Let's talk about lifeboats. The kind you can use to escape the shipwreck of hope and easy relational identity against the shoals of loss, shame and loneliness. In the storms of emotional despair and desperation.

Or even better, let's talk about jumping in to the raging sea of chaotic entropy and becoming dolphins. They're kick-ass and cute, dolphins—just like us, wink-wink.

OK, so why become dolphins rather than go shopping for a better brand of life-preserver, or cast around desperately for a more seaworthy ship to take pity on us and throw out a tow line?

Well, mostly because some of us (e.g., me) have exhausted our cultural currency for life-preserver shopping (aka are old and powerless and un-sexually-appealing and tired) and are out of potential rescuers, leaving us with the grim realization that it's either develop better swimming skills or drown.

But there are other creatures well-adapted to stormy ocean living…sharks, turtles, sailfish, tuna. So why dolphins?

Because dolphins are a metaphor for adapting what is beautiful about us (empathy, relational intelligence, outward/other-orientation in action) and making them strengths instead of the shame-producing liabilities they are in human form and in human society, especially in mainstream white-American culture that expects people to go through life doing what they want instead of what other people seem to want or need.

And because transforming to an animal form rather than struggling unsuccessfully to be a different human acknowledges that we are who we are and suffer as we do in large part because we're made that way. Yes, we have choices about how we express our inner nature, but I'm getting at the difference between being child-like and acting like a child; between skillfully and painfully suppressing or delaying empathic and relational emotional experience and not being burdened with those emotions to begin with.

But most of all, projecting ourselves into the beauty, grace and power of a happy, healthy dolphin is excellent encouragement to let go of the misery-producing aspects of our human identity. To reinvent ourselves not by pretending to be something we're not, but by reimagining our situation and rethinking our base assumptions. To re-tell our story in ways more supportive of our strengths, more fair to our weaknesses, and much much more illuminating for the greater good.

Oh, in our daily lives there will still be plenty of moments when we feel every inch a desperate, drowning human. After all, any human with a conscience and some imagination and intelligence is stuck suffering one way or another as we plow through life and each others' universes, trying to make the best of the inevitable small collisions and minimize or avoid entirely the big ones.

But the shared world, the culture-at-large, stubbornly holds on to the fairy tale—the dark, destructive myth-that we are all playing by the same rules, let alone on the same field…let even farther alone in the same existential dimension.

We know we're not, but in order to survive the onslaught of those desperate not to be alone in their own realities and therefore begrudging –violently—you your universe and me mine, we have to do more than "know" this. When we're pronounced "losers" once again in the culturally-constructed game of life, we have to be as certain of its irrelevance to our worth and purpose as much of the rest of the world is certain we're crazy. Or deficient. Or both.

No, we have to be more certain than that even, because we are swimming over spiritual bedrock while the cultural victors are most likely sailing away drinking spiritual poison with the grim reaper sitting in their boat, just waiting.

Which is why we must pity them, and help both them and us by abandoning the emotional shipwreck of human existence. Not by casting about desperately for a way to edge out our neighbors into one of the too-few lifeboats, but by giving up the struggle entirely and embracing our own buoyancy.

Sure, it's hard. But no harder (and, in the long-term, much easier) than coming to terms with the spiritual and interpersonal violence usually necessary to score a temporary seat on one of those precious lifeboats.

And besides, even those who look to be sailing—or rowing, or aimlessly floating—away in the sunset are most likely just delaying their eventual capsize into the shark-filled waters of mortality, despair and loss. It's the laws of physics, baby—they're heartless and unshakable and they're gonna get us all.

So let them win! Entropy can have our human bodies, our careers, our sex appeal. It can even have our social identities and—deep breathing, now—our human sense of self. Because as spiritual dolphins, we get to keep some better things: the knowledge of our rightness swimming in the chaos sea; the ability to scare off destruction via shark attack by calling to the dolphin in others and surrounding the vulnerability in ourselves and those around us with strength and perseverance and compassion-in-action; and, most of all, the joy, beauty and agape-love we experience doing what we do as we do it. It fills us up, that joyful, beautiful, not-remotely-easy dolphin love, and eventually—I promise, and I'm betting my own life I'm right—we won't even miss the human needs, fears and passions that used to consume us.

