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!
There's a long A/N at the end with a Mac-N-Cheese recipe, so I'll just say a huge thanks for all the comments. [Insert big, goofy grin, here]
"What are you doing?" I shouted. The door to my car closed behind me while I hugged my notepad and folders to my chest. I assessed the aluminum ladder propped against the house with confused and wary eyes.
If he'd gotten that from the shed, it probably wasn't safe to use, and I had no interest in a lawsuit—if it were possible.
I'd have to research that.
I saw him stiffen, one hand gripping the top rung of the ladder, while the other paused its mysterious movement at the edge of my roof. Slowly, his head turned, eyes darting to my face, before rising to my head. He exhaled heavily, body easing from its rigid posture.
His odd reaction upon seeing me was common. His last three visits had all began like this—eyes cautious as they rose to where my hair was tied atop my head. It took me a long while to deduce what he was always staring at with such trepidation. I hadn't forgotten the way he'd looked at me that night we'd eaten dinner together and I'd taken my hair down—the wide eyes, the ashen face, the quick swallows, his taut jaw muscles. I had always been an observant person, had always prided myself on deciphering mysteries. His had taken a long while to crack, but I had his number.
Clearly, Edward had some kind of fear of hair—Chaetophobia, possibly.
I'd looked that up.
Edward offered me another quick glance over his shoulder before extending a handful of sodden leaves. "Cleaning the gutter," he replied, mud and goop dripping from between his fingers.
I wrinkled my nose and walked closer, craning my neck to see him. "Weren't you going to finish the staircase?"
He resumed working, using a large pole he'd sat on the roof to purge the gutters of wet leaves. "Well, when I came, you weren't here, so I figured while I was waiting..." he trailed off and glanced down, his hair limp and dark from the morning mist in the air.
I'd been around town, looking into this whole Dr. Aro situation. I'd been casually asking questions about him to the citizens—some coworkers and such. Most of the people I'd asked didn't even know who he was, which was a testament to his ambiguity, as everyone knew who everyone was in this town.
Without answering his silent question, I replied, "That's not necessary," and shifted my thick stack of files to one side, rather frustrated. I wondered when the hell Edward had become such an egregious overachiever. It seemed as though he found something extra to do with every visit. When he'd come last week to simply "check" the staircase's foundation, he'd also managed to find another flaw in the house that needed attention: pests.
Sure, it seemed necessary enough to note the termite damage that was related to the staircase's vulnerability, but by the end of the following day, he'd been up in the attic, setting down mouse traps, which was an issue that continued to bother me.
I didn't want to kill the poor mousies.
He shook his head, and I could see his sigh from where I stood. "It's nothing," he insisted. "And trust me, it's very necessary. Do you have any idea the damage clogged gutters can do to a house's foundation? Water can even back up into the walls and ceiling and—"
"Okay, okay!" I halted him, defeated. "Just... is there anything I can do to help?" I kept asking this, but he usually found excuses which made it impossible for me to help, like involving the brutal murder of defenseless mammals.
His grin was barely hidden as he jostled the pole about, eyes focused. "I'm almost done," he dismissed. "I'll be in after I finish...?" He paused then and looked to me with an uncertain expression. He wasn't comfortable in my house, was always shifting and grimacing and holding his arms unnecessarily close to his sides.
It was kind of awesome.
"That's fine," I relented, traveling up the steps and casting him one last, reluctant glance before entering the house.
Despite my undeniable discomfort with having him so near, I couldn't disregard my annoying sense of relief at having somebody not only to repair the house, but also to simply... be here. It was a definite credit to my loneliness that I still felt this way, even though it was Edward Cullen. It wasn't like he was anywhere near being a friend to me, and we never spoke about anything unrelated to his self-imposed duties—and even then, I was usually battling with him to do less, and he was usually battling with me to do more. I didn't know if I could say we argued, because it wasn't possible to argue with Edward. He was always quick to reassure me or present the situation in a light that I couldn't possibly debate.
Those moments of disagreement were growing shorter and shorter. I justified this by reasoning that Edward had a talent for explanation and spinning views. He was practical—with a dash of manipulative thrown in.
