The Practicum
Rating: M. Because why else do we do this?
Summary: "The…taking you home comment. I didn't mean it the way it sounded, I swear."
Acknowledgement: HollettLA betas while she's on vacation. There's absolutely no doubt I've hit the beta-jackpot.
Many of you conveyed in your reviews that you are/were teachers, or are married to people who are/were teachers. This chapter's for you; you have one of if not THE most important jobs in the world. Thank you for the special work you do. xo
Chapter Three
Friday morning, I'm taking my life in my hands. It's raining, and I'm wearing the highest pair of heels I own. I justify this decision to myself with the argument that the slacks I'm wearing are a touch on the long side and I don't want the hems to get muddy. In reality, I remember that the last time I wore them Jasper confided that they did "amazing things to my ass." End quote.
As I sit in the chair beside the teacher's desk in the health classroom, I try not to submit to the self-ridicule I generally reserve for moments like this. It's entirely out of character for me to go out of my way to impress a man this way, but something about Edward Cullen is drawing me in. I suspect it's the trifecta of his teaching style, his spot-on one-line analysis of Hemingway, and his ability to juggle a soccer ball – not to mention the package those three things are wrapped up in – that is resulting in this complete disregard for my own safety. There's also something intriguing about his complete composure, the tight rein he seems to have on himself at all times, and a curious part of me wants to see if I can affect him, even a little bit. Or, at the very least, if I can figure him out.
"Morning." Edward's voice draws me from my silent exploration of my own motives and I smile.
"Morning."
He dumps the pile of books on the desk and holds up a manila folder. "I printed up the diagrams without the labels as a sort of non-graded pop quiz. Thought we could start there."
"Sounds good." I hold out a hand. "Want me to pass them out? Make myself useful?"
He frowns, ignoring my hand altogether. "I'm sorry," he says haltingly, cupping the back of his neck in a gesture I'm coming to learn is a nervous tic. "I'm dominating the teaching."
I dismiss this with a wave and quick shake of my head. "Edward, don't be ridiculous. This is your class; you're supposed to dominate it. I'm just here as a backup. That was a compliment."
"Oh." He visibly relaxes. "Well then, thank you."
"You're welcome."
God, he's so awkward. I make my way up and down the aisles, putting a worksheet on each desk as students slowly filter in. By the time I'm done, I can hear the groans and complaints about an unannounced pop quiz.
"Calm down, everyone, it's not for a grade. It's just to see if you were paying attention." When the bell rings and the students are settled in their desks, Edward gives them quick instructions to complete the worksheet and the room falls into relative silence, save the occasional shift of a student in a desk and the steady hum of the heating unit beneath the windows. He comes to stand beside me behind the desk, and my eyes flick over his outfit without my permission: black slacks and a forest green dress shirt, sleeves once again rolled up his forearms, with a black, green, and silver striped tie. It's actually kind of a tragedy that this man spends the majority of his workdays in athletic apparel. "So," he says, leaning into me, his voice low. "Today we have that video to show." I'm attempting to focus on his words, but my skin is prickling in awareness of his proximity.
"Okay," I say, and as I breathe in, his scent wafts over me: detergent and deodorant and man. When he speaks again, I detect traces of peppermint, and I wonder absently if it's toothpaste or gum.
"That should take up most of the period," he continues, mercifully oblivious to my olfactory almost-orgasm.
"Okay," I say again, and he nods as he moves to the antiquated TV/VCR combo and begins punching buttons, a frown deepening on his face in degrees. I rise from my post and lean in over his shoulder. "This thing is ancient," I offer in commiseration. "Need a hand?"
"Sure," he says absently. "I haven't had to use a VCR in close to a decade."
I laugh softly, mindful of the students still working on their assignment, as I bend over the machine to check that the power cords are plugged into the appropriate outlets. Edward straightens, and as he makes a move to step around me, I feel his foot catch on my ankle and am instantly aware of the warmth of his hands on my hips as he attempts to steady himself. Nearly as quickly as they appeared, his hands are gone, and I hear him mumble a quick "sorry" before he moves away from me. I will my heart rate to return to its normal rhythm as I set up the video and turn on the TV, which buzzes to life with a bright blue screen.
"Okay," I say to Edward, who is sitting behind the teacher's desk. "All set." The noise level in the room has risen to a level indicating that the majority of students are done with their assigned task, and I tilt my head toward the group. "Want me to collect the papers?"
