Somewhere Only We Know

by lo scrittore

Edward Masen is a typical rich kid. He's got the money, the looks, the girls and the intelligence. He thinks he's got everything figured out until he meets one not-so-typical girl, who teaches him a little about himself and a thing called love.

3. Umbilical Noose

Chapter written to Someday You Will be Loved by Deathcab for Cutie. Fantastic song. Nuff said.

Also featuring:
Bryn – Vampire Weekend
After the Storm –Mumford & Sons

Oh, and before I start… remember those descriptions I gave at the beginning of the story to help you visualize my characters? Well, let me add a few more…

Edward: Paul Wesley (plays Stefan on Vampire Diaries, and let's be honest, a lot of you watch it and will agree with me that he is fucking hot) for his style and just overall sex appeal. I'm obsessed with him, just btdubs.

Bella: Lea Michele (plays Rachel Berry in Glee) chosen specifically for her character's performance in Start Me Up / Livin' on a Prayer on Glee… haven't seen it? Look it up. You won't regret it, it's Agron (plays Quinn Fabray on Glee and is in a few other movies, like I am Number Four) for her voice. A few of you messaged asking for a likeness, and if I can give you anything, that's it. Because that voice is gonna play a pretty big part in Edward's mental drama up until their actual meeting… which you all know is gonna happen because it's Twilight. Come on.

Right, on with it.

---

Chapter Three: Umbilical Noose

"Men think they can do whatever they want. They think the city is theirs. They spray their scent in every corner. They are not afraid."
-Lie With Me

I came to to a gentle nudging. I grunted and rolled over into something thick and wet. An acrid stench filled my nose and as a shoe continued to nudge my ribs, I slowly began to regain consciousness and opened my eyes.

"Jasper," I croaked, recognizing his long blond hair through a blurring haze. "What the fuck?"

"I've been looking for you for over an hour, you dick."

I groaned as I rolled over completely and began to sit up. I felt like I'd been hit with a wrecking ball. I checked my Rolex. It was well over three in the morning.

"Shit."

Jasper helped me up and slapped me on the back. "Atta boy. Now let's go get me a girl and then we'll go find the car."

I ran a hand through my slightly wet and sticky hair, choking back a gag as realization of what the smell was began to dawn on me.

"Jasper, I can't get a girl now. I'm a fucking mess."

He pulled open the door that led to the club. "Oh I know, Golden Boy. You're not going home with anyone. Not looking… and smelling… like that anyway." He made a face at me, wrinkling his nose. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.

"Fuck off," I grumbled.

"Cheer up old chap. If we're lucky, maybe we can find a girl drunker than you who won't mind fucking a guy who smells like vomit." As we entered the club, we passed two girls kneeling at the cock of a guy making out with another guy. I winced. "I mean," Jasper continued, unfazed, "most girls don't have any morals anyway."

I rolled my eyes. "No thanks. I'm not desperate."

"Oh." He shrugged. "Well I am. Now let's go find me a girl who will let me put my dick in her ass and then we'll split and head back to chez Masen."

"You're crude."

He merely winked salaciously.

My witty response? An eye-roll.

We pushed our way through the throngs of people, though it wasn't entirely too difficult with the smell that I was emanating. I would have been embarrassed had I been anywhere else, but this club hadn't been that impressive from the get go, let alone at three in the morning. Any and every one with any sense of pride had left a while ago to either go home or find another party, leaving Jasper with some of the slimmest pickings I'd seen since we started clubbing when we were fourteen.

But you'd be an idiot to underestimate Jasper. With me and my stench in tow, he managed to find a decent looking girl with most of her clothing on and only some of her makeup smudged in less than ten minutes. That's just who he is. Regardless of his surroundings or his circumstances, he could charm the panties off a girl and have his cock in her mouth in less than half an hour. I only envied him slightly; while it took him ten minutes, it only took me fifteen.

We walked out of the club toward the car, ahead of the girl and not turning around to look at her. I pulled the seat forward and let her climb in without looking down, and then slammed the seat back barely after she'd gotten settled. I sat in the seat. Closed the door. Turned on the music so I wouldn't have to listen to her speak. Rolled down the window.