He'd tilt his head just so, and then he'd state his case in this calm, smooth, self-assured voice, with all his home improvement lingo and simple logic. Furthermore, refusing to allow him access to my attic had resulted in something particularly appalling. The green of his eyes had grown dark and despondent, a sadness present with them that picked and prodded my inner bleeding heart.
A bleeding heart? For Edward Cullen? It was laughable.
But I'd let him, because there was only one thing in this world worse than feeling indebted to Edward Cullen—not to mention the useless slaughter of innocent animals—and that was my slow, creeping sense of compassion for his circumstance. No good could come of that. I wanted to save my compassion for people—and poor, helpless animals—whom I actually deemed worthy of such a thing.
I was sourly pondering this as I laid my things upon the table, absently flipping through papers, the name, "Dr. Herbert Aro" riddled within sentences and document titles. His essays on financial efficiency in the healthcare system were particularly intriguing, and had been simple to obtain.
I'd gone to the library with the intention of garnering use of their microfiche reader. Unfortunately, the librarian was young and hadn't been updating the films. There was a massive gap in time that I wasn't comfortable overlooking, so it was decided that a trip to the actual headquarters of the paper was in order. Instead, I'd taken advantage of the free internet and had printed out some of Dr. Aro's academic works.
I didn't know what the hell was being said through most of it, but one thing was clear: Dr. Aro was an intelligent man with innovative ideas. He was in the position to save the hospital loads of money. The question was: what was he doing with it?
The sounds of an elongated, thunderous scrape disrupted my musings, my head whirling to the kitchen window just in time to see a flash of silver ladder. A muffled crash followed that caused my stomach to lurch.
Oh, great, I thought as I sprinted to the door and threw it open, bounding down the steps to peer at the side of the house. The last thing I needed was to be liable for hospital bills, or worse.
I caught sight of Edward just as he sprung to his feet, eyes meeting mine immediately.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, a succinct and covert jerk of his shoulder sending a leaf tumbling to the ground. "What's up?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
I gaped at his ruffled appearance while noting the ladder, which was flat on the ground. "You fell!" I exclaimed, wincing at the sight of him. He had debris in his hair, while his flannel shirt, pushed up to his elbows, was smeared with the same goop he'd been holding moments prior.
"Oh, that?" His eyes went to the ladder and he shrugged. "It was nothing," he said, craggy grin tainting his face.
My eyes narrowed. "It didn't sound like nothing," I retorted, and it certainly didn't look like nothing. When my eyes shot a wry glance to his hair, Edward merely scoffed, scrubbing his fingers through it.
"Like I said, it was nothing." He shrugged again and whisked past me, declaring, "Let's get started on that staircase."
---
I watched him from my periphery as I perched on the sofa, his shoulders tucked high to his ears, the muscles of his forearms flexed and rippled as he sanded the new banister. I pursed my lips when he orbited his task, favoring his right leg.
"You sure you don't want some ice or something?" I asked for the third time. Clearly, he had injured himself and was too proud to admit it.
Just like a man.
He exhaled, eyes narrowing. "I told you. It was nothing," he snapped, sanding the wood a little harder than I thought necessary.
I rolled my eyes at the amplified, abrasive sounds. "Suit yourself."
I looked forward once again as Vanna White strutted across my screen, revealing there were, in fact, two 'F's.
"Forever and forever," I mumbled, idly attempting to solve the puzzle. Edward snorted, drawing my eyes to where he stood, lips pressed into a fine line. "What?" I asked, nostrils flaring against my will.
He shook his head, muttering, "Not a thing," as he continued working, skirting around the banister.
I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled ahead, easing into the sofa.
It was always difficult to relax in the living room—not just because Edward was present, but because the room exuded Charlie's essence. Sometimes the vacant space in the corner of my eye would seem filled, as if he were sitting there on the sofa in his usual position. I'd be startled as I'd whip my head to the side with a gasp, only to find nothing but air and faded cushions in his place.