"Great. Thanks." He rises from his chair and cracks his knuckles as he faces the class. "Okay guys, video today," he starts as I make my way up and down the aisles. "I hope I don't need to reiterate my warning from last class; let's handle this like the adults you guys purport yourselves to be, okay? Newton, how'd that time mile treat you yesterday?"
"Sucked," Mike grumbles, and his classmates snicker.
Edward nods. "I'm here for two hours after school anyway, guys, so anyone else looking to boost his or her physical fitness is welcome to join me. Any untoward comments, and I'll be thrilled to have your company." He makes his way to the door and flicks the light switch, throwing the room into relative darkness illuminated only by the blue glow coming from the screen. I place the stack of worksheets on the corner of the desk and settle into the chair beside it, watching shamelessly as Edward bends forward slightly at the waist to press play. Finally he settles into the desk chair beside me, and we watch the informational video that has been equal parts educating and embarrassing teenagers for years.
As we sit in the darkness, I try to analyze the apparently involuntary response I have to Edward Cullen; I don't think I've ever had such an immediately visceral reaction to a man before. Never have I spent class time ogling a fellow teacher, nor have I looked forward to my after-school planning hour to watch high school soccer practice. Granted, in years past, both of those scenarios have involved Coach Clapp who, while a nice enough guy, was never what anyone would even laughingly refer to as eye candy. I try to drag my brain back to the video in case I find myself needing to answer any of the girls' questions, but really, I probably know more than this video's supposedly teaching them, and I can't stop my mind from focusing on the man beside me instead of the glowing screen before me. Who is Edward Cullen, anyway?
Beyond the fact that he's Coach Clapp's mid-year replacement and that he's a former soccer player and that this is his first teaching job, I know next to nothing, with the obvious exception of the facts that he's quick to blush, can juggle a soccer ball upward of a hundred times, and that he doesn't wear cologne. Oh, and that he's never played the Rainbow Game, which is an irrefutable plus. I can't deny that I want to know more. I want to know where he's from, why he came to Forks, why he acts more like a virgin than a ridiculously good-looking former athlete has any business acting. I want to know if he really lost Jessica's phone number, or if he chose not to call it, and if that's the case, I want to know why. Suddenly it hits me that maybe he would have preferred Jasper's number, and I don't realize I'm frowning at the television until Edward's knee bumps mine.
"Hey." I turn to look at him, and there's a similar frown on his own face. "You okay?" he whispers.
I nod. "Yeah." I gesture toward the TV. "This is just…really crappy cinematography."
He snickers once and then presses his lips together before returning his focus to the television, but his eyes are still laughing and, ridiculously, it makes me want to tell him a joke to see him laugh again. Instead, I force myself to at least pretend to be a mature educator instead of a horny single educator and direct all of my attention to the screen. Once the video is over and our students have filed out of the classroom amid giggles and jokes about the admittedly outdated visual aids, I watch as Edward closes his lesson plan book while I rise from my chair. As he slides the completed worksheets into a folder on top of his books, I bite the bullet. "So a few of the other teachers and I have a standing weekly tradition of going out for margaritas and Mexican food on Friday nights. It's sort of our attempt to create a social life in a small town. Anyway, I wanted to extend the invitation."
He straightens and hoists his books onto his hip with one hand while burying the other in his pocket. "Really? That's, uh, really nice. I have a game tonight, though."
"That's okay; we usually go after the game." The sudden thought strikes me that perhaps that was his attempt at turning down the invitation. "But no pressure. You're welcome to come if you feel like it. It's usually me, Jasper, Angela Weber, and Jessica Stanley."
He shifts his weight and resituates the books under his arm. "Okay. Well, thanks."
"No problem." I feel suddenly exposed and embarrassed and I nod. "Well, good luck tonight."
"Thanks," he says again, but his response is nearly lost as I slip out the door.
When I pick Charlie up for the game that evening, the air is thick with moisture and the temperature is in the typically in-between range of early spring, with cool winds cutting through otherwise warm, damp air. I've opted for my favorite jeans and a long-sleeved thermal with a quilted vest on top; my dad is wearing his signature blue jeans and the plaid coat that has become his go-to since he decided that wearing his police-issued leather bomber was inappropriate, given his forced retirement. Anywhere else in the country, people would probably be dressed for rain; in Forks, unless it's a steady downpour, people generally tend to pretend like they're not getting damp. "Hey, Dad," I greet as he slides into the passenger seat of my vintage truck. "I brought your thermos," I add, gesturing toward the bag on the bench seat between us, and he nods.
