-| Glitch continues |-

Somehow, I extricate myself from the clawing branches of those woods. Somehow, I thumbs-up my way home. I'm breaking all kinds of Charlie rules—don't follow strange men into the woods, don't hitchhike, don't speak to imaginary friends named Edward.

Don't care.

One day passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Those first days, I hurt. Like something crucial has been extracted from my life. Wisdom teeth. My appendix. A limb. I'm bruised. I ache. It's all I can do to get out of bed in the morning, go to class, go to work, come home. I'm sure I do these things, but no memories stick. My thoughts have scattered like sand in the wind. I hear the neighbor's cats, the dogs, even crickets, and it's too loud to sleep.

I thought I didn't have anything to live for before.

I was wrong.

After the third day, it finally sinks in.

Edward is a bloody sucking vampire.

I rent every vampire movie I can get my hands on. I hole up in the den and I watch vampires seduce virgins, yaw dripping fangs, and hang from ceilings. I watch vampires get interviewed, burned, staked. I see vampires in the underworld, in New York, and in space.

Rosalie walks by enough to notice the theme, sticks her head in, says, "I'd make a sick vampire."

If by sick she means awesome, then yes. She's beauty on the inside, ferocity beneath. She watches over my shoulder for a while but doesn't stay. Somehow, she seems to understand this is something I need to do alone.

I keep watching.

Through it all, I see blood, blood, blood.

Nowhere do I see Edward. I try to picture Edward's face. Edward in a rich black cape. Edward preying on innocent young girls. Edward with blood smeared on his chin.

I can't see it.

Edward's face doesn't belong in that world of nightmares and fear.

Sometimes late at night, when I'm deep under my covers, I whisper, "Edward."

He doesn't respond.

He's gone.

I should be happy.

I should feel safe.

Weeks pass. My hands heal. My heart doesn't. I'm restless, a migratory bird that has delayed in its yearly pilgrimage. Everything around me is growing, changing, leaving me behind. Life begins to peek from winter hidey-holes and for once, I don't mind the green. It's better than no color at all.

I'm on my stomach on my bed, not doing the homework splashed across the quilt, when I realize that I'm ready.

Ready to move, ready to shake, ready to do something.

I need to talk to someone. (Oh, how Renee would love to hear me say those words.)

I think of Alice. I think of Rosalie. I even think of Carlisle. After all, I know where his office is now. And he said that we would talk soon. But Alice is connected to this in some way that's not clear, Rosalie shouldn't be connected to this, and Carlisle…

Carlisle's loyalties seem blurred. Vampire, yet doctor; my brain can't superimpose the two images.

So I pick up my phone and hit the speed-dial for home. It's been too long—several weeks at least.

Charlie answers on the first ring.

"What're you doing?" I ask, my standard greeting.

"Waiting for you to call," he answers. As always.

It's good to hear his voice. We shorthand small talk the way only socially deficient people can do.

"How's Renee?"

"Out at some shindig," he says, but what he means is here. She's still here.

"Didn't make you go?" I tease.

"Thankfully, no. It's some chick thing," he grumps, but I know that he's smiling. A tight smile, a wary smile, but it's there. Against all odds, Renee is still in Forks. But I'm not holding my breath that she'll stay.

"And Billy?"

"Still dancing."

"Station?"

"Usual."

"Trouble?"

"Hiker unearthed a bear and cubs."

"Anyone hurt?"

"No. Maced the heck out of the mama."

We're quiet for a moment. Comfortable.

"Speaking of bears," he says, and I sit up straight in my bed because his tone is different.

"Yes?" I'm wary.

"Have I ever told you the story about the Papa Bear?"

This is not part of the script. The last several times I've called, Renee had already jumped on the other line by this point. Maybe Charlie is taking advantage of her absence.

I fumble, "I remember a story about a Mama Bear…"

"No, that's different. Completely different bear. Different story. Not the same." Charlie is emphatic.

Uh…

"Then no."

"This story is about a Papa Bear."

"Okay…" Not sure where he's going with this.

"Sometimes, Papa Bears get very scared for their baby bears, and, in an effort to protect them, they have to get up on their hind legs and roar and beat their chests so that the danger will go away."

Words fail me.

I know exactly where he's going with this.

"And sometimes," he continues, "the noise is so loud and the Papa Bear looks so angry that the baby bears might think that he's mad at them. But he's really not."

"Okay."