"G!" the overweight woman exclaimed from the television, gleeful when Pat confirmed there were two 'G's present in the puzzle. When asked if she'd like to solve, she clapped her hands and jovially declared, "FORGIVE AND FORGET!"
Claps and cheers sliced through the tension in the air, Edward silent and meticulous just beyond the archway. I could see the infinitesimal incline of his head as his hands worked faster, sending sprays of white dust floating to the ground.
"I'm going outside for a cigarette," I ground out, eager as I snatched my pack of cigarettes from the end table. His low hum served as acknowledgement as I whisked past him, my footsteps loud and quick.
The sun was beginning to set, and the air was cooler, so I hugged my knees to my chest once situated on the steps. I drew long, freeing pulls of smoke, and set the grey clouds afloat into the air with slow, languorous exhales.
This wasn't going to work.
Yes, Edward had plenty work on the house to keep him busy, but I needed an end-point. When would it be finished? When I forgave him? I wasn't confident that even a house as derelict as Charlie's held enough manual labor to fulfill such a thing. I could tell him the words now, but somehow I knew Edward wouldn't settle for that.
It was exhausting, just considering the amount of work he'd have to do to earn my forgiveness—with no guarantee it could ever be granted. He was an enormous help, and though I was grateful on many levels, they were all superficial in comparison to the kind of gratitude that might summon forgiveness.
I was weary by the time I reentered the house, rubbing warmth into my arms as I closed the door behind me. I paused to assess Edward's work, which, in all honesty, was flawless. He was good with wood and tools and hammers and… shit I didn't know the name of. I wasn't even certain what portions of the staircase had received his attention, but the new banister stood proud and regal, white amongst the faded stain of the old wood it was attached to. Its presence was much like a clean spot on a dirty floor. It made everything surrounding it look lackluster and aged.
Edward pushed his hair from his eyes, turning to me. "I can stain it to match the wood," he said, gesturing to the smooth, white surface of the banister. "I should do it during the day, though, so you can leave the door open. For the fumes…" he explained, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I nodded and ran my finger over it, offering, "It's great. Thanks." I smiled and met his gaze, sincere but superficial, yet again.
He nodded, casting a glance up the stairs. "I should check the traps. If it's okay," he asked, nudging a shoulder toward the ceiling.
My smile transformed into a tight line. "Yeah, whatever you think's best. I have to get ready for work." I kept my head ducked as I passed him and climbed the stairs, which no longer creaked and groaned under my weight. I slapped my feet against them extra hard as a result of this fact before diving into my bedroom and shutting the door.
If I was lucky, I wouldn't be able to hear him killing the trapped mice that hadn't died yet. I'd seen Charlie do that once, when I'd lived here as a teenager. They always got bad during winter and would scratch in the ceilings at nights. It'd always annoyed me, a fact that had been the cause of much guilt the day I'd come home to find him climbing down from the attic, bag in hand. When I'd seen the bag moving, I'd been devastated.
"The one that's alive is already badly hurt, Bells," Charlie had said, sighing as he squeezed my shoulder. He never had known what to do when I cried, and my tears had come faster upon the gesture. "I'm doing it a favor," he'd reasoned in a lower voice, stalking off down the hall with his head bowed.
He'd killed it out back, on the boulder that resided on the edge of the tree line, and I'd cried for the little mouse all night long, upset further by my inability to have given it a proper burial. It was the last time Charlie had ever been so careless, opting instead to set traps when he was certain I'd be gone.
My stomach turned as I hastily disrobed and slid into my dark work slacks, the crisp, white shirt still managing to smell of the Lodge despite having been washed. I could see the grey shape of the boulder from my bedroom window, and the sounds of footsteps above me made my chest ache with a dull throb.
I sat on my bed and waited, scanning the room.
It was bare for the most part, my old bed being the main presence in the space. There were boxes I'd had sent from Jacksonville along the wall that I hadn't bothered to unpack. They were mostly full of clothing that wasn't appropriate for Washington's climate, while the boxes downstairs were full of old house wares from my apartment—pots and pans and lamps that didn't fit with the décor—or lack thereof—in Charlie's house.
