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!

So... you probably noticed that I missed my Sunday update. I was so fail, guise. Sorry! I was doing taxes and... admittedly? Reading a lot of fic and procrastinating. You all deserve medals or something for putting up with my nuttiness! Lubbs ya!

I ducked through the doors, head low, and quickly scanned the groupings of tables. My eyes easily spotted the head of blonde hair I'd been seeking and, with narrowed I eyes, I marched determinedly to where he sat.

"Fancy seeing you here." I took a seat beside Jasper at the table, avoiding his gaze—not that he was looking me in the eye. It'd taken me nearly a week to hunt him down, and sadly, I'd gone through a variety of undesirable individuals before it was revealed that he was just... here.

I was annoyed.

He sat with his legs sprawled out, propped on the rungs of the chair across from him. "What do you want?" he asked, voice flat. He stared ahead, out the window of the coffee shop where we sat, at the little boutique across the street. "I'm allowed to be here. I can be here. I'm not doing anything wrong." He clutched at his cup and scooted it farther toward his chest, eyes narrowed. "I can be here."

"I know that, Jasper." I ground, following his gaze through the glass. I spoke low, inclining my head toward him, "People have been looking for you. You can't just—" My fists tightened as he pulled the cup closer still, tucking it into his chest, eyes vacant. "You can't just fucking not show up," I finished.

"I'm going to the group in Tacoma," he replied, shrugging stiffly.

I snorted. "No, you aren't."

"I don't need it," he hissed, finally breaking his gaze on the shop to meet my own. His expression loosened as rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist in dismissal. "You know, whatever. I don't need it. Fuck it."

"I bet Alice thinks differently," I challenged, snatching a Sweet-N-Low packet from the table and flicking it between my fingers.

"What do you know 'bout Alice?" he asked, grin hard and bitter. "She's fine. She's doing fine. Better this way." He drew his cups to his lips, returning his eyes to the window.

I scrubbed a palm over my face in frustration. "That's… that's just—fuckin' stupid. You're just giving up because… what? I don't approve?" I barked a chuckle at this, assuring, "Trust me, that's never stopped Alice before."

He shrugged once again. "She's better off, you know it."

"I do," I agreed with a fervent nod. "And I'm not being a hypocrite." And I wasn't. I didn't deserve someone like Alice, either.

"I know."

I continued, "If it were Rose and me…"

His gaze snapped to mine then, flashing in anger as he inclined over the table. "If it were Rose and you, I'd cut off your fucking dick and feed it to you."

I held up my palm in emphasis, "Precisely." His jaw twitched as he reclined back into his seat, one hand flat atop the smooth, black surface of the table. "You can't just give up, Jasper."

"I haven't," he said, taking another long sip from his Styrofoam cup.

"Oh?" I asked, nodding to the cup that he held in his hands as if it were His Precious.

His brows pinched together as he followed my stare, turning the cup over in his hands. He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Christ, it's fuckin' sweet tea. They don't sell it here, so I have to sneak it in." He popped off the top and smacked it onto the table, daring me with his eyes.

Without preamble, I lifted to my nose, sniffing. "Oh," I replied at the innocuous scent, pushing it back toward him. I ducked my chin, folding my arms on the table. "So you're not, eh, falling off the wagon?" There was really no easy way to ask something like that.

"Nope."

I took a deep, relieved breath. "Good," I whispered, feeling as though an enormous burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

I might not have been too pleased at the idea of Jasper boning my baby sister, but I certainly didn't want him throwing away all of his progress as a result. That would be more guilt than I could live with.

Confused, I pondered, "So, if this isn't about… going back, then… why don't you just fucking talk to her, man?" It would have made sense if Jasper had simply given up, thrown in the towel, and disappeared for a lengthy bender of booze, blow, and bimbos.

"What's it matter to you?" he asked in a scathing voice, tucking the cup to his chest once again.

I frowned, knee bouncing as I fidgeted with the sugar packet. "You matter to me. Alice matters to me. I know, I acted… impulsively, and—look, I really don't like the idea of you… er, being with her, but Christ, I'll get over it, okay?" I raked my fingers through my hair, even more frustrated when he didn't answer.