Jasper passed me a cigarette and I puffed on it slowly, blowing air out the window.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he yelled in her direction.

"Mandy!" she called back.

Course.

"Where're you from, Mandy?"

"Seattle!"

I knew she was yelling to be heard over the radio, but she was acting like she was on a goddamn cheer squad. Way too fucking peppy for three in the morning. I wanted to cover my ears like a whiny two year old. Instead, I just sucked on my cigarette more greedily. I'd be home in… an hour or so.

Jesus Christ.

"Well baby, that just ain't gonna do. I'm not driving you all the way back to Seattle with a hangover so you're going to have to catch a cab. Hope you're okay with that, otherwise you may as well get out here."

She mumbled something unintelligible, which I just attributed to sorority girl drunkenness and therefore ignored. I just continued to smoke. Inhale, hold, exhale, flick. Inhale, hold, exhale, flick. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

An hour passed in minutes and soon Jasper was dropping me off at my front gate. I hopped out of the car and saluted, ignoring the girl when she climbed over the center console and waved goodbye at me. I didn't bother ringing trying to get the gate open... I wasn't an idiot. There was no butler to buzz me in. So, I merely stubbed out my cigarette on the pavement, placed one foot in the iron wrung and the other on a brick that stuck out slightly from all the rest. Pulling myself up, I ignored Jasper's rude jeers about my ass and with two more steps vaulted the gate. Landing somewhat shakily on the ground, I stood up and spun around, flicking him off before turning to walk down the winding sidewalk that led up to the house… if you could even call it that.

I buried my hands in my pockets as I made my way up the "driveway," huddling inward against the cold as I cut through the icy night air. I could have brought home a girl with me if I really wanted. Could have snuck her into my room easily, fucked her and sent her back out in a few hours. It would have been a pleasant distraction that was for sure.

But it was just me and my hand tonight, so as I made my way across the grounds, I distracted myself with thoughts of the girl I had met—her voice was as much of an aphrodisiac as a drunk girl's pussy would be anyway. The way she'd said my name, all soft and breathy… God just thinking about it made my dick hard.

For what it's worth, I think you're plenty rich Edward Masen…

Edward Masen.

Edward Masen.

Fuck, I hate that name.

It's a name and a curse, as poetic as that sounds. I was born cursed, how cute. I share it with my father—a stretch to call him that, really—and if it is any indication of what my life is to become in the next thirty years, I may as well fucking kill myself while I'm walking. Just flick my lighter against my sweater and be done with it. Because living the life of Edward Masen Sr. would be worse than any type of punishment, worse than death. Living the life of Edward Masen would be living in perpetual purgatory, Dante's ninth circle or whatever—because fuck knows, he's committed every single one of those sins, from lust to avarice to fraud to treachery and back again.

God, I couldn't even…

No, no more depressing thoughts, Edward. Back to your girl.

Edward Masen…

Edward Masen…

Edward Masen…

"Edward Masen!"

I startled awake, rolling over and groaning as my nose pressed into the Persian rug. How did I know it was Persian? Because that's all my mother fucking bought. That and six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. How I got onto said Persian rug… well I don't quite remember that part. But sue me, I didn't really give a shit how I got there either. I was still strung out and doped up from the night before and all I wanted was for Dragon Lady to finish yelling at me so I could go take a bath.

"Edward Masen, get out of my doorway this instant!" she hissed. "The gardeners will be here any second and I don't want them to see you passed out in the middle of my foyer!"

"God forbid," I groaned, rolling over and sitting up in an oddly familiar action that had been played out not six hours before. I checked my Rolex. Yep. Only eight thirty in the morning.

I hoisted myself up, ignoring when the room spun and made my way toward the staircase. About halfway up, I turned toward her and in a very Russell Brand / Captain Sparrow-like move, gesturing to her broadly with a sweep of my arm through the air. "And by the way, thank you for your concern. I'm fine, really. Just a bit of a wild night, drugged up a little bit, no big deal. Your son did enough drugs last night to probably send himself to the ER if not the morgue, but just so long as no one knows it's cool, right?"

"Edward, stop trying to make a scene."

