Casey Lincoln is sixteen and boy crazy. She volunteers in the library after school three days a week, saying her mother thinks it will look good on her college transcripts but that it actually gives her a chance to hang out with her boyfriend Matt who works at the gas station on the way home.

"I tell her that I finish here at six," she shrugs. "It means we get some alone time." She waggles her eyebrows at me in a way that makes me think of Jessica Stanley. I wonder what she's up to now, and if Mike took her to prom after I died.

Casey is the one who files the Seventeen magazines in the Young Adult section and points out the young starlets to me on their pages. "See he is totally dating his co-star," she says authoritatively, pointing at a grainy paparazzi photo where a young couple looks completely unrecognizable. "But they don't want anyone to know. It's an epic love." she sighs.

I try to cover my disbelieving snort with a cough.

"You don't believe in epic love, Isobel," she says to me, "but that's only because you haven't met the one."

This time I don't even bother hiding my eye-roll.

But Casey suddenly looks up from what she's doing with a start, and mumbles a little bit, and then apologizes. "I'm sorry, I know... you... I mean. Not everyone is a good guy." She wanders around to the other side of the shelving and starts rearranging books for no reason.

Oh, that's right. Poor Isobel, suffering at the hands of her evil ex-fiancée. Some days even I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore.

"Anyway," she continues, ultimately undeterred, "I've found the perfect guy for you. I would totally take a run at him myself, but you know there's Matt, who I am totally in love with, and also he's super-old. Your dude, I mean, not Matt."

I am about to interrupt to assure Casey that I am only one year older than she is, but my phone vibrates and it's Alice, and I've learned the hard way about not taking her 911 calls.

"I would have told you sooner," Alice says in a rush, "but I genuinely did not know until right this second, and neither did any of the rest of the family. I promise!"

Casey hasn't noticed that I've answered the call, and is still prattling to me from behind the shelving. "He's a doctor, Isobel, so you should totally hit that. I saw him at the clinic on Friday, which is also completely not for the reason you're thinking, by the way..."

"Bella? I mean it! I am not lying to you. Are you there...?" Alice's voice starts to sound very far away.

"...because Mr Troy, who is my asshat gym teacher. You know, the one I told you about? Well, he was convinced it was sprained..."

"Bella? Sweetie, answer me. I need to explain..."

"...and there he was! Smoking hot Dr. Masen, all with the brooding eyes and the floppy hair..."

The two voices begin to press in on my skull sharply from opposite directions. I close my eyes.

"Bella! Tell me you can hear me. Have you seen him? Is that why you're freaking out right now?"

"...and he doesn't actually look, like, super old. He's not like Gerald-old. But he's a doctor, so he's definitely not my age. So he'd be perfect for you. Plus he's all smooth, with the dazzling eyes and the 'Call me, Edward' which, dude, may have been a sexy name like, a hundred years ago but...

"Bella!"

"Isobel? Oh my God, Isobel? MRS AINSLEY! ISOBEL TOTALLY FAINTED."

The ground does seem to have rushed up to meet me, though I'm pretty sure I can't actually faint.

Mrs Ainsley is leaning over me, and Casey has a phone pressed to her ear and they both seem to be talking very loudly and very fast, but they still sound a long way off. The thunderous noise in my head is drowning them out.

"The doctor's coming, Isobel," Mrs Ainsley says in a way that is supposed to be soothing, but instantly causes realization to hit me like a slap. I start to struggle up to a sitting position, protesting loudly that, of all people, a doctor is not required.

But of course it's too late. He's already striding through the library, like some sort of hero off the cover of one of Casey's favorite romance novels. Dark denim jeans and an impeccably tailored pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. Like me, he's adopted spectacles, though they don't seem to age him at all, and behind them his eyes are a deep, impenetrable gold.

"Dude. That was really fast," Casey mutters, slightly awed.

"I was nearby," Edward says, dismissively. He's crouching over me in an instant, his hands are in my hair, his fingers lightly probing at my scalp. I forget to hold my breath, my lungs are flooded with his scent. It's all too much, too much. He smells like a rainstorm, like fresh blood after a kill, like home.

"Did you hit your head when you fell, Miss Whitlock?" he asks me, his voice rough, his expression unreadable.

He holds up a finger, indicating I should follow it, but I can't break eye contact with him, even for the sake of this stupid facade. He's here, after two years, and his hands are on me lighting up trails across my skin and I don't know what he expects me to say.

"When did you last drink something?" he says, an eyebrow arching. I try to think, but he's confusing me. To talk, I have to breathe. If I breathe again, I think I might be done.

He sighs in frustration, and gets to his feet. The absence of his touch is like salt in a fresh wound.

"I think Miss Whitlock is just dehydrated," he says reassuringly to Mrs Ainsley, giving her a thousand-watt smile that makes her blush to the roots of her white hair. Casey gives me a thumbs-up behind his back, winking outrageously. "But I'll drive her home and stay with her for a little bit to make sure."