Truthfully, I couldn't deny that a large part of my reaction was likely due to my own issues rather than Jasper's. I didn't feel above him in any way, and I didn't feel below him, either. I felt on his level, a level that people like Alice, my parents, Bella, Mike, and the rest of Forks were above. Far above. I couldn't help feeling that way. It wasn't a conscious choice or anything. It was just one of those truths that could never be changed.

We were less.

They were more.

But I was frustrated, both at myself and at Jasper, who sat at this table every day, from opening 'til closing, and never thought to challenge that fact.

I gnashed my teeth and stretched across the table, shoving his shoulder with a hissed, "Fuckin' prove me wrong or something."

He slapped my hand away with indifferent eyes, replying, "It's not about you, Edward. All of this? It was never about what you thought."

"Then what?" My voice was rising loud enough to draw stares from the wait staff. I slouched sourly in my chair.

Jasper's eyes scanned the room, narrowing at the remaining gawkers until they looked away. Then he leaned forward on his arms and leveled me with his eyes—fierce and glowing. He asked, "Ain't you ever been rejected? Like, given someone your whole soul and watched them just… fuckin'… stomp on it?"

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "No." The closest I'd ever come to anything like that was having Angela Webber decline my sexual advances.

Her hair had always looked really soft—and she was a brunette.

He nodded, cupping his neck with one palm as he nodded at the window. "Well, I'll tell you what. That woman over there? It mighta been minutes or it mighta been months, but eventually, she was gonna see me for what I was, and she was gonna do that. We both know it. She was gonna do it. She was—" He paused, jaw tensing. "She was ashamed of me, you were right."

We both watched Alice over the expanse of the road and busy sidewalks. She was bagging something for a customer, her smile wide and fake enough to be seen from afar. The interior design boutique she worked at had just appointed her manager, and she'd been so happy. I felt dual pangs of guilt and longing upon watching her through the windows. She had yet to answer any of my calls. I'd spent four days calling every hour, on the hour—even setting my alarm clock to do so—until it grew old, and my concern shifted to Jasper's whereabouts.

Jasper finished darkly while sipping his tea, "So excuse the fuck outta me for not giving her the chance."

When he lowered the cup, he watched her in silence, and I watched him. Patrons came and went, wait staff stopped at our table, Alice tended to four more customers, three blue cars passed, five white, one red, and the way he watched Alice… it stunned me.

I couldn't comprehend how in the hell he had fallen so completely head over heels for my little sister, right under my nose. It was so clear in his posture whenever he'd watch her. He'd loosen, sink into the seat, as if the simple sight of her could make everything disappear. It was uncomfortable for me to witness, and not just because it was my sister eliciting that reaction from someone like Jasper.

I wondered, "And your recovery?" At this point, I knew he wouldn't approach Alice, and I couldn't say I blamed him one bit.

I couldn't be sure that she wouldn't break him.

My words seem to jar him from his Alice-induced trance, his body tensing with a subtle intake of air. He lifted one shoulder. "So long as I know she's out there, so long as I know she has my soul and ain't stomped on it yet, I got a reason," he said, nodding to himself with a set and determined jaw. "I won't be fine or happy, but I'll damned sure be sober to feel every moment of it." His eyes found mine, and the smile he forced was a strained and ugly thing—just like us.

It was times like these when I'd be reminded of James. Sometimes, I'd try to fit Jasper into that niche James had once filled, without even realizing it. Sometimes, when we'd sit together like this, I'd half expect Jasper to jump up from his seat, smile broadly, look me in the eye, and say, "Come on, Eduardo! You only live once!" My lips would twitch, and sometimes, I'd wait to hear the booming tenor of an excited voice, only to be met with a heavy, grey silence.

"Come back to the group," I implored, defeated and weary. "There's no reason not to."

Jasper was quiet for so long that I figured he wouldn't answer. Doing so to only decline would have been rude, so this made sense to me. But then his chin lifted and ever so slightly dipped to his chest, and I knew that he'd be coming Thursday.

I sat with him in silence until closing, watching the sun disappear as I siphoned his peaceful and serene mood. He'd prop his feet on the chair against the glass he faced and relax into his seat, one hand resting behind his head. He'd drink his sweet tea with measured sips, drawing it out until it the cup was emptied and hollow. I'd dump packets of sweetener onto the black surface of the table and draw figures into it with my fingertip.

