Chapter 4 All That Matters
A Weird Way to Start a Friendship

The room before me was gorgeous. Absolutely breathtaking. It took me a few seconds before I saw the bed; when I did, I immediately stumbled to it and sat down.

I was surrounded by light blue walls – all except for one wall, which was entirely made out of glass. The window looked out on the large, grassy meadow of the Cullens' front property. Rain, like teardrops, spattered the window pane. Long, shimmering strips of night-sky blue drapery were gathered at either end and fastened with a thin golden cord. The second wall, the one on the left as I entered through the door, was consumed almost entirely by a mural of a white rose. It was beautiful, truly beautiful, but it rubbed a sore spot. My father always gave Renee a white rose on their anniversary. Seeing it this way, without my parents by my side, was cruel. I braced myself for the pain, and then opened my eyes in shock – the pain had not come. I saw Edward glance at me questioningly from the doorway, so I shook it off and continued my step-by-step evaluation of the room. The wall to the right of the door was the plain, light blue again, with two rich cherry oak doors. I started toward them, but decided against it for now. There was enough in the room to occupy me for the moment.

There wasn't much furniture in the room. The bed I sat on was of the same cherry wood as the doors and the plain trim, the sheets and covers the midnight blue of the drapes. A small, half-circle table was pushed against the wall as a nightstand, with a slender black lamp in the center. A blue rug was spread across the floor, and a large, poofy black chair was by itself in the corner.

My gaze traveled upwards, and I gasped in amazement and disbelief, practically leaping off of the bed.

On the last wall stood a row of five bookshelves. Four of them were completely filled. One was left empty, except for the few books I had brought with me. I skimmed the titles, fingered the spines. My hand paused mid-stroke on the binding of a particularly old one. The title was badly faded, so I pulled it out, placing my other hand in its place as a stopper.

That's when I told myself it wasn't possible. None of this could be anything but a dream. With any luck, I could still wake up in my own room with my mother yet breathing beside me rather than already dead.

What brought on this abrupt reality check? The book in my hands. In golden script:

Romeo and Juliet – William Shakespeare

I'd read this book many times previously, but the content of the book wasn't the issue.

The copy was at least three hundred years old.

And then his cool breath was against my ear. "Carlisle told me you like the classics." I stared at him, but his dark eyes were carefully focused away from me, on the rows of books. "So, I went through our collection and found ones I thought you'd like." His eyes flickered to mine, then away. My gaze trailed across the books: Jane Eyre, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Oliver Twist, King Leer. I almost died. "Of course, not all teenagers today appreciate the original works of Shakespeare, but…" He trailed off, finally noticing my expression, which, I'm sure, was terrifying.

"Bella?" he asked, a little annoyed, maybe sad – she doesn't like them, and after hauling all those books, he was probably thinking. "Are you okay? I'm sorry, I should have asked before putting all these old things in your room, but…" He continued on, always apologetic, looking to erase whatever harm he'd done. He regretted my apparent distress.

I wasn't distressed; I was euphoric. I finally gained the willpower to speak, to pause in my session of reverently staring at the centuries-old book, and said softly, my voice weak with strain, "Thank you."

Edward stopped apologizing. "You're welcome?" he replied hesitantly. "What are you thanking me for, exactly?" He looked confused and lost; I giggled. It was altogether a cute expression, especially on him. Somehow, I thought almost anything would be cute on him. I shook myself out of it; I refused to be distracted. I gestured at the books.

"All of this," I said, and twirled around for effect. My not-so-graceful genes chose that not-so-opportune moment to kick in, and I grasped at something – anything – to keep me up.

"Whoa, there," he chuckled, his voice playful, but tense as well. He had caught me swiftly, faster than I would have thought possible. One arm curved around my back, above my waist, and the other held me steady at the shoulder. "You really are clumsy, aren't you?"

I glared at him, affronted. He let me go, and I pulled back. I stuck my tongue out at him as I straightened out my shirt. My eyes grew wide, mortified at my sudden burst of familiarity. I cowered back into my invisible shell, waiting for the rebuff, the rejection.

Instead, there was laughter. Not the controlled, polite laughter, but a boisterous laughter. Clearly my actions were taken with great hilarity. He turned away, as if to shield himself from my face in order to regain composure.

If I were being honest with myself, I would know what I should have felt: hurt, anger. But neither of these emotions crossed my mind as I watched him laugh. The sound was so loud, happy, childlike –and strangely, it didn't sound as if he was normally one to laugh like this. He seemed so much more solemn, and I couldn't deny him this moment of breaking out of that solitude. And as I listened to his laughter, I became happy, too. It was contagious. Watching him, hearing him, seeing him laugh – one hand on the bookcase, the other on his stomach, doubled over – it was enough to make me join in as well.