In the meantime….here's an alternate reality—not just a lifeboat, but a life-luxury-yacht—to slip that hurting human psyche into while you recover from the struggles of the day. I think of my fantasy life as salve for the emotional wounds I am trying to learn how to avoid collecting in the first place. I'm not ashamed I need the first-aid of writing this story, but I do hope to need it less and less as my life swims on to whatever end awaits me.

Besides, it brings me joy, and I hope it brings you something good too. Hey, we're not earthworms or crabs anymore, we're dolphins! (Some days, anyway.) How's that for evolution?

Come swim with me.

Much love and peace to you,

liza

p.s. I'm so slo-o-o-ow these days because post-concussion syndrome has been knocking me flat. Bear with me—I'll always come back as long as I'm still swimming. I'm a very stubborn dolphin, just like you.

XxXxXx

I accidentally banged my head against the wall of the closet as I sat back down behind Rosalie's formal gowns. In total shock. I swore I had just seen Edward Cullen – Edward Cullen!—sitting in the closet doorway. What could he possibly be doing there?

I felt my eyes stretch wide as I remembered our supposed dinner date while my right hand absent-mindedly came up to rub the back of my head where I'd just knocked it. I hadn't had any more time to think anything through when I heard the dresses rustling from in front of me and an unbelievably-familiar voice asking me, "Isabella? Are you all right? I heard a disturbing 'thunk' back there."

As he was saying this, Edward Cullen—Edward Cullen!—was sticking his head and shoulders back in my hiding space, peering around for me. It didn't take long for him to pin me with his gaze; I was huddled in the corner with no place to run to and no way to disappear. I stared up at him, speechless, my hand still on the previously-sore spot on my head, though I wasn't feeling anything at that point other than absolute disbelief at the situation. And complete uncertainty about what to do, say or even think next.

Edward solved that the way he always seems to solve everything: by making my problem his. And it was just as insanely wonderful, and scary, as it had been since the first minute I sort-of met him. So he reached out one of his large, capable hands and took over rubbing the sore spot for me while my own hand fell into my lap with a loss of muscle tone confirmed by my mouth dropping wide open.

Meanwhile Edward's own mouth quirked up into a grin and his eyes twinkled—they really did! Edward Cullen has twinkling eyes!

And very soothing, capable fingers. He didn't say anything else, but gently rubbed the sore spot while he squatted on his heels and leaned into me and I just sat there, gawping up at him like the spineless pool of goo he turns me into. I'm always spineless, of course, but not usually nearly so gooey. It's embarrassing.

But I wasn't embarrassed then, just mesmerized, as Edward stopped rubbing my head and brought his hand around instead to cup the side of my cheek, running his thumb back and forth across my jaw a few times as he asked, so quietly I had to concentrate to hear him over the sound of my pounding heart, "Are you feeling better, sweetheart?"

I don't know why, (well, really I do but I'm not going to admit it yet), but those words—especially the last one—made me start crying. Instant tears. And not subtle eye moisture, but big fat rollers down my cheeks building quickly to sobs. I was so ashamed!

Which of course only made me cry harder, but Edward didn't seem to mind at all. He just sat down next to me and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me into the side of his chest while his other hand went back up to the side of my head, not rubbing this time but just holding me against him.

I had dreamed of this, asleep and awake, nearly non-stop in the almost 24-hours since walking into the kitchen and finding the most handsome man I'd ever seen sitting there, staring at me with inexplicable interest. I had dreamed it, but I had not at all believed it.

I still didn't believe it, but as Edward continued to sit there, motionless except for the reassuring in-and-out of his chest with his breathing and the gentle movement of his thumb against my cheek and scalp, I did stop crying. I stopped crying, and stopped thinking and just melted into him and his comfortingly strong body, his powerful arm wrapped around me making me feel safer than I've ever felt before.

I have no idea how many minutes we sat there. It felt like hours, maybe eons, but couldn't really have been very long before my stomach made a very embarrassingly loud growling noise. My face burned and I ducked my head even tighter into Edward's side, but he just laughed and said, "Time to feed the Bella!" as he lifted me up to standing along with him.

He apparently forgot we were in a closet however, because he straightened right into the shelves on top and this time I heard a disturbing "thunk" and had to ask him if he was okay.

"Edward, are you all right?" I asked earnestly.