I laughed humorlessly. "Right, I forgot. You're supposed to do that. Sorry, forgot my line."

Her eyes snapped up to me, cold and penetrating. "Watch how you speak to me. I'm your mother."

I chuckled again. "And what a fine job you're doing. Really. Mother of the Year award goes to you, Esmeralda Masen. I don't know how I could survive without you." I walked up a few steps. "Oh wait, that's right. I've been doing that just fine for the past five years." My bravado was starting to wear off, so I either needed to turn and walk away, or give her a line that would make her shut up. The best choice would be to take the high road and walk away.

But I'm a bastard and the only high roads I take are ones involving acid and marijuana.

I turned back to her, saturating my tone with sarcasm and mockery… the only way to keep myself from crying like a little boy. "I'm sure I could have gone out and OD'd last night and you wouldn't have fucking cared, as long as no one saw and I didn't get anything on your carpet. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone what a wonderful mother you are. Your secret's safe with me." I'd reached the top of the landing. I couldn't turn around to look at her. "Merry fucking Christmas," I called, turning and striding down the hall toward my room.

I slammed the door shut and locked it, not wanting to be disturbed by anyone until I was ready. Which would be in about two weeks when I headed for the airport.

I stripped quickly, not pausing to process what had happened or even to let my emotions catch up to me. I simply pulled all of my clothing off and walked into the bathroom, locking the door there as well for good measure, drew a bath, and sank into the scalding water. I rested my hands on either side of the tub, loosely holding onto the edges. I sank down in the water until my neck was resting against the edge as well and my entire body was submerged.

Finally I let my head sink under as well, closing my eyes and taking solace in the silence beneath the surface. I didn't put any abnormal amount of effort into holding my breath; I just let myself drift away, finally at peace for the first time since I'd come home.

I stayed that way until the water turned cold and my skin had shriveled. Finally I climbed from the tub and let the water drain before hopping into the shower. I barely had the energy to scrub shampoo into my hair, leaving jacking off out of the question—not really like I was in the mood anyway, since porn was up in Massachusetts and the only girl I was actively fucking was analogous to a donkey.

About thirty minutes later I stepped from the shower—I know, all environmentalist/water conservationist harpies are going to kill me, but quite frankly I don't fucking care—and stepped into my room with a towel wrapped loosely around my waist. Not sure why I grabbed the towel in the first place, because it disappeared almost as soon as it appeared, landing in a pile on my floor as I flopped onto my bed.

I go to sleep naked at ten in the morning. Because I'm classy like that.

I avoided my mother as much as possible that day as well as the next, which wasn't hard considering the size of my house and my expertise in the area of Finding-Myself-Something-to-Do. I swam laps in the 25 meter pool until I couldn't feel my arms and walking felt unsteady. I pushed myself in the weight room, adding more and more weight until I thought my arms were going to fall off. I played piano until my fingers were stiff and aching and my ankles hurt from pressing on the pedal so much. I read Macbeth cover to cover, which was the first play we were studying in my Shakespeare class the following semester—I'd already read it my senior year of high school, but I read it again just for something to do.

I skipped meals for the most part as well. I caught the tail end of breakfast one morning but when I entered the dining room and neither of my parents looked up at me, I figured it was safe to say that I was excused from the horrid affair and grabbed a bagel and went back up to my room. Obviously my father had never was bothered if I was joining them or not and since I'd pissed my mother off enough to the point that she didn't even care if I ate I was able to do as I pleased.

Which ended up working out for me. When the chef left I was able to sneak into the kitchen and do as I pleased. She wouldn't let me touch so much as a fork while she was there, and she was always there before and after breakfast, lunch and dinner. After she left, however, I had free reign. Something I'd always dreamed of. I made some of the nastiest shit in the world just because I could. Once I figured out how to turn the stove on, that is. My favorite was macaroni and cheese—which I purchased a box of at the store, since the only things available in our pantry were organic, unlabeled or exotic—mixed with Spaghetti-O's and chunks of Spam with a side of pizza rolls dipped in tomato soup.

It was nasty as fuck, but I ate it. Just because I could.

