With Pretty Boy gone I stood in front of my shoebox-sized closet and tried to decide what to wear. The fact was, Edward had bombarded his way into my life directly after a lengthy period of not doing my laundry — it happens... a lot.

I'm a stress cleaner, and clearly I had been lacking adequate turmoil in my life. If I had thought things through I would have thrown in a load while I was sulking in the laundry room.

Forward thinking was never a forte of mine.

I was short and my boobs were nowhere near as spectacular as I'd like, and most importantly although I liked to dress up as much as the next girl, I'd never really had girly guidance in the vast, terrifying world of what to wear. My mother's fashion sense had disappeared sometime in the late 70s and nobody else had ever really stood me in front of a mirror and told me what colors I should be wearing or if I was a pear or an hourglass or... a spoon or whatever.

It was stressful! I was tempted to give up dressing myself and maybe dust the bathroom.

Quickly I succumbed to an old favorite — skinny jeans and a low-cut top never let anyone down. Black, also a staple. I threw everything on and then sat down with an eyeliner to fix the wrongs blubbery crying had bestowed upon my face.

It was only later, once I was dressed and primped and wearing ten ounces of mascara, that I realized I didn't have Pretty Boy's number. I didn't even know which room he lived in. I knew it was downstairs but after my laundry room nap I figured wandering the third floor calling out his name was asking people to ridicule me mercilessly.

One devastatingly embarrassing moment a day was my limit. Mostly.

I went down to the lounge. There wasn't anywhere else to hang around in the building and it seemed weird to sit and wait in my room like it was a date and Edward was picking me up. It was college and we were just going to a party; I was supposed to be cool and aloof. Cool-and-aloof-Bella — that's what I wanted my nickname to be. I had a horrible feeling Duckie was going to stick instead.

I felt the ground disappear from under me, throwing my stomach up into my throat. Hands wrapped tightly around my waist and my feet flew out in front of me as I was spun in a tight circle. It was lucky I was on my way to the dining hall and not on my way back. I screamed and laughed at the same time, flailing my arms and legs to try and persuade the person behind me to put me down.

Pretty Boy dropped me gracefully back onto my feet, flashing a pearly-white grin. "Hi Duckling."

I was trying really hard to keep the smile off my face. I tried to narrow my eyes in annoyance. I tried to purse my lips into a pouty frown. I failed miserably, beaming back at Edward.

"Hi MC. What was the ride for?"

He shrugged, still smiling, and bumped my shoulder with his own. Without talking we both headed for the hallway and beyond that the outside world. We ambled along for moment before he said: "Must be feeding time, right?"

"Right!" I agreed.

"You wanna get burgers?"

"Nah, better have a vegetable."

"What?" He looked scandalized. "I thought the only green things you consumed were Mountain Dew and apple Jolly Ranchers."

"I'm trying to avoid scurvy. It's so last season. I want to die of something good like leprosy, or dinosaur-flu."

"Cause birds are kinda descendants of dinosaurs?" he puzzled.

"No, cause it would be a cool thing to have in your obit."

"Bella Swan, known to her loved ones as Duckling, succumbed after a lengthy battle to acute dinosaur-flu."

"Since when are you my 'loved ones'?"

"Since you got dinosaur-flu and married me to cheat the system and take advantage of my excellent medical insurance. Also, Carlisle's a kickass surgeon so he hooked you up with good docs."

"Who the hell is Carlisle?"

"Esme's husband."

"Cool. I want cheese-fries. Do they still count as one of my five-a-day?"

His reply was deadpan: "Only in the universe where you get dinosaur-flu and die."

"Bah."

The dining hall wasn't exactly haute cuisine, but it was better than Hot Pockets and dry Lucky Charms. I only ever ate the marshmallows out of the bag anyway. One time I tried adding milk right into the bag like you see people do in movies. That does not work. The plastic bag thing slipped and milk ended up soaking through the cardboard and all over my pajama pants, and my mom's handcrafted patchwork friendship blanket, and my pajama pants.