So, I did. "I'm sorry," I gasped through my laughter. "It wasn't funny to me until you started laughing." I struggled for breath. "But you just-" gasp "looked so funny!"

His laughter cut off abruptly. Curious, wary, I looked up, worried at this sudden change in his attitude. I grew more worried when I saw the playful smirk spread wide across his face.

"Looked funny?" he growled. His voice was low and mocking, and I couldn't help but notice the way his throat vibrated, the way the muscles of his neck grew taught as he positioned himself menacingly in front of me. He crouched low. "I'll give you funny."

"No-" I started, but he had already pounced at me.

Our combined weight crashed onto the bed several feet behind me. I prayed that it was sturdy. Shockingly, the impact didn't hurt – Edward pulled me to his chest, bracing his arms around me.

I was acutely aware of the position we were in: my back arching over the edge of the bed, his arm under me, supporting my weight, crushing my torso to his chest. His free hand on the back of my head, pressing my face to the crook of his neck. Strands of his shining bronze hair obscured my vision. My legs were wide apart, like a china doll sitting against a wall. One of his legs had come up around my thigh and back down to hook around my ankle, as if to stop short any possible impact with the floor.

To put it lightly, if anyone were to walk into the room at that moment, we'd have a lot of explaining to do. We stayed like that for a moment. My cheeks burned.

And then he released me. In one fluid movement, he unwrapped his limbs from my body and was several feet away. I sank the rest of the way to the floor. Although I glared at him (my best death-glare, too, and I don't take death glares lightly – he should know). The laughter in his eyes was unmistakable.

I started. They weren't golden anymore, didn't resemble any of the other Cullens' eyes. Then again, they didn't have to, I reasoned, because they weren't related. They were adopted, so they shouldn't resemble each other.

Even then I knew it, knew that I was only trying to deny fact and grapple with the truth, twist it to the truth I wanted to be reality.

Reality was impossible to ignore. His eyes, once light honey, were a deep coal black. Different, somehow. Different from that first day, when I thought I was going to drown in those pools of darkness. No, the blackness now was of heated coals, smoldering with the last remaining embers of a fire.

I could feel his eyes assessing my new position on the floor. "Now you look funny," he snickered, his eyes focused on mine. I broke the contact and lifted myself up with my elbows on the bed behind me.

"And what," I hissed through gritted teeth, "was that for?" I set my jaw, raised my chin, and angled my body away from him. I glared out the window, then hesitated, sure that the force of my glare would set the glass shattering.

He came to stand beside me; the light from outside caused his face to glow like an angel's. His features were made all the more angular, prominent. And I couldn't help but notice that he was absurdly, unrealistically beautiful. "I did it for two reasons: One because I thought you would look funny, and I was right. Two, because I wanted you to lighten up a bit around me. Thus far, the only emotions I've seen cross your face when you look at me are fear and apprehension." Up till this point, he had kept his voice carefully even. However, when he spoke of my feelings, his tone took on a bitterness that I couldn't quite place. Resentment towards me, perhaps? Annoyance at my fear?

"And curiosity," I added, as determined to 'lighten his mood' as he was mine. He turned to me then, his expression lacking all emotions. It unnerved me that someone should be able to rid themselves of all human likeness so quickly, as if…

As if he weren't human in the first place.

Ridiculous, I chided myself. The Cullens have been nothing but kind to you, and you're already accusing them of somehow being not human? How ungrateful can you get?

"Curiosity…" he repeated. "So that's what that was." He looked away again, back out into the rain. "All the same," he continued, "Now, at least, you aren't afraid of me. Or," he backtracked, "not as." He grinned, and the effect was astonishing. His teeth were a dazzling white, and I couldn't help but stare. "Now, at least, you're angry with me." The grin faded, and he sighed – a sigh I don't think I was meant to hear, for he did not glance my way.

Anger? I was confused. Angry at what? I wasn't hurt when he tackled me, and no damage was done to the bed, so I didn't see why I was supposed to be angry.

I reached out a tentative hand and placed it lightly on his arm. An electric shock ran through me, but I forced myself not to move; my fingers pressed harder on his ghostly pale skin. I knew he must be looking at me with his large, confused eyes, or perhaps glaring, but I also knew it would be pointless to attempt to talk to him with his skin faintly glowing and his eyes wide in earnest. I wouldn't be able to speak. I chose the alternative – I stared at his shoes. Plain black sneakers, though an expensive pair, I'm sure. I was relieved; his shoes were probably the only part of him I could stare at without melting.