There was a pause, and Edward stood stock still. I started to think something was wrong, and my mind raced off in a thousand directions considering what that wrong thing might be before he replied, his voice somehow both soft and scratchy like, I don't know, velvet sandpaper, "Isabella, you said my name!"

Well, that confirmed one of my many suspicions of what I had done wrong and I instantly rushed to apologize for my forwardness. "I'm so sor-" was all I got out though and I hadn't even had time to blush once more before he—before Edward –said, "That makes me so happy!"

That was unexpected. I didn't have a line of thought for that statement, and so my thought stopped again. I remember staring blankly up at him smiling down at me, but that is all I remember for some time after.

And I have no idea whatsoever how we got out of the closet.

XxXxXx

If I had harbored any doubts as to the desirability of Isabella Swan for me, which I suppose I must have, they were all destroyed the moment I wrapped my arm around the quaking girl in the back of Rosalie Hale's closet. She simply melted into me, fitting into place like the proverbial key in a lock—a very old, rusty lock that I had long ago given up any idea of opening. It was somehow both a very familiar and a very surprising feeling.

I loved it.

High on adrenaline and joy, I soaked up every millisecond of Isabella's body against mine, her unbelievable, incomprehensible and very unwise instant trust in me like the most potent form of illicit drug any backroom dealer could dream of selling. And it was mine, free for the taking.

So I took it; took her. And took some more. I have no idea how long I would have kept her there, pressed against me, if her body hadn't registered its complaint of my treatment, her small but insistent stomach grumbling as the minutes past a healthy dinner time pressed on.

I should have been chastened by the awareness of my immediate failure in caring well for the girl in my arms, but instead I just laughed at the adorableness of Isabella's body and mind. For her reaction to her hunger wasn't irritation with me at failing to provide for her comfort, but embarrassment at her own honest needs.

I'm afraid that her embarrassment far too easily heads heavily into shame; I will be helping her with that as soon as possible. Someone as exquisite, as open, as gentle as Isabella has no business dealing with shame. Fortunately, my experience both in business and as a well-practiced Dominant gives me much skill in manipulating emotion, and I plan to put all of it to use in curing Isabella of any sentiments that don't further her well-being.

Not that I expect her to appreciate this, because she won't. At least, she won't allow herself to admit she appreciates it for quite some time. It wouldn't be safe, and certainly wouldn't be prudent…at least from her point of view.

Which is one of the most interesting, compelling aspects of Isabella: despite all her willingness to throw herself into relationships without seeming reserve, to trust others' best instincts without proof of such instincts' existence or any degree of common-sense self-protectiveness whatsoever, she is completely guarded in the aspect of believing other people like her; admire her; love her.

No, she holds fast with both hands and all her stubborn heart to the frustrating, inaccurate and downright dangerous belief that she is unlovable, despite her greatest hope and fondest desire being to be loved by someone who can keep her safe.

Fortunately again for both of us, I am the rare individual who can hope to do both, even for someone as naïve-ly difficult and absurdly challenging as Isabella Swan. As long as my own base nature doesn't screw it up.

If she didn't need someone like me so badly, it would be wrong to even try. As it is, it's probably still wrong for me to involve myself with her, but I find myself not caring-or rather caring far too much.

Besides, right at that moment, all I needed to do was get an undersized woman-child fed. How hard could that be?

XxXxXx

Grinning at the girl he has hold of by the elbows, a content if slightly sore-headed Edward Cullen finally says, "Well, sweetheart, I suppose we better go find dinner," then leans down and kisses a still-silent, wide-eyed Bella on the forehead before striding out of the closet, towing her behind.

He is just across the closet's threshold when he realizes he needs to slow down, and pauses in the doorway to turn round and laugh. "Those legs of yours are awfully short, sweetheart—why don't I speed things up a bit?"

Then he leans in and scoops her up, holding her against his chest as he resumes his quick-step out of the room, turning the lights off with his elbow as he leaves.

At first rigid in his arms, Bella quickly succumbs to the rhythm of his step and the cheerfulness of his demeanor—Edward's humming the melody line to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy"—and relaxes into his chest, resting the side of her head right above his heart. Which makes Edward even happier.

He bursts out from around the corner and into the final hallway, spotting Mrs. Cope in front of the door with her own head tucked down as she takes a quick nap, and he slows, having actually forgotten all about the other human being in the apartment.