Bugs swarmed the halos of light from the street lamps when they illuminated the sidewalk.

---

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow. For he's a jolly good fellow! Which nobody can deny." Claps and cheers resounded around the dinner table, a few whistles and hoots following in their wake.

"I can think of a few that could deny it," I laughed, buoyant regardless of the truth behind it.

"Blow it out!" Lauren exclaimed, bouncing on her toes as she pointed at the large cake before me.

Tyler shot me a wry grin from across the table. "Lauren knows all about blowing things out."

Esme looked positively horrified, while Lauren simply shot him a playful glare. She wasn't offended, of course. You couldn't offend Lauren. If anything, she'd be most likely to boast about her fellatio skills. However, Carlisle was not without a grumbling reproach as I blew out the single candle.

It wasn't my birthday—technically—though it was a day of birth of sorts.

Esme had gotten out the fine china and was distributing slices of cake, severing the letters that created, "Happy First Year," with pursed, focused lips. Lauren and Tyler had both come to the house for the celebration, my parents both beyond ecstatic to mark the day.

Jasper and Alice hadn't.

"Whaddya think you were you doing exactly one year ago, to the second?" Tyler asked before shoving a large forkful of cake between his lips. He was probably the antithesis of Jasper. Outgoing, loud, outwardly confident, usually had no issue with helping himself to anything and everything.

I really wished Jasper would have come.

"Hmm," I pondered, sparing my parents a sidelong glance. Their eyes were focused intently on their plates. "I was probably lying in a hospital bed, enjoying some good narcotics," I answered, grinning tightly. Narcotics weren't my drug of choice, but I couldn't deny that they'd dulled my misery at the time.

"Tyler's never heard this! Tell the story again," Lauren sighed, chin propped on her palm with a whimsical expression. "It has a happy ending."

Tyler sniggered, "Lauren knows all about hap—OW!" He rubbed at the ear Lauren had just brutally flicked.

She waved me on with a smile, but I was apprehensive, especially given my parents' reactions. To get to the happy ending, I had to relay the other, far harder portion of the story.

I blew out a hard breath and, resigned to much editing, as usual, began, "Well, I was in this car—"

"You don't know whose car it was," Lauren stated matter-of-factly. She already knew this story. I'd told it to her at least five times. At my scowl, she frowned and insisted, "I'll be quiet."

I cleared my throat. "Right, so I'd just woken up in this car. Real shitty car, too. And it was dark. Like… four a.m. or something? And cold. So I climb out of the car, and my head is… throbbing. Worst hangover I've ever had, I swear. Anyway, I put my feet out and stand up, only… I can't. I fall pretty much flat on my face, and for some reason, there's… blood—everywhere."

Wordlessly, Esme stood and left the room, her shoulders high and tense. She never could hear this part of the story. Carlisle simply continued eating his cake, eyes averted.

I continued while both Lauren and Tyler listened, rapt with attention, "Turns out I was on the side of the road. The car was against a telephone pole, all smashed to hell. I couldn't stand up, or even lift my head, so I just laid there and… waited."

Lauren nodded eagerly. "Waited for someone to pass," she explained with a sidelong glance to Tyler.

But that wasn't entirely true. I was mostly just waiting for everything to end. I was waiting for black and finality and peace and painlessness. I could still remember the gurgled sounds of blood in a throat, the shimmer of ice on the blacktop and how it reflected the moonlight.

"Right," I confirmed instead. "So then, when someone finally drove by and saw me, they called the police, who called the ambulance, who took me to the hospital." I had skimmed over a lot, but Lauren wanted the happy ending and, not gonna lie, so did I.

Lauren's face brightened in anticipation.

"It was so weird," I mused. "I had no idea where I was, but I figured I was in Port Angeles. So, I was confused as hell when I was brought to the hospital here, in Forks." At this, Carlisle finally met my gaze and offered a small smile. I persisted, "My dad was there that night, at any rate, so… he heard my name and came to me, and..." I trailed off with a shrug, always uncomfortable about telling that part of the tale. It was too personal.

