A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 4 – Watermelon, Rum, and Sun.
Miss Isabella Swan is a teacher.
More precisely, she's a seventh-grade math teacher who's taught for three years now. She loves working with children at an age where their true personalities are beginning to blossom. She loves the idea that she can positively impact their development and their appreciation for math as not just a subject but as a logical way of problem-solving. She can't imagine any other career choice she'd ever find more fulfilling. She's also a born and bred Jersey Girl.
These are a few of the facts we've learned via the past couple of hours' of surfside conversation – where 'learned' might be a misleading word when we already knew some of this, as well as a few other tidbits she and her best friend and fellow teacher have shared, all while unaware that between my best friend and me, one of us never got over his boyhood fascination with spy games.
Not that I've made any effort to come clean. In fact, while the three canvas those subjects which newly forming friends tend to share, I haven't said much of anything.
Instead, my gaze pans restlessly around the Jersey Shore beach, dotted with white sand and colorful beach umbrellas, studying everyone and everything else here this early afternoon – everyone and everything but the woman sitting cross-legged across from me. The surf pulls in at the shoreline and then sizzles out as if burned by the sun. There's a threesome of boys, who might be triplets, rushing headlong into the roaring waves, kicking up sand into their fellow beach bathers' faces and laughing their heads off while their haggard-looking parents scold them from their huge beach blanket. Meanwhile, a pair of better-behaved girls fill buckets full of wet sand, tip them over, then pull the buckets back cautiously, alternating between pride in their castle and giggled sneak peeks at the couple just a few inches away, currently exchanging spit while cuddled over a narrow beach towel.
Swallowing thickly, I switch to gazing at the horizon, where blue skies meet a meadow-toned ocean. The sun is still high in the sky, but it's shifted position, began its westward trek, signaling the fact that, no matter what goes on below it, at some point, it's going to set and put an end to all the fun. I've downed the last of the pink drink, and the plastic bottle has become a fidget toy of sorts in my hands.
Anything to keep my eyes from deviating to her.
Because I've got way too much shit going on in my head. Why would I want to add more? Right?
I'd rather take the empty bottle in my hands and shove it into warm sand so that I can watch the pebbly grains rush in and seep through the narrow mouthpiece before they fill the bottle's wide, cylindrical body. It's fascinating stuff. I then flip the bottle over and watch it empty like an hourglass, each grain measuring a nanosecond of time, of just how long I can keep this…avoidance up – especially with the rum and sun seeping through my veins.
My head spins much more than it should. It really wasn't that much rum.
OOOOO
"So, how does the Jersey Shore compare to Southern California beaches?"
She asks this. Because it seems that, on top of playing at amateur spy, Emmett has also turned turncoat.
"It doesn't."
What I mean by my two-worded reply is that, on the west coast, the colors melt into a kind of…let's say, a ripe fruit salad set in an eternally clear, crystal bowl. In the east, the distinction between sky and sea always seems to remain, no matter how warm it grows. It makes one appreciate it all more because there's always a hint in the air, in the grittier colors, that the brightness will soon fade into autumn's darker tones. So you'd better take advantage of the beauty before you while you still can.
But that part of my reply remains in my head, and if she wasn't able to infer it from my concise reply, then maybe she's got no business shaping the minds of twelve-year-olds.
In my periphery, I see…feel her gaze on me. It sears the fine hairs on my arms and legs and makes my skin burn and tingle. Or maybe it's just time to reapply that sunscreen my mom's post-it notes more than hinted at.
She's still staring.
It's not flirtatious, not at all. It's too…direct. Too blunt. She's pretty, and her laughter is like what I imagine angels singing to their deity would sound like. Still, I get the feeling there's absolutely nothing angelic about her.
"I'm not sure that you can compare them," I finally add, the words spat almost begrudgingly because she's forced this out of me with her unrelenting scrutiny. "It's not so straightforward. One is more of an escape, while the other is a way of life."
"Ouch!" her friend Rosalie chimes in. "So what you're saying is that life in Jersey is so shitty we need a refuge, while life on the west coast is some sort of nirvana."
Across from me, Bella lets loose that melodious, she-demon laugh of hers.
