o hai

i just graduated nursing school and well... i have time. much time. i missed this story so much, it ain't even a little bit funny.

thanks for sticking with me, yo.

and i updated this earlier in the week over at a different forest. me, jandco, and some of the other rangers will be doing that. updating there first. so register if you wanna read this earlier, or read jandco's new oneshot, etc.

oh, and i haven't flounced to the bones fandom. but you should read the stories, js js

okay, i hate long author's notes so here:

Chapter 11

How did I make it through dessert and coffee?

I don't know how I made it through dessert and coffee.

Or how I drove home.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

And it was amazing. Like… I've been kissed. I've spent hours in the back seats of cars, making out and steaming windows while listening to Nirvana Unplugged in New York.

But that…

It was like having one of those moments where all the facts have always been there, but it just took one little thing- one simple little sentence uttered nonchalantly by a non-participating party or a line in a book or something but you just got it. You finally understood.

And I finally understood what it meant when they say "he took my breath away".

And I was more determined than ever to figure out what the hell was going on us.

If I could only make it to Saturday.

My unease was so bad by Wednesday that James noticed it immediately. He met me as planned in the choir room, strolling into the echoing hall with a whistle on his lips and a jaunty lift in his step. He straddled a chair and parked himself right next to the piano bench where I sat waiting, tapping my heel and wiggling my fingers on Middle C and D, the sound of my impatience clanging and vibrating throughout the excellent acoustics of the music department.

"Something… bothering you?" he asked, slinging his motorcycle-ish leather jacket across the piano. He was wearing an old white undershirt with holes near the collar, and he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. I would've punched him, but the guy was like one of those popular guys from high school who never got in trouble because he was just so adorable. I laughed without joy as an image of a young James flashed in my head, grinning while seducing a bunch of teachers at a piano recital.

"Okay, I give. What is up with you, gorgeous?" He smoothly rose from his chair and slid onto the bench next to me, bumping my hip and making me shove over. I shrugged and started playing the song we had been working on, slopping through it and not even caring. I was too distracted.

"Hey, hey, hey. I know you're a novice, but come on. Treat the girl with a little respect." He had reached out and lightly placed his hands on mine, slowing me down and gently pressing on my fingers with his. I looked down and saw the veins in his arms popping out as he guided me; he had blonde hair on his knuckles, and his hands were cracked and dry. He was a nail-biter, too; I couldn't help myself from comparing his tanned skin to Edward's, his fingers so different from the long and nimble ones of my other piano teacher. James' looked like he saw manual labor; Edward's were masculine in a different way, a stronger way. Kinda like the difference between a mechanic and a scientist or engineer or doctor or something like that.

I allowed James to take me through the first few stanzas, mostly because it was soothing. Really, he was very good as an instructor. He had his serious face on; he truly wanted me to improve, and for that, I adored him.

"See? You stroke a lady, and she'll always purr for you." Back to irritation at the immature boy. What a tool, really. I laughed at his expression, however- this time with joy. How could I not? There was something so endearing about a horn dog who didn't pretend to be a nice guy. Unlike some people I knew.

"Thanks, James," I said, shouldering him over and "stroking the lady," as he called it. "How's my fingering?" I grinned and started to play for real; I noticed with some surprise and much pleasure that I actually sounded pretty decent.

"Hey, that's pretty good, Bella. You been cheatin' on me with that other windbag piano guy, or what?" I laughed, at ease for the first time in what seemed like forever. I didn't care that he was a total walking hard-on; James was fun.

Plus, I was going to kill Edward with this little tune. And I would forever love James for that.

The rest of our lesson was spent with James giving me pointers on flair; he had decided I was finally ready to learn how to sing while playing. Of course I sucked at it. I was starting to get frustrated again, especially when my mind reverted to That Night, the one where I was Darling Nikki'd and the alley and hot breath on my face and goddamn, I hit a wrong note and it must've been obvious that I was irritated (distracted, turned on) because James once again put his hands on mine, this time stopping me from playing.

"Hey, where are you today?" His look of concern brought me a moment of focus. I stared into his navy blue eyes and looked at the wrinkle between his eyebrows; in that moment I almost wished I was attracted to his personality instead of his rockin' bod.