My dresser was still a small, white piece of furniture that you'd find in a little girl's room, the handles decorative and delicate. There were no mirrors, no rugs, no chairs, and no curtains. The entire scene was simple and functional, comfortable in its discomfort, and I found myself relaxed once again when the sounds of footsteps ceased.
I stood and straightened my blouse, walking to the door and throwing it open.
"Jesus!" I shrieked, jumping back.
Edward's fist fell from the air as his wide, rueful eyes met mine. He had a bag in his hand, and I grasped my stomach, narrowing my eyes at him.
He shifted his weight to his presumably uninjured leg, stepping back from the doorway. "I'm sorry," he said, averting his eyes to the floor as he scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. "I just wanted to ask where I should get rid of these." He held the bag up for emphasis, and…
It was moving.
It wasn't a small movement either, but rather, the entire bag was jostling about, indicating that there was more than one mouse that—as he'd so callously put it—needed getting rid of.
"How many did you catch?" I breathed, unable to look away from the bag he held.
"Four."
I exhaled raggedly. "Are they all alive?" I asked, projecting the words at him with a hint of venom. I mean, really, what a failure. If he'd set them right, then four mice wouldn't have been sitting up there above me every night, silently suffering.
"Of course they're alive." He balked, finally meeting my gaze with pinched brows. "I got no-kill mouse traps, which you know, pretty much implies that the point is to not kill them." He paused as my eyebrows hiked upward, surprised. "What?"
"How did you know to get no-kill mouse traps?" I asked, though I inwardly berated myself for not knowing such a thing existed.
He rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair, pink lips furling to one side. "Well, fuck Bella, I'm no mind reader or anything, but when you told me to 'enjoy my heartless maiming of the harmless creatures you shared your home with' I sort of managed to put two and two together." He extended his palm and braced it against the door frame, leaning forward with an expectant expression.
The bag wiggled against the molding.
I covered my mouth with my hand and looked away, figuring if I could focus on the empty space of my room long enough, I could contain my laughter.
It wasn't effective.
A chuckle escaped through my fingertips, and I spared Edward a glance from the corner of my eye, finding his lips pressed together in a poor attempt at hiding his smile.
My laughter was breathy and relieved when I finally released it, shaking my head. "I didn't say that," I insisted.
Edward's smirk was full and cheeky now, one eyebrow curved. "No, I believe your language was a little more colorful, but whatever. Point taken." He gestured to the hall and twisted the bag in his hands. "Where should I release them?"
It was with odd buoyancy that I led him down the hall, bouncing down the quiet stairs with springing steps. I steered him to the back door and peeked over my shoulder to be certain he was still following me. His lips curved up into a grin when mine did, and there was just enough light outside to make the back yard visible.
I led him across the yard, past the grassless section where the leaking pipe had been, and to the boulder I'd been able to see from my bedroom window. It seemed appropriate and respectful to the memory of countless mice that had likely been disposed of upon it.
I halted beside the rock, turning to Edward with an uncontainable smile. "Here," I said, peering at the bag with a weird, impatient kind of enthusiasm.
Nodding favorably, he crouched down low, sinewy forearms rested on his knees as he carefully unwound the top of their fabric prison. He laid it flat on the ground before pinching the bottom between two fingertips and gently nudging it upward.
The first mouse to emerge from the bag was grey and tiny, just an adolescent. Its beady eyes took only a brief moment to assess its surroundings before swiftly scampering off into the forest. The second was larger and didn't spare one second of investigation before fleeing. The third and fourth emerged at the same moment, following the lead of the others.
We watched until they had all disappeared, Edward bunching up the bag in his hands when he finally rose from the ground.
I broke the silence with a gentle, "Thank you."
It was sincere, and not superficial in the least.
Completely ignorant as to the rather rare and sentimental moment I was experiencing, Edward began, "You'll just have to be preventative now. They make all kinds of repellants and shit." With a shrug and one final glance into the trees, he turned, boots soft against the damp ground behind me.
With slower steps, I trailed behind him toward the house, the sky above us bathing the yard in a warm, calming orange. Upon reaching the door, I turned my head just enough to catch the boulder in my periphery.