I am still mute, waiting for my synapses to start firing the way they are supposed to. I feel betrayed by this stupid immortal body, still utterly overwhelmed by the infuriating Edward Cullen.

Masen. Whatever.

Edward leans down and scoops an arm underneath me, lifting me easily to my feet. Casey hands me my bag, the traitor, and there is really nothing left to do but let Edward lead me from the library and deposit me in a dark green Mercedes he has parked out front.

Edward pulls out from the curb slowly, giving Mrs Ainsley a small wave. She clutches a hand to her chest, still blushing like a schoolgirl. Once he is around the corner and out of sight, he drives the way Edward always has: effortlessly, and like a maniac.

In minutes we pull up in my driveway. I don't ask how he knows where I live.

We sit there in the car, an uncomfortable silence filling all the space around us, suffocating me, pressing in on us both.

"Will you invite me in?" he asks finally, sounding suddenly unsure.

"When have you ever waited for an invitation?" My voice is bleak. There is a certain inevitability about all of this.

He follows me into the house, and I wish idly for human distractions. That I could be making a pot of tea right now, or a sandwich. Smoking a cigarette. Something to do with my hands, to break this interminable, awkward silence.

We stand in my kitchen, with its gorgeous bay windows overlooking the stand of trees in the backyard that stretch through to Silver Lake.

"It's a little like Forks," he says finally, "Though I guess it doesn't rain as much."

I hiss in frustration.

"Small talk, Edward? Really? You want to talk about the weather? You want to reminisce about Forks?" My voice is hard, angular. He's had me off balance since Casey started talking about him, and suddenly I feel like I'm finally finding my feet again. "What are you doing here?"

"Alice tried pretty hard," he said, running a hand through his hair, his expression almost embarrassed. "Polish sung poetry. God knows where she picked that up."

My face contorts into a scowl.

"It wasn't her fault. Jasper...distracted her...one evening and I saw a picture of this house. That was all. I've spent the better part of three months criss-crossing New England."

"None of that answers my question," I respond flatly.

He leans back against the kitchen counter. Late afternoon sun breaks through the cloud cover, causing dancing light to ripple across his face. He looks impossibly beautiful, his strong features softened in a combination of confusion and regret.

"Why did you take Jasper's name?"

I'm thrown by his rapid segue, and it must show on my face. He waves at the direction of my locket. "I mean, you're wearing my father's crest, but you're calling yourself a Whitlock."

There's something brittle in his tone. If I didn't know better, I would think he was jealous.

"What are you doing here, Edward?"

He sighs in frustration. Clearly my mind is no more open to him now than it was when I was alive.

"Rosalie said something in New York. She said...that you would have chosen this."

I shrug noncommittally.

He tilts his head slightly in bewilderment. "Is she wrong?"

"No. You know I would have. I told you enough times."

He huffs in exasperation. "But that was...I mean you didn't have any idea. You were just a..."

"Just a what, Edward?"

"You didn't know what you were saying," he finishes weakly.

Suddenly it is like some sort of dam breaks and I can't stop the flow of words as they leave my mouth. "When you left me, you broke everything inside of me. Every bone in my body. You tore every tendon. I would have cried rivers of tears, but you made it so that I couldn't. I would have cut myself, but because of you it had no effect. You chained me in this prison, and you walked away. How dare you presume to come here, into my home, and tell me what I thought and what I felt!"

Edward's face is a mask of anguish.

"I am only standing here because of our family. Without them I would have found a way to die. But they held me together, they mended the pieces. "

Edward slams a fist down onto the granite counter. It cracks satisfyingly beneath his hand.

"You don't understand," he seethes.

"I understand that you're a coward!" I spit back. "I understand that you told me you always wanted to be with me, and that in the end that meant nothing."

"You meant everything, Bella. And you died. And it was my fault."

He is shouting. There is a glint in his eyes, a hard edge that I have never seen before, and it ignites something in me, something long dormant.

"And they expected me to spend every day watching you wrestle with being a newborn, watching you fight the demon inside of us. Realistically, the probability of watching you take human lives and then try to live with the torment and the regret. And all the while knowing that it was all because of me."

He is advancing toward me, backing me against my side of the counter, one hand rifling through his hair with anger and frustration.

"I was supposed to fake your death. I was supposed to tell your father. I was supposed to attend your damned funeral. And all the while I was supposed to forget about every human opportunity that I had cost you."

I am pressed against the counter now, and he has a hand on either side of me, pinning me in place. His eyes are blazing, his chest heaving. I can feel his breath on my face, feel the devastation, the infinite sorrow in his twisted features. The craving for understanding, for a forgiveness I cannot offer.

I place one palm flat on his chest, feeling the muscle contract beneath my fingertips. He holds his breath.

"You were supposed to be with me," I whisper, as I push him gently back, and turn away. "Get out of my house."