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!

Of all the stupid, idiotic, weak, despicable, utterly ludicrous things I could have ever done… I'd let Edward Cullen hold my lucky pen. He'd written with it. He'd held it in his disgusting palm. He'd felt it between his freakish, slender fingers. He'd had the power to destroy my secret weapon with one moment of decision.

He'd had the power.

When he left, I stormed around my house, more than disappointed with myself. I'd needed his help. I'd had to acquiesce and accept it. It wasn't the same as the yard, as clearly, I'd allowed him to mow the lawn. I'd had the power then—but the leaking pipe was different.

I'd never had to fix anything before. I remembered having lived in this house with Charlie and recalled various projects he'd done himself. There'd once been a leak in the roof that he'd fixed all on his own. He'd replaced the knob on my door when—as a growing teenage girl—I'd requested a functioning lock. He'd installed a new ceiling fan once, with nothing but tools and his own two hands.

I'd never thought anything of it. Maybe I'd taken Charlie for granted more than I realized and grown complacent in the knowledge that he'd always be here to fix things, but now he wasn't, and I had this massive responsibility to keep the house up myself.

It'd been with Edward's uttering of the words "pretty bad water leak" that I'd panicked. I'd looked down into the muddy puddles and sunken earth, and had only been capable of one thought: I want my daddy.

Charlie would have known right away that the water would have required cutting off. He would have taken charge and dug the hole, patched the pipe, and I likely wouldn't have even known there'd ever been anything awry. Instead, I had to make choices and know things I'd never been taught or had explained to me. I felt small and young, lost and vulnerable.

And I'd given Edward Cullen the power.

Somewhere in that accidental moment of weakness, he'd managed to talk me into giving him my pen. My pen! It was unthinkable. Even the recollections of the moment as I sat down to eat my dinner-for-one appalled me. I was absolutely incredulous. Had I really allowed him to touch it?

Scenarios clamored around my mind, unbidden. He might have snapped it in half, laughing as the ink ran between his fingers. He might have chucked it in the mud and guffawed about my ridiculous attachment to inanimate objects. He might have stuck it in his pocket and left, leaving me to always know that the pen continued to exist, as a tangible item that my fingers itched to touch, but one that I'd never again have. He hadn't, but he could have.

That night, I stepped beneath the scalding stream of water as I took a shower. I washed my hair and shaved my legs, and every drop of liquid that touched me held Edward's smile before he'd left, all muddy and exhausted. His lips had tucked into his cheeks in a slanted and unsymmetrical streak. Three of his teeth had shown, sparkling through pink flesh and making his skin seem all the more soiled against the pearly perfection of white. The water ran down my body and cradled me with comfort and warmth, images of lips and teeth and crinkles at the edges of green eyes upsetting my serenity.

"Son of a bitch!" I exclaimed to the showerhead, throwing down my razor with a resounding clank.

The water pressure was motherfucking fantastic.

---

It was a Wednesday. I had to do some grocery shopping, and I wasn't too thrilled as I entered the Thriftway, more cash on hand than I felt even remotely comfortable with. This was something I'd realized about Forks very quickly. Only three places in town accepted debit cards. Residents were forced to carry large amounts of cash with them wherever they went. It was unsafe and just plain stupid.

Then again, I was also convinced the town of Forks only owned a running total of four computers. The town was so stuck in the past that it was comical. It now made sense to me why Edward had tried to pay me in cash. He'd probably only ever been paid in cash. He'd probably never been able to pay with anything else.

Absurd…

I hated shopping, but I hated shopping for groceries most of all. Nothing was ever made for one serving. Pictures of families and smiling couples beamed up at me as they graced packages meant for multiple plates. I'd grown rather handy at being a single-serving type of girl, though. I had a shitload of Tupperware. I'd make one meal, and spend three nights in a row eating it. I'd had a cat once, back in Florida, to whom I used to give leftovers. Nevertheless, he ran away after four months, never to be seen again.

I'd always blamed the meatloaf he'd eaten the night before.

"Excuse me," I heard a voice from behind me and turned to find a woman cradling a bag of frozen peas in her palm. The apples of her cheek flushed red and she grinned. "This is… well, it's a little embarrassing, but aren't you Chief Swan's daughter?" The floral-print dress she wore rose to her chin and ended at her feet, looking like something from the prairie.