His euphoria stalls out for just a moment, replaced by irritation and a surprising desire to growl at the poor old lady, a desire he transforms into just the slightest vibration of his voice but which is enough for Bella to rouse from her altered state of consciousness, stick her head up and look around her.

When she spots Mrs. Cope sitting at the door, still asleep, she says a surprised "Oh!" and starts to wriggle to get down out of Edward's arms.

Edward's arms tighten in response.

"What do you think you're doing, Isabella?" he growls for real this time.

She freezes, afraid and upset at the threatening tone of his voice. Her eyes flick shyly upwards and, for a fraction of a second, catch Edward's intense and wholly possessive stare down at her, making her squeak and turn her head into his shoulder, smooshing her face into his suit jacket in a rather ridiculous effort to hide.

Edward loves every ridiculous moment of it—of her. Laughing lightly, his instant outrage at her ineffective attempt to separate from him gone as quickly as it came in the face of her separation incompetence, he wraps his long fingers around the oh-so-vulnerable seeming back of her head and squeezes her even more tightly into him, just for a second, then leans down to kiss her lingeringly on the shell of her ear, nuzzling her hair a little for good measure too.

"Is she alright then?" Mrs. Cope's sharp voice cuts into their moment, making Bella jump in Edward's arms and making Edward now instantly irate, though with great effort he schools his face into something pleasant or at least neutral as he looks back up at the newly-alert old woman sitting regally in her chair in the middle of the hallway.

Bella just lays limply in Edward's arms, no fight at all to get down, a compliant and entirely submissive fact that restores Edward's good humor and then some. So he is soon able to genuinely smile at his ally whose usefulness tonight is over, and to remember his social and moral obligations to Mrs. Cope, setting Isabella ever so gently down on her feet and choosing to view this interruption in his eventual caveman-like claiming of her as simply more time to savor the unfolding of the inevitable.

"Yes, she's alright Mrs. Cope; or she will be. Just exhausted from overextending herself, I suspect."

Bella, on the other hand, feels the old pull of shame the moment her feet touch the floor, her inner hope crumbling as her shoulders cave and one hand comes up to cover her face as the angry, frustrated, embarrassed tears start to fill her eyes.

The usual emotional routine is interrupted, however, when Edward lays one hand heavily on her shoulder, squeezes more than gently, and leans down to speak softly in her ear, "If you can't handle this, I'll take you down to my car right now."

It's a threat; it's a promise; and it's exactly what Bella needs to lift her head, dry up her tears and pretend competence again, moving away from Edward—which he slowly allows—as she looks up to Mrs. Cope and says, "Mrs. Cope, how nice to see you!"

"And you too, my dear!" Mrs. Cope answers with officious pleasure. "I found this young man banging on your door with more enthusiasm than manners. Is he acceptable to you as a visitor, or shall I see him out?"

The satisfaction with which the elderly lady uttered the latter part of her question belied her seeming frailty, and the look she leveled at Edward as she said it left no doubt that she would gladly see to his exit if given half an opportunity.

Edward stares calmly back at the threatening dowager with a half-smile playing on his lips before turning to grin at Bella as she demurely stutters about trying to protect him from Mrs. Cope's interventions. "Oh, he's just fine, Mrs. Cope. I mean, I am glad to have him here. I mean, of course I don't mind him visiting."

Thoroughly flustered and embarrassed, her face growing redder with every word she speaks, Bella finally ends with a somewhat desperate-sounding polite inquiry, "May I get you something to drink?"

Though the question is oriented in the general direction of Mrs. Cope—Bella is unable at this point to look anyone in the eye so technically she is inquiring towards the wall—it is Edward who answers. "Drinks all round are in order, Isabella. Shall we retire to the kitchen and plan our dinner as well? I think we'll stay in tonight and let the meal come to us."

As he is speaking, Edward is closing the small distance he'd allowed to develop between himself and Isabella, holding out his crooked arm towards her as he does so. Staring at him with a vulnerable look of simultaneous fear and hope, Isabella is frozen in place. Laughing lightly, Edward reaches out and maneuvers her arm through his, then throws "We'll be right back with that drink, Mrs. Cope," over his shoulder as he pulls Bella into the kitchen.

He tows her as far as the kitchen table, where he stops and hoists Bella up at the waist, setting her down on the table top, her legs dangling over the side. Leaning in, his hands planted on either side of her thighs, Edward stares her straight in the eye and says, "Stay put, little girl. Understand?"

