A/N: Thanks to my beautiful beta and friend ShearEnvy for her inspiration and dedication, as usual. Thanks to all of you who read and review. Thanks to those that understand the concept of derivative fiction (if not, get a dictionary or google it... srsly). Thanks to Stephanie Meyer for giving us Edward Cullen. Thanks to Catherine Hardwicke for casting Robert Pattinson. Thanks to Domino's for making the pizza I ate tonight because I'm too lazy to cook. Thanks to Grey Goose Vodka for making life bearable. Thanks to Lauren for sending me a copy of the book I've been DYING to read and essentially making my week (month/year/maybe even my life). Thanks to Time Warner for not a fucking thing, the greedy bastards. Oh, and thanks to those of you who actually read A/N's, even senseless ones like mine. Did I miss anything there?

Chapter 2: "Promises"
"But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep..." ~Robert Frost

Present Day

"I don't even know what the hell this is," I muttered, shifting pasta around on my plate with a fork. The restaurant was fairly empty, being as it was two o'clock in the afternoon, so the atmosphere was pretty relaxed. They'd only been open for a few weeks and were already getting the reputation of being the best place to go for an authentic Italian meal in Seattle. I'd gone a few days earlier for dinner and it had been packed, but the food was mediocre at best. I decided to give them another try, thinking maybe it was just because of how busy they'd been, but the plate in front of me told a different story.

Clearly, they just couldn't fucking cook.

"It's Capellini Pomodoro," Jake said from his seat across from me. "Or whatever it was you ordered."

"So they say, but I've never seen any Capellini Pomodoro that looked like this before," I replied, still poking at the pasta. "It should be fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic and olive oil, but this has some kind of processed sauce and mushrooms. Mushrooms!"

"You love mushrooms," he pointed out.

"Yes, I know. I love portobello and shiitake mushroom, even fresh white button mushrooms. But these are like, Green Giant straight-from-the-can variety, Jake...and they don't belong in this dish."

He laughed. "You're a picky bitch, Bella."

I glanced at him and shrugged. There was no point in denying it... it was true. But it was my job to be picky.

Literally, my job. It still stunned me.

Jake shoveled food into his mouth at a rapid pace while I took a few small bites of my pasta, completely underwhelmed. It was overcooked and too oily, and the sauce was extremely sweet. If I hadn't know any better, I might have wondered if Chef Boyardee prepared my meal.

Nothing against Spaghetti-O's, but they certainly weren't worth paying $25 for.

After his plate was practically licked clean, Jake looked over at me questioningly. "Are you going to finish that?" he asked, motioning toward mine.

I shook my head and pushed it across the table. "It's not good," I warned him.

"Eh, it's edible," he said, shrugging me off as he dove right in.

It always stunned me how much he could eat without gaining a pound. He was tall and slim, but not exactly thin. His arms were toned and his shoulders broad, his stomach chiseled in a perfect six-pack. I wasn't sure how the hell he did it, considering I never saw him work out. In fact, I'd never seen him even break a sweat before. It was probably genetics or maybe just good luck, but whatever it was had me green with envy. I even breathed in the direction of food and I swelled up.

Jacob Black had won me over the very first time I met him. I'd approached him one afternoon, my first day at my new job after moving to Seattle, and had been extremely nervous. Everyone had warned me that he could be intimidating with his no-nonsense attitude, and the last thing I'd wanted was to get on his bad side. "Jacob Black?" I'd said timidly after knocking on his open office door.

He swung his chair around so fast it nearly made me dizzy. "Jake," he corrected me. "No one ever calls me by my full name. No one but my mother, that is, and she's dead now."

I blanched. I definitely wasn't off to a good start. "Oh. I, uh... I'm sorry to hear about your mother."

"Don't be," he said, standing up. "I'm certainly not sorry she's dead. She shouldn't have called me by my full name."

He strode right past me and I gaped at him, sure I had heard him wrong. When he was a few feet away he glanced over his shoulder at me and raised his eyebrows. "You must be the new girl... Isabella Swan, correct?"

"Uh, Bella," I stammered. "Just Bella. No one ever calls me by my full name."