"I am." I smiled, immediately disarmed by the warmth of her grin and her mother-like eyes. It reminded me of Renee, of being safe and cared for, of being home.

Her eyes brightened. "We met briefly at the service, but I figured you might not remember. I'm Esme Cullen," she introduced, smiling impossibly wider. "My husband and I were good friends with your dad. I was so happy to find out you were moving to town, though I must apologize for our lack of welcome. We wanted to give you time to settle in." A small bob of her head served as perky emphasis.

Well, that explains Alice…

At this point, most of her maternal allure faded, and I could only see how similar her nose and chin were to Edward's. "It's a pleasure," I lied, turning to the package of eight hotdog buns I held in my hand.

An awkward silence commenced in which we both regarded our potential purchases with sheepish eyes.

"You like hot dogs?" Esme squeaked.

I blushed. "Sometimes." No, scratch that—I blushed furiously.

Her chuckle seemed nervous, too as her eyes darted about. My anxiety must have been infectious. She cleared her throat and deposited the bag of frozen vegetables into her heaping cart "I almost feel out of practice," she began, wringing her hands as she met my gaze. Ah, small talk. I suppressed a sigh. "My son's been doing my shopping for so long that I'd forgotten where the deli was." She grinned thinly.

I couldn't restrain my scoff. "Edward shops for you?"

At his name, Esme Cullen's face seemed to brighten considerably, her shoulders lifting her dress. "I think he mostly enjoys perusing the cereal aisle," she replied, laughing."In any case, I do believe he's at your house right now…?" She trailed off questioningly, but I ignored it.

Of course, he was at my house. That's why I was here.

My eyes were dangerously close to dislodging as a result of chronic eye-roll. "That's… special," I said, no amount of sarcasm hidden.

Esme was clueless. "It is! He's such an enormous help. Sometimes I wish he'd leave me something to do." There was another awkward silence in which I didn't bother being polite. I placed my hotdog buns into my cart and angled away from the woman, a clear indication that I was finished speaking. Thankfully, she took the hint with grace and offered another warm grin. "Well, please know that you're welcome at our home if you need anything or would ever like to see a familiar face or four. We'd be so delighted to have you." At this, she departed, her prairie dress billowing around her short legs.

How in the hell someone as innocuous as Esme had bred someone like Edward was simply beyond my comprehension. I spent the rest of my shopping trip procrastinating, in hopes that Edward would be long gone by the time I made it home.

I checked out an hour later, unable to entertain myself by comparing the varying softness of bath tissues for any longer. I paid an elderly lady one hundred and thirty dollars in cash and spent the next ten minutes loading it all up into my car.

He should definitely be gone by now. All he'd needed to do was fill a hole with dirt. I'd been tempted the day before to do it myself and spare us both the trouble of interacting.

It was odd, though, my complete lack of surprise to find that silver Volvo sitting on the curb. He was standing on my porch, leaning against one of the two columns and watching as I barreled over the large hump in the driveway.

He was fucking smiling again. Ugh.

He didn't speak as I exited the car and traveled to the trunk. Instead, he simply ambled down from the porch toward me, reaching for one of the many bags nestled within the confined space before me.

"I can do it," I snapped, well aware that I sounded like a petulant five-year-old.

Ignoring me completely, he lifted three bags at once and headed for the door, commenting over his shoulder, "The pipe's holding good. Has the plumber come by yet?"

I glowered at the back of his head as I followed him, one bag in my arms. Clearly, he'd chosen three of the light ones. "He came by yesterday," I replied through tight teeth.

"And?" He stopped at the door and leaned comfortably against the siding as I fumbled for my keys.

I regarded the muddied toes of his shoes with narrowed eyes before shoving the key in the lock. "And he said it was fine," I answered tersely.

Once the door was open, I merely strolled through, not even bothering to invite him inside. I didn't hear his footsteps behind me, so I figured I'd made him appropriately confused. This made me smile.

His voice then came from directly over my shoulder, "Just fine?"