Her face on fire once more, Bella averts her gaze to the floor and nods, biting her lip as she tries not to cry. She can't think straight and she feels horribly exposed sitting on the table, but she closes her eyes and swings her legs and tries to stay put as best she can.

She makes it five seconds, long enough for Edward to move to one of the cabinets and start opening doors, looking for glasses and liquor. As soon as his back is turned and she hears him engaged in examining the cupboards, Isabella jumps off the table and scurries over to the liquor cabinet across the kitchen from where Edward is standing. He turns back towards her as soon as he hears her feet hit the floor (not elegantly), and is watching her with a half-smile on his face and an almost-evil glint in his eyes.

Finally, savoring every delicious moment of peeling Isabella's façade of grown-up competency away from her, something he'll chastise himself for later that night but is whole-heartedly enjoying now, Edward asks, "Isabella, did I give you permission to get up?" in a dangerously calm voice.

Stricken, Bella stares back at him, her face white now, her eyes as wide as the decanter of whiskey she's holding. Slowly, oh so slowly, she shakes her head back and forth.

"That's what I thought," Edward says dryly, approaching her and taking the liquor out of her hands before setting it on the top of the chest behind her. Standing in front of Isabella, who's now trembling with fear and shame, Edward puts his hands on his hips and leans down towards her, speaking softly. "Go stand in the corner, Isabella."

One hand heavy on her waist, he half-pushes, half-guides a foot-dragging Isabella into the nearest corner of the kitchen, turning her to face in and nudging her forward until her feet hit the wainscoting and her nose almost touches the wall. "Stand here until I come back for you, baby girl."

Not daring to move her body, Bella lifts her head and twists it towards him, protesting, "But I can help you with the drinks, and with dinner!"

"Not unless I say so, baby girl; not unless I say so."

Bella starts to get mad; outraged, really. She stomps her foot and comes out with a line she later won't believe she said. "You're not the boss of me!"

But Edward just laughs, loving the sweetly naïve innocence of her protest, and answers, "I wouldn't be so sure of that, princess. Why don't you try disobeying me and find out?" After issuing that challenge, he pauses on his way back to the glasses cabinet with whiskey in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, staring poor Bella down with raised eyebrows and dangerous eyes.

Bella stares back for a heartbeat or two, but quickly loses both her outrage and her courage, her head dropping and her shoulders caving once more in shame. Edward sees and understands this transition, so sets the liquor bottles down on the granite countertop before moving quickly back to her and pulling her into him, her back to his front.

When his arms come around her, Bella loses what little bit of self-control she had remaining and starts to sob, while Edward shushes her and says, "I've got you, sweetheart; it's alright; I've got you."

He is on the third or fourth repetition of this line when he hears female voices in the front entryway, and draws Isabella even tighter into his chest to prepare for the invasion of the irate Rosalie he'd been expecting any moment.

He is not disappointed: as soon as Rosalie enters the kitchen, she is pissed.

"You've made her cry, Edward? Really? This is your idea of 'making sure she's safe and happy'? I hate to tell you this, but crying isn't what Bella does when she's happy."

As she is launching into Edward with as much anxiety as anger, Rose is approaching where he stands with Bella in his arms, Bella still hiding against Edward's chest. When she registers Rose's presence, however, she raises her head and blushes, trying to pull away from Edward.

He doesn't let her.

She struggles in his hold and whispers, "Edward, please, let me go."

To which he responds simply, "No."

Then lifting his eyes to Rose, Edward retorts, "I've made good use of all your intelligence, Rosalie, and what you see is just the emotional consequence of me making Isabella feel safer than she has in a very long time. The happy part will come later. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" and playing dirty, he looks back down to Bella's upturned head, putting all the heart-melting warmth he can into his eyes and lips as he quirks a smile at her.

Bella, of course, has no choice but to nod in agreement with him, her never-strong executive control completely undercut by the sheer power of Edward Cullen's will.

Rosalie is not fooled, but doesn't see the benefit in pointing that out. Instead, she moves into alpha-female hostess mode, knowing that acting like she's in control of the situation is her best hope of actually becoming so.

"I'm starved," Rosalie says in a matter-of-fact tone like she'd use in any normal social interaction. "Are you hungry, Bella? Why don't we order from the deli down the street. Edward, would you like anything?"

