All things Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer.
Here's a little something funny for you from Twitter today:
My friend: "Tell me something I don't know."
Me: "Ummm. Jesse wants you. No wait you knew that. I had a dream that I gave Peter Facinelli a blowjob; there that's something.:p"
My friend: "WOW and he's pretty sexy too Hahaha you whore! Lol jk"
Me: *snorts* A whore gets paid; nah, slut is more like it, lmfao. And yes he is sexy."
*snorts again* I'm done! :)
When daylight comes, I open my eyes and immediately wish that I hadn't—it feels like my eyes are on fire. Turning over and peeking at the clock, I freak out when I see that it's a quarter past eleven. I stretch for a moment, and then smell the mouthwatering aroma of bacon; it seems as though Edward's taken over my kitchen—and that causes last night, yesterday, and the previous to come rushing back to me all in one dump. Clearing my throat, I get up and use the bathroom, use the mouthwash that's in there, and then head out into the living room. The bacon smell is even stronger in here.
My place is too damn big, I think to myself.
When I had purchased this place, I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. All I'd wanted to do was get out of my old place; now, it seems like there's too much empty space. Having kids—of my own, biological ones—was never something I'd planned on, or wanted. If a guy happened to come packaged with a kid or two, then that would be fine. Movement in the other room brings me out of my thoughts and I sigh, walking towards the kitchen to see what brought on Edward's breakfast making today. I step into the kitchen and see that the table is set, and Edward is over at the stove, in nothing but a pair of grey sweats, a hand towel swung over his shoulder; I giggle at the sight.
"Ouch! You little shit," he exclaims, being burned by some grease.
"You know, it kinda helps to turn the burner off before trying to remove splattering bacon from a pan—just a suggestion." I shrug.
He finishes getting the bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate, and then turns around to greet me; I smirk.
"You're hilarious," he deadpans.
I grin. "You better not have ruined my non-stick pan, dude."
His eyes widen slightly, and for a split moment I'm afraid that he's taken me too seriously—but then this Cheshire-like grin spreads across his face.
"Oh, so you're worried about your pans, are ya?" he says in a playful-teasing tone.
I watch, wondering, as he turns back to the counter and does something; I'm especially curious when he keeps one hand hidden behind his back, and advances towards me. He grabs my arm and holds me still, backing me up against the table. My eyes widen a little when he pulls his hand from behind his back and wipes syrup across the scar on my upper chest; I shriek and try to move away from him.
"Edward!"
He laughs and let's go of me. I go to the counter where I spot the syrup, and dip my index finger into it. I can feel him behind me, so I just turn around.
"What're you doing?" he asks, smirking, looking down at me.
I act as if I'm going to kiss him, and he leans down, giving me the perfect chance. I take the hand that has the syrup on it, and go for his bellybutton. It's the one place where he hates having anything stuck in, including fingers. He's pretty anal about that area; in addition, when you stick anything hard into it, it causes you to feel like you have to pee. I stick my index-syrup-filled-finger into his bellybutton and watch as his eyes go wide.
"Ewww," he groans, stepping away from me.
I smirk as he takes the dishrag and tries to get the syrup out of his bellybutton.
"Don't fuck with the creative master," I tell him, grinning.
He rolls his eyes and tosses the rag into the sink.
"Please—just 'cause you have an English degree does mean that you're a 'creative master', sweetheart. Now, go sit down and eat; I'll be there soon." He points to the table.
I do as he says, and watch him while he brings a plate full of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and breakfast sausage, and sets it down in front of me. I stare at the plateful of delicious carbs and fat.
"Jeesh," I mutter, picking up a fork. "I'm gonna need to hit the gym three times as much after this!"
Edward shakes his head in protest.
"Just eat, you," he tells me and starts to watch the pans.
He finishes washing the stuff and then joins me at the table, but he's not eating.
"You should eat," I tell him, nibbling on a piece of bacon.
"I snacked while I cooked," he says, leaning onto the table.
I take a bite of egg.
"These are really good," I say after swallowing.
He smirks. "You should've gone to cooking school!"
I roll my eyes and decide to just confront the giant elephant that I know is weighing down on both of us, though we won't admit it.
"What . . . what happened the other day, Edward?" I ask, taking a deep breath.
He fidgets with a paper towel, then covers his face with his hands.
"I—I don't know." He leans back in his seat, uncovering his face. "I really don't know."
I take a sip of cranberry juice and think.
This is what I was talking about; sometimes there isn't a reason—a fair explanation—for why episodes occur. Most of the time there is (work gets to be too much, stress levels rise, et cetera), but at certain times, like this, nobody can explain what brings them on. My best guess would be that he saw a commercial or something and it triggered his mind; that's been known to happen before—or, maybe there truly isn't any reason as to why this time; it just happened.
"Maybe . . . would you consider therapy, again?" I ask carefully.