I jumped, turning to him with wide eyes. "Christ, make some fucking noise or something!" I dumped my bag onto the table, avoiding his apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he said, gently placing the other bags down beside mine. He then walked back through the door, assumedly to get more groceries from the trunk.

I wasn't a particularly competitive person. Team sports had always made me a little queasy, and I sucked at all card games, thanks to my easy blushing, but there was something about Edward Cullen that brought it out in me. He was trying to take the power, and he had already taken the power once. I wouldn't let it happen again.

The next five minutes played out in a bit of "I can carry more bags than you." I kept tally in my head, careful to compensate for the two he'd already had on me. Licking my lips in concentration, I began carrying three at a time as well. Who cares if I only chose the lightest bags?

He tossed me strange glances over his shoulder as we continued unloading them, silent.

I was not happy with the eight to twelve score once we'd finished, which I'm sure was evident as I began yanking items from the bags and throwing them in their designated locations. Various slams and rattles followed me as I darted through the kitchen.

"Really, though. The plumber didn't say anything else?" Edward asked, a glance at me from beneath his lashes betraying his curiosity.

I began pulling things out of the final bag with a maniacal haste, annoyed that he'd remained on my doorstep for nothing more than a thorough ego stroking. "He said the pipe would hold," I elaborated with a sharp glance.

The look on Edward's face made the frenzied motions of my hands falter.

His face had gone completely white, hands gripping the back of the chair in which Charlie used to sit during dinner. His knuckles were taut and strained, green eyes fixed to a six-pack of beer I'd gotten to help numb the upcoming weekend boredom.

I huffed and palmed my forehead in annoyance, praying that the offering would make us even for the entire water leak debacle. With a thrust of my hand, the six-pack slid down the table to where he stood, his eyes growing impossibly wider. "They're hot, but help yourself," I offered, my smile more derisive than polite.

Okay, so the plumber had actually said that Edward had saved me a few hundred dollars. He also might have made a passing comment about how I, "had a keeper."

I may have vomited in my mouth a little.

Edward continued staring at the beers, fingers pressing into the chair back with a force that was a little rude. If he broke it, I'd be pissed the hell off. "I can't," he finally replied, voice low and somehow strained.

I didn't really think much of his words—maybe he didn't want to drink and drive or something—until his eyes met mine. They were big and somehow terrified. He took a step back from the table, finally releasing the chair as he did so, only to grip two thick fistfuls of denim covering his thighs.

"Why?" I asked, blinking in surprise.

His answer was swift and mechanical, "I'm in recovery. Eleven months sober." He didn't emphasize this with any proud smiles or somber frowns. He stared back at me with that same horrified expression, as if he'd already somehow cheated and had a drink.

He was powerless. All the hole-digging and pipe-fixing and bag-carrying in the world couldn't put him above me. This realization affected me in a way that was foreign and consuming. He'd always had the power. Back in high school, I'd been scrawny and weak. He'd been tall and strong, beautiful and menacing. Even after I moved back, he still had the power, with his skills and money and constant apologies.

It was my turn to have the power.

"Oh," I replied, feigning nonchalance as I reached for the six-pack, plucking one long-necked bottle from the casing. His eyes flashed in realization as I uncapped the bottle with a resounding fizzle. "Well, cheers to that." I smiled, holding the bottle up to the air.

Then I tipped it back and began drinking, and holy shit, the look on his face was worth every second of his presence over the last month. There were too many emotions in his expression to even decipher—the terror in his eyes, the agonized part of his lips, the longing furrow of his brow, the angry flare of his nostrils. He remained completely frozen as he looked on, his skin still a flat shade of powerless motherfucker.

It was positively intoxicating.

I lowered the bottle with a loud sigh, licking my lips. I could have stopped then and had plenty to laugh about in the future, but it was just too good. "I bet you could have one," I cajoled, sauntering to the case and extracting another. His terrified eyes followed it in my hands. I wasn't even really certain why fucking with him was so important to me, but it suddenly was. I reasoned, "If you think about it, I bet just having one beer wouldn't hurt anything. You could prove once and for all that it has no power over you."