"I- oh, I'm fine. Can we just finish?" I am such a sucky liar.

"Fine, my left nut. Come on, Bella. Talk to Uncle Jimmy." Oh, lord. Dirty Uncle Jimmy in the house.

"He kissed me." I blurted it out before I could check myself. I cringed a little but decided it was good to purge. James was a guy, right? He was a dick, he played the piano. Maybe he'd have a unique perspective on the motivations of another dick piano player. Maybe he'd have some sage-like advice to offer. Kinda like when you ask one of the guys at Home Depot about the leak in your faucet- they're there, and they're wearing an apron with a logo. They must know what they're talking about, right?

"Who kissed you?"

"Edward, Jesus." I hated it when guys were willfully stupid.

"Ohhh. When? I thought you hated each other. Was it hot? I bet it was hot. Nothin' like making out with someone you have open distaste for." He had risen up a little and was now leaning on the top of the piano, chin in his hand. He was looking off into the distance, obviously reminiscing as he kept sighing. I cleared my throat and banged on the keys, and that brought him to. Obviously he was hamming it up, and I pretended to be unamused, but I couldn't help it. James was making me feel better about this whole business.

"We don't hate each other. I don't think. Err, I don't hate him? Fuck if I know." I was back to tinkling the keys distractedly, desperate for a guy's opinion on the whole thing.

"Ooh, I like it when you curse. It's sexy. Listen, stop fucking around. I thought you were going to talk to him? You need to stop letting your tongue speak for you. Unless it's with me." He grinned, a lazy, ironic sort of "I get laid when I want" grin, and suddenly, I felt comfortable with the guy. He knew. He could see I had a crush on another guy, and like that, he stopped actually hitting on me and simply flirted because that was how he talked to women.

"I know. We're supposed to talk on Saturday… which means I'll probably be at the bar. Listen, do me a favor? If you see me kissing him again, come up and punch me or something." He threw his head back at that, a genuine laugh of delight, and he sat back down and put his arm around me.

"How about if I drag you away like a caveman and make him jealous? Guys like Edward respond to that shit." The hour was up, but he started playing around on the keyboard, his fingers dancing and the notes spilling out like joy. He was playing "My ding-a-ling" and I joined in the bawdy lyrics, letting go and feeling light for the first time since the disastrous/potentially positive dinner.

"Bella," James said as we got up to leave. "Knock 'im dead."

"Will do, Uncle Jimmy."

Thursday.

Friday.

Saturday.

I filled the next few days with work and routine. It was the only way I knew to keep my mind from freaking out and reverting. I had no actual plan, just show up at my piano lesson and see what would happen. It was a major departure for me to not overanalyze and obsess over the permutations of what might happen. I think I entered some sort of zone in which the Bella of old did not exist; I was a new woman, determined once again to set things straight with my sexy piano teacher.

But as the sun rose that Saturday and I realized I hadn't thought about what to wear, I started to get nervous. I considered calling the posse in to dress me again, but I felt ridiculous and irrationally annoyed with my friends for being a crutch for me. New Bella dresses herself. I dressed for comfort, not sex. That would just put me on edge.

About a half hour before I was leaving, my house phone rang and I picked it up, making bets with myself over who it could be. And it was Garrett, of course.

"Darling, will we be seeing your tight ass this fine evening?" I could picture him sitting in a fabulous chair, wearing like, grey slacks and a tight-fitting button-down. His legs would be crossed, and his hair would be effortlessly, deliberately mussed.

"Yes," I replied crisply, smearing some Bonne Bell Watermelon on my mouth. "I'm supposed to talk to him."

"Talk to whom, exactly?" I imagined Garrett inspecting his fingernails, his eyebrows raising along with his questioning tone.

"Garrett."

"Me? We're talking right now. I think you should talk to sexy Eddie instead. A little birdie told me there was a little bit of macking going on at the dinner party. Now, Bella. I thought we were friends." His hurt tone really sounded like he was put out with me.