He stopped walking and stared at me briefly, before a radiant smile overtook his face. "Bella it is, then. Come, have lunch. It's on me," he said, waving for me to follow him. I didn't hesitate at all, dropping my stuff at my desk and bolting out of the building right behind him.

Later I learned that Jake had never taken a coworker to lunch before, much less one he'd just met. And as far as his mother went, well, she was still alive out there somewhere... she just wasn't a part of Jake's life anymore.

"So, are you going to this work shindig next month?" Jake asked, setting his fork down when he finally finished my pasta.

"Absolutely not," I said, shaking my head. They were having a big charity gala in a few weeks, one I wanted nothing to do with. "And have to put on a dress and heels? I'll pass."

"Oh, come on. You dress up every day."

"It's different," I said. "I wear skirts and small heels, not ball gowns and stilettos. Just the idea of putting on one of those poufy monstrosities makes my stomach turn."

"Most women would kill for the chance to get all dolled up," Jake said. "It's like prom all over again."

I cringed. "Ugh, prom. Don't remind me."

"Bad memories?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He laughed, finishing off his glass of wine. It was his fourth one, the first three having been consumed before our lunch even arrived. It was no wonder he managed to eat the disgusting pasta without a single complaint... he was probably damn near drunk.

I glanced at my watch, seeing it was nearing three. "I should probably be getting back."

"I'll walk you," Jake said.

Even though I argued against it, as usual, Jake insisted on footing the bill. I stood back and watched as he paid, amused by my friend. His wavy black hair was unnaturally shiny, the ends of it falling to the base of his neck. His gray v-neck shirt hugged his chest and his dark jeans were so tight I wondered if his balls could breathe. He had on a pair of brown cowboy boots and a brown belt that matched, a massive belt buckle on the front of it. He insisted it was fashion, but I didn't realize that John Wayne was back in style.

If he'd ever even been in style, that is.

Jake was flirting his ass off with the bartender as he waited for his change. A bartender, might I add, that looked awfully conflicted about the attention. He was obviously straight, whereas Jake? Not-so-much.

"Did you see the arms on that guy?" Jake whispered to me as we headed out of the restaurant. He linked his arm with mine as we started strolling the three blocks back to work, neither of us in a hurry. We both had the luxury of working from home most of the time, so our absence in the office was quite usual.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"You should've said something to him," Jake said. "He looked like he could be an animal in bed."

I rolled my eyes. "He looked about eighteen, Jake. I seriously doubt I'm his type."

"So? I was most definitely not his type but that didn't stop me from trying," he replied. "When was the last time you got laid, anyway?"

I shrugged. "When George Bush was still in office."

He stopped walking abruptly and looked at me as if I'd sprouted a second head. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, we were all getting screwed then."

He laughed when it struck him what I'd said and started walking again. "You're funny, Bella."

Sadly, though, it was probably the truth.

Although the atmosphere was relaxed, the food at Vito Stella's was uninspired, substandard quality and barely tolerable.

Frustrated, I hit the backspace button and deleted the sentence before starting again.

Vito Stella's prides itself on delivering exemplary Italian cuisine, but the food their kitchen produces is far from authentic.

Delete. Again.

You have to be fucking drunk to eat at Vito Stella's.

That was more like it.

Sighing, I minimized Microsoft Word and leaned back in my office chair. I opened my email and started sifting through the usual responses that flooded my inbox every time a new review of a restaurant was published in the paper. As the head food critic for The Seattle Times, my days were spent in some of the city's greatest restaurants, gorging on a wide array of food and critiquing the service. It was all anonymous - they knew my name but not my face, so they had no idea who I was when I walked into their business. For the first time in my life, the fact that I usually went unnoticed was actually a good thing in my eyes.

How I ended up with such a coveted job was a story that began with a journalism class at Port Angeles Community College. I started taking classes not long after graduation, and we were assigned a run-of-the-mill critical writing piece that winter. Having procrastinated for weeks on it, I settled into a booth at a restaurant with my laptop the night before it was due and on a whim wrote about the dinner I ordered. I fully expected to fail but instead ended up being offered a position by the professor on the school newspaper. From there it was the local newspaper in Port Angeles, and then an internship one summer at The Seattle Times.The internship turned into a paying gig that fall while I attended culinary school, and years later I was running my own popular column in the paper. It was a dream come true - a dream I'd never known I had.