"Rose, he didn't say that. Did you say that, Edward? You'll have to be clearer. There's room for interpretation."
She draws a sip from her flask, and I think I see her hiding a smile.
She's not coy. And for better or worse, my two-year relationship with Tanya has left me accustomed to some measure of coyness – overt flirting much in the way her friend and mine are conducting. Then again, Emmett has a secure job, a home with his name on the mortgage, and wasn't drop-kicked by his ex the literal second that shit got real.
So, no, she's not flirting; what she's doing is more like in-your-face challenging me with her seventh-grade-math-teacher logic. I kind of pity her young, naïve students.
Then again, she's not being cruel. I get the feeling that, had Miss Swan been my seventh-grade teacher, she would've kept a close eye on me, making it almost impossible for me to get away with shit. And I get the additional feeling that…I would've wanted very much to please Miss Swan.
"No. That's not what I'm saying."
"Still doesn't answer the question, though. What are you saying?" She's amused. I hear it in her voice, and despite myself, I've got to bite back a chuckle – before she starts thinking she can discompose me and get away with it.
"I'm just saying that you can't compare."
"If you can't compare, then pick one."
"What?" When my eyes finally meet hers, she grins like the proverbial way-too-intelligent cat who just cornered the mouse who's behaving a lot stupider than he should. The 'DANGER' sign has been flashing since the mouse met that cat's eyes.
"If they can't be compared, pick one over the other – the Jersey Shore or the California coastline?"
"It's apples and oranges."
"Then, do you like apples or oranges more?"
I'm locked in her dark, fiery gaze.
"Ed's never gonna pick the Jersey Shore over California's beaches," Emmett cuts in. "His house was literally on the beach over there! Didn't even have to cross the street the way he does here!"
How much of my fucking story has this traitor actually shared while I kept myself busy trying not to share?
"Really?" Bella's tone would imply she's impressed, but her cynically raised, though perfectly groomed, brow tells another story. "You lived right on the beach over there?"
"We lived-" I clear my throat and rephrase, "I lived in Newport Beach, but my company paid for the house."
"Now that's a perk," she nods.
"Yeah, it was a great perk." I rake a hand through my windblown hair. "We had- I mean, I had some great times there. But…the company downsized, so…"
"Oh," she breathes with a slight nod when the meaning becomes clear. And I note a couple of things now: the first is that Emmett, traitor though he might be, didn't share that part of my tale. The other and more…captivating thing I note is how Bella's dark eyes have a way of melting from chocolate to caramel when humor morphs into compassion. "I'm sorry," she adds with a heartfelt murmur.
I wave it off as if it doesn't matter, I've got no cares in the world, the world is my oyster and all that shit, and return my attention – or my eyes, at least – to the surf. In my periphery, I see and feel her watching me while Emmett changes the subject. Eventually, both women's attention reverts to him, and why shouldn't they prefer his much more entertaining company? His amusing analogies. His quick-witted quips. Then again, he's not treading over a trifecta of failures. I expel a furtive sigh.
"So, are you and Emmett staying down the shore for a few days, or what?"
I suppress a smile, though I'm unsure what's brought on the inclination – is it relief that Teacher is giving me another chance, or is it her accent and what its sudden sharpening might mean?
See, Bella's Jersey accent isn't so pronounced that she sounds like one of those cartoonish TV caricatures of a Garden State resident. They're eye-roll inducing, those depictions. Like Bella, I'm born and bred too. And while around the rest of the nation, the accent is a dead giveaway for homegrowns of this minuscule yet populous state where diners rule and where the Sopranos carry out weekly mob hits, to born and bred like us, the accent is unremarkable. It's as mainstream as are our state's ass-kicking bagels, as is easily finding pizza sold by the slice, and as is our local habit of sharing where on the state map we hail from by Turnpike exit.
But Bella's accent is definitely there, and I don't know what's just intensified it, but her soft-pink mouth hit those o's hard. She then shifted into a barely there caress over her r's and completely ignored the d's at the end of words so that her latest query sounded something like,
'So-ooh, ah yoo en Emmett stayin' down the shoh-uh fuh a few days, uh wut?'