"We are," I sighed, slipping my thin wallet into my back pocket. Here we go. "What did you hear?" I genuinely thought no one had seen us. I was sure he hadn't said anything. Had he?

"Oh, that your breath was taken away. Please tell me he's not a sloppy kisser. I have preconceived notions that I don't care to be taken away from me. Is our Edward a delicious tongue massager or a disgusting St. Bernard?"

I giggled at the image. "Definitely delicious. Look, he was just trying to shut me up, and Garrett… he says we didn't sleep together."

"Tell me something I didn't already know."

"I know, I know. It's just... wait. How do you know?"

"Bella," he sighed, "it's obvious. You two have too much sexual tension to have done the nasty. But I figured you needed to find out on your own. I can't do everything for you."

"You're lucky I love you," I replied in an annoyed tone. Was it that obvious to everyone but myself?

"Don't I know it. Listen, don't you have a lesson to go to? What are you going to do, make out?"

"I don't even know," I sighed. "What should I do?"

"I think Edward has some explaining to do. It's fair that you ask for a state of the union."

I laughed at that. "State of the union? Am I America, or the Congress?"

"You're Jackie O., darling. I say play the part of the demure English teacher and allow the boy to speak. You'd be surprised what you find out when you keep your tongue to yourself."

"Thank you. That's ever-so helpful."

"I know. Kiss kiss. Good luck. Call Uncle Garrett once you've removed your tongue from his throat."

"Why does everyone want to be my uncle?"

"Oh, but I'm shocked. Are you and Edward role-playing? Because that's just… a little bit dirty and a lot bit fascinating."

"Not Edward, silly. James."

"Even better. But darling, if you fuck James, I'm going to be upset on both Edward's behalf and mine."

"You don't have to worry about that." I hope. I didn't want to do James.

"Good. That would make it awkward when we all gathered for holidays."

"You make no sense sometimes."

"Wrong, dear. I make more sense than most. Go. Tickle the ivories, then tickle-"

"Bye, Uncle Garr."

"Smooches."

Shaking my head, I grabbed my keys and went off to my lesson, feeling… nothing, oddly. Huh. I got in the car and drove, totally aware of my surroundings. I wasn't in denial, but I wasn't really in anticipation. I was simply… aware.

As I was arriving, I heard some pretty intense piano playing going on. I stood outside a bit, listening. It reminded me of my childhood- the one time Renee made the mistake of getting a pet for me and she got a dog. I never took care of it, except when it came time to walk the thing- I had the hots for this neighbor who played the violin. I used to stand outside his house, listening to him practice. He was a total jerk, but man, could he play. I would totally lose myself in fantasizing about him.

Familiar situation.

I stood out there, listening to the ebb and flow of the notes. It was a showpiece. I heard the trills and delicate runs, played with intensity that I could practically see on Edward's face. He was probably trying to show off because he knew I was coming, but I didn't even care. I was carried away, a chilly wind lifting the hair off my shoulders as I stood, eyes half-closed, swaying a little. I could feel my chest expand with each successively larger breath, my lungs filling with the music, swelling and bursting and letting go, letting it out, letting it back in. The intensity of it made me want to weep, and to be honest- it made me a little turned on, too. Edward was good. He was amazing. I could never be that good. I'd have to be satisfied with him being good enough for the both of us.

It ended abruptly, and I was suddenly brought out of my trance. I felt like it was a sign, an indication that things would go well. I was buzzing with feeling, the music carrying my feet the few final steps to the door. I hesitated, my fist hovering at the door, when it burst open. He was standing there, a bottle of Fiji in his hand. He looked rumpled in his white undershirt and low-slung jeans; he looked delicious. Startling sexy. It was like no matter how many times I saw him, I continued to be surprised at how attractive he was to me. Before I could let that thought warm me, I remembered that I wasn't the only woman to ever feel this way toward this guy, and I let a bored face overtake my expression. I didn't want to give him clues as to how I felt until I was sure he didn't think I was disgusting or irritating or just another girl.

"Nice. Chopin?"

"Hardly," he replied, taking a swig of his water and swinging the door by the upper corner, allowing me in. I had to duck under his arm and I got a brief whiff of his clean odor. He even smelled sexy.

