Free Falling

Well, she's not totally surprised when he finally looks up at her. I mean, she's pretty surprised – it's been weeks of being in the same night class – but not surprised enough to do something stupid like gasp, or giggle, or turn beet red. She holds his gaze, and he cocks an eyebrow at her. It's rude and it's completely invasive. It asks her what she wants, but she cocks one back, like, you were staring, too.

He doesn't have to know she's been trying to catch him staring for weeks now. Ever since he walked in four classes into the semester, after a time when most professors have already dropped you. But he walked in and the professor shook his hand and told him to take a seat. So he did, a couple rows behind her. It's annoying to her, him being there, because she has to crane her neck to stare.

She knows she's pretty enough to stare at, or at least glance over. But he hasn't for almost half a semester, and she wants to know why. He's not gay, she doesn't think. No wedding band, but does that mean anything anymore? She hopes it does.

But anyway, she catches his stare, and he's being rude with the way he's looking at her. He's not checking her out. He's asking her to look away, but she doesn't.

Finally, he gets annoyed and looks away himself. She hears his scoff over the professor's wheezy lecture.

So she looks away, too, and she thinks she's embarrassed. She's not sure. She doesn't play these games, and she's not even sure if this could be a game, because it's not fun. There's no prize, no cheering victory. Only waiting for the annoyed stare of a fascinating man to graze over her.

She takes more notes, and then the professor calls a break. It's a three-hour class, so it's necessary. Some people need to smoke and pee and get something from the vending machine downstairs. She needs to do all three, but then books slam down next to her, and she stops.

"Hi," says that man. "I'm Edward."

She takes in his leather jacket and frayed baseball cap. She expected a name like Rex or Scott or… she doesn't know, but something synonymous with sexy and dangerous. She tells him as much.

"My middle name is Masen," he supplies, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "How's that for danger?"

"Still not dangerous," she chides, standing and pulling out her own pack of menthols.

He rolls his eyes at them. They both walk silently out of the door, finding their way to the balcony where other smokers are loitering and texting.

"Menthols?" He grabs at her pack. "These taste good when… yeah, never. You must be a new smoker."

She is. "No, I've been smoking for years. What? I like them."

He packs his cigarettes against his palm. They are reds.

"Oh, of course, that's why you're judging my menthols. You like getting cancer."

He tenses, and then makes a show of lighting one and taking a long drag. The smell of his cigarettes makes her instantly fumble for hers, and as soon as the smooth, minty taste hits her throat, she sighs.

"Well…" She realizes he's asking for her name, which she surprisingly hasn't given him yet.

"Bella."

"Well, Bella. You are definitely a new smoker. You're holding that cigarette like you're terrified of it. Suck on it with authority, girl."

"Oh, that's cute, yes. Double entendres, Edward Masen…"

"Cullen."

"Edward Masen Cullen, yes."

"That wasn't a double entendre. Double entendres are a waste of time."

"Oh, why? Life is too short for hidden meanings?"

"No," he says, taking another drag. The smoke curls out of his nose. She still can't do that without it burning. "Life is too damn long. I like to speed it up by saying what I mean all the time, if I say anything at all. In fact, I think this is the most I've said all day, and I haven't even gotten to my original point."

"Which is?"

"Have I had a booger hanging out of my nose for the past eight weeks?"

She definitely wasn't expecting that, and the smoke forces itself out of her nose. It stings. "Um, what?"

"Toilet paper stuck to my foot? A zit on my nose? Because, girl, you couldn't be any more obvious about staring at me."

She shrugs. Ugh, she's not as smooth as she thought. "I don't know… you're nice to look at."

He snorts. "You know, so are paintings, and art museums aren't free."

She rolls her eyes. "No, but this country is. I can stare. Look, I'm staring. Right now." She is. She doesn't know what color his hair is under the hat, but she imagines it's brown. His eyes are hazel, and his nose is kind of crooked. His teeth are mostly straight, except for his eyeteeth, which are turned a bit awkwardly.

He stares back at her. "Yeah, okay. It's a mutual staring now. I won't charge you because we're both enjoying the aesthetics."

She guesses that means he thinks she's pretty. But he's so weird, saying everything and nothing at the same time. He's teased her more in the past five minutes than her own taciturn father has her whole life, and she's not totally sure what to make of him. He's not warm. He's not friendly. But he's something, and she thinks she likes it.