Carlisle finally saved me from elaborating, "He was in serious condition and it'd been suggested that he might not walk again. It was decided that I'd take care of him." We shared a knowing glance, quickly drawing our eyes away.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Carlisle cry. He'd come into the triage room in his blue-green scrubs, face ashen and taut, and he… lost it. It scared the shit out of me. I'd been convinced that was it—I was paralyzed for life, or had permanent brain damage, or was horribly disfigured. Why else would he have reacted in such a way?

"Looks to me like you walk fine," Tyler observed, helping himself to another slice of cake.

Lauren inclined her eyes upward, shaking her head. "Well, duh. Let him finish."

At this, I concluded, "It took a week for the swelling to go down, but the first time I moved a toe, I just knew."

"Knew what?" Tyler asked when I didn't continue.

I shot the glob of icing hanging from his lip a wry glance. "Knew that I was done living that way."

Lauren, as usual, grew annoyed, huffing, "You're missing the point." She turned to Tyler with a reverent expression as she explained, "He could have died that night, or spent the rest of his life paralyzed. But he wasn't. Don't you see?" she asked imploringly, eyes wide and shining as an enormous smile swallowed her face. She cheekily declared, "Edward was given a second chance by our Lord and Savior."

I groaned.

Carlisle's mirroring grin to her was toothy and proud. "Praise Jesus," he smugly declared.

"Praise Jesus," Lauren answered, returning to her slice of cake with a blithe expression that I couldn't bring myself to disrupt.

It was only upon hearing this that Esme reentered, offering her own wide smile.

It wasn't that I disagreed. For all her born-again, loosely-followed, bible-thumping Christian fanaticism, Lauren wasn't wrong. I could have easily been killed or spent the rest of my life in a wheelchair. Maybe there'd been a higher power at work, but I didn't see why. I didn't deserve the second chance I'd been given. No higher power could be that unfair. By all karmic rights, I should have been paralyzed or rotting six feet under.

Instead, I was sitting at a table in a nice home, celebrating my first year of sobriety while on the path to something better. I was employed and loved by my parents unconditionally—a type of love that few have ever had tested. I was fortunate and… blessed. Blessed by God or blessed by luck, it didn't matter to me.

What mattered was that I didn't waste it.

---

"I have good news and I have bad news. Which do you want first?" I asked. I put my palm to the frame of the archway to Bella's kitchen, before yanking it back and running my fingers through my hair. She turned to me from the sink with a flinch, having been caught off guard. "Sorry," I said quickly, recalling how she'd accused me of being too silent.

She rolled her eyes and returned to a dish, responding. "I hate it when people ask which news I want first. Just spit it out."

"Okay," I said, watching as she traveled to the oven. "Your light socket is totally fucked, but I planned ahead and bought a new one from the hardware store, so I'll be able to replace it."

"How much was it?" she asked while removing a casserole dish, a puffy mitt on each hand.

I clucked my tongue, a bit distracted by the aroma of… something cheesy. "Come on, Bella. It was like five dollars," I informed. I watched as she set the dish on the table, steam rising from the yellowy layer that was still bubbling. Damn, it looked good, and I hadn't eaten lunch that day, since I'd only just gotten off work at Newton's and my break had been too short, as usual.

I realized my salivating at her meal was incredibly rude, and snapped my eyes to her with a mask of indifference.

She was staring at me, frozen, one mitt halfway removed and in her fist. "Would you like some?" she asked, shifting her bare feet. She didn't recover from her grimace fast enough for me to miss it. She was only asking to be polite.

I waved a hand in dismissal, declining, "Nah, I don't wanna impose. I just need to find your breaker box real quick." A quick scan of the kitchen revealed that it likely wasn't in this room. It was probably in the laundry room, now that I thought about it. I turned to leave, only to be halted by her sigh.

"It's okay. It'll even out the five dollars," she persisted, twisting a tight smile for my benefit when I met her gaze.

Figuring it'd be rude to decline again and respecting her necessity of making things even, I tentatively took the seat at the end of the table. She broke my gaze and removed an extra plate from the cupboard, setting it before me with a fork. The clanks and dings of table-setting made her house feel more silent than it likely was.

