A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all your kind words and encouragement!

The days following my construction of Isabella's new new railing found me sitting at none other than the corner of Second and Lafayette. I never needed to call Jasper, of course. I didn't have any money, so it didn't matter how long I stared at the door to ABC Liquor. I couldn't get any.

I could justify it in my mind in the oddest ways, though.

Inwardly, I'd argue that only allowing myself to have one drink would be a serious testament to my self control. To have one, and abstain from having another would mean that I was strong, that it had no real power of me. I'd actually be doing myself a favor, I'd eventually reason. It'd take away just enough stress to supplement my focus on my recovery. It'd begin making sense, and if I thought about it hard enough, I could eventually convince myself that having one drink would actually make me a better recovering alcoholic.

But I knew that logic was a means to an end, not a personal truth.

The trick was keeping myself occupied. Being alone and bored—those were usually the moments in which my mind would wander. Boredom made every recollection of my old life grow more attractive. I'd downplay the bad and glorify the good, even as I knew better. The old adage had never been truer for me: Idle hands are the Devil's playground.

I kept my days as occupied as possible by job hunting, usually in Port Angeles. Every morning I would don my uncomfortably awkward dress slacks and oxford shirt, and I'd always feel gawky and out-of-place whenever I'd enter a business with casual dressing codes—which were the only businesses I ever visited. I stuck out like a sore thumb, like that guy everyone knows is trying too hard because he's overcompensating for something. I was transparent and thin, and it was seriously wearing me the fuck down.

Nights were the worst, though.

I stayed up all night in the car, driving around, looking for something to do while struggling to forget about my failure to earn Isabella's forgiveness or do anything worth a shit. I'd promised I would leave her alone if she'd let me fix her railing, and she had. But no amends were given or earned. It was a deal, an agreement brought about by frustration with my mere presence, and I'd used up all of my chances.

I'd finished without any sense of completion.

There was nothing to do at home but sleep, and I'd discovered days before that I couldn't sleep, because I couldn't bear to wake up and see her name on that fucking door without a line through it. I considered calling Jasper, but he would've come to find me, assumed that I was on the brink of relapse, which wasn't necessarily true. Forks pretty much shut down after midnight, aside from the bars, of course, so there was really nothing to do. I was bored and idle and thinking too goddamn much.

Thus, I eventually found myself at Isabella's house after a particularly boring night of driving. I had a can of weatherproof varnish, a paint brush, and a silent refusal to even look at those goddamn dress slacks hanging in my closet. I was breaking my promise by doing so, but at that point, there was nothing she could possibly say or do to make me any more miserable.

What other purpose did I have?

Everyone else on my list was crossed out. I didn't have a job. I didn't have any genuine friends. I didn't have any money. I didn't have anything but Carlisle's tool shed and a shitload of home improvement supplies. Well really, I didn't even have that—just access to it.

When she caught me, I was certain she'd make me leave. I wasn't going to give her grief about it, I decided. If she asked me to go, then I would go without protest.

Imagine my surprise when she didn't.

---

"So you put the price in, and it'll spit out the sticker. Got that? You'll do the red stickers every Friday and the blue stickers every day we get a new shipment. Okay? Always stock the biggest items on the top shelves so they'll have to ask for assistance. Alright?" I nodded, possibly a little too enthusiastic as I listened with rapt attention.

When I'd received the call from Newton's Outfitters upon arriving home from Isabella's, I'd been mortifyingly elated. There could have been fist pumping and, after a brief scan of the kitchen, a simulated smacking of ass. It wasn't a good position and the pay was shitty—like, really shitty—but I'd gotten it on my own, and it would be steady.

Finally, some fucking luck.

Sadly, the downside to this job was the fact that I'd be working for Mike Newton. He was two years younger than me but had this air of superiority that was seriously killing my first-job-buzz. He wasn't that impressive. He managed a fucking sporting goods store, not a law firm. I battled back my annoyances with him because despite his blatant condescension, he was at least giving me a chance, which was more than I even deserved.

"My mom still comes in to take inventory every Saturday," he informed, propping himself against a shelf. His eyes were full of warning as he added, "If something goes missing, we'll know it."

I forced a thin smile. "Nothing will go missing, man," I assured. I kept reminding myself that trust—like respect and dignity—was a privilege, not a right. I had to earn it.

His arms flexed as he raised his chin, somehow looking down his nose at me even though I was taller. "We'll see," he said, finally exiting the stock room.