He stopped going because he said he learned all that he needed to in rehab, and it wasn't helping anyway beyond that.
"I tried it—it wasn't helping," he tells me.
I nod.
"I know. I'm talking about a regular therapist, though; somebody who you can just talk to, call up, go in to see weekly or whenever it gets to be too much," I suggest, treading carefully.
He looks skeptical, and I guess I can't blame him.
"Please, E," I say, standing up.
I walk over to him and sit down across his lap, and his arms immediately go around me. My skin is still sleepy-warm and his fingernails feel good against it as they lightly trail up and down.
"I know someone who's really, really good at what they do," I say, changing positions.
I swing my legs over either side of him; he grips onto my waist.
"What—oh, I take it you saw someone—talked to somebody before?" he asks.
I nod.
"Yeah; it was right around the first year had gone by and I realized you weren't . . . you wouldn't be returning any time soon, so I looked up someone and began talking to him. He's helped a lot; he let me talk, and then if I needed anything, to call at any and all hours, day or night. He said that it wasn't healthy to hold shit in that that's what he's there for is for me to talk things out—he's actually the one who suggested I start writing," I explain.
"He?" Edward makes a face.
I roll my eyes. "Yes; he's older, in his upper thirties or forties—relax!"
He shrugs. "I was jus' hoping for a leggy blonde, maybe—obviously I'm not that lucky, though." He smirks.
I reach up and grip his ear, making him wince.
"O-ow," he whines, and I let go.
"I could always introduce you to Rose," I offer, already knowing the answer.
He rolls his eyes.
"No thanks. I've met her, and although she's hot as hell and could be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, she fucking scares me."
I smirk. "Yeah, true. Besides, she'd likely rip your dick off if you hit on her, and then where would that leave me? Using a vibrator, no doubt!"
A shudder runs through his body.
"You keep that tough as nails swimsuit model-bitch away from me and my precious jewels, and don't you even think about it! I work just fine, thank you very much."
I smirk. "Just don't piss her off, and you'll be fine; and yes I know, you work very well."
The playfulness wears off after that and it's back to discussing therapy. He's good at diversion tactics.
"Just think about it, please," I say softly. "Nobody's telling you to decide this second, but just think about it?"
He nods.
"You know I love you, right?" he asks, looking at me.
I nod, and my stomach gets an uneasy feeling, but I try to push it away.
"Yes, why?"
He shrugs. "Just making sure . . . incase anything happens."
He's being cryptic and worrying me.
"You're scaring me, Edward; what is going on?" I question him, holding his face in my hands.
"Nothing . . . I jus' wanted to make sure you knew; incase you get fed up, sick of me which I wouldn't ever blame you for," he tells me.
I laugh, but there's nothing humorous about what he just said.
"Stop it," I tell him. "I told you, I'll be here. I love you and care about you, and I'm not fucking going any-fucking-where."
He nods and drops the subject.
"So, how's that book comin'? It's the last one, right?" he asks.
I groan and get up to finish my now cold breakfast—brunch, whatever it is.
"I'm in the middle of doing rewrites," I say.
"How come?" he asks me.
"'Cause it's fiction this time, and I don't mind doing rewrites—plus, Rose says that certain things need to be rewritten."
He nods.
"Wait—wasn't your first book and its sibling fictional, too?" He raises an eyebrow, stealing a piece of bacon.
I bat at his hand but let him steal another piece, nodding.
"It's called a 'sequel', weirdo. But, basically; I just wouldn't let her edit anything out of either one of those, or do any rewrites—and it's only 'fictional' to the rest of the world. Between you, me, Emma, and Rose because she had to be given a reason why I wouldn't back down about not editing and rewriting those two, it's the real story—like I said, to everyone else, it's a story about two fictional characters," I say.
He nods in understanding. He already knew that Rose knows about him; I told him last year. I can't say that he was thrilled, but he seemed to accept the reasoning.
He sits with me while I do the last of the rewrites on the couch, the keys clicking away on the keyboard. When I pause to take breaks, he asks random questions. He bombards me with something just as I'm typing something in.
"Oh! I almost forgot—I've got tickets to see Daughtry," he tells me.
Not expecting him to say that, I accidently hit 'Paste', getting rid of the entire rewrite page; I slowly look up at him, and glare.
"Please, please tell me you're not fucking with me, 'cause I am gonna be so pissed about what just happened if you are!" I say, watching him closely.
"Well, I am fucking with you," he says, smirking. "But, not in that sense; I seriously DO have tickets. He's playing at Emerald Queen's Casino this weekend—third row."
He dodges the hit that I try to give and I lean forward, clicking 'Undo', getting my writings back. I save the document, send it to Rose, and then shut my laptop down. I lunge at him, and hug him tightly.
He chuckles, rubbing my back, and then holds me tight.
"By the way," he says into my ear. "I'll try the therapy."