The skin of my arms erupted in abrupt, startled goose bumps. I whipped my head to the side, only to be met with empty air and cold granite, even though for a fraction of a second—from the corner of my vision—that space had seemed filled with the same Charlie-shaped silhouette I'd sometimes sensed beside me on the sofa.
---
The small building that housed the inner operations of The Forksian was easy to find. I entered the antique, glass-etched door, and my nostrils flared with familiarity—the bland scent of office supplies mingling with the rustic smell of ink and paper. This newspaper was nothing like the one I'd worked at in Jacksonville. The entire building of The Forksian could have fit in Jacksonville Gazette's reception area alone.
A middle-aged, curvy redhead sat at the reception desk to greet me, a thrilled smile lighting her face. "Welcome to The Forksian! How can I be of service?" She straightened her back and busied her hands with righting a shiny, red stapler.
"The lady at the library told me I could find a Forksian microfiche reader here," I said in reference to the young girl I'd met. I'd been putting off the task of investigating here, as it was a little more obvious than I usually preferred when doing freelance.
Her smile withered. "Of course. Through the back room there, Miss..." she trailed off with a skeptical expression.
"Swan." I smiled, effectively allaying any suspicion. This was an upside to living in Forks. My name was well known, and I was rarely given any grief. If anything, people hurried to satisfy my needs. It had felt uncomfortable at first, but now I was beginning to see the advantages of the town's odd behavior.
In Jacksonville, it would have taken me weeks to reach this point in an investigation.
My main goal was to determine whether or not The Forksian had special interest in Dr. Aro's public image. It wasn't unlike any aspect of the media to throw all objectivity out the window. The signs would be obvious: opinion pieces painting him in a positive light, coverage of his presence at certain local events being highlighted, and the absence of any negative press.
It took me four hours hunched over the microfiche reader in the dark, back room of the building to determine that The Forksian wasn't showing him special interest. They definitely weren't showing bias—they were just ignorant. Over the last week, I'd done subtle explorations of his position on the board of directors at the hospital. Outwardly, he seemed like the upstanding citizen everyone believed him to be. This was, of course, fairly suspect. No one is without fault. No one is perfect. Not even Dr. Aro.
With a sigh, I rubbed at my eyes, blurred from long hours of focusing on the monitor. I considered that The Forksian could really benefit from an article of this nature. From the looks of it, their reputation was safe, but only because they covered safe topics. The community would be sent reeling with this kind of scandal, especially seeing as how it'd be done for the sake of protecting their own. This was logical—to alert an editor and allow them to investigate the situation with their clout.
But I needed it.
So badly did I need it, that I intentionally threw off the staff to my readings by perusing random films that meant nothing to my interests. Comics, food articles, obituaries from the nineteen-sixties—you name it. My perusals were so random, that I was completely thrown upon finding the face of one James Jensen staring back at me.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, my heart rate increasing as I recalled how Edward had told me of his death—the hollow voice that had lingered too long in my hallway that afternoon, weeks ago.
I didn't truly care how he'd died, though I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't been thinking about it. My curiosity was shallow, at best, and I hadn't gone out of my way to press for details the day Edward had fixed my laundry room light socket. Actually, he hadn't been too keen on discussion after we'd eaten, anyway.
I didn't even attempt to justify my interest as I began reading.
One Man Killed, Another Seriously Injured in Fatal Car Accident Near Industrial Park.
According to the article, "James Jensen of Clallam County, 29, was fatally injured when the stolen car he'd been driving struck a telephone pole just south of the industrial park." It was revealed that "poor weather conditions and excessive speed" were "believed to be contributing factors," though the coroner was still "awaiting the results of a toxicology report." At the time the article was published, "The coroner's office and state Highway Patrol continued to investigate the accident."
The third paragraph into the article read, "He hadn't been wearing a seat belt."
Regardless of all my attempts to release my spite, I found myself to be indifferent in regards to James' death. Even when I read of his mother and the little brother he'd left behind, I felt... nothing. It was alarming at first, because I didn't want to consider what kind of person this made me.