"Also," he says, "Papa Bears don't tell baby bears enough that they love them. You know, because they can't…" I can almost see him palming the back of his neck awkwardly "…speak."

"Right."

Silence simmers.

"Just thought you should know that," he says, solemn.

It's official. Charlie is horrible at father/daughter talks. But it's okay. Because he's great at being a father.

We're winding down, sparse words exhausted, so I tell him I'd better go.

"And dad?" I say.

"Yeah?"

"Love you, too."

As I hang up, I hear him catch his breath, like he's done the two times in my life I've seen him cry.

I stare down at my phone, fighting my own tears, my insides rosy pink. Funny how a simple phone call can do that. My father has forgiven me. My father loves me. He never hated me at all, not once. Even after I lied to his face. Even after I disappointed him.

I feel loved. I feel whole. I feel like I could soar on the breeze I can see ruffling the leaves outside. This feeling, I want to pass it on, to share it with someone.

My phone stares at me from the bed, illuminated screen still ready for action.

I know what I should do. I know exactly what I should do.

Pick it back up and dial a new number.

It rings and rings until a pleasant voice drops the bottom out of my stomach. "Cullen residence."

I'm this close to hanging up. My thumb worries the End button below my mouth, but I force the words out. Six little words, but they are oh so important.

"May I speak with Edward, please?"

A pause.

"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number. No one by that name lives here."

Ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha

"Dr. Cullen, it's Bella."

Another pause during which I can almost hear him smile.

"In that case, one moment," he says.

Funny he didn't recognize my voice. Guess vampires aren't perfect. It's significantly less than a moment when the phone changes hands.

"Edward Cullen speaking."

Look at him try to pretend he doesn't know it's me. As if he'd be receiving a call from anyone else.

"It's me," I say.

He recognizes my voice.

"How did you get this number?" Under other circumstances, the words could have seemed rude. But the controlled, careful way in which Edward says them implies something else. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was out of breath.

"Googled it."

"It's unlisted," he says dryly.

"I am a Google genius."

"I did not know this."

"I'm surprised to hear that. What with your eyeballs glued to the Bella Reality Show."

There's a noise not unlike choking.

"Too soon?" I deadpan.

"Not that…it's just…you're teasing me." He's shocked.

"Sorta."

"You're speaking to me."

"I am." I'm suddenly uncomfortable. I hadn't thought this far ahead. Well, at least I'm not breaking my own rule. Edward's not seeing me right now.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"No."

"Any particular reason you're calling?"

"No."

"Okay."

Uncomfortable silence settles, the complete opposite of my conversation with Charlie. I suppose that's fair. Given that my feelings toward Edward are…different.

"Where have you been?" I ask.

"In my room."

"Doing what?"

He's shifty. "Sitting."

"Reading?"

"No."

"Listening to music?"

"No."

"Writing?"

"No."

"Just sitting?"

"Yes."

I picture Edward curled into himself in the corner of his room, feline eyes watching shadows travel the wall. I can see it. Sounds like me, actually. You tell yourself that you're going to be set free when the sick psycho stops stalking you, but it doesn't always work that way.

"Sitting in the bat cave?"

He laughs, but it's air deflating from a balloon. "Pretty much."

"Okay."

We're quiet again.

"Edward," I say suddenly. "I need to know one thing."

And I do.

"Anything."

In my mind, I see blood, blood, blood.

"Do you drink it? Blood, I mean."

I already know the answer. I've seen him do it, the day I injured myself.

"Yes," he whispers. I think he's turned his head away from the phone, ashamed.

My heart sinks. I wonder if he likes the blood of virgins best or if any ol' person will do. I wonder if he goes for the neck or the wrist or…other places.

Then he says, "But only the blood of animals."

Oh.

"And just that one little taste of yours. I couldn't help it, sorry."

So he's Brad Pitt.

Eating rats is better than eating people any day.

It's a start.

At first, nothing is different. I don't call Edward again; he doesn't call me. I don't feel him watching me, and there are definitely mice in these walls.

But I've broken the ice. I've planted a seed.

You plant this seed and then even when you're not looking, it's growing and growing until suddenly roses are blooming. That's how it is.

I look up one day and smell the metaphysical blood-red roses that represent this "thing" between Edward and me. It's not a relationship—how could it be?—but it's something. Something pulsing and living and just waiting to be reached out and plucked.

I look up one day and see Spring. The tree outside my window has gone from bones to bloom.