I stopped before him, assessing his pale expression with glee. I waggled my opened bottled below his nose and watched his nostrils flare further. He sucked in a large breath and held it, the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his t-shirt. His mouth parted and his bottom lip trembled. Trembled!

His hand came out and grabbed my wrist, thrusting the bottle away from his face with a gasp. When his eyes met mine, they were no longer glazed with want.

My stomach rolled.

Throat bobbing with a rapid swallow, he released my hand with a gentle nudge. He then stared into my eyes, the rasp of his voice betraying his tension as he remarked, "I've never known anyone addicted to spite before."

His brisk walk as he fled neared a jog. My front door was left ajar but swinging behind him, and then I heard the sounds of his car door slamming followed by the rev of his engine as he sped away. I was left standing in the middle of my kitchen, an opened bottle in one hand, a closed bottle in the other.

I blinked at the sunlight that traveled into the entryway from the door, illuminating the decorative, yet old runner that ran the length of the space. Particles of dust floated through the air, dancing and weaving through the rays of light in a wraithlike pattern.

I closed the door with a soft click.

---

I didn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned in my small bed, getting my legs tangled in the cheap sheets I'd bought a town over. My pillow smelled musty and stale. The air of the house was cold, and there was no moonlight illuminating the room. The tree outside my window scraped against the pane and flustered me enough to make me rise.

I was sweating, even though the chill in the air made my feet feel frigid. The hallway was bare, which amplified the sounds of my footsteps. I passed Charlie's room—the only room I hadn't entered since moving in. The staircase creaked and groaned under my weight, while the space just beyond remained eerily silent. The wind howled from afar.

I opened the door to quick, forceful gusts that sent my hair flying in all directions. I batted it away from my face and stepped out onto the porch, producing my lighter and a crumpled cigarette package. The lit cherry glowed in the blackness as my eyes slowly adjusted, peering beyond the yard to the thick forest that lined the property. I sat upon the top step and simply felt the breeze touch my skin, seep through my shirt and jeans, and slowly invade the warm nooks and crannies of my body.

It all started with one tear. I was allowed one tear, I decided. I hadn't cried since the funeral, and even then, it'd only been a brief moment in which I'd been hidden in the bathroom of the church. Now, I was allowing myself one tear. It wasn't a big deal—and it had nothing to do with Edward's words from earlier that day.

It all started with one tear.

It ended with deep, thick sobs into my knees that shook my body and drowned out the chatter of the forest insects. I kept trying to convince myself that I was weeping for Charlie, or maybe I was weeping because I was lonely and cynical and had no friends or family to stand up for me whenever someone refused to forgive me. Maybe I was just weeping because I had PMS and such fucking excellent water pressure that I couldn't even bring myself to use without feeling guilty and wrong.

Mostly, I soaked the denim of my pants and considered the person I'd become. I was meant to be better. I was meant to be kinder and more rational. I was meant to be more of a human being than the Edward Cullen I'd known in high school.

When had I lost that simple moral compass? I wondered. When had it all become a competition for power instead of my childhood philosophy to "do unto others?" When had I decided that stooping to that level was acceptable, and not only acceptable—but entertaining?

A gust of wind that felt a lot like Charlie's disappointed voice whispered through the leaves, "I raised you better than that."

---

My car rocked from side to side as I slowly drove down the long path to where the Cullens' home was rumored to sit. I eyed the trees on either side of me skeptically, reluctant to continue down a path to nowhere, but determined to see where it led.

After so long, I came upon an opening in the trees, revealing a grand white house nestled snugly into the surrounding forest. Its size was no surprise to me. The residents of Forks often regarded it as, "The second nicest house in the town." I supposed that only the mayor was paid better than Dr. Cullen was.

I didn't see the silver car present, which was a colossal relief. I'd come here to see Esme, simply to inquire as to Edward's whereabouts. I'd get a number or address and spend the next couple of days mulling over my words. This was the best course for now, I was sure, and Esme had invited me over.

With a deep inhale and a sweep of my blouse, I emerged from the car and began the trek to the door, growing more nervous by the second. They had a large planter by their door, much as I used to have, only theirs held a strong, thriving fern of some sort that seemed to wave hello to me with the breeze. I took one final glance at myself before lifting my fist and knocking loudly.