I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably. "What's your obsession with balance?" I asked in an attempt to break the tension. My neck was hot, prickling as she seated herself before me, a newspaper beside her plate that she scanned with her eyes. The scene was almost inconceivable—Bella making me dinner. She looked nice today, too, in her tight sweater and dark, fitted jeans, hair all twisted up as it usually was.

She spooned a heap of what I eventually realized to be homemade macaroni and cheese casserole onto her plate. "I don't like being in debt, and I hate knowing that someone has something over me," she finished with her shoulders tucked to her ears, avoiding my eyes. Clearly, this entire scene made her uncomfortable, too.

I should have declined.

I puffed out a tense breath and reluctantly filled my own plate, hedging, "You're proud." Then I supposed that was a rude assessment to make, my hand pausing over the casserole dish as I peeked at her with caution.

She shrugged in response. "I don't know. Maybe. There's nothing wrong with a little pride." Her eyes emphasized this when they met mine, steady and brown and not giving a shit.

I blew on my forkful of macaroni, steam wafting up my nostrils in mouth-watering plumes. "A little pride can be good," I agreed, shoving the fork into my mouth.

My jaw froze. My hand froze. Everything froze.

It was good. Like... really good, which made my being at this table felt even odder. Not only had a beautiful woman who hated my guts made me dinner, but it was a delectable dinner. Then I remembered that she hadn't made me dinner, but that I'd imposed on her night, and I felt like utter crap, frowning.

"What's wrong with it?" she asked, guarded and tense. She flicked her eyes to my fork, narrowed.

"Nufing," I mumbled, mouth full as I swallowed. "It's… really good," I complimented.

"It's okay if you don't like it," she said, pushing back in her seat, lips set into a frustrated line.

A little frustrated myself, I reiterated, "It's fantastic, okay? I say what I mean, and I mean what I say." I punctuated this with another large forkful, shoving it into my mouth. It was only upon a few more eager mouthfuls that her shoulders began to ease from their defensive tension.

Her cheeks grew a faint flush of pink as she retrieved her fork, pushing around a macaroni noodle on her plate. "Oh, I just—" Her words cut off with a snap of her jaw and sharp shake of her head. "Never mind."

"You just what?" I encouraged, licking my teeth as my eyes searched the table. I was thirsty, but didn't dare ask for a drink.

She stared into her plate, scowling. "I'm not used to having, like…. I don't know. People eating. Stuff that I cooked myself, or…. Whatever, I didn't mean to be bitchy," she concluded, eyes hard.

"Well, it's really good," I assured once again, though my finger began toying with the paper towel she'd set beside my plate, tearing the edges into a fringed pattern. My next words were a surprise, even to me. "So you don't usually… cook—for anyone… else or anything?"

She was silent for a moment as I refused to look her in the eyes. "Uh… no," she answered, confusion lacing her tone.

"So, what's next on the home improvement list?" I blurted, eager to veer away from the unexceptionally weird place my mind had travelled to.

"Um," she stammered, brows furrowed in uncertainty. Her eyes darted about the kitchen, rolling her fork between her fingertips. "I'm not... sure?"

I assisted, "Your staircase," and ducked my head in the direction of her living room, hoping that my ears weren't as red as they felt.

"My staircase?" she asked, brow curved.

I nodded, elaborating with a swallow, "It makes bad sounds. That can't be safe. Won't hurt to make sure it's still structurally sound, you know?" It felt weird admitting aloud that I'd heard her steps on the staircase earlier. Something about being inside this house made my senses particularly alert, as if I were expecting the Chief's memory to bust through the door at any second to strangle me to death.

She looked thoughtfully to the archway into the parallel room, raising her brows with a small, "Oh, okay."

"Okay," I exhaled in relief, having successfully traversed through enough multiple awkward moments to make my muscles feel gelatinous.

Despite my compliments toward her casserole, Bella still appeared abundantly shocked when I gestured with reluctance to the dish for a second helping, a silent question in my eyes. She simply nodded, growing pinker.

Sure, the silence that followed wasn't tense at all.

I was still thirsty as hell, but knew better than to ask for a drink. Bella didn't seem to mind being beverageless, nevertheless, and opted to thumb through her newspaper while she ate.

When she turned it over, I caught an eyeful of The Forksian's front page.

A low and involuntary, "Ugh," escaped the back of my throat.