As she was speaking, Rose was moving towards the kitchen drawer where they keep their take-out menus, not looking Edward's or Bella's direction. As she pulls the drawer open, she hears Edward's amused reply, for he knows exactly what she's trying to do and has no intention of letting her do it.

"A deli is as good as anything, I suppose; go ahead and order a variety of what you ladies like, and I'll have my driver pay for it and bring it up. Oh, and don't forget Mrs. Cope in the hallway, please."

Rose rolls her eyes and starts in with a voice dripping with acid, "As if I could forget…" but trails off as speaking simultaneously is Mrs. Cope herself, moving painfully and slowly into the kitchen but with as much dignity as she can muster—which is more than most people see in all their lifetimes- "Don't forget me what?"

Edward and Rose both turn to look at Mrs. Cope while Bella shrinks further into Edward's chest, ardently hoping she really will disappear into the floor this time. She even brings one arm up to wrap around her head, but Edward catches it on the way up and drags her back towards the kitchen table with it, Bella tripping along behind.

"Why Mrs. Cope, you found us," Edward says warmly, winking at the lady now half-way between the doorway to the hall and the table. Stopping briefly to pull out a chair for Bella and push her by the shoulders down into it before sliding it back under the table, Bella in it now, Edward moves to the nearest chair to the doorway and pulls it out with a flourish, waiting without a comment the drawn-out time it takes for Mrs. Cope to close the distance and painfully sit in the offered chair, Edward's gallant hand supporting her at the elbow to ease the descent.

Meanwhile, Rosalie has been on the phone with the deli, ordering wildly off the menu, her mind not really on the job but on a rapid evaluation of the pros and cons of the situation concerning Edward Cullen and her best friend. Her answer keeps coming up in the negative as far as it concerns Rosalie, and undetermined as it affects Bella, so her mood is none improved as she hangs up the phone after a final admonition/plea to "Hurry it up, please!"

Turning back around to the table, she sees Edward setting a glass of sherry down in front of Mrs. Cope, and then watches as he moves gracefully to the Sub Zero for a can of ginger ale which he cracks and pours into a glass for Bella.

Rose sees her opening. "She likes ice," she announces frostily—aware of the irony—and grabs a new glass from the cabinet, fills it with ice, and marches over to Bella's place at the table where she pours the ginger ale into the new glass.

Edward, still standing on the other side of Bella nearest Mrs. Cope, merely grins at Rose's attempt to undercut him, saying with an arch glance at Rosalie, "Obviously."

Rose fumes at that but manages to appear to ignore him, pouring herself her own drink and sitting down sideways next to Bella, determined to cut Edward out of any further interaction with her roommate for the rest of the meal.

Edward, confident and therefore unworried about Rose's maneuvering, moves away from the table and calls Taylor to issue instructions for the meal delivery, including the building's entry code.

Finished with that call, he turns to Mrs. Cope with, "May I ask the number for the front desk? Your doorman is deplorably lax in security, but there's no need to let him think we're not noticing."

Indeed, Edward already had decided to contact the building's property management firm and request a new, Cullen-approved front desk staff be brought on board, one less willing to allow strangers like himself into the building without permission from a resident. He had appreciated the easy entry when he needed it, but wasn't going to let that situation continue now that he had his in.

"I'm sure I don't know; I just dial zero on my telephone at home. Why you young people want telephones that don't know the residence they belong to is beyond my understanding," Mrs. Cope replies grumpily to cover her frustration at not being able to answer Edward's question.

Not speaking, Edward turns his questioning gaze to Rosalie, who rolls her eyes again and says, "Fine, I'll call down. What's the name of your gorilla?"

Edward narrows his eyes and retorts, "He's less gorilla and more lethal killing machine, not to mention Mensa-level strategist. But I can understand your jealousy at not having a person of such quality to cater to your every need so I'll overlook the insult. His name is Taylor; he's 6'3", has a blonde crew cut, and wears a dark suit. Enough information for you, or would you like to know his sign? But I guarantee you, he's not your type."

Smiling cherubically at a temporarily speechless Rosalie, Edward moves to pour his own drink, Rose having already gotten her own.

The conversation continues in awkward dialogue between Edward and Mrs. Cope with Rosalie jumping in as able with caustic comments right and left and Bella bearing silent, exquisitely embarrassed witness to it all.