I was left amidst a sea of brown corrugated cardboard. With a determined inhale, I shrugged out of my jacket and began breaking them down as instructed. I whistled under my breath because that felt like the normal thing to do, and every time the thought would pass through my mind (I had a job!), an involuntarily cheeky grin would invade my face, promptly making any whistling an impossibility.

Edward Cullen, currently employed stock boy.

No—stock man.

The entire day played out like a bit of a downhill descent. It started out bright, promising, and hopeful—optimistic even. But as the hours passed, I was met with constant reminders of my inferiority, and my mood went steadily down the shitter.

I had a checklist that Mike Newton had taped to the back of the stockroom door, like I was a fucking Kindergartener or something. After sweating my ass off in the stockroom for four hours, I found that I only got a twenty minute break, which was spent staring at the break room wall and twiddling my thumbs, since I hadn't thought to bring food and didn't have time to get anything.

I later discovered that I was forbidden from entering the area behind the counter where the cash register sat. I also wasn't allowed to answer the phone, issue returns, or offer advice about the durability of varying tent fabrics. In fact, I wasn't allowed to assist the customers whatsoever.

I was allowed to do heavy lifting, box cutting, and the ever-intellectually-stimulating price tagging.

By the time I clocked out and poured myself into Esme's Volvo, my earlier bright mood had shifted into this festering air of resignation.

It wasn't until I arrived at Isabella's the next Sunday afternoon that I was able to regain even a modicum of dignity, not that she would have allowed that to last long.

Sitting on her porch, hair up, cigarette hanging from her lips, Bella's eyes squinted up at me. "You're like a wart," she stated, expending a puff of smoke.

I raised an eyebrow, wondering, "A wart?" I pursed my lips and shrugged. "Yeah, I've been called worse."

Her lips curled up into this slanted grin, fingers flicking her ashes. "I haven't woken up yet. Baby steps." Without awaiting any response, she asked, "Don't you have somewhere else to be at noon? Like work?"

"I work at Newton's." I proudly declared, the relief of not having to tell Isabella that I was unemployed renewing my vigor for the position. "I'm off Wednesdays and weekends, though. Not that it matters. I get off at three and you obviously don't wake up until noon anyway." At the flash of her eyes, I quickly added, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Her nose wrinkled up. "The fuck you working at Newton's for? Even I didn't apply there, and my standards were appallingly low."

I frowned, shuffling my feet unconsciously. "He hired me," I reasoned matter-of-factly. Suddenly feeling a little defensive of my shitty job, I supplied, "Besides, it's a good job with good hours. And there're benefits, too."

She snorted, finally finishing her cigarette. "What benefit would that be exactly? First dibs on the latest in camouflage-print apparel?"

I averted my eyes to the ground, nudging a wayward rock with the toe of my boot. "I get a fifteen percent employee's discount," I replied, inwardly cringing at my wounded tone. Normally, I would have easily insulted her lackluster career choice in retaliation—I mean, waitressing at the Lodge couldn't have been much better—but she wasn't wrong.

I got that feeling in my chest that made my shoulders feel heavy—like finding out those 'prestigious awards' I'd once won at my elementary school's Awards Day Ceremonies were actually just pieces of regular paper that anyone could print out.

It meant nothing.

My lips parted as I prepared to save some shred of my dignity. It came to mind that I could lie through my teeth and feed her some bullshit like, "I really just enjoy the work." But not even the most gullible person in town would have believed that line of crap.

"What do you even need that job for, anyway?" Isabella asked absently as she rose to her feet, stretching. "Isn't your dad the renowned town physician or something?"

Slowly, my eyes narrowed, my spine growing rigid and holding me at an awkward posture. "So?"

She rolled her eyes, dropping her arms with a huff. Waving her hands for emphasis, she explained, "So… shouldn't he have already set you up with the obligatory low-demand, high-pay position that he created from thin air?"

I could feel my nostrils flare, and I was sincerely trying to keep my temper in check, but in the span of two minutes, she'd managed to not only insult my once proud achievement, but she'd also just basically made the presumption that I was a freeloader. Maybe I could accept that, since it wasn't entirely untrue, however unintentional it may be, but I wouldn't let her insult my father like that.

"You don't know me, and you don't know my dad. And anyway, what the fuck is it to you?" I spat.

She glared upon hearing my snapping tone, her jaw tight as her teeth gnashed. "Good fucking point," she ground, spinning on her heel and storming into the house.