But then I continued reading, and I was more than simply alarmed.
"His passenger, Edward Cullen, was reported to be in stable, but serious condition Tuesday night."
My breaths, short and choppy, accompanied a swift somersaulting of my stomach. I grasped at my abdomen and quickly turned the monitor off, hastily replacing all the films to their rightful positions among the dusty shelves.
The redhead offered me a tired smile as I fled the building, clutching my notes to my chest and ducking through the sprinkle that was beginning to fall.
The ride home was silent and pensive, my wipers filling the space with rubbery squeaks.
I knew to expect him when I arrived, so the sight of him sitting on my porch was no shock. Once again, I'd made him wait for me. I'd lost track of time at The Forksian, and I scrambled to collect my papers as I stumbled from the car.
"I'm late," I stated in apology, fumbling for my keys.
Edward stood and leaned his back against the column that rose to the roof. "No big," he said without meeting my gaze, hands nestled in his pockets. He was wearing what I recognized to be his work clothes, having likely just gotten off. He rested his head against the wood and seemed to be staring at nothing in particular, perhaps lost in thought.
I glanced at him sideways as I unlocked the door, noting the thick stubble that lined his jaw and the heaviness of his eyelids. He hadn't even regarded my hair in the way he usually would, with cautious eyes and stiff posture. Instead, he followed silently behind me when I opened the door, though he left it ajar for the sake of airing out the varnish fumes.
The afternoon continued in the same manner it always did during Edward's visits. He set to work while I went about my business, only inquiring if I could assist him once. As usual, my help wasn't warranted, so I remained in the kitchen, where I searched for excuses to remain occupied.
The varnish smell wasn't so bad but did seem to linger in the air with a harsh edge that my nostrils refused to acclimate to. It was because of this that I finally stood, shuffling to the back door with my cigarettes in hand, since going out the front would force me to pass him.
Maybe it was my discovery from earlier, or perhaps even Edward's sullen mood, but something about the atmosphere was grey and contemplative—a stark contrast to the orange warmth of the last evening he'd come.
I didn't like it.
I sat on the back stoop, calmly watching the rain fall until the sounds of Edward's approach caused my head to turn.
He explained, "I'm just waiting for it to dry so I can add a second coat," and stood beside the door, face an expressionless mask.
"Okay."
I continued smoking my cigarette while looking out over the yard. The grass had already grown quite a bit, and I was anticipating Edward's request to mow it any day now. With the rain came a chill that made me grateful for my sweater as I pulled it tighter around my torso, aware of the presence over my shoulder, but reluctant to regard it.
It was only then that I noticed Edward's dark, hooded sweatshirt. He'd obviously gotten it from his car, which meant that he'd went out the front door, which meant that he was preferring to wait while in my company.
Weird.
"How's Newton's?" I prompted, eager to at least make small talk if he was going to stand out here and invade my peaceful space.
His response was soft and quiet. "Shitty."
"Oh." I nodded, raising my brows to myself. He certainly was being one hell of a wet blanket today. "Sorry," I supplied.
He shrugged, asking. "How's the Lodge?" and pushed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.
"Shitty." I shot him a small smile, only to be met with his piercing, unamused stare.
"You didn't waitress in Florida," he stated, and I was taken aback by the accusation that laced his tone.
"No," I responded, drawing out the syllable with confusion. "I worked at a newspaper. Mostly… just a gopher." This was my main reason for hating my old job. I'd always been underestimated by the senior staff, who were often only interested in using me to do their dirty work. If I'd stayed, I probably could have worked my way to the top by outlasting them—which I would have, no doubt. But I hadn't stayed, and the notion of starting over yet again didn't seem attractive to me, and I would have to start over again, all the way from the bottom.
My degree was not in journalism.
"That's not true," he said in the same accusing tone. "I saw your article." It was then that I turned to face him, regarding his utter stillness, the limp hair that hung over his forehead, and the sadness of his eyes.
"What article?" I asked, briefly panicked that he'd been looking through my research on Dr. Aro. That piece was more important to me than I could bring myself to admit. It'd be just my luck that Edward would show his true colors now and ruin my advantage by outing me.