"So that's what you think of me," I whispered, but even I could tell there was a sharp hint of hostility inflicted. My voice rose in heat and volume, and I knew that if I didn't calm myself down soon, I would begin to yell. "I'm angry? That's what you think? That I'm so ungrateful that I would be angry at your kindness? That I'm such an unemotional freak that I would be angry at you for no reason? Do you really think that of me? That is such an insult, do you have any – idea-" Tears, gathered in my eyes during my rant, pored over. "Any idea at all, how I-" My voice broke. "How this makes me feel? I-" I struggled for words, and couldn't find them. "It hurts so much…too much…"

That's when I felt something, something that felt absurdly right.

His arms, around me. His arms, holding me tightly against his chest. Something he'd done before.

But this time, it was different. This time, he held me of his own accord – not because I tripped, not because he tackled me. He held me because…why? There was no reason. I had yelled at him, given him perfect cause to hate me. So why was he holding me now, why was he comforting me?

I was distracted, suddenly, by his voice. "Bella," he said, and his voice was taught with strain. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry, I…" He paused, and I was shocked. He was hesitating, at a loss for words. I couldn't see his face, but I knew that he was wracking his brains for something to say. "I didn't want to hurt you, Bella, I swear. I just didn't want you to be afraid of me. Truly, honestly, I was desperate to have you trust me. But," and he upturned his face to the ceiling, "it rather backfired, didn't it?"

I didn't say anything. I remained in his arms, because I felt safe there. "Believe me, Bella, when I say I never meant to hurt you. Because right now I promise you, swear to you, that I will not hurt you." I was silent. "Ever." He didn't hate me, then. He was forgiven, was as soon as he said the words that made me angry in the first place. But I couldn't speak, couldn't trust myself to say it aloud. I knew that I would lose control, so I just kept my mouth shut.

He stopped talking.

We stood there, two beings, two entities, silent. Like strangers. And yet, there was this familiarity, this connection between us that seemed stronger than could ever be expected.

His voice broke the silence. "Where do you want these?"

I glanced down at the shopping bags at his feet. "I don't, but," I gestured to the closet, "put them over there. I'll put them away in a bit." I snorted. "It'll take forever, though. Honestly, Alice didn't have to get me so much…or anything."

Edward hesitated as he moved to put the bags down by the closet doors. "Do you want help with that?" I was about to reply with a 'no, thank you,' when he strode over to me and then stopped, rather abruptly, his face less than a foot away from my own. "It will take less time that way."

Suddenly, I couldn't think. His golden eyes bore into mine, smoldering like the last remains of a fire – too close to coal to be called the honey they had been before. I felt weak at the knees, like I was about to fall down. I shivered, a strange convulsion – and not because of the cold. My body wasn't working right, wasn't responding to what my mind told it.

I knew that Edward and his family weren't dangerous. Rather, they could be if they wanted to; I was fairly sure of that. But that was just it – they didn't want to. I couldn't doubt the sincerity in Edward's eyes, his voice. I had to trust him.

I did trust him. And I would if the world depended on it.

"Are you cold?" he murmured, and for a moment I didn't respond. The worried look in his gaze prompted me, so I hastily blurted, "No. Yes. I mean, sure."

He raised a single bronze eyebrow. I blushed. "I mean, no, I'm not cold, and you could help me put this stuff away…only if you want to." I turned away. "But I'm sure you have something better to do." I stared at him, biting my lip, waiting for his reaction.

"Actually," he corrected me, "I don't." He looked away, as if to avoid my gaze. I bit down harder – he was starting to scare me.

He swiveled around abruptly, gracefully, turning to face me with a snarl on his flawless features. "Don't do that!" he hissed. His voice was transformed, almost unrecognizable. It was menacing. Deadly. But I trusted him.

I did not move. After a moment more of him glaring me down, he relaxed his stiff, threatening posture, the muscles of his face smoothing into a more human expression, done with much effort. His eyes narrowed.

"You could have started bleeding,' he accused. I was befuddled. I almost said, "so what?", but the serious expression on his face made back out of my intended response. I bit my lip once again, reprimanding myself.

He took a step away from me, his hands slightly upraised, palms forward. A silent plea. "Please," he said quietly. "You may not understand now, but it would be very bad if you bled around here."

Before I could stop myself, my naturally curious side broke out. "Why? What's wrong here?" He tried to interrupt, but I had something to say, and I was going to say it. "No, let me talk. What's going on?" I lowered my voice. "Er, is it...something medical? A disease?" I winced, waiting for him to blow – medically challenged people are often like that. It was insensitive of me, but I couldn't take it back now. And I couldn't not ask. If I was going to be living with their family, and they were going to accept me 'as their own' like the said they would, then I had a right to know. It was as if I no longer had control of my feelings...a sudden burst of confidence had run through me. Like my emotions weren't my own anymore. Someone else entirely was in control.