I followed her lead, stomping my way to where the mower sat. I jammed the keys into the ignition and relished in the angry roar that emerged from around me. As I began clearing the thick brush of her lawn, my anger slowly dissipated to that same, stagnant air of resignation I'd felt after my first day working at Newton's.

There was literally nothing I could do about it. I couldn't just quit—there was nothing else waiting for me. I could probably spend my days off looking for something better in the meantime, but it was my first fucking job. I envied normal people like Isabella, who could quit their crappy jobs and raise their standards.

Sure, I wanted to be the motherfucker who had to wear dress slacks every day. I wanted boring, stuffy 401(k)s and retirement plans. I wanted full dental. I wanted a hot secretary with really long hair that tumbled and did the slow-mo thing whenever she took out her barrettes and shook it out. I wanted pedestrian success and the six a.m. routine—hot coffees balanced between my legs on the morning commute—lunches with assholes who repeated "that's what she said" enough to make me wanna choke them out—I wanted that.

But what I had was Newton's.

It was at this point that I resolved to make my position at Newton's work—no matter this shittiness of the conditions. There were far worse jobs to have. I didn't shovel shit, or break my back logging, or anything really demeaning. In fact, if I looked hard enough, I could see the positives. Not having to deal with customers was a pro, not a con. The motivations behind the rule didn't matter.

I spent the majority of my afternoon doing these inner pep talks as the mower roared beneath me. By the time I'd finished the front yard, I'd tricked myself into being minimally excited about the position once again.

I started on her back yard without permission, supposing that it was the only nice day for a long while, and I still had a full tank of gas. Maybe, I hoped, it'd be appreciated and make her feel like a shitty person for insulting me back there. She never came out to protest, at any rate, so I mowed around a large swing set that was so rusted and antiquated that simply looking at it made me feel as though I needed a tetanus shot. I'd just decided to go the extra mile and use the weed-eater I'd brought along to trim beneath it when my mower began sinking.

There was mud.

A large perimeter of the back corner of the property was sodden and sunken. In Forks, mud was fairly common, but this particular area was especially bad. The grass was brown, large puddles below the dead blades reflecting the sunlight. A closer inspection revealed air bubbling to the surface—a definite sign of a water leak.

I debated for a long while whether or not to tell Isabella. She'd need to get it fixed. Her water bill was likely astronomical and leaving it untended could cause a whole host of other problems. But I was… annoyed.

Isabella would probably be really pissed off about it, and there was some truth in the shooting of messengers. I'd come out here to do a favor, to make shit right, to help someone out, all in the name of amends, and now I was probably gonna have to spend God knows how long enduring her rage.

With a growl of frustration, I backed the mower out of the mud and started toward her back door. I was anxious and wound up, flexing my fists in preparation for her wrath as I knocked at the door.

She answered with a scowl, having had to wrestle it open. "I didn't ask you to do the back," she said.

I suppressed another growl. "Look," I began, wiping the sweat from my brow with a grind of my teeth. "You have a pretty bad water leak out there that you should have looked at."

Her sneer fell, forehead creasing. "Water leak?" she asked, eyes wide.

I huffed, nodding. "Probably a bad pipe."

After slipping on some flip-flops, she followed me across the yard to where the puddles were located, arms wrapped around her torso. She peeked downward and rocked on her heels, assessing the bubbles that popped to the surface.

"This looks bad," she worried, far less angry that I'd expected. She began tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, eyes tight as they inspected the damage. "Is it bad? Should I call a plumber? Will I have to call the water company?" Her eyes flickered to mine, a subtle panic raging beneath the soft brown of her irises.

"Your water bill will be fucking ridiculous," I informed, a little more confident now that I knew Isabella wouldn't be assaulting me with any armed weapons. "The water company won't be any help at all, but if I were you, I'd cut the water as soon as possible."

"Cut the water," she nodded astutely. "Right, of course." She began hugging herself tighter, brows pinching inward. Her eyes traveled to mine as she hesitantly wondered, "How do I cut the water?"

I fought a snicker as I realized that Isabella was completely clueless about all things home improvement and repair. I reasoned that she'd likely never owned a house before. In fact, she'd lived in Florida, where she'd probably had an apartment, where a call to the building owner would remedy any problem.

She looked lost.

Feeling considerably more self-assured at this revelation, I located the cut-off valve myself. I explained to her what I was doing as I shut off her water, her face screwed up while she listened, rapt with attention.