"Um. Rachmaninoff?" I didn't really know much about piano stuff, but I knew it wasn't Beethoven because I'd seen Immortal Beloved like a thousand times. It was too… uncomplicated. More expressive. Hotter.

I walked over to the piano, half-expecting the thing to be warm to the touch. I stopped at the bench but didn't sit down, waiting to see what he'd do. Whether he wanted to talk or ignore or what. He sat down, patting the seat next to him, so I joined him, avoiding having our thighs touch.

"I was dead from love's bliss; I lay buried in her arms; I was wakened by her kisses; I saw heaven in her eyes." He was playing, frowning at the keyboard, muttering the words under his breath. If it hadn't sounded like such a line, I would've been swept away in the drama of it all.

Instead, I barked a short laugh. "What?"

"Franz Liszt, Bella. He was the last thing I studied before I left the Conservatory. I did this huge report on him, and this piece was always my favorite." The notes quieted, his playing softened. He was pressing into the keys, leaning into the notes, eyes closed with memory making the music. It flowed from him, and it was beautiful. He opened his eyes and grinned at me. "This piece is based on a poem about orgasms." Such an infuriating douche sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" I demanded before I could censor myself. I held my ground though, continuing to stare into his wild green eyes. We stared at each other for a second, and he was the first to move. Score one for Bella.

"Come on, time for your fifth lesson." He stood up and stuck his hand out at me; I decided not to question it and took his hand. Smooth and warm. I watched his veins strain as he helped me off the bench, and I tried not to fall into his arms when he pulled a little too forcefully.

"Sorry," he said quietly, looking down. I had stumbled and pitched forward. "You're a lot lighter than I remembered."

"Gee, thanks," I said, and he let go of my hand. Without checking to make sure I followed, he walked over to the table by the door and grabbed his wallet and keys.

"Come on. We're late."

"For what?" If I had expected an answer, I was to be disappointed. He opened the door and held it open much the same way he had a few minutes before. This time I sailed under his arm and didn't look back as I made my way to the curb.

"This way," he said behind me, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. What the hell? We didn't head to a car, and I found myself being dragged for several minutes before I really caught up to him. We weren't really holding hands, and I didn't appreciate being treated like a disobedient child, so I yanked my hand back and tried to keep up with his long strides.

We walked for several blocks; the houses and townhome complexes turned into corner liquor stores and quaint-looking boutiques; I didn't know how many minutes passed by, but I didn't feel tired or anything. After the first block or so, I started to pay attention to little details, totally choosing to ignore how weird and nonsensical the situation was. Crisp, chilly weather. If we hadn't been walking so quickly, I'd be frozen from the wind. Fall was turning into winter early, the clouds unable to decide between storm and the regular overcast Washington weather. I took a deep breath and let the sharp chill hurt my lungs; in a way, it was a good reminder that I was alive. And following a hot guy to God-knows-where.

After maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours, we reached our destination. It was what seemed to be a hole-in-the-wall record shop, covered in dust and totally up my alley.

Edward held the door open for me and this time, I smiled up at him. If he didn't know how much I loved records, he was about to find out.

The place was just as I would want it to be. Musty and covered in the stickers of obscure bands, "Sub-Pop" logos all over the place. The requisite Led Zeppelin and Henry Rollins posters on the wall with a huge, psychedelic Bob Marley next to George Carlin. There was a cardboard cut-out of Darth Vader in the corner and a bored-looking clerk behind the register who saw Edward and lighted up with recognition.

"Brougham," he said. "I've got some shit for ya." I raised my eyebrow, never guessing in a thousand years that the somewhat snooty Edward Cullen would be friends with a guy who looked like he played Warcraft on his computer behind the counter all day long.

"Excellent." I watched for a moment and saw the cashier guy reach under the counter and pull out a stack of records. Edward leaned forward and the two became absorbed in what I'm sure was a pretentious conversation about some rare, live album or b-sides of an underappreciated and ahead-of-his-time artist.

I wandered until a small handmade sign proclaiming "60s" caught my eye. The lettering seemed like a bored high school girl had made it, chin in palm as she waited by the register for some hot guy like Edward to wander into her part-time job.