I enjoyed my freedom. I frolicked in it. Spreading it around like someone spreads a dog's shit to keep it from digging holes—kind of like, "Back off fuckers. I'm spreading my happiness around so you won't come dig holes in my spirit."

That sort of thing.

Christmas hit like a wrecking ball. The house had been decorated by Gianna—yeah, the tree, the lights, everything—and we didn't really do much for Christmas Eve. Esme went to Christmas Eve mass, but she slipped out and slipped in unnoticed. I just woke up Christmas morning thinking, "It's Christmas. Alright cool"

I went downstairs around eleven, listening for the sound of Christmas music as it was some indication of where my mother was. And, after hearing a rather horrid rendition of Carol of the Bells, I found her sitting in the "family" room with my father. He was wearing a new velvet robe and with matching slippers and was smoking a cigar. I could tell by the sour look on her face that Mother was not in favor of it, but her only option was to open the windows as he was going to continue smoking if he pleased.

"Nice of you to join us, Edward" he said, not looking up from his newspaper.

I scratched the back of my head sloppily. The picture of ease, despite the fact that my nerves were strung tight as Hilary Clinton's pussy… God, I'm terrible with mental pictures. Ugh.

"Yeah, you're welcome," I responded, plopping down on the couch and reaching for the remote.

"Don't you want to open your presents?" my mother asked.

I froze, looking at her quizzically? "Presents?"

She patted the pack of her hair. "Of course you have presents, darling."

"Oh."

I was uncomfortable. We'd been carefully avoiding each other for almost a week, and her… generosity… caught me off guard. I wasn't entirely sure how to react. It was like walking on eggshells, but on my tip toes.

She reached over to a table where there was a small stack of gifts all wrapped in silver—because we were functional enough to color-coordinate our wrapping paper but not enough to put gifts under a fucking Christmas tree—placed in a small pile. She handed me the first one.

"This is from your Aunt Mary."

"The one in Chicago?"

She nodded slightly.

I carefully slid my finger beneath the wrapping—because I can't fucking stand ripping it… call me OCD, whatever, but you don't rip wrapping paper—and pulled back the corners. Inside was a watch. I sputtered.

"Chanel?"

She nodded. "It's from a new line of men's watches they have out. I helped her pick it out. I thought… well, I thought you would like it."

I examined it carefully. I didn't want her to read my expression, but I didn't care where it was from. It was a damn cool watch. And I liked it. A lot.

"It's… it's awesome, Es… Mom. You did a good job. I like it."

Tension seemed to ebb from her shoulders like a thick syrup and she visibly relaxed as if a weight had been lifted from her. Her face softened a bit and she smiled. I was about to smile back when the moment was dashed.

"You better like it," Edward said, again without lifting his head from his newspaper. "Watch cost damn near seven thousand dollars."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Esme's shoulders sag.

"Edward, really, that's not what this is—"

"I was not speaking to you, Esme."

I ignored him and turned to her. "Um, do you have anything to open?"

"We did that already while your lazy ass was asleep," Edward said flippantly. "Just open the fucking gifts so we can move on."

Esme shook her head slightly and reached for another one. "This one's from The Masens in Ireland."

Ah, the Masens. That would be my father's brother, his wife and their two snot-nosed children. Well, I guess they weren't really snot-nosed anymore. Bree was probably sixteen now and one of the biggest whores I'd ever seen—as big a whore as you can get in Ireland, anyway. Riley was around fourteen and had gotten into rugby. Most of his Facebook pictures consisted of him in some sort of cast or another. We talked on chat a few times, and I liked him a lot. He was an asshole like me who was constantly pissed at his parents, constantly ragging on the pathetic girls he had to go to school with and constantly making jokes about his sister.

He reminded me of Emmett a bit, actually.

I took the gift gingerly from Esme, shaking it lightly. It was a large box, so it took my twice as long to unwrap it. Inside was a number of smaller ones, and I pulled out and opened the biggest box. Upon seeing the contents, I shook my head so softly that Esme wouldn't notice. Of course. Inside a set of twelve Waterford crystal tumblers, each engraved with EAM in such fancy cursive you could barely read it.