"How long will I have to wait for a plumber?" she pondered once I'd finished, looking to me like no one ever had before—like I held the answers. It was strange.

"A couple days?" I estimated, wiping my hands on my jeans.

Her eyebrows shot upward, jaw falling. "Two days without water?!" she shrieked, cheeks turning that familiar shade of pissed off. It made me cringe.

I loathed being the bearer of bad news. I'd spent too much of my life seeing others disappointed, pissed off, resentful, and just generally upset as a direct result of things I'd done. I wasn't personally responsible for the water leak, but I didn't enjoy seeing Isabella made upset over something that wasn't really that big of a deal.

"Or…" I ventured, wary as I sighed. "Well… I guess I could… maybe fix it myself?" I set my jaw and braced myself for her eventual indignation, but was met with a surprising silence. When I met her gaze, she was gnawing at her lip once more, contemplative. Buoyed, I continued, "It should be pretty easy, you know? I just have to dig it up, find the pipe, cut the bad section, and then replace it. The hardware store'll have everything I need."

She assessed me with scrutiny, her arms once again hugging her midsection. "You can do that?" she asked.

"Sure." I shrugged plainly, and at her reluctant expression, bargained, "You can even put the call in to the plumbers now, just in case anything goes wrong. It'll save time."

"Yes!" she abruptly exclaimed, shoving her finger at me. "That's a damn good idea. There should be a shovel in the shed back there. I'll be right back." I watched as she sprinted into the house, her flip-flops flapping in her wake.

I blinked rapidly at her sudden change of demeanor. Her acquiescence was already a bit of a stretch, but now she was sort of… ordering me around. Taking advantage of me. Using me.

It wasn't half bad.

---

"Well?" Isabella asked from behind me, clearly concerned as I inspected the three-inch-long fracture of the muddy pipe.

I huffed in exertion, the hole having taken longer than anticipated to dig. "Well, the good news is that it's PVC and not some old copper bullshit." The sky was already beginning to darken, and I knew I was running out of time.

"What does that mean?" she squeaked.

I dutifully explained, "Copper is expensive and you'd probably have to re-pipe the entire property. That's like… thousands of dollars."

Her eyes grew wide.

I quickly assured, "But this is PVC. Really cheap and simple to fix. Can I see that?" I pointed to the pen she had speared through her bun, one hand fishing in my pocket for an old receipt.

"What?" she asked, lips thinning to a tight line. "My pen? Why?" Her eyes narrowed.

Furrowing my brow, I replied, "Well, I need to write down the size of the pipe so I can buy the right shit." I held up the receipt for emphasis, smoothing it over my thigh in preparation.

"Oh. Well… I can find something inside…" she began, her flip-flop making a suctioning sound as she pulled it from the mud.

Incredulous, I reminded, "The hardware store is gonna close in twenty minutes. It'll only take a second." If I didn't make it to the hardware store, then she'd go the entire night without water, something she obviously realized as she once again sank her foot into the mud.

"I don't know…" she hedged.

If I hadn't been in such a big hurry, I might have laughed. "You don't know?"

She sighed, shoulders rigid as her chin jutted outward. "This pen... it's… well, it's my lucky pen. No one uses my lucky pen," she stated. "I rarely use it myself."

This time, I did laugh. "Seriously? I just need to write down three numbers." I kept my hand extended, the mud-stained receipt on the ready as I waited.

Her relent wasn't silent. She huffed and did this growl that made her lips curl up. She snatched the pen from her hair, and even though I was completely focused on the task at hand and was well aware of the importance of the situation, I was immediately thrilled at the prospect of her hair tumbling down from its perch, all waves of brown and auburn, swaying in the wind and coaxing me with its girl scent.

It remained fixed in its knot. Damn.

I frowned as I took the pen, careful not to muddy it as I quickly jotted down the circumference of the pipe. When I was done, I considered fucking with her, just for the fun of it. She seemed pretty attached to the pen for some reason, and I could only imagine the look on her face when I acted as though I meant to keep it. She'd get all huffy and turn red, maybe even move about enough to jostle her hair free.

But I couldn't do it. If there was one lesson I'd ever learned, it was to never again antagonize Isabella Swan, no matter how much I'd enjoy seeing her flustered and… tumbly-wavy-haired.

I handed it back with a soft, "Thank you," because maybe she didn't realize it, but she'd just given me the opportunity to earn a little of her trust. Maybe I had, and maybe I hadn't, but it felt good, nonetheless.