Also, if you leave items covered in milk at the bottom of the laundry basket... bad things happen. My mom had to throw out her handcrafted patchwork friendship blanket. Luckily I was visiting my dad for the next set of holidays.

Sometimes I think I'll make her another one... or find somewhere that sells them online, but I figure that will just remind her of the unfortunate milk incident and the site of congealed Lucky Charm marshmallows and sour milk clotting on her beloved blanket.

It was probably best for many reasons that I was headed to the dining hall with Pretty Boy and not attempting to cook in the scabby microwave I had set up in the corner of my dorm room where it could easily be hidden with a cardboard box, a blanket, and a small vanity mirror with the glass in the shape of a heart.

Contraband electrical equipment? No! Tiny, pathetic dressing table. I figured on a scale of how-terrible-is-this-lie? I was pretty low. Way lower than the guy down the hall who had crafted a false floor to his closet so that he could hide his bong.

Either way — it was probably for the best that we were surrounded by various institutions willing to feed me without any active participation on my part in the cooking process. I was going to make some guy a really crappy housewife one day.

We ate. We met people we knew. I made fun of Pretty Boy. Girls on the table next to us with balloon boobs and purses I could fit inside batted their eyelashes at Edward. I made gagging noises. We ate some more.

"Is your stomach sufficiently lined?"

"Huh?" I looked up from my fries.

"Have you inhaled enough fried food to soak up tonight's alcohol ration?" Pretty Boy grinned and his teeth glimmered in the strip lighting. It was unfair. Nobody's supposed to look good in strip lighting. Vaguely jaundiced? Yes. Good? No.

"Eh," I replied, "I'll take my chances. Mike will have snacks on hand anyway. One of his roommates works at the 7-11 across the street from that pancake place on the corner. Nearly-to-recently expired snack foods are his 401K."

"You've eaten all this and you still feel the need to eat expired Doritos if presented with the chance? Really, Duckling? Your stomach is crying right now."

"Since when is my stomach autonomous?"

"Probably since you started feeding yourself."

"Eh. I don't see how bagged Doritos can go bad anyway. They're like embalmed in preservatives."

"I can't see anyway in which that could be a good thing."

I grinned up at him. "Tasty!"

I finished the last fry and turned around in my seat so that I was facing Pretty Boy's profile. His nose was really straight. I turned my thoughts away from touching his nose which would be, quite frankly, really, really weird. "I'm done!"

"Cool, I think they're trying to guilt us out of here anyway."

One by one unneeded lights and equipment had been turned off. Pretty Boy was right, the dining room staff were cleaning the other side of the room and shooting us not so subtle glances. I narrowed my eyes. "Now I want to eat more to spite them."

Pretty Boy stood, pulling me up by my elbow. "And miss the wonders of keg beer and restroom queues?"

"You're right. They do say the college experience is invaluable."

We started walking toward the parking lot. "Most important skill you've learned so far in college?"

"Oh, how to type with wet nails. No doubt. Right now, I'm working on snacking with wet nails... I think chopsticks could be the answer."

He opened the car door for me without a word and shut it carefully behind me. Chivalry was apparently still thriving in small doses. Pretty Boy got in the driver's side and as his door closed the overwhelming, comforting smell of leather and clean boy surrounded us — only spoiled a teeny bit by the faint smell of fry grease which I think was clinging to my hair.

Edward put the car into drive, a slick way-too-arousing purring came from the engine, and looked over to me. "Party?"

"Party!" I agreed.

A tangled, soupy, nauseous suspense wriggled around in my stomach as we headed to Mike's, and I really started to regret the second portion of fries.

AN: You guys are amazing. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, the recs, and all the support. This is so much fun to write. Sorry it's been so long for an update, unfortunately I had to attend a funeral out of the country so writing wasn't really on my to-do list. Chapter 7 is actually almost finished (originally 6 and 7 were one big chapter but they seemed to work better as two) and will be up in the next day or two. After that I'll try to stick to an update a week-ish. :)