"Coffee?"
"Hot chocolate," I correct, and he fights a small smile. While he still pretends to be the gruff, rough-around-the-edges chief of police, underneath it all my dad is a mush, and while he subsisted for years on the battery acid-like coffee at the police station, I know he has a soft spot he would never admit to for creature comforts.
"Big one tonight," he says as he settles against the cracked leather upholstery of my truck's interior, and my mind flies immediately – and unfortunately – to Edward and the male anatomy diagram he'd slid onto the overhead projector the day before. So now, in addition to making me a borderline stalker, he's also made me a pervert. Awesome.
"Yeah," I say, forcibly redirecting my mind to soccer. "I can't believe we're playing Montesano for the first game of the season."
As I check my blind spot, I see Charlie nod in my peripheral vision. "Good test for the boys, though." Montesano High School is Forks High's chief rival and is more often than not the biggest challenge of the season. Last year the Spartans went eleven and one, with their sole loss being to the very team they're up against tonight. Charlie launches into a position-by-position dissection of the Forks roster, and I relax into the comfortably familiar cadence of my dad's voice, grateful that he seems to need little to no input from me, save the occasional murmur of agreement.
When we pull into the school parking lot, I am hard-pressed to find a space, and Charlie refuses my offer to drop him off at the gate. I finally find a spot at the far corner of the lot and recognize Jasper's car a few spaces down. I hope he's saved us some space in the bleachers; judging from the volume of cars, the stands are probably about full. The bright halogen glow of the stadium lights throws everything into harsh glare and makes the field hazy as it filters through the fine evening mist. A quick flash of my faculty ID at the gate is enough to grant me free admission, and Charlie's status as a local legend does the same for him, so we pass through with a quick hello to Shelly Cope; I note, as always, that her eyes light up when she spots my dad, and as we walk away I arch a taunting brow, which he chooses to ignore. As he said once before when I pointed out her obvious fondness for him, "She's nearly old enough to be my mother, Bells. And I may have the hips of an old man, but that doesn't mean I'm going to go there." I scan the home team's side of the bleachers quickly, picking through the sea of navy blue and gold sweatshirts and streamers to spot Jasper's blond head sitting beside Angela's contrasting dark one. Leaning in to Charlie, I point them out; he gives me a short nod before indicating to the far end of the bleachers and the small spot of grass where he usually stands with Billy Black.
"I'm going to find Billy," he says. "Jake's first game tonight."
"I'll come find you at halftime," I say, shaking the thermos at him in reminder.
He grins as we part ways and I pick my way carefully up the bleacher stairs; thank God I'm back in my trusty hiking boots and not in those torture-as-footwear devices I crammed my feet into all day. Greeting Angela and Jasper, I situate myself on the square of metal beside them and hold up my thermos. "I brought refreshments," I say, stowing it beneath me and glancing out toward the field where the team is finishing its warm-up routine. "How we looking?"
Jasper shrugs. "Too early to tell," he says, tilting his chin toward the goal. "Though Jacob is a beast in that goal." True enough, Jacob Black – who I've known since he was in diapers – grew considerably over the summer and as a sophomore has already secured his position as the starting goalkeeper. Not only can he just about touch the crossbar without jumping, his agility would undoubtedly make him the first choice even if he weren't built like the Terminator. I watch for a few moments as he leaps from side to side between the goalposts, blocking shot after shot until my eyes scan the field and fall on Edward, clad once again in a black Adidas warm-up suit and standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching his players drill shots on goal. I see him point every few minutes, making various last-minute coaching points to his players, and a few times I even see him mimic a posture or a technique. Soon enough, a whistle sounds and the warm-up period is over; following a meeting of the team captains and the playing of the national anthem, the first string takes the field and the battle begins.
In the early minutes, the game is back and forth, with each team managing to get off a few shots on goal and each committing a few fouls as the players jockey for dominance on the wet turf. My eyes find Edward with surprising frequency, and I find myself watching him as much as the game: the way he paces up and down the sideline, wearing a muddy track in the strip of grass; the way he points out players to mark; the way he grips his hair in frustration when his own players miss a shot or the opposing team strikes a little too close for comfort. Perhaps most appealing is his unwaveringly positive coaching style: he regularly praises his kids even when things don't work out with comments like "Good idea, just make it a better pass next time," or "That's a great ball, just put a little more angle on it." I watch as he makes substitutions, and whenever a kid steps off the field, he bumps his fist and claps him on the shoulder. For their part, the kids seem to genuinely respond to him and to heed his advice.
By halftime, despite the still scoreless tie, the Forks fans are energized and optimistic, chatting about Jacob's few stellar saves and the numerous opportunities that the offense has had already. When I find Charlie and Billy hovering near the corner of the bleachers, they're analyzing the defensive formation.
"I'm impressed that he's teaching these kids the flat-back four," Charlie says, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels. "Seems to be giving the Montesano forwards a bit of a puzzle to work out."
"Jake likes it," Billy agrees. "Says it really sorts out the marking in the back, which makes his life easier." He trails off as he sees me approaching, thermos in hand. "Well hey there, Bella. Long time, no see."
"Hey, Billy," I return, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Your son's a regular Great Wall of China out there."
"Taught him everything he knows," he says with a wink before nodding down to the thermos in my hand. "Hot chocolate?"
"You know it," I reply, fishing out the disposable coffee cups I stashed in my purse. "And I was thinking of you when I packed it," I add, unearthing a miniature bag of tiny marshmallows, and his dark eyes gleam as he smiles.
"You're a saint." I hand them each a cup and pour, joining their conversation about the game and adding my input where I can, despite my general lack of knowledge of the finer points of soccer. When the referee's whistle signals the end of the halftime break, I tilt my head back toward the bleachers, and Charlie nods as they both thank me for the cocoa. Once I'm resettled next to Jasper and Angela and the game has picked back up, Angela leans across Jasper.
"So? How did it go?"
I frown in confusion as my mind flits to Charlie and Billy. "What? How did what go?"
"Your health classes this week with Coach Cullen," she clarifies, her eyebrows hitching suggestively behind the frames of her glasses when she says "Coach Cullen."
I chuckle. "It went fine. He's a really good teacher," I add, feeling the inexplicable urge to build Edward up. "He handled it way better than Clapper ever did."
"More recent experience, maybe," Jasper guesses, and the possibility unexpectedly hits a nerve. "Clapper probably hadn't seen action in decades when he was teaching that class."
"Maybe. Though I did have to explain to him what the Rainbow Game is."
Angela's eyebrows have stopped hitching and are now around her hairline, and Jasper is wearing a similar expression. "You did what?" The people in front of us, whom I'm able to identify as Tyler Crowley's parents when they turn to glance at us in the wake of Angela's screech, straighten slightly and I lower my voice.
"I was making a point about talking to them on their level," I defend, and Jasper chuckles.
"Throwing the curriculum out the window, huh, Swan?"
"Okay, stop, I'm just…" I take a sip of hot chocolate while I attempt to regain my composure. "He seems really nice, and he did a really good job with the lesson plans. I invited him out with us tonight."
"Oh?" Jasper is the master of saying things without saying them.
"Shut up, Whitlock, or I'll give Alice Brandon your home number."
"You wouldn't dare," he mutters, though a small crease of concern appears between his eyebrows, and he mercifully stops teasing me.
"He probably won't even come," I say, returning my focus to the field, and Angela can't resist the bait.
"You sound pretty disappointed by that possibility."
I sigh and glance at her before gesturing to the packed bleachers around us. "Can we drop this for now, please? Ears."
She nods quickly, glancing around us a split second before the crowd starts to scream. My head snaps back to see the field, where Ben Cheney is on a breakaway toward the goal. The crowd is on its feet, yelling and screaming at him to shoot it; Ben is the picture of poise as he approaches the goalkeeper at a dead sprint and plants his left foot before deftly striking the ball with his right, drilling it neatly into the far corner of the net. The Forks High fans erupt in cheers, and I grin at Jasper and Angela before finding Edward, who is bouncing up and down on his toes in front of his bench and pumping his fist in the air before turning and bumping fists with all of the kids sitting on the bench. He returns to his track along the sideline, clapping his hands together and yelling something to Mike Newton, who is standing in the middle of the field waiting for the kickoff.
"Hell of a goal," Jasper says, and I nod in agreement as the game restarts. The last twenty minutes are what Charlie would refer to as an "absolute bloodbath," with the Montesano players getting increasingly desperate to score and the Forks players growing increasingly frantic to prevent them from doing so. Jacob Black has a few clutch saves, and Tyler Crowley hits a shot off the crossbar that just about sends a few fans into cardiac arrest. The grass that used to be along the sideline is mud where