She blinked at me as she took the pen, gingerly placing it back into her hair once again. "You're welcome."

---

I didn't get home until eight, which was unfortunate because I'd missed Sunday dinner with the family. Jasper had been invited again, and I could only imagine how absurdly anxious he'd been without a buffer between him and my parents.

Wincing at the thought, I swung the truck into our long driveway, wet and filthy. I had mud up to my knees and elbows, all over my clothes, and possibly in my hair. I tugged at it self-consciously as the truck bounced and jostled down the path to the house, grinning at the memory of Isabella's face when I'd successfully fixed her water leak.

She'd turned the water back on all by herself, her spine straightened with a child-like pride. I'd left the hole unfilled, just in case the fix didn't hold, so I'd have easy access to it when I'd swing by next week. When she'd offered to pay me, I'd declined. Unfortunately, I'd had to accept the money to cover the hardware expenses, since I was essentially broke.

We'd parted with few words, but her relief for my assistance was clear, and despite our rough start earlier in the day, I was comfortable declaring the entire evening a total success.

Thus, it didn't really matter how badly my palms stung, or how badly my back ached, or how filthy I was as I pulled up to the house. The bright headlights illuminated the dark yard and the cars already parked in the driveway.

A movement caught my eye as my headlights paused on Jasper's small Dodge, a flash of black, a wave of flesh-colored blur, and my foot stomped the brake, bringing the truck to a lurching halt.

It had only been a brief second, what I'd seen. I could have probably chalked it all up to lack of sleep and a long day, but the image that I'd only barely seen would positively be branded into my brain to haunt me for years to come.

Alice had her arms around Jasper's neck, her lips attached to his as the stood against the door to his car. His long, sweater-covered arms enveloped her completely, tucking her into him as his two hands grasped firm handfuls of her ass.

My little sister—he had his hands on my little sister's ass. He was fucking swallowing her, devouring her, staining her little mouth with his saliva—her soft skin with his rough fingers. I flung myself from the cab without even turning off the ignition, my vision varying shades of violent red. All I could think about or see was his hands—his dirty fucking hands—all over my baby sister.

Just as soon as I'd seen them, they'd separated themselves and were standing at opposite ends of the car, passing one another worried glances.

Jasper had the fucking audacity to greet me, "Hey, man. Wonderin' where ya been." His smile was almost convincing, but the bone-white pallor of his skin betrayed his fear.

I never paused in my stride as my fists clenched, nostrils flaring as I swiftly descended upon him. "You fuckin' my sister?" I asked, shoving my finger into his chest as I spat the words at his face. "Huh?! You fuckin' my sister?!" I kept jabbing him, until I eventually flattened my palm to his shoulder, shoving him roughly against the car.

His face was completely blank, eyes fixed steadily to mine. He took my jabs and shoves without any retaliation, instead bouncing back from the car listlessly.

Alice was behind me, calling my name and tugging at my muddy shirt, but I merely shrugged her off, asking him once again, "My sister? My fucking sister?"

His face was so calm and stoic, those two eyebrows a straight line across his forehead. He was fucking my sister and he didn't even have the balls to own up to it, to my fucking face.

I punched him.

I wasn't normally a violent person. There'd been the occasional bar fight, a few moments with my dad that had come to blows when I'd been younger, but this—this hurt. My knuckles cracked against his face, my clumsy punch sending his head whipping to the side. I shook my fist and hissed in pain, growing more and more enraged with every second of his silence.

"STOP!" Alice screeched, wedging herself between us, a palm on each chest. Jasper just stood there, cupping his injured eye as the other blinked at me. Alice was talking, going on and on about how she was an adult and it wasn't any of my business who she fucked.

Jasper and I maintained that stare, and the conversation that was held between us was wordless, but evident.

My stare said, "I will fucking murder you if you touch her like that again."

His stare said, "I will let you."

Mom and Dad were suddenly there, hands yanking me back, pulling me away while Alice whispered into Jasper's ear and petted his wavy hair away from his injured eye.

I was wound up once again, the one punch to his face not nearly enough to satisfy me. I wanted to cut off his hands and feed them to him for having ever touched her. My baby sister…

"What are you thinking?" Carlisle hissed, eyes sharp and emanating that familiar disappointed I'd grown so accustomed to.

"That piece of shit is fucking your baby girl. Maybe you oughtta be asking him the questions." I waited for his fury, for that realization to strike him that the same man he'd heard appalling stories from for the last eleven months had had his dick in his daughter—had sneaked around behind his back, betrayed his trust, and tainted her with his venom.