This is not a time to be in. It's a time to be out.

So out I go.

At first, I miss the turnoff, it's so overgrown with leaves and grass. An awkward five-point turn later, Rosalie's car nudges carefully into the spot where a silver Volvo had sat. The woods are almost unrecognizable, dipped in green silk. I pick my way through this alien land, hoping I can find a clearing.

The leaves that fell over winter have mulched into dark, fertile earth shooting with green. Eventually, the trees part, branches ushering me forward.

Is this the right place? Yes, here's the clearing. Here's the ragged hole where a birch should have been.

Now that I'm out, now that I'm here, I'm not quite sure what to do.

Third time's the charm.

"Edward," I say.

"Edward," I say, loud.

"Edward!" I say, loudest.

Then I wait.

If he does as I asked, he will leave me here in a forest, shouting at the top of my lungs. He will be nowhere near to hear my cry.

Wind stirs the forest floor into a cyclone of leaves, me the vortex. Edward appears, tree trunks his doorway to my world.

He came.

I'd told him not to.

Sometimes, when you love someone, you don't always do what they say. You do what they need. Edward stands, looking at me carefully, intently, as though trying to memorize something he'll only get to see once.

I frown. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't stalk me anymore."

"I'm not, I swear." He looks innocent. Actually, no; he looks sinfully windswept, but his expression seems innocent.

"How did you know where I was?"

"My ears are finely attuned to your voice."

Superhearing seems kinda neat…until I contemplate repercussions.

"Have you been listening to my conversations these past weeks?"

"No." He looks pained. "I've done as you asked." Demanded. "I've stayed away."

"Good," I say, and I mean it. "I changed my mind."

"About what?" He steps nearer but stops, wary.

"We didn't do it right."

"Do what right?"

"Us."

I've thought about this long. I've thought about this hard. And in all that thinking, I've come up with the one way that I think will make this right.

Obviously, things can't stay the same. Edward can't go back to rocking by my bed at night. I can't go back to talking to myself in my room, knowing that someone is listening. I can't fall out of tree houses and expect not to break my neck.

When I didn't know he was real, I could pretend. I could pretend that what we were doing was normal, that everything was okay. That it could last forever.

But it can't.

Such co-dependence is not healthy.

Not for me. Not for him.

I couldn't make this up; go take a psych class.

He needs to learn to live without me.

And I without him.

If we can't live successfully apart, we won't make it together. We will eat at each other and drain each other until there's nothing left but our bones. Because of me, Edward's eternal life has been on pause. He's been a gargoyle so long—ever watching, ever protecting—he's forgotten how to be a man.

Things between us can never be the same.

But.

I want there to be a thing between us.

He's standing there watching me, waiting for me. Like he's always done. For the first time, I see life in his face. His eyes are bright, expectant. He looks warm, touchable.

So I take a step forward.

One small step.

Reach up…

up and up and up

…and pluck a bronze leaf from his hair.

"Oh," he says.

I drop the leaf, and it drifts to the ground.

Before I can step back, he raises his own hand. A single, cold finger blazes warmth down my palm.

"How's your hand?"

He strokes it as delicately as if it's made of butterfly wings. The feel of his finger, feather-soft when it could otherwise be a force of nature, is sublime.

"It's better," I breathe.

He's staring, transfixed at the point of his skin touching mine. His touch is so distracting, I almost forget that I have something to say.

But it's important.

"I want you to court me."

"Court you?" His gaze snaps to mine, hand dropping away.

"Yes. To court, like to woo, to seek another's affections, to—"

"I know what courting is." His voice is flat.

"Good. Because I want to take it super slow. Glaciers melting in the dead of night slow. Let's do this right."

"You want me to court you?" He seems stuck on this whole courting thing.

"Yes."

"Does that mean I get to…see you?"

"Yes."

That cold, quiet Edward from earlier? That wasn't Edward at all. That was Edward dead. That was Edward afraid. That was Edward not allowing himself the privilege of hope.

This Edward, well.

This Edward is the sun crystallizing on fields of virgin snow. Sprinkling stars like confetti in a remote sky. Warm rain on an upturned face.

Radiant, he extends a strong yet elegant hand.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I'm Edward Cullen." And he bends from the waist and kisses me, right on a freshly healed knuckle.

Like gifts, forgiveness is even better to give than receive.

Note: miaokuancha's purity and poetry knows no bounds. This one's for her.