Finally, and a relief to them all, they hear the buzzer and the front desk announcing over the intercom, "A Mr. Taylor is on his way up with your food."

Loath to leave Bella alone in the kitchen with Edward, Mrs. Cope not being a remotely suitable chaperone given how much she detests Rosalie paired with how her eyes go soft when she's talking to Edward (she may still sputter criticisms, but Shelly Cope is truly enamored of Edward Cullen, and enjoys quite a few reminiscent fantasies in the months to come of experiences from her earlier life with Edward Cullen subbed into the role of leading man), Rosalie hesitates.

Noticing this, Edward rises easily to go to the front door and let in his security detail, first leaning down to whisper in Bella's ear, "I'll be right back, sweetheart; stay put."

Isabella tears up in desire and embarrassment and self-flagellating shame, but does stay put—in part because she can't see to escape with all the moisture she's blinking back.

Mrs. Cope takes advantage of Edward's brief absence for a little womanly gossip; leaning in she says hoarsely, "I must say, Isabella, I think your young man is quite handsome. A little forward, perhaps, but that's a good quality to have in business. I'm sure you'll soon have his manners nicely polished. At least he knows enough to offer his hand to a lady; that's no insignificant quality these days."

And with a sage nod, Mrs. Cope leans back as Bella, ashen faced, looks up and over Mrs. Cope's shoulder to respond, "Oh, Mrs. Cope, Edward's not my young man. He's just; he's just; he's just a friend?" And as she finishes her sentence with a stab at an explanation of something she really isn't understanding herself, Bella turns to the side to look at Rose.

Rose is uncharacteristically silent, turning the situation over and over in her head and trying to think of some way to get Edward Cullen out of her home before he steals her best friend and roommate, but comes to a little when she sees Bella's panicked face. "That's right, Bella; he's just a friend," she answers.

Edward is entering the kitchen as Rose speaks, bags in hand; he can't resist and asks with faux innocence, "Who's just a friend?"

"You are," Rose replies curtly, though Edward merely chuckles and sets the bags down on the counter.

Then over his shoulder, he tosses out a light-hearted, "Keep telling yourself that, Rose," and quickly moves on to a description of the contents for Mrs. Cope, plating up what she likes and then making up a plate for Bella with no input from her whatsoever.

As he sets Bella's plate down in front of her, Rose shoves her chair back from the table and stalks over to the food, grabbing a plate and putting noisy spoonfuls of salad on it. Smoothly, Edward appears at her side, his own plate in hand, and says quietly, "Please, Rose, let's call a truce and enjoy our meal in peace."

Rose snorts at this, albeit quietly, so Edward continues, "I think our fighting is upsetting her."

A quick glance over her shoulder confirms this for Rose, so she begrudgingly says, "Fine. But don't forget she's my roommate, and I'm the one who's been taking care of her for ten years."

That was a slight exaggeration, but Edward didn't challenge it, glad to get Rose's agreement on anything regarding Isabella as he knew it was tacit acknowledgment of his increasing-by-the-moment right to have something to say about anything concerning his girl.

After a surprisingly pleasant meal with lively discussion of the New York Upper East Side social scene, including a number of humorous reminiscences from Mrs. Cope, Edward is clearing the plates from the table and setting them in the sink when he notices a box of chocolate cupcakes with pretty frosting flowers that Bella had bought on her way home from work. Teasing her, he picks up the box and turns around saying, "Is somebody holding out on us with dessert?"

Bella of course blushes and stammers, finally getting out, "I'm sorry, I forgot I bought those. Would you like a cupcake, Mrs. Cope?"

"Well, I shouldn't have so much sugar, but…well, they do look pretty, don't they? I suppose one wouldn't hurt." Nor did it hurt any of them, sitting around the table with decaf coffee, herbal tea (at Edward's insistence for Bella), and far too much frosting, but a nice sugar buzz adding to their general sense of communal well-being and temporary family.

Finally, Mrs. Cope says she has to get home to bed. Bella immediately jumps up to walk her to the door, thanking her for her company, and Edward continues his gentlemanly attentions to the tired old lady by pulling out her chair from the table and giving much more assistance via her forearm and elbow to get her out of the chair than she had required to get in.