He rolled his fucking eyes at me. "There's no need to be crass, Edward. Alice is twenty four, and this is Jasper." He emphasized this with a gesture toward the car. "Isn't he your friend?"

I gaped at Carlisle, then at Esme who'd emerged from the house with a dishtowel full of ice, hastily tending to Jasper's swelling eye as Alice peppered his face with kisses and soft apologies.

"Have you all gone fucking insane?" I wondered with incredulity. "This is Jasper!" I emphasized toward like Carlisle had, reminding with no measure of ease, "Alcoholic, compulsive gambler, sex addict, coke addict, motherfucking felon!"

Alice was before me now, eyes wide and enraged. "How dare you!" she screamed, and I was only just noticing the thick tracks of tears staining her cheeks. "After everything you've put us through, after everything everyone has done, you're acting like another judgmental prick!"

I shot back, "Holier than thou, are we? Tell me then, Alice, why haven't we found about all this before?"

She cackled manically. "Well, geez! I wonder why I wasn't in such a hurry to see my brother physically assault my boyfriend."

I simply shook my head, Carlisle sighing in annoyance from beside me. "That's bullshit, Alice, and you know it. You were fucking ashamed of him for a reason."

"I wasn't ashamed!" she denied, her tears flowing faster now.

A throat cleared, drawing all our eyes to where Jasper stood, hand clutching the handle to his car door. "Yeah, so, I think I'm done," he said, but he wasn't looking at me or mom or dad. He was staring at Alice with a taut expression, one eye puffy.

"What?" Alice breathed, frozen.

He repeated, "I'm done." Then Jasper said the most words in one moment that I'd ever heard him speak. "You should listen to your brother, you know. He's an asshole, but he's mostly right. You're ashamed of me, and you have every right to be. I guess… well, I guess I was just pretending this whole time, like it was okay to have you. And it's not, so… I'm just… done." His eyes never traveled to mine or anyone else's as he opened the door and ducked inside. They remained fixed to Alice's briefly, until he started the ignition and began backing out.

Esme and Carlisle flanked Alice as the three of them watched Jasper's car disappear down the path to the highway. Her back expanded and contracted in deep, panicked lungfuls that moved her entire body. She hugged her torso, much like I'd seen Isabella do that afternoon, and then she shook with silent, yet guttural sobs that left me momentarily breathless.

That was when I knew I was fucked, because when Alice loved, she never did it halfway. She loved with every cell of her being, every ounce of her soul, and she'd already given that part of her away to a man that was far too fucked up for her own good.

Jasper had left because he'd believed all along that he was never good enough for Alice. He would have taken my punches and the frustration of being with someone who hid him away like a dirty secret, but he couldn't bear facing the truth that he'd ultimately be bringing her down.

Alice whirled on me, Esme flinching as she broke from her grasp. Her big doe-eyes were watery and red-rimmed, accusation seeping from her stare. "You just couldn't stand it, could you?" she asked. The crease of her brow and the tremble of her lip made me speechless and guilty. I shifted from foot to foot, unable to answer until she made two stomps in my direction, jaw clenched in frustration. "You can't stand that someone might just be happy, can you? You just have to ruin it! You have to ruin everything! Every fucking time!" The sobs had returned, and instead of allowing me to explain myself—he'd had his hands on her ass—she began toward her car.

"Alice," Esme and Carlisle both scolded at the same time, hands on hips, faces exasperated.

"Oh, here comes the calvary!" Alice shrieked, flinging the door to her Honda open. She turned to me with a hard glance, gesturing toward our parents. "Don't worry, Edward. You can do no wrong in their eyes, see?" She sped away without glancing back, and I was left with my parents who shared worried glances and heavy sighs.

I wondered to the dust Alice's car had left in her wake, "Do you ever feel like someone said the words, but you were never really forgiven?"

A/N: PastyP did the beta thang, and TKmoon/Angel previewed fer me. Thanks so much for all the feedback, guise! Really enjoyed all the views on Alice last chapter. You rock!

I rec'd Greeen Goldfish's "A War of Cynics" (fem-nazi Bella and AwkWard) on TLYDF[dot]com yesterday, and today, Ninapolitan rec'd Behind the Clouds (AU) by EchoesofTwilight.

Hope you a great New Year's Eve!

See y'all Wednesday!