"You sure?" she asks, gesturing to the stairs behind her. "I mean, I could grab you a coke. Or some Funyuns."

He grimaces, but then looks thoughtful. "Dr. Pepper." He digs in his pocket, and she hears change rattling around. It's strange how that makes her think of what he does during the day, how all that change accumulated. Toll-booth? Coffee shop? Or another Dr. Pepper?

"It's on me," she insists, digging around in her own pockets for change.

He cocks his eyebrow at her again, but it's different this time.

She pees, gets their drinks, and then returns to the classroom. He's sitting where he plopped his books, in the seat right next to her. It's kind of thrilling.

"So," she says, settling down beside him. He grabs the Dr. Pepper from her hands and drinks greedily. "If you've noticed me staring for months, then why today?"

"Why today what?" He caps the Dr. Pepper, and then opens his notebook back up. It's full of notes, and his handwriting is surprisingly neat.

"Why did you decide to harass me today?"

He grins at her choice of words. "Because you look prettier than usual today."

"That's so shallow," she goads him. But then she thinks about what he says, and then thinks about what she's wearing. "Today? Are you saying – "

"You women," he grumbles, flipping through his textbook, not even looking at her. "No, I'm not saying that. You've looked pretty every day I've seen you."

This honesty thing is disarming. "But today – "

"Today you look prettier. End of discussion." And it really is, because the professor is back at the board.

She thinks about what she's wearing and smiles wryly. All these weeks with the makeup and tight shirts and skinny jeans… ha. Today, she was running late after her Zumba class. She's in tights, dance shorts and an oversized sweatshirt. Her feet are in rubber flip-flops. Her hair is pushed back with a ponytail and a headband. Her face is devoid of any additive.

She laughs and shakes her head. It's like he knows why she's laughing, because he chuckles to himself. He looks at her for a moment, and their eyes connect again. It's warmer this time. Much, much warmer.

xXxXx

She hates sweat, but it's pretty inevitable. She dances a lot, has her whole life. Her mom took one look at her stumbling her way around and brought her to her best friend's dance studio. She's stayed there ever since, and that was fifteen years ago. She's twenty-two now, twenty-two and bored. Now, she's teaching classes to the same uncoordinated girls.

It's in the middle of Washington, so it's unlikely for any dance prodigies to be found in the middle of Pacific Northwest. It's mostly just pretty little girls their moms want to see in pretty little costumes, but Bella enjoys it for the most part. She doesn't particularly love kids, but she loves watching them grow as a result of her patience.

Esme, her mom's life-long best friend and Bella's boss and former dance teacher, sweeps into the room. She's beautiful still, looking barely a day over thirty, when she is in her mid-forties. She keeps her hair somewhat long, and when she moves, it twirls around her like a ballerina's skirt. Everything about Esme dances.

"Bonjour, ma petite cherie," she says to Bella in her throaty French accent. "Bonjour, my students."

"Bonjour, Madame Esme," the little students cry.

"All right, girls," says Bella, snapping them to attention. "From the top, okay?"

As the girls shimmy and shake to ABBA, Esme approaches Bella.

"How is Renee?" Esme asks. Her r's have never lost the guttural sound, and Bella swears it's the best form of music.

Bella shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine. I think she's on the coast with Phil this month."

"Your rent is fine?"

Bella nods. "You pay me more than enough to teach three classes, Esme. If anyone ever saw the books, they'd see ridiculous favoritism."

Esme waves her hand airily. "You've been with me since you were seven. I think that allows some favoritism."

"Well, Renee and Phil still deposit a check every second week of the month for me, so I'm more than taken care of. And even if we're ever tight, Emily can cover the rest. You should stop worrying so much."

"It would be a crime to not worry about my goddaughter," Esme chastises. "Caitlin, arms tight! We cannot have you flouncing all over stage, oui?"

Bella takes this as a cue to move through her class, nudging toes into straight lines and correcting basic steps. Esme watches her, and she must know that Bella feels no passion for this anymore. But she allows her to keep doing it because it's the only constant Bella has ever known in her whole life. She has always been a dancer, and if she's not a dancer, then what is she?

Esme nods and sweeps back through the curtain, and the girls release nervous giggles they've been holding in. Esme scares the shit out of them, and Bella understands. Bella is twenty-two and has known Esme for fifteen years, and Esme still scares the shit out of her sometimes.