I switched over to my private email account and opened a recent message from Jake, laughing when I saw it was a childish scribble of me in a poufy pink dress that he'd done with Microsoft Paint. 'Bitch', the caption read. I opened Paint on my laptop and returned the gesture, drawing the most asinine picture of him in a dress I could come up with, captioning it 'Douche'.

There were emails from my boss Angela, review deadlines and places she had lined up for me to try. I scanned through the rest of my mail quickly and my breath hitched when I spotted the familiar name mixed in with the junk.

Edward Cullen

We had kept in touch after high school, exchanging emails and phone calls whenever we got the chance. Over time we went from talking daily to weekly, until weeks passed in between and then months went by with just a few words here and there. Whenever there was a lapse in communication and we were reunited, it always felt like no time at all had passed. We picked right back up where we'd left off, our bond just as strong as it had been growing up.

It had been nearly a year since I'd talked to him this time, three years since I saw his face. Last I'd heard, he'd graduated from med school and was working in a hospital in Chicago. The last email he sent me had simply said, "I'm in over my head." I replied, asking him what was wrong, but never got an answer. A few missed calls back and forth ensued until one day it all stopped. We were both just so busy.

Life went on.

Still, I missed him. I couldn't deny it. It was impossible not to miss someone I'd spent most of my life with.

I opened his email and quickly read his words.

Swan,
Your backyard is covered in acorns from this damn tree your father planted. They're even spilling into my parent's yard now. It's crazy.
Edward

I smiled at the utter randomness. A year of nothing and that was what he sent me. Shaking my head, I hit reply.

Edward,
Perhaps if you bought a few squirrels the acorns would disappear. Voila, problem solved :).
~Bella

A response popped up almost instantly.

I'm pretty sure it's illegal to buy squirrels. Are you, the police chief's daughter, suggesting I break the law?

Edward, I would never suggest such a thing. What makes you think it's illegal?

Because they're crazy, that's why. Squirrels are evil. Why would anyone want to actually buy them?

Because of acorns, duh! Besides, I think you're wrong. Chip and Dale weren't so bad.

They were chipmunks, Swan. Not squirrels. Don't you remember National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation? We only watched it together like every fucking year. Squirrels are crazy. Period.
PS- I asked your Dad. He agreed that it's illegal to buy them in Washington. So there.

Of course I remember National Lampoons. But had they not cut that Christmas tree down, the squirrel wouldn't have gone crazy on them. Purely Clark Griswold's fault, as usual.

The moment I hit send, something about his messages struck me. I glanced through them again quickly before emailing him once more.

Wait, are you really in Forks?

No reply came for a few minutes and I was about to close the laptop and get ready to head home when a message finally popped up.

Are you trying to tell me you're anti-Christmas now? I don't know if I can be friends with you anymore, Swan. First you're supporting an illegal underground squirrel black market and now you're a part of some radical "Save the Trees" anti-Christmas cult. I sense an intervention coming.
PS-Yes, I'm in Forks. I don't know if you've been here lately, but it all looks the same. Not a damn thing has changed (except there are more acorns).

I couldn't contain my smile. Edward was a mere three hours away from me... it was the closest we'd been to each other in years.

I think there's a law against change in Forks. It'll always be the same. How long are you there for?

So you support a law against change in Forks but not one against the trafficking of squirrels? PETA would be ashamed. I'll be here for a few weeks. We really need to get together as soon as possible (if you can get time off from that important job of yours, that is.) I read your column this week, by the way. I usually check it out online but this is the first time I actually held the paper in my hand. Cool shit, seeing you in print.

Stunned, it took a moment for me to respond.

You read my column?

Of course I do, Swan. Every week. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?

I smiled, my chest swelling with pride. He read my column. All of my hard work was acknowledged and appreciated by the one that had pretty much inspired me to put myself out there in the first place. It was nice, having that small piece of my friend back.

I'll try to get to Forks to see you as soon as I can. Maybe we can do something for your upcoming birthday. 28 in a little over two weeks... when did you get so old?

I'm not that old, Swan. Only three months older than you. So if I'm an old man, you're borderline hag haha! Can't wait to see you and for you to meet Tanya. I'm interested to know what you think of her.