I started alphabetically, grinning at albums I recognized from Renee's collection, frowning at the more obscure artists. When I got to Petula Clark I slowed, flipping through until I found the Greatest Hits. I pulled it out, feeling like I was sitting on Grandma Swan's good furniture, it was in such good condition. I smoothed my hand across the glossy cover and flipped it to the track listing, reading the titles and recognizing two.

I felt Edward behind me, but I pretended I didn't notice and tried to ignore that eerie and provocative feeling you get when you know someone's watching you. I put Petula back and moved on to Cream, the colors of Disraeli Gear catching my eye.

He moved closer and his arm reached over my shoulder, the sleeve of his shirt moving my hair as he leaned forward without touching me. I could hear him breathing above me and I watched his fingers as he nimbly flipped past Cream, stopping at the Ds.

"I grew up listening to the Dave Clark Five," he murmured above me, and my eyes looked down as his fingers clasped the corner of the black-and-white-and-orange album. "He wanted to be Mike Smith when he grew up, so he took piano lessons." His voice was low and right next to my ear, only he wasn't really talking to me- he was simply talking. I held my breath, knowing this was him "talking about it", about whatever it was that was so confusing to the both of us.

"He was the life of the party, my father. I idolized him. A real showman. He wasn't really great, but he was entertaining. Everyone adored him; there were always parties at my house growing up, full of music and booze. The day I got into the Conservatory, he told me it was the proudest moment of his life." He pulled the record out and stepped back. I chanced turning around; he still wasn't looking at me. He reverently pulled out the sleeve and slid the vinyl out, palming it like the treasure it was.

"My dad died last Christmas. Did you know that?" His eyes flickered from his perusal of the record and I shook my head. "He was drunk. He t-boned a mother and her child. They all died." I felt rather than heard his voice crack. I said nothing. What was there to say?

He carefully slid the record back in place. "Anyway, I guess you could say I have issues. I dropped out of school so I could take care of Masen. I started recording studio music by day, offering piano lessons to kids who wanted them, and then I sort of fell into the bar thing." He shrugged, ending his narration, and I felt an odd sort of calm rest on my shoulders. Never in a billion years would I think he'd share something so personal with me, even if he didn't go into detail. I felt myself forgiving him for all of his asshole maneuvers while the feminist in me slapped my brain around for the forgiveness. What could I say? There was something about seeing the vulnerable side of an otherwise impervious guy.

We stood there, both looking at the record. I still didn't know what to say. You're damaged, I'm a neurotic mess. Quite the dynamic duo.

"Come on, you need the Dave Clark Five in your life. Consider this a part of your musical education." He held his arm out and I took his elbow, walking with him to the register. The Warcraft guy raised a pierced eyebrow at me and I stood up a little straighter. What, never seen a guy like him with a boring little girl like me before?

Warcraft rang up the records and stuffed them into a used bag. Edward took them and slid the package under his arm, never letting go of my hand stuffed into his inner elbow. We walked out the door and back up the street, he looking very pleased with himself and me… with probably a very confused expression on my face.

"Edward?" I ventured, nearly kicking myself for my inability to leave well enough alone. "Are… are we… okay? I'm just so confused." Ugh, cringe.

"Your hand is cold." He stuffed my cold hand into his pocket and we walked a block or so before he responded to me.

"Look, I like you. Maybe too much. I just- I have hang-ups and… can we just be?" It sounded like a cop-out, but when I looked up at him, he was staring at me with such intensity that I forgave him. Again. Maybe I was just a sucker for a pretty face.

He continued to look at me so intently that I softened. He was asking me for patience, for time. Was I willing to give it? Hell yes, I was. To an extent. My patience only reached out so far.

I grinned up at him. We were in front of his place by then. He drew my hand from his pocket and pulled out my record, shuffling his feet when I took it. I stood on my tiptoes and lightly kissed the scruff on his chin.

"Thanks for the album," I whispered, and I took off before I could stuff my mouth with my own foot. Or his tongue. Garrett would be disappointed in me.

I would most definitely be going to the bar that night.