She flitted her eyes to mine, surprise evident in their width. "What?" she asked, that trace of defensiveness tainting her posture once again.

I quickly shook my head, pointing to the paper as I explained, "Nothing, just that article on Dr. Aro. He's such a fake. He's had my dad so wound up and—" I paused with a roll of my eyes. "Never mind." I waved my hand, certain that Bella could care less about anything I had to say.

"What? Tell me," she prompted, turning the paper over in her hands. Her eyes flew left to right as she scanned the article and photo I'd gestured to, jaw moving as she chewed.

I wasn't sure why she cared, but I easily vented, "Well, he was elected to the board under false pretenses or some such. My dad said he's seen some shady shit go down."

"Like what?"

I shrugged, shifting in my seat. "Missing funds and stuff? I don't know. I just… know my dad's really stressed out over it. I don't really ask him for specifics or anything," I finished with a weak smile.

She met my gaze, brows pinched with indignation. "Why not? That's something that should be investigated," she began, back straight in her seat. "That's the problem with the world today. People see others being wronged and they never say or do anything about it. Just turn their backs on the issues. If someone were stealing your money, wouldn't you like someone to say something?"

I wasn't sure what to say as I prodded at my last few bites of casserole, frowning. "I guess, but what am I gonna do? You know what the law enforcement here is like—underfunded and understaffed. Plus—" My teeth clicked as I quickly snapped my mouth shut.

Plus, your dad was the best investigator this town probably had.

"I don't know enough about it," I finished grimly.

Her hand raised to her hair and, with a flick of her fingers, emerged with her pen—the lucky pen—the pen she rarely wrote with. My heart thrummed with anticipation of seeing her hair tumble.

It didn't.

Damn.

She put the pen to the newspaper and ordered, "Tell me what you do know." Her eyes were determined and piercing as they met mine, flashing in an unfamiliar-to-me fashion.

I sputtered a surprised, "Uh, I don't know," and quickly filled my mouth, concluding, "I'll haf to avk my dad."

Her hand began scribbling onto the grayish paper, brows pulled together in thought. "Maybe I could talk to him?" she asked, though it felt as though she were mostly talking to herself.

"If you… want to…?" I supposed, more than a little taken aback by her interest. I mean, sure, it was pretty fucked up for Dr. Aro to hold such a powerful position when he was possibly abusing it, but… I had enough of my own bullshit to worry about without meddling in the hospital's business.

I finished my casserole before Bella, who was still scribbling onto the paper, so I placed my fork atop my plate and just sort of… sat there. I didn't wanna just jet without offering to help clean up or something. That seemed like the polite thing to do, especially since I'd probably eaten more than five dollars worth of her meal.

She eventually broke her gaze from her paper, seeming to search the table. She then stood, wordless as she traveled to the cabinets across the room. I rose as well, lifting my empty plate and shifting from foot to foot.

She emerged with one glass, then—slowly—another. "Would you like a drink?" she asked over her shoulder, lifting a glass.

I exhaled, gripping the plate with unnecessary force. "No, thank you," I said, sharply enough to cause her head to snap back.

She only looked offended for a fraction of a second before her features went slack. "I didn't mean…" She shook her head, turning to me. Her gaze was focused vaguely over my shoulder. "I have lemonade," she clarified. "I wouldn't ever, like… try to offer you—that again." Then she looked down at the glasses in her hands, her shame subtle, but apparent in the hard lines of her barely-there glower.

The temptation I'd felt at her previous taunting had been enormous. She wouldn't have cared whether or not I'd fallen off the wagon. She would have rejoiced, and this thought had made it impossibly more alluring. There was nothing worse than being in the presence of someone that wanted to see me fail. That day in her kitchen probably fell in my top five most difficult moments.

I breathed deeply through my nostrils, willing my mind to not address the other drinks she might have in her fridge. "Lemonade would be great," I accepted, embarrassed.

Nodding, her feet pattered toward the fridge, opening the door.

And then it happened.

She ducked inside, disappearing behind the door before emerging with a jug. But she'd bent and then… straightened and...

My breath caught, strangled in my throat.

There was a slow untwisting, gravity pulling her thick rope of hair until it was… tumbling. It fell in fat waves around her shoulders, bounced once, then settled down her back in a tidy cascade, the horizontal impressions of her bun uniform, while the ends curled in spiraled locks just above her hips.