He laughed, his musical chuckle ringing like the finest bells, as soothing as the softest velvet in the room.

God, this boy was bipolar – depressed one minute, angry the next, laughing a second later, and then depressed again.

"A disease," he mused, serious once again – thereby proving my point about the bipolarity. "Yes, yes, I suppose you could call it that." He paused. "Although it is a bit of a stretch, and a misclassification." I could see the pain in his eyes once again, the seclusion, the desolation. I could see the torture, the agony, the self-hatred. His face was like an open book.

And I didn't understand it.

It was unusual for me – when I read a book, and didn't understand a specific section, I would re-read it, again and again. And I would not stop re-reading until I understood the passage completely and thoroughly. I would not settle with a mere interpretation of the reading, one man's idea of what it meant; I wanted the true interpretation, the real facts.

Just as I would not finish trying to understand Edward until I knew. Until I knew everything.

I had a feeling that this was going to take a very long time.

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I sat, criss-cross applesauce, next to a chest of drawers that was nearly full. Edward sat facing me, his back turned to the tall bureau he had been filling with clothes.

Two bags left. Only two. Immediate relief. The relief came too soon.

They were the ones that Alice bought, and I wasn't sure what was in them. I stared at them speculatively for a moment, and then made up my mind.

"Here," I said, shoving a bag at Edward. "We'll split." I grabbed the other.

"Deal." He grinned briefly, and then bent to his task. I reached to open the bag that had fallen under my care, and then stopped. And stared.

I felt my jaw drop. Within moments, I was seething. I half expected my body to start trembling with anger. "Alice!" I groaned. My shock didn't last long. I rolled my eyes and chuckled, shaking my head. Inside the bag was a pair of shoes. Very expensive shoes. With – and this was a generously down-sized guess – four inch stiletto heels, as well as a thin strap around the ankle. One very, very thin strap. I sighed dramatically, smacking my forehead with my hand.

"Bella?" Edward's voice brought me out of my stupor. "Erm...what am I supposed to do with...what is this, anyway?"

I turned. My shoe problems were forgotten as I stared at the small piece of material that dangled from Edward's pale pinky finger.

I could feel my face heat up, my cheeks redden, my ears burn. For the object that Edward held in his hand was a tiny, bright blue lace and silk underwear set.

Edward seemed to realize this at the same time I did. He dropped the material as if it had stung him, and it fell soundlessly onto the carpet. His fingers twitched, raised in the air as if the small bit of lace was still in his hand. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His jaw remained open, however; staring at the underwear, the wall, the window – anywhere but at me.

"God, Alice..." I croaked out, staring at the fabric. I tried to be brave, tried to exert enough willpower inside of me to stay strong, courageous, and to step outside of my comfort zone. Way outside. Talking about underwear with guys – especially attractive guys who are currently doing me huge favors such as giving me a place to live– is not something that I do on a regular basis. The topic never even came up with my dad. Thank goodness; I don't think that I could live through an encounter like that.

There was a silence as I reached over to take the forbidden garment. "Well," I said, trying to make my voice light, "I suppose this can just go in the garbage." I sniffed haughtily. "I make no use of such things." He stared at me. His lip twitched up, ever-so-slightly. I smiled, which took even me by surprise. My old self would have been crying, ashamed, terrified. I couldn't blame that part of me – I had been teased for years, and so I had grown fragile. When someone looked at me in the wrong way, I was sad. Embarrassed. And so, so frightened. Here, I held the lacy nothing in between my fingers, fighting the urge to laugh. Watching his face as he registered my response.

I held the lace delicately between my thumb and forefinger and grimaced. "Is this thing even sanitary?"

He grinned. The way his lips stretched into that crooked smile, flashing his shining white teeth as if he were on a teeth whitener commercial, but so much more non-computerized, made me want to go scrub my own teeth in earnest.

He smiled, too, and I knew that we could get better. That he could cure me of my past weaknesses, and I his. But first – and here was my problem – I had to understand a little of what was wrong with him. For now, though, I would settle with being his friend, growing his trusting in me, and having a darn good time while doing so.

As we laughed and smiled together, his deep laugh mingling with my lighter one, I realized that we were both unused to this – this laughing thing. Having fun. Smiling.

But all I could think was, "What a weird way to start a friendship."

But a good way. Yes.

A good friendship.