My brow furrowed in confusion as I thought back, trying to recall a Tanya having been mentioned before, but I was coming up blank.

Who's Tanya?

The response that followed rendered me completely speechless.

I wanted to tell you in person so I could see your face, but I figure if I don't tell you now someone might beat me to it. Tanya's my fiancée! Can you believe it? Someone actually agreed to marry me!

I stared at the screen for a while, completely stunned. I re-read the short message so many times that the words all blurred together, everything about it seeming unnatural. Edward Cullen was getting married. My best friend, the person who knew me better than I knew myself, was engaged.

Someone had said yes.

Summer 2001

"I'm tired, Swan."

I glanced over at where Edward lay flat in the grass. He looked rough, his hair not only messy but in desperate need of a scrubbing. His jeans were fraying at the ends and ripped up one thigh, exposing a sliver of his hairy leg. He had on a pair of shoes but they were untied, no sign of any socks anywhere. He must've forgotten to put them on when he forgot to grab a shirt, as his chest was completely bare. I briefly wondered what else he might've forgotten but pushed those thoughts away quickly. The last thing I needed was to start thinking about Edward going commando.

"You should take a nap," I suggested.

"A nap won't help," he said. "I'm mentally exhausted. I don't know how much more I can take."

I sighed and closed the book I'd been reading. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Uh, okay," I said, shrugging. I started to open the book once more but before I could, he spoke again.

"I'm just tired of people taking advantage of me and expecting things," he said. "I feel like I can never win. Nothing is ever good enough. Everything has to be perfect for them and I just can't do it. I can't be what they want."

"Can't be what who wants?"

"Everyone," he said. "Every person I know expects shit from me."

My brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't."

"I know you don't," he responded. "You're not like them."

"See, not everyone expects stuff from you. I'm someone."

Edward popped his head up, propping himself up on his elbows to look at me. "You know what I mean, Swan. They expect me to be this fucking great person who does these great things."

"You are a great person."

"I'm a mess."

I shrugged. "Doesn't mean you're not great, though."

The corner of his lip twitched into a lazy half smile before he lay back down in the grass. "I'm done with Jessica," he said.

I stared at him with surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, I ended things last night," he replied. "For good this time, too. We've been back together for what, two weeks? She's already lying to me again. I'm just done with it."

"How'd she take it?"

"How does she always take it? She screeched like a fucking banshee and blamed me for ruining her life. But there's just no point. I'm leaving for college in two months. Time to just... go. Leave everything behind and start over new."

"Everything?" I whispered. I didn't like the sound of that.

"Well, not you."

I smiled to myself. "Good."

Things were quiet for a bit before he sighed. He was staring straight up in the sky, thick clouds hovering above us that were already starting to spit out sporadic drops of rain. "Do you want a family, Swan?"

"I already have a family. I have Charlie."

"No, I mean one of your own," he replied. "A husband and children."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Someday, if I can find someone to marry me."

He laughed to himself. "I think I'm going to have the same issue at this rate."

"You won't have a problem there, Edward. You're... well... you're you. Me, on the other hand..."

"I'd marry you," he said, interrupting me.

His words caught me off guard and I was speechless for a moment. "Would you?"

"Of course I would," he replied. "I'll tell you what. If neither of us can get anyone to say yes, in ten years we'll run off together. I'll be out of school by then and you'll be... I don't know, whatever you decide to do with your life. But we'll just go ahead and get married."

I rolled my eyes and laughed, but when he sat up to look at me his expression was completely serious. "Really?" I asked, stunned. He couldn't really mean that, could he?

"Yeah, why not? We get along. I don't have to shower for you and you don't have to put on makeup for me. I think we could be happy together."

"Uh, yeah, we could," I mumbled, trying to wrap my head around the idea. "I guess."

He cracked a smile. "You don't sound very enthusiastic about my marriage proposal, Swan."

"It was sort of a pretty crappy proposal," I replied. "You're gonna have to do better next time."

"Yeah, next time," he said, still smiling.

"But for God sakes, Edward, please make sure you shower."

For the first time in days, Edward Cullen actually laughed. "Yeah, okay," he said, standing up. He took a few steps toward his house but stopped, turning back around and starting in my direction. He paused in front of me, holding out his right hand.