When it opened, my heart sank.

Edward's brow was tightly pinched as he assessed me with shocked eyes. He recovered quickly, smoothing his forehead and locking his jaw. "What do you want?" he asked, low, accusing.

My heart was pounding rapidly, being caught off guard so entirely. I could feel the blood rush to my face. "Your mom said I was welcome," I answered, inwardly grimacing at my small voice.

"Hmph," he huffed, narrowing his eyes. "She's not here."

I diverted my stare to the fern, admitting, "Actually, I came to get your phone number." Then, with a deep inhale, I rounded my shoulders and met his gaze. "I wanted to apologize."

No time like the very awkward present…

"Apologize?" he asked, quirking his brow.

"Yes, apologize. What happened yesterday was…" I trailed off with a cough into my fist, eventually concluding, "It was cruel."

"It was," he agreed, after which a tense silence ensued. "Do you wanna come in?" he offered with a huff, stepping aside from the doorway.

With a grimace, I followed him into the house, feeling as though my apology was quite lacking. It was because of this that I began to ramble to the back of his head, "That person yesterday, taunting you? I just wanted you to know, that wasn't me. I—" I paused, frowning as we reached his kitchen. He'd invited me into the house, even though I'd never shown the courtesy of inviting him into mine. He wasn't wearing shoes, and his clothes were too casual to be worn during a visit.

Edward lived here.

"I feel awful," I finished sincerely as he finally turned to me.

He held my gaze and leaned against a counter, lips tightly pursed. "So, let me get this straight," he began, gesturing to a stool, which I perched upon stiffly. "You did something that made you feel awful. Something that wasn't really indicative of the person you are?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He nodded as well, thumbing his chin contemplatively as he continued, "You had some kind of… moment of idiocy. Like… there was a split second decision made that—had you been in the right mind—would have never happened?"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, a relieved laugh escaping my lips.

He persisted, guessing, "And now that you've had time to think about it and realize how much it hurt me, you're sorry it went that far?" he finished by crossing his arms over his chest, head cocked to the side.

"Very," I insisted. I folded my hands in my lap as he stared at me with a blank expression.

Then he shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest with a frustrated groan. "Isabella…" he breathed, slouched forward. "Doesn't this sound familiar?"

It took me many moments of watching his downcast eyes before it finally dawned on me. "Oh," I breathed in realization. My forehead wrinkling, I struggled with how to best express my disagreement.

"It's not the same thing," he replied, echoing my thoughts exactly.

I acknowledged, "Not completely."

He braced his palms on the counter behind him, his hair now falling in his eyes. He tossed his head to the side once to clear his vision. "I guess," he conceded, though he didn't sound truly convincing.

Eager to break the tension, I commented, "So, you've been sober a year now?" At his affirmative nod, I smiled, praising, "That's great, really."

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

"You live here," I supposed as I inspected the large kitchen, though I was already quite certain.

At this, his forearms seemed to ripple, eyes tightening. "Yeah, for now," he answered curtly.

I shook my head, promising, "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it. I live in my dad's house," I pointed out.

"I'm moving out soon," he continued, unfazed.

"Cool."

Awkward silences were becoming my forte. Another long one ensued, in which Edward observed the floor, and I, the ceiling.

"Shit!" he suddenly cursed, causing me to flinch. He pushed himself from the counter and asked, "Can you wait here one second?" At my nod, he sprinted to the other side of the kitchen, snatching up a cordless phone on the way.

He only traveled to the other side of the wall, where I ultimately heard his muffled voice speak, "Alice, it's me again. Every hour on the hour. You won't get rid of me." He paused for many moments, perhaps waiting for her to answer, before he resigned, "Talk at ya soon." When he reentered the kitchen, he didn't place the phone back on the cradle, instead opting to keep it near.

"Alice—your sister?" I asked, feeling intrusive and out of place, and a little anxious to leave.

He puffed out a hard breath before taking a stool himself, resting his arms against the cool granite of the counter. "Yeah, she's kind of pissed off at me right now," he supplied, frowning down at the little rubber numbers of the telephone as his fingers brushed over them.