"Edward, let me see," Esme said eagerly, and I looked up to see a gleeful smile on her face. I handed the box over to her, allowing her to look at them to her hearts content.

I picked up an envelope next and read the letter, trying very hard to contain my laugher.

Oi, ye twat waffle-

The missus told Bree and myself that we had to get ye something special. I about told her to go fack herself, but then remembered that you're me cousin and I like ye. 'Cept for when you're acting the maggot, of course. Anyhow, I've enclosed a special gift that I think you'll take great pleasure in, dear cousin—in different ways than Bree's gift, Mary have mercy on her boggin soul—but I beg you not to open it around your parentals. Your mum may be okay with the fact that you do drugs, but my mum isn't. So, for my sake, don't be an arse bandit and wait to open it til you're alone. Chat me up on Facebook and let me know if you like it.

I'mma come visit you in the states soon, dickbrain. So ye best be prepared.

With love and a cocktrough full of affections,
R. R. Masen

I chuckled to myself and put the envelope and his gift aside. I pulled out the next item, which was a letter envelope taped to a manila envelope. Bree's note simply read:

Edward-

Fap off to this.

Love,
Bree.

I opened the envelope and inside lay a picture of two girls in swimsuits. They looked to be about sixteen, and the picture was so cheaply done it looked as if it had been photocopied. The caption read: Crissy, Maggie and Bree, Velvet Strand North, Portmarnock 2009.

My stupid cousin had sent me a picture of her two friends in bikinis on a beach in Ireland.

And she told me to masturbate to it.

My face must have said it all, because my mother asked very quietly, "What is it?"

I quickly shoved the picture back into the envelope and shook my head. "Nothing," I responded, "Just a stupid joke Riley's playing on me. Next?"

"This one is from your father and me."

"Mostly your mother," he piped up.

I was quickly losing patience, quickly contemplating techniques that would calm me down. Because I was going to stand up and punch him the next time he said something. I had enough bottled energy to knock over a freight train and with the way he was going, he was soon going to be my target.

I pulled apart the wrapping carefully, and pulled the top off the rectangular box. Inside was a brown leather notebook with my name, Edward Anthony Masen, engraved on the front. It was very plain looking, nothing fancy or decorative, but there was something about it that had me holding my breath as I pulled it from the box.

"Open it," she said quietly, and as I pulled back the front cover, the inside page clouded before my eyes.

She must have misinterpreted my silence, because she started to ramble nervously. "You may not remember what that's from. You were five, maybe six... no, you were definitely five. You had just started taking piano lessons, and your first recital was for Mother's Day. Your teacher had you all write a piece for… for your mothers and you were to perform it that day. Well, I… I couldn't…"

"You couldn't be there," I finished. Of course I remembered. It was one of the first times when I started realizing that I was not the top priority on my mommy's list of things to do. It had hurt so badly when she missed that recital; I'd spent months on that piece, even though it was something so rudimentary and simple, and when she missed my performance I cried for days.

Esme shook her head sadly. "Well I… I went to your teacher afterward. He had you all turn in a copy of what you wrote. And I asked him for it. He was reluctant—I could tell he didn't like me much—but he finally gave it to me and I had it published."

It was sitting there, staring at me. The first piece I'd ever written, titled For Esme Masen—I was a pretentious little bastard even back then—printed neatly on the first page of the book. I flipped through the pages of staff paper, feeling emotion well up in me at such a force that I wasn't sure I would be able to hold it back.

"Mom… I… thank you…"

She smiled, the first genuine smile I'd seen since I came back, full of love and sincerity and kindness. I wanted to get up and hug her, for the first time in a long time, but held back. Instead I stood from the chair and made my way to the doorway. "I have presents for you and Ed… Dad as well. They're in my bag, I'll go get them."

I smiled to myself, feeling some sort of hope and happiness as I climbed the staircase and hurried to my room. I felt a true sense of excitement for the first time in what felt like years and as I rummaged through my suitcase, I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, we could be a normal family afterall and everything would work out in the end.

With a teal Tiffany box in each hand I hurried down the staircase and back toward the family room, a smile still on my face. I couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she opened—

"I can't fucking believe you spent eighty thousand dollars on some scraps of leather, Esme. What was going through your goddamn thick skull?"