She smiles at them and then asks for their attention once more. They go through the moves, and Bella goes through the motions. Just like every damn day.

She wakes up the next morning to the sound of singing. She groans and throws her pillow over her head. Her roommate has no sense of time. Emily loves the mornings, and Bella can't stand them. The mornings that leave her with hazy eyes and unattractive yawns and coffee breath.

She throws a shoe down the hallway, and it thumps against the wall. Emily doesn't hear it over the radio, so Bella rolls out of bed with the other shoe in hand. When she reaches the kitchen, Emily is hovering over the stove, cursing at bacon grease popping on her arms.

Bella throws her other shoe. This time, it gets Emily's attention, because it smacks her in the back of the head.

"What the fu – Bella! Fuck! Really?"

"Feel lucky that I didn't throw the radio." She switches it off instead, and then goes out to their balcony to smoke.

When she lights her menthol, she smiles, thinking of the obvious. He tells her to suck it with authority – that she could do – but she is unsure about the cigarette. He alternated between holding it like a joint and twirling it through his fingers like a mini baton, but she's certain she couldn't do that without burning herself. She holds it between her lips and tries to puff around it, but coughs and it falls down to the first floor grass.

Pissed, she lights another and smokes it her way. Then she stubs out the butt in a glass of water on the ledge and makes her way back inside.

Emily is eating egg whites with bacon. Bella snorts.

"It's turkey bacon," Emily says without looking up from the paper. "You know what you want some. Mmmm, num nums."

"Mmmm, fruit smoothie." It's early, but Bella is definitely not getting back to sleep. She's still at that point where tobacco and nicotine gives her a buzz. She doesn't even know why she started smoking except everyone else did, and even though that's a poor excuse, it's the only one she's got. It was just easier to start saying 'yes' to the pack of cigarettes passed around than 'no.'

She regards Emily quietly as she blends yogurt and strawberries. She's her best friend. They get along well and always pay the rent on time. They go out together on the weekends and get drunk in bars and sneak off with boys who have green stuff in their pockets and hope inside their pants. They always have each others backs and fronts and drunken make out sessions, but she's not sure if she's particularly close to her. She's not sure if she's particularly close to anybody.

xXxXx

She's at the library later that afternoon, her head buried in her Child Welfare textbook. She's trying to memorize dates of certain acts, but she can't. Edward is three tables over, his back to her. He's got headphones on his ears – not ear buds, but huge, DJ style headphones – that are plugged into his massive laptop. She can tell it's old because it must weigh sixty pounds. Her own Mac is a Christmas present from Phil, and it's sleek and she doesn't really take that good care of it. Edward's stuff is old, but she can tell he cleans that laptop rigorously. She can't see a thumbprint in sight.

Maybe their interaction the other night was a fluke. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he talks to every pretty, sweaty girl that catches his eye. She doesn't know, and she's too unsure to strike up a conversation. So she tries to concentrate on her outline about the Indian Child Welfare Act.

Edward gets up suddenly, and Bella snaps her eyes up at him, and then back down when he turns her way. She wants to be nonchalant. Oh, yeah, hey. Edward, right? What's up? Did you take the online quiz? Yeah, me too –

Nope. He moves away to the copy machine – do people still use those? – and copies a couple pages from his book. Or at least tries to. When he gets to the last bit, his hands come up empty, and he pats himself for loose change he knows he doesn't have. Before she can think, she's up, and she hands him a dime without even saying hi.

He looks startled, and then he smiles at her. "Hey," he says as he slides in the coin. The machine spits out his copies. "You seem to have a lot of spare change."

"I – yeah," she says quickly. Is that a compliment? "At least it's not dollar bills I'm always pulling out. Then you'd have to wonder."

"I'd wonder if you were a server… but it's interesting that you think I'd think you were a stripper."

Ugh. Ugh. She can't say anything right. Stupid girl. "I – ha. I'm dumb. Okay, well… bye."

"Wait, wait," he calls, grabbing at her. He misses, but she stays like he caught her. "That was nice of you. Thanks. I really need these stupid papers."

"Sure. No problem. It's okay. I'm just… gonna go back to studying now." And not being humiliated.

"Okay. I'll… see you in class tomorrow. Yeah?" He gathers his papers, and he's already moving to his table.

"Yeah," she whispers, and she knows he doesn't hear her. He leaves ten minutes later and ruffles her hair as he passes her.

It puts a stupid girl smile on her face the rest of the day.