to address a couple of things that were mentioned in reviews.

The story will only be told from Edward's POV, though I wouldn't rule out Bella outtakes later on. I realize that she's a bit of a mystery right now, but that's because Edward doesn't know her very well either. They're just getting to know one another. More will be revealed about her very soon.

Dialogue will continue to be limited. Writing lots of dialogue just isn't my style, and this story is about Edward, so a lot of it will be his internal thoughts and feelings.

Thanks for all of the alerts and reviews. I really appreciate them!