"You should go back to not caring what I spend on things. I liked you better then."

"Yeah, well I liked you better when you weren't such a frigid bitch and actually put out a little. Guess we can't get everything we want, huh?"

"Our son deserves a nice Christmas present, Edward."

"What was wrong with a damn iPad, or a new computer? Or fuck, even a new car. An eighty-thousand dollar notebook—"

"You can't put a price on sentimentality, Edward."

"Oh that's original, what book did you steal that from? Do me a favor and cut the philosophical bullshit. Just because you have a little piece of paper with your name on it doesn't mean you're fucking Aristotle. You and Edward are both alike that way… too fucking stupid to make sense out of anything."

"And you're so fucking smart?" she hissed. "What were you going to do with the money, huh? Spend it on a weekend of cocaine and prostitutes in Colombia again? Go gamble it away in a Monte Carlo binge? Oh oh, I know. You'll take that slut of a girlfriend out to Aspen for the week, call it a business trip and then tell me that two hundred thousand dollars is missing from the bank because a few of your checks weren't cashed on time."

Glass shattered and fell to the floor and I had to bite down on my teeth to keep my calm. I peered around the doorway to see a broken vase lying scattered on the floor a few inches from where Edward's head was.

He merely looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. "Are you finished?"

She looked like she was ready to spit fire. Her face was red, her hair loosened from its tight bun and framing her face wildly. But her eyes… they were so full of fire and pure, unadulterated hatred that all air left my body. This wasn't my mother; my mother was icy and cold. Always cool and collected. Never had I seen her this wild and furious… never in my life.

Just like that my bubble had burst. Quietly, I laid my father's box containing the sterling silver cufflinks and my mother's box containing the emerald encrusted tennis bracelet on an end table in the hallway. I ran to the garage and grabbed the keys to the Aston Martin. I started the car without thinking of the repercussions. I threw the car in reverse without hesitation. I pulled out onto the road and sped away without a clue as to where I was going.

---

There was one pub in the whole of Forks… not a hole in the wall bar, there were plenty of those. I'm talking about a pub. One that was paneled wall to floor in dark wood, lit dimly, covered wall to wall with shamrocks and Guiness posters and had the word 'Murphy' in the name. And, thank fuck, it was open. Why it was p[en on Christmas day was beyond me, but fuck it if I cared at all. I parked the car wherever I saw fit and walked in.

Flogging Molly was playing softly from the speakers—loud enough to be heard by soft enough so as not to cause overstimulation. Signs were lit casting a neon glow against the bar top and empty wooden tables. A youngish-looking man I'd seen around town, Mack something or other, stood behind the bar with a clipboard in hand, taking inventory of the liquor that was on display. When the bell dinged to symbol my arrival he looked up, nodding in my direction.

"How's it goin?"

I sat down at the bar, rapping my knuckled against the wood.

"Good, you got any vintage Jameson on you?"

He turned and quirked an eyebrow before nodding appreciatively. "You know your stuff, I'm impressed. I may have a bottle or so in my office." He turned to go, but hesitated. "It's gonna cost you."

I waved him off. "I'm in here at noon on Christmas day. I really don't care about it costing me."

"Fair enough. I'll be right back."

He disappeared around the corner, only to come back a few seconds later with a green bottle. Grabbing a tumbler from under the counter, he poured a generous amount and slid it forward. "Listen man, I don't want any trouble from the cops. You at least got a fake ID or something on you?"

I looked at him dubiously. "It's Forks, Mack. They all know who I am"

He sighed and looked like he was about to say something.

"No one's going to bother you."

He nodded before turning back to liquor cabinet. I stared down at the amber liquid, swirling it around my glass before raising it and taking a sip. I held back a grimace as it burned down my throat and put it back down on the table with a thud.

"So what're you doing here on Christmas?" he asked, not turning around to look at me.

I really wasn't in the mood to get into the whole girly bitch-about-my-sad-life-with-the-bartender business, so I merely said, "Family stuff."

"Ah," he responded. His tone implied that he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Why are you open on Christmas?"