However his response was unexpected. "The one you wrote in college—about bullies," he answered, lips barely parting as he spoke.
"How?" I asked in a whisper, too stunned to find my voice.
That article had been my first venture into the field, and it'd been too late at the time to change my major once I realized that I'd rather have a career in journalism than general English. The sense of purpose I'd gained from bringing awareness to an important and often disregarded subject had affected me so deeply, that I'd never even put my English major to use.
He gruffly muttered, "Internet," and finally broke my gaze, staring at the toe of his boot as it pushed a wayward leaf around.
"Oh."
I supposed that made sense, only it didn't make any sense. Why the hell was Edward searching for my articles on the internet? And what else had he found? What other ambiguous portions of my life in Florida had he uncovered? It was intrusive made me really uncomfortable—even though… I was kind of guilty of something similar.
"It was… really good," he said, drawing his entire bottom lip into his mouth.
"Thanks."
I wasn't particularly conceited, but it was more than just good. It had won an award, and my parents had doted on the accomplishment to a mortifying degree, often referring to me jokingly as an, "award-winning journalist." I would blush and roll my eyes and stomp around as if I were frustrated with the attention.
He abruptly whispered, "Is that how you see me?" Sparing me only a quick glance from beneath his dark lashes, his eyes bore that same sadness that had prompted me to allow what I thought to be the murder of little, furry creatures.
"I don't know," I said, turning my face to hide my grimace.
Truthfully, the article hadn't been kind to bullying personalities. I'd even worked with the college's statisticians and science departments to compare adolescent male hostility to lack of penis length. I'd kept most of that out of my article, but it was a testament to my bias. Looking back, award-winning or otherwise, it was anything but objective.
I really had no way to answer him. I'd definitely seen Edward as one of those people, but didn't find any sense of satisfaction in telling him so. Instead, I released a light chuckle, quirking a brow at him. "You know, my mom used to tell me you had a crush on me," I informed, anxious to lighten the mood.
This would definitely lighten the mood, as clearly, it was rather comical.
Edward's loose shrug was casual and indifferent. "Probably not too far off base," he responded, causing my jaw to drop once again.
What?
"What?" I asked, my voice unintentionally shrill. If my comment hadn't been amusing enough, I was certain my expression must have been.
He met my gaze, unfazed, as if his words didn't hold the enormous weight they in fact had. He removed one hand from his pocket and scratched absently at his jaw. "Isn't that what boys do when they like a girl? Just… fuck with 'em, or something?" He punctuated this with a slapping drop of his palm against his thigh.
I croaked, "Yeah, when they're like… nine!"
His brows pulled together, puckering his forehead. "I don't know what the fuck I was—" He paused, and his ears, though mostly hidden by his hair, stood out bright against the grey of the air, colored with a vivid pink. "It just… seems like another life. I can't channel that person anymore," he concluded, sighing as he leaned against the frame to the door. He looked away. "I just meant that you shouldn't have been so quick to write off the possibility is all."
To him, the silence that followed was probably awkward and discomforting. To me, there was no silence, because I was too occupied with scanning my memories for any signs of… attraction? That didn't seem likely, one bit. Even if by some grand leap the most beautiful guy in school had been attracted to me, Edward had never given any indication of it. Not even an inappropriate touch, which was something I'm certain his previous personality wouldn't have hesitated to do.
I eventually decided, "I don't think so," because he might not have been able to channel the person he'd once been, but I was capable of channeling mine, and that person wasn't being toyed with for the sake of flirtation. I was certain of it.
Almost completely certain of it.
Edward huffed. "Look, is there any point to this?" he asked, pushing himself forward. He jerked his head in the direction of the house, his sweatshirt protruding as he raised his palms from beneath the fabric. "Because if all I'm doing is being a massive pain in your ass, then… I shouldn't. I don't want to be." His eyes were more guilty than sad as he gnawed at the inside of his cheek, his jaw moving intermittently.