She was pouring from the pitcher, none the wiser about my inner turmoil as her head tilted in concentration. Her hair shifted over one shoulder, veiling her face and arm. My anxious eyes darted to the table, where her pen sat peacefully atop the newspaper.

Oh, and she was talking. "—this, but I used to make it a lot in Florida. I'm honestly not a big drinker. Of beer, I mean. Just… sometimes. On the weekends, or whatever." She turned to me with a heavy exhale, cheeks flushed, eyes trained upward. "I'm not like that."

My face must have been as red as hers when I accepted the glass, eyes trained on the hair that covered her delicate, pink neck. In that portion of my mind reserved for boredom at work and late nights on the internet, I briefly imagined dropping both the plate and glass and pushing my fingers through her hair.

I'd stand behind her and cup it in my hands, bury my face into it and rub it against my cheeks, take deep inhales of her inadequate, cheap, strawberry-scented shampoo.

I sank my teeth into my cheek and willed away my sudden erection with thoughts of rancid vomit. "Thank you," I said, clearing my throat when my voice cracked. I tipped the glass back and inspected her ceiling as I chugged every single drop of it down.

My lips puckered when I finished with a deep breath, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

She blinked at me. "If you were so thirsty, you could have asked for a drink," she stated, taking my plate with an annoyed expression.

I remained frozen beside the table, fixated on how the dull lighting of the overhead fixture didn't do her highlights justice. When I was certain my bizarre behavior was reaching noticeable proportions, I ripped my gaze away and scratched furiously at my nape.

"Would you let me do the dishes?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

She scoffed, turning to place my plate in the sink before returning to her seat. "I think I'm capable of washing two plates, but thanks," she answered dryly, retrieving her pen and resuming her sporadic scribbles beside Dr. Aro's face.

"Right," I sighed, fixing my eyes to the dull toes of my boots. "Well… I'm gonna go see if I can find that breaker box then…" When she answered in a low hum, I spun on my heel, frantic to leave the room before that other, more imaginative side of my brain took over certain appendages.

"Edward," she called, halting me right before I'd crossed the threshold.

I cursed under my breath, glancing vaguely toward her from over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

"I was wondering…" She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the pen between her fingertips. "Well… I mean, it's not really… important? But…" She went silent for a moment before finally lifting her eyes, a flicker of anger crossing her features. "What ever happened to James?" she asked.

At the sound of his name, all sorts of dormant emotions assaulted me. There was anger, sure, but there were also other, fonder emotions of my childhood friend as well. I felt a dipping of nostalgia in my stomach of summers spent down at La Push, James always challenging me to jump from the higher cliffs and swim in the rougher surfs.

He'd smile his snaggletoothed grin, blonde hair all rumpled and sticking to his face and neck. He'd extend his arms wide, as if the world were always his own, and say, "Come on, Eduardo! You only live once!" His eyes, alight with mischief, would dare me to follow him—and I usually did, and then we usually emerged from the water, thrilled and breathless, collapsing on the sand with airy, juvenile laughter.

I was brought back to the present with a lurch; my legs, weak; tongue, bitter with the memory of salty water, stealthily stolen booze and the smoky air of his Oldsmobile. I turned away, looking toward the laundry room where my next task lay. That was how to get through this—one moment at a time.

My words followed behind me, flat and vacant.

"He's dead, Bella."

A/N: I only just realized that every scene in this chapter takes place at a table. Huh. Clearly, there was interaction creativity fail. PastyP beta'd, TKmoon held my hand, Angel approved the hairection. And, of course, you all brighten my life by reading my drivel and actually taking time to comment! XD

I have two recs this week! I actually had three, but Angel called dibs on one of them. Expectations and Other Moving Pieces by chrometurtle (in my faves list on my profile) is an insanely awesome AH E/B angstfic. E and B are already in a loveless marriage when the story begins. It is so good!

The other is So Cruel by Demosthenes91 (in my faves list) and is a contest-winning one-shot continuation, AH, 80's E/B, angsty High School fic. The sweetest doucheward I've read all year! KickedPuppyward? Whatever. Bella punches him. It's good times!

See y'all Sunday!