And honestly, I shouldn't be this fascinated by how her mouth moved around each syllable, staring or giving it all a hell of a lot more thought than a dialects expert would. Except that I suspect her sharper speech pattern might have something to do with frustration… frustration brought on by possibly having had her feathers ruffled – by me.
That's what's got me suppressing a smile. All's fair, baby.
On the heels of that thought, my mind replays Bella's question; only now, I hear it as it might've sounded from the mouth of someone SoCal-born-and-bred. Someone like Tanya:
'Seh-oh, er yew eh-ind Emmett stee-ying dee-own the shore fer a few dee-ays, er wet?'
When I grimace, Bella tilts her head questioningly. With her lean, tanned legs folded at her side, surrounded by white sand, and with the sun sizzling overhead, she waits. Her long, windswept hair cascades over a sun-kissed shoulder like wild whitewater made onyx by moonlight. Chocolate eyes hold mine unrelentingly.
"I'm not exactly sure how long I'm here for."
She nods, and while the vertical line that puckers the space between her brows confirms she's once again found my conversation skills woefully lacking, this time, she doesn't push me for more. When I expel a breath through narrowed lips, I don't know if it's due to relief…or due to a massive wave of disappointment.
"Bella, we're going in the water," her friend Rosalie abruptly announces. When she jumps to her feet, Emmett follows suit with almost embarrassing alacrity. "Wanna come?" She looks down at Bella, and though Rosalie's back is to me, by Bella's amused expression, there's obviously some unspoken communication being communicated.
Bella shakes her head. "No, no. Not at all. I'm more than fine here. I'll twist open one of Emmett's perfectly good water bottles and turn it over my head if the sun threatens to scorch me."
Emmett snickers, then jerking a thumb toward the water, asks me, "How about you, Ed?"
"I can't leave Bella here to combust on her own, can I?"
"Good boy," he murmurs distractedly, patting my shoulder. "When we come back, we'll go for those drinks, yeah?"
"Sure," I agree.
Then he's off, chasing Rosalie into the crashing waves.
Seated on my beach towel across from one another, with our legs crossed, Bella and I lock gazes. I begin slowly. My aim is to answer her question fully and, with it, possibly other things she might be wondering.
"Uhm, I'm sort of…" I scrub my jaw with my palm, "I'm trying to figure out a few things, but…I think I'd like to-"
She shakes her head. "We don't have to."
My brow furrows. "You haven't even let me finish."
She draws in a deep breath, her eyes darting away before she releases the breath when her gaze alights on Rosalie and Emmett. They're splashing one another, alternating between shrieks and laughter. Bella smiles tenderly.
"He a good guy?"
"He is," I confirm.
"Good. And just because they're messing around doesn't mean we have to."
There it is.
"You know, my kids- my students," she clarifies, "at that age, and only just beginning to wonder who they want to be and what it means to be an individual separate from their parents' personalities…" she pauses, "they find a like-minded friend and want to do almost everything together. They study together, do homework together, and when one best friend suddenly discovers that they like someone, the other best friend happens to like that someone's best friend."
"And so two pairs become a grouping of four," I say.
"Good job," she grins. Not condescendingly, more as in she's pleased that I picked up the concept she very clearly illustrated. Nevertheless, it's very much a teacher's voice, a 'Good job!' and a pat on the back, all rolled together, and at that moment, I know her students must adore her, must be wild to please her if it means they get to the recipients of that quiet yet eye-sparkling praise. I can even almost see how that sort of praise from her would grow…addicting.
"Except when-" she begins to qualify.
"There's an exception to two plus two equals four?"
"There very much is," she smiles. "Because sometimes two…" she pauses deliberately before leaning in and adding, "plus one…plus one, also equal four. It's all good," she grins, backing up again.
"So you're letting me off the hook," I state plainly.
Now she laughs. "As a general rule, I don't mess around with guys who hate on my state."
"I wasn't hating on your state," I grin, "especially since your state happens to be my state."
"Oh, no," she disagrees, shaking her head. "Nope, you're no Jersey guy. You're a Cali dude."
She is mocking me now, the last word stressed, said how…well, said how Tanya would say it: dee-ewed.
The funny thing is, I'm still not offended.
"I get the feeling that's meant to be more than an observation. Also, no one says Cali."