This was the same question I'd asked myself during his last visit, and for a moment, I wasn't certain how to even respond. Then I recalled how I'd ended that day, the bright warmth of the sunset and a feeling of contentment.
"There's a point to it," I decided, confident when I met his gaze.
He exhaled, bunching the front of his sweater into his hidden hands. His eyes closed, but when they opened, they were shining. His lips screwed up into small, relieved grin. "Thank God," he breathed, lowering himself to the steps at my side. He glanced at me, joking, "I'm risking bodily injury here."
Snorting, I nudged him with my shoulder, the casual and unconscious act resulting in my sudden rigidity. I chided, "I knew you hurt yourself falling off that ladder."
His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he pressed his lips together. "Trust me, I've had worse," he replied, folding his arms atop his knees. He stared ahead toward the trees, a haunted expression tainting his sharp features.
I felt that similar somersaulting of my stomach, my hand reaching to grasp a phantom pang that I was only just beginning to understand. As I watched his dark eyes, body hunched lazily over his knees at my side, I realized that I was happy that Edward hadn't died in that wreck—upset even, at the mere thought of the possibility.
That wasn't total forgiveness, but it was a good start.
A/N: So, when my dad died, everyone in my house was seeing him from the corner of their eyes. I don't know if this is common, and it was really plausible that it could have been some impression on our minds, unconsciously looking for him, but it always made us feel looked after, like he was still there. Anyway, I'm not doing a big Charlie-the-friendly-ghost reveal or anything, jsyk. Just writing from the only experience I have. XD
Big thanks to PastyP and TKmoon. Angel, just because. [heart]
I don't have a rec today. Instead, I have a recipe. I got like a gazillion PMs and reviews inquiring as to Bella's Mac-N-Cheese. Here's the dealio: I can't cook for shit. Luckily, I have wtiiy pals who do. So, without further ado, withthevampsofcourse gives us…
The Dirty Uncle's Post-Sex Mac and Cheese Casserole
Okay, boil [one package of] noodles of choice as directed. Drain and put in a casserole dish.
Roux: Now, in a large saucepan over medium-low heat, melt 4 pats (tbsp) of butter, with 4 tbs. of flour.
Whisk. Do NOT let brown. Now, add 2 cups of a dairy product. The non-fatty fat version is milk. Me? I go balls out and use heavy whipping cream—sometimes half n half, depends on what's in my fridge. Whisk it in. Continue heating, stirring occasionally to prevent milk from sticking. Add salt and pepper to taste. I add garlic powder and minced garlic. Keep heating until starts to thicken. Once these large, rolling bubbles start to take off, remove from heat source.
Sprinkle in cheese: how much and what kind depends on you. I usually use sharp cheddah, colbyjack, and some mild. EXTRA sharp if I can get my hands on it, but that's not too easy to come by, unless you go to a cheese shop--not at a decent price, anyway. So use about a cup if you don't want a strong, cheesy flavor. Me? I use about 2 and a half cups. Okay, so stir the cheese right into the roux. Gets all melty.
Now, use a spoonula/spatula to pour all this cheese sauce on yer noodles. Scrape the sides, get all that good shit in there.
From here... you can mix it up. If you want a thick, I-can-feel-the-plaque-forming-in-my-coronaries casserole... foil it and bake. If you want a lovely, creamy casserole- pour in some milk/cream. I'd put some in each of the corners and then kind of sweep around— about 1/2 to 3/4 cup of dairy.
You can also add mixers. Best combo: about 1 package of thinly sliced, crispy bacon and broccoli (raw, not steamed). Broccoli and ham is also amazing. You can brown some ground beef, about a pound, and make it a cheeseburger casserole, etc. Bacon and extra garlic is my fave.
So... mix up the cheese sauce and any mixers. Pour in your extra liquid, if desired. Cover in foil. Bake at preheated 350 for a half hour. Presto!
OMG I only make it like... on demand or twice a year. It's just too fucking much, because it is, in fact, the delicious-est casserole known to man.
-wtvoc
Thanks to her for the recipe! (Even though my fiancé is all kinds of grumpy about my experimentation with his precious cheddah.)
See y'all Wednesday!