My chuckle earned me a slow, ascending glare from across the counter. I hastily explained, "Funny. Last time I saw her, she was singing your praises like you were the second coming or something."

His brow pinched. "When did you see Alice?" he wondered.

"Couple of weeks ago. Came into the Lodge. Told me I had to forgive you and stop causing everyone grief." I snorted at this, still incapable of feeling blame-worthy.

Edward appeared more than a little flustered, the tips of his ears glowing red. "Sorry about that," he murmured, looking to the phone as if it had changed since he'd last seen it.

"No big."

"She has this thing about forgiveness," he engaged. "She wants to give it, but she doesn't want to do the work associated with letting shit go."

"Oh," I replied, completely lost as to the intricacies of their quarrel—not that I even really gave a crap. I liked being an only child.

"Well, for the record," he declared, back straightening as his lips spread into a thin grin. "I forgive you."

I could feel my eyes grow wide, face flushing at the reminder that there was anything I needed forgiven for. "Just like that?" I asked, leery.

He nodded. "Just like that."

I wasn't sure. Maybe his forgiveness was some kind of ploy to make me feel as though I had to hand over my forgiveness. That'd make sense. What I'd done the day before was… deplorable. Despicable. The lowest of lows. It didn't make sense for him to hold no animosity against me as a result of it. Plus, I didn't really feel as though I deserved to be forgiven so easily.

"It's not that easy for me," I whispered while averting my eyes.

The darkening of his eyes made it evident that he realized my meaning. He promised, "I don't want your forgiveness right now. It doesn't mean anything if you say it out of guilt…" His voice trailed off, and even though there was sincerity in his statement, I could sense a "but" coming.

"But…" I encouraged, finding his eyes to be fixed on my own.

He leaned closer—close enough to make me borderline uncomfortable—yet I held his stare and it entranced me with its intensity. "But… it'd mean a lot to me if you gave me the chance to earn it," he explained, eyebrows high and hopeful.

I knew I was done. I couldn't forgive him "just like that," but what kind of person would I be if I denied him the opportunity to earn it?

I knew what kind of person I'd be. A spite-aholic.

"Yeah, okay."

His eyebrows were dangerously close to disappearing behind his hairline. "Yeah?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Yeah," but then considered in a wary tone, "What would that entail, exactly?"

His smile swallowed his face, all shiny teeth and craggy edges and crinkled eyes. "Well, apparently, I'm pretty good at plumbing," he boasted, to which I rolled my eyes, even though I was fighting a smile myself. He then asked seriously, "What do you need?"

I quickly shook my head, insisting, "Oh, I don't need anything."

He snorted, tossing the phone casually from palm to palm. "Everyone needs something. Mr. Berty made me teach him guitar," he said. At my quizzical stare, he deadpanned, "He was trying to woo Ms. Stewart."

My nose wrinkled. "Ew."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm not trying to woo anyone, so guitar is out," I alleviated, at a loss as to what I should request. It felt weird.

Edward already had ideas, though—and high ambitions. "Your house could still use some fixing up," he noted, smiling buoyantly.

I evaded, "Er, maybe."

He persisted with eager eyes, "I'd never seen the inside until yesterday. I—shit, this may come off as rude, but I don't mean it like that," he warned.

I waved a hand in dismissal, urging, "Carry on."

His cheeks expanded with a gusty breath. "The inside probably needs more work than the outside. I mean… if you're planning to stay, it should be comfortable, or safe, at the very least, right? And then, if you wanna sell, you can make a good profit."

"I'm not selling," I replied, perhaps a little too sharply.

He curved a brow. "So, it's gonna be your home."

"Yes," I insisted.

"Possibly forever."

"Yeah…" I trailed off, feeling my forehead crease deeply in contemplation. I'd never really looked at anything with that amount of permanence before. Could I see myself living in Charlie's house for forever? Could I see myself looking at the faded yellow walls and listening to the same tree scrape my windowpanes? Could I use the same coffeemaker and sit on the same porch every morning?

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face in frustration. "It makes me uncomfortable—you doing all that work for no pay," I admitted.

He scoffed. "It's not a favor if—"

"—I pay you to do it. Yeah, yeah," I finished in a grumble. I stated, "I'm very independent."