She tilts her head up to the hazy sunshine and laughs. Then laughs some more. Her long, dark hair cascades past her sun-kissed shoulders, her bare waist. The silky ends brush the upper swell of her backside. I swallow hard, my eyes helplessly running the circuit – the curvature of her neck, the smoothness of her throat…her shoulders…
"More importantly," she says, and when I force my gaze back up, her eyes meet mine knowingly, "I don't mess with guys who are still hung up on their ex."
My amusement, the moment of levity, evaporates. I open up my mouth to protest, but the next moment, I'm forced to shut it because-
Well, because.
And she's still smiling.
"I'm not still hung up-"
She quirks a brow.
"I'm not," I stress, expelling a breath. "I'm not hung up. Hung up implies I'd want her back. It's more complicated than that. It's more that I'm…still preoccupied with the events."
Again, she laughs, but it's not taunting. She's blunt; she's straightforward. She's born-and-bred-New-Jersey through and through. But she's not cruel. As far as I can tell, there's not one mean bone in her…great body.
My head still spins. `
In the next moment, she unfurls her shapely legs and rises to her feet. I angle my head upward while afternoon rays dapple her dark hair, teasing out golden highlights that make it seem as if she wears a crown. She swipes sandy hands over her thighs, just under the strings holding up her bikini's front and back flaps.
"Normally, attraction is enough. I mean, I've got nothing against fooling around for the sake of fooling around," she shrugs, offering me an unapologetic grin, "especially with a really good-looking guy. But it's the beginning of summer, and you seem to have a hell of a lot of preoccupations on your plate that, honestly, I don't need becoming my preoccupations."
I swear, that smile of hers has the ability to ameliorate any sting from her candid speech.
"Fair enough," I nod.
"So, I'm gonna go back to…" she jerks a thumb behind her and toward her and Rosalie's colorful beach umbrella. "Take care, Edward. It was good meeting you, and…" – she gestures with her jaw toward where Emmett and Rosalie are now locked in a shoreline kiss that might set the Atlantic waters boiling or set the local cops on them, "I'll probably see you around."
"Take care, Bella. Good meeting you too."
She walks away, and I watch her reclaim her beach chair. She reaches for a paperback strewn somewhere in front of her. Cracking it open, she begins reading.
And the story can easily end here. Probably convenient as well.
Bella doesn't want anything to complicate her well-earned and well-deserved shoreside summer. I've got complications pouring out my eye sockets. Emmett is in love – or nine-tenths of the way there. Good for him. And I've discovered that a pretty face and a quick wit can go far in lightening a heavy mood – certainly further than I would've imagined before this morning. All in all, not bad for a half-day's discoveries.
Which is why I have no fucking clue what I'm doing when I pad over the hot sand toward her. All I know is that my feet move of their own accord. And when I crouch over the sand beside her chair and wait, she knows I'm there. Nevertheless, she takes her time finishing her page, marking it with a bookmark. She turns those dark, hypnotic eyes my way with a sigh and a raised brow.
"Yes?"
"You're right about most of what you said. And the fact that I can acknowledge you're correctness should be taken as proof that I know I was a bit of an asshole all morning."
"So…you're here so that I can pat you on the shoulder for being self-aware?"
"I'm apologizing," I stress, "and...wondering if we can start over?"
She doesn't answer me right away, searching my eyes instead. Eventually, she drops her gaze and sighs. "I don't know that we have to, Edward. I don't know that there's a reason to when we can just as easily..."
She trails off because I've been watching her mouth move around the words, admittedly more focused on the shape of her lips than on what she's saying. So, when she looks up, we find that only a couple of inches remain between her mouth and mine.
We hover over that small space for a long moment, cautiously shrinking it, her warm breath already caressing my lips, even before they brush against hers. They're as soft as the watermelon I taste on them, tinged with sun and rum. As I nip her lips, she sighs into my mouth. In the background, the crashing surf almost drowns out the wild beating in my chest. Brushing a kiss to the tip of her nose, I pull away.
"Bella..." I breathe, my heart – half-dead this morning – now racing, "was that okay?"
"Okay?" Her smile morphs into a grin. Then into a quiet sort of laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, that was okay."
A/N: Thoughts?
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