I didn't even have to ask what he wanted - I instinctively knew. It was something we did as kids whenever we shared secrets, but we hadn't bothered to do it in years.

I held up my hand, hooking my pinky with his. "Pinky promise," I whispered.

He gave me a small smile before letting go and heading home without another word.

"Earth to Isabella!"

I looked up quickly, surprised to see Angela standing inside my office. "Yes?"

She shook her head and took a few steps toward me, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against my desk. There was something warm and friendly about Angela, even though she typically had an air of seriousness around her. She was always impeccably dressed with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a pair of square framed glasses that reminded me of a librarian. I ventured to guess she was in her mid-30's, but she said a smart woman never told her real age.

"What's got you distracted?" she asked.

"Nothing," I replied, shutting my laptop and pushing my chair back. "It's just been a long day. Was there something you needed?"

"I was just wondering how Vito Stella's was."

I groaned. "Horrible."

"That bad?" she asked. I nodded. "Guess we'll have prepare for the onslaught of hate mail."

"As usual," I muttered. "But honestly, it was disgusting. I couldn't stomach it. Jake had to finish mine."

"I'm not surprised," she replied. "That man does not discriminate about what goes in his mouth."

I sputtered, damn near choking on thin air at what she'd said. She looked at me with concern and I waved her off, the innuendo clearly not intended.

"Anyway," she continued after a moment, "Have you seen Jake? I need to discuss his column with him, but he's not answering his phone."

"Not since lunch," I replied. "He walked me back to the office and then went on his merry way, as usual."

Buzzed off of good wine, I thought, but refrained from adding that piece of information to the conversation. It was typically frowned upon to drink on the job, even when your job encouraged you to be a little belligerent sometimes.

She sighed. "I don't know why I haven't fired him."

"Because he writes the most popular column in the paper," I said. "Face it. We need him."

"Yeah, we do. God help us all," she said, shaking her head as she walked out.

I smiled to myself, turning back to my desk. Jake wrote a weekly advice column that had started out as a simple block tucked in with some advertisements, morphing over time into an entire page. He was sort of like Dear Abby, just with less tact and more sass. Or ass, really. He could be quite the asshole when he wanted to be. People loved it, though. I ventured to guess half of the people who read my column only did so because they stumbled upon it while flipping to his.

After packing up my stuff, I left the office for the day and hailed a cab the ten blocks to my apartment complex. I tried calling Jake's cell phone on the way, but it continuously went to voice mail each time. Frustrated, I got on the elevator and stopped the attendant, Phil, from pressing the ten button that led to my floor, instead telling him I was going up to eight.

"Visiting Mr. Black today, Ms. Swan?" he asked, making small talk.

"Yep," I said. "Have you seen him? He's not answering his phone."

"Uh, yes ma'am," he replied. "He was through here earlier."

"The twit must've fallen asleep," I mumbled. "Probably passed out from the wine he drank."

"Yes, well, I'm certain he probably did, uh, you know," he said, smiling, "go to bed."

The elevator stopped when we hit the eighth floor and Phil motioned for me to exit. I told him I'd see him soon as I started down the hallway, heading straight for apartment 805. I reached my hand up to knock as soon as I got there, but the door was pulled open before my fist could make contact.

"Where the hell have you been, Ja-" I glanced at the doorway, stopping my words abruptly when I realized the person standing before me wasn't Jake.

It took a second for recognition to dawn and my eyes widened with shock when I placed the face. It was the guy from Vito Stella's, the one with the nice arms.

He refused to even make eye contact with me, bolting down the hallway like his feet were on fire. Jake popped his head out of the apartment and smiled when he saw me standing there. "Where'd you come from, Jezebella?"

"Um, I... uh..." I was baffled. "What the fuck was that?"

He laughed. "Apparently I was wrong. I guess I was his type, after all."

I shook my head. "I don't know how the hell you do it. He was definitely straight, Jake."

"Yeah, there's no doubt about that. Was being the key word, of course," Jake joked, laughing. "Which reminds me - you're gonna have to give Vito Stella's a good review now."

"Why?"

He nudged me with his elbow, smirking. "Their take out is excellent."

See ya next Friday