At this, he laughed. "No shit."

I narrowed my eyes and wondered, "Maybe I could help or something."

He pursed his lips and hedged, "Hm. Maybe."

With a deep breath, I confessed, "I don't know how to change the light bulb in the laundry room." This was true. No matter which way I turned the bulb, it wouldn't come free. I'd spent ten minutes trying before finally giving up and doing my wash in the dark.

He brightened. "See? There's a perfectly good light bulb joke just waiting to be found."

I was still uncertain as I looked away, sidestepping, "I don't know... I guess."

Finally, Edward stood, backing himself away from the counter while he diverted his eyes to the phone he still held. He spoke softly, "Look, this is a little humiliating, but… I don't really have anything else to do." He spared me an askew glance before elaborating, "I just started work at Newton's, which sucks pretty hard. I don't have any friends, not really, and Forks is boring—and… I can't get bored, Isabella." When he finally met my eyes, they were that same shade of terrified green that I'd seen the previous day, as if he were one second away from ruining everything he'd been working toward.

"So… I'd kinda be doing you a favor," I joked, though I was completely serious. I wasn't so deluded as to think he'd be the only person gaining anything, but it made me feel a little better about accepting his help.

The relief in his eyes made his understanding of this apparent. "Right." He smiled.

The moment was feeling a little too friendly for me. Before I could even think to censor my weakness, I confessed, "It's really hard to trust you." I raised my eyes to his, awaiting his eventual jab or mocking comment.

"I get that a lot," he said instead, eyes less terrified, sadder. He bargained, "I'll earn it, if you'll let me. Like the pen." He gestured to my hair with a grin that made my lips thin.

I swore. "That was a fluke. No one is touching my pen ever again." I punctuated this with a scowl, though I was more upset with my own neglect than anything,

"What's with that anyway?" he asked, effectively moving us past the tense atmosphere of our confessions.

I stated, "It's lucky."

He clucked his tongue, bracing himself once again on the counter before me. "Obviously. How? Why? What do you need luck for?" He looked to the top of my head with intrigued eyes, looking far more absorbed in my pen than absolutely necessary.

"Those are things I'd tell a friend," I evaded, pulling my head back.

"Oh." He frowned at my hair, finally dropping his eyes to mine. "Maybe we could work toward that friend thing, then." That hopeful expression was back. Ugh.

"Er, one thing at a time."

He nodded agreeably. "That makes sense. Can I at least call you 'Bella?'"

Of course, he'd been calling me by my full name, which was annoying but served as a reminder that he was respecting our distance. I'd enjoyed having that. With a resigned, inner sneer, I replied, "Yeah, whatever. I've been called worse." I stood, ignoring the joy clear in his expression as I fished my keys from my pocket. "My schedule is wonky, but we can start this weekend?" I asked.

His nod was fervent, though upon saying his next remark, he seemed to lower his head. "I won't be able to pay for supplies until my first pay day."

My head snapped up at this, and I firmly announced, "I'm covering all expenses."

His brow furrowed as he likely considered arguing, but one glance at my face probably clued him into the fact that I wasn't folding on that one. He conceded, "Deal."

"Deal." An enormous weight was lifted from my shoulders at our agreement, a chance to finally move on and leave my spiteful behavior behind me. I was somewhere between smiling and glaring at my shoes when I was suddenly enveloped in big arms. "Oomph." My cheek was mashed to Edward's hard chest as he embraced me, my body stiff and alarmed.

Good God, he was a hugger.

Ugh.

"Thank you," he said into my hair, a thick and genuine whisper that wasn't enough to make me relax into his touch but was definitely enough to save his testicles from my capable knee. I nodded rigidly into his chest, willing myself to disregard the comfort one would normally feel at being hugged with such vigor.

I was pretty sure he sniffed my hair.

A/N: Mmm. Transitional chapters. PastyP and TKmoon did the beta thingy. The growing chapter lengths are scaring me, too. I have a 7k cut off, though. Else, biweekly updates will pile up! Thanks for all the comments and reviews!

I don't have a rec today because I was using my potentially awesome fic rec as incentive to finish this chapter. I'll let you know how it panned out next update. XD

Se y'all Sunday!