When she is standing, much more hunched and fragile-looking than she had been earlier in the evening, Edward offers to walk Mrs. Cope home. Indeed, he insists over her perfunctory protests, wrapping an arm around the lady's waist and supporting her under both arms to Mrs. Cope's great but silent gratitude.

Bella follows them patiently to the door, Rose hovering in the background.

When Bella has the front door open, and is planning to follow them to hold Mrs. Cope's door as well, Edward pauses in the doorway and looks down with paternal pride at Bella, telling her, "Get ready for bed, sweetheart, and I'll be back to tuck you in."

Bella is still holding the front door open, staring after him, dumbstruck by that bombshell, as Edward moves away from the apartment and towards Mrs. Cope's front door. A few seconds pass before he pauses again, turning back to look Bella in the eyes, raising his own eyebrows and saying, "Get moving, then, Isabella. I'll be back in a minute."

He starts off again with Mrs. Cope, but turns back once more to look at Bella over his shoulder as he moves, smiling at her and saying, "And I want you in your bed, not hiding in the bathtub, understood?"

He stares at her, still smiling but with something more serious in his unwavering gaze, until Bella slowly moves her head up and down. Then he grins, says "Good," and turns forward again, continuing the careful progress to Mrs. Cope's front door.

Meanwhile, Rosalie has come to from where she had been standing in the kitchen doorway, watching the whole exchange with narrowed eyes and uncertainty. Now she comes up and drags Bella back behind their own front door, closing it but reluctantly not locking it, and looking hard at Bella.

They just look at each other (Rose at Bella's face, Bella at Rose's feet) for a couple of weighty, or in Bella's case humiliated, moments before Rosalie asks, "So do you like him?"

Bella lifts her head slowly to look at Rose directly now instead of at the floor, though it's hard to tear her mind away from the moment she last saw…that man. "Um, what?" she finally responds.

Rosalie huffs, repeats, "Do you like him?"

Bella is dazed. "Um, I don't know. Do you?"

Rosalie rolls her eyes, realizing as she does how many times she's done so that night. Exasperated and fighting panic, she puts her hand on her friend's shoulder, leans in and says intensely, "Listen, Bella, this is serious. If we're not careful, you're going to end up married to this man."

Then Rosalie, who had called Jasper earlier that night after the go-round with Edward and Bella-the-no-show-in-the-lobby and forced a few more details out of him (everything he knows), adds under her breath, "Or some other bizarre contractual arrangement, which would really make me angry."

Bella hears and understands the first part, though not so much the second, and expresses her overall sentiments with a hugely incredulous snort.

Rosalie ignores her, other than to say, "I'm serious, Bella. That man is into you. And normally, I'd say 'This is great! My best friend has one of the richest, not to mention best-looking, men on the planet wrapped around her finger! Bully for her! Bully for me!' But, Bella, that only applies if you like him. If you want to be pursued by him. If you don't, then I need to kick him out now, before he gets any more at home here."

Then, a little frustrated by Bella's lack of response or any sign of higher-level consciousness, Rosalie shakes her shoulder a little and says, "Do you understand?" with what isn't quite but is getting close to a hysterical tone of voice.

Bella finally nods, and says slowly back, "I'm trying to, Rose," which makes Rose calm down and switch gears, pulling Bella in for a hug instead.

"I know, B; I know you are. We just; we don't have much time."

Edward has just quietly re-entered the apartment, and the click as he closes the door behind him makes Rose jump, then slowly turn toward Edward as he says, moving stealthily towards them like a stalking jungle cat, speaking to Rose but with his eyes resting heavily on Bella, "That's right, Rosalie; there's not much time at all if we're going to get this one to bed before it's past her bedtime. Am I right, Isabella?"

And stopping much closer than is remotely polite to Rosalie still standing with her arms around Isabella, making it really a little threatening, Edward stares Bella in the eyes until he gets another slow head nod, then turns and stares Rose into dropping her arms so that Edward can pick up one of Bella's hands again and tow her back down the hall.

Over his shoulder, he throws back to Rose, who's taking a turn standing mute and wide-eyed in the hallway, "I've got this. I'll check in with you before I go."

To which Rose can only respond with a head nod before Edward has Bella in her room, closing the door behind them with another click, this one echoing like a gunshot signaling the start of a war.

XxXxXx

Now go watch the movie "Barefoot" (available for Instant Streaming on Netflix right now) if you haven't seen it already. It's perfectly us! xoxo liza