He turned around and placed his clipboard down by the register. Pulling a tray of glasses out from under the bar, he sat them on the counter and began to methodically clean each one with a rag.

"Gretchen died five years ago. Rest of my family is back in Wexford. I really don't have anyone else, so I figured maybe if I opened up someone would come in here at some point and then I'd have someone to spend Christmas with."

"Well I'm happy to oblige," I murmured, tipping my glass in his direction before tipping whiskey into my mouth. "I mean, it's not like I really have Christmas to spend with anyone either."

We fell into a comfortable silence, me sipping the whiskey while he cleaned the glasses. It seemed methodical and soothing to the both of us and we didn't bother to speak until I had finished my glass.

"You want another?"

I nodded. "Please." I watched as he began to fill the glass. "So you're from Ireland?" I asked.

He nodded. "Born and raised in Wexford 'til I was about nineteen. Came here to go to NYU." He chuckled. "Wanted to be a writer. That's where I met Gretchen." He gestured to a picture behind him, hanging on the wall directly behind the register. She was an extremely attractive woman, young and blond and happy and beautiful. "Took her back to meet the family, graduated, got married at twenty-two. She got diagnosed with leukemia three months after our wedding, died one year later."

"Shit, man."

He smiled. "That year was the best of my life. I wouldn't take it back for anything. That's why I built this bar. It was something she always wanted, for us to work together in our own bar when we were old and gray. So I named it after her and it's where I spend most of my time. So I can be close to her." He sighed and rolled his shoulders. "God, listen to me. I'm the fucking bartender, I'm supposed to listen to sob stories not tell 'em. It's in my goddamn job description."

He made a move to fill my glass again but I shook my head. Instead I pulled out my wallet and tossed three hundreds on the counter. He looked at it skeptically, almost as if he was afraid to touch it.

"Buy her some nice flowers," I said. I stood up from the table. "I'm gonna head home. Thanks for the drink, man."

He waved and pocketed the money. I could have sworn that I saw tears in his eyes but I said nothing as I exited the pub and climbed into my car.

I drove around for a few more hours, making it all the way out to La Push beach just before sunset. I didn't get out of my car, just sat parked on a hill and watched as the sun sank behind the water. I knew I should go home at some point. I just couldn't force myself to turn the car on.

I rolled myself a joint as a sort of celebratory gesture for getting through the day and smoked enough to make my whole face numb before fishing under the seat. Dad had liquor stored in every single one of his cars. I just had to find it. My fingers grasped the neck of a bottle and I pulled it out with a whoop. Bailey's.

Giddy. I was fucking giddy.

I drank nearly half the bottle in loud gulps before finally mustering the balls to drive back home. For being high and drunk off my ass I had spectacular control of the car, gripping the wheel tightly between my fists and driving nearly twice the speed limit. I arrived home in nearly half the time it should have taken me.

I entered the house in a daze. The alcohol and weed were really starting to take effect and as I stumbled in through the garage door I felt as if I could pass out right in the doorway.

Spectacular end to the day. That particular act seems to go over really well with the mother.

And speaking of said mother…

"Edward where have you been? Your father and I have been worried sick! We thought—"

I didn't get the chance to answer. I was thrown back into the wall as white hot pain exploded through my cheek, blinding me. My head knocked into the wall, hard, and I began to lose feelings in my legs and arms. My body slumped lifelessly to the ground. My head felt detached from the rest of my body and it seemed to float there for a moment, hovering before I gave in to the throbbing in my head and surrendered to darkness.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Well… not much I can say, really. Like, dislike? Review?

MOVIE REC:

*Lie With Me* starring Lauren Lee Smith and Eric Balfour.. beautiful movie, really. Lots of graphic sex so again, not a movie to watch with your mother. Follows the story line of an aggressive, outgoing girl who is very in tune with her sexuality and her affair with an equally aggressive man. Despite all the raw sexuality, there is an intense level of emotional depth present as well as she discovers the difference between love and lust. You won't notice how powerful it is until the end, which makes it that much better. Watch it, you won't regret it.

Alright, let me know how it goes… either the story or the movie. I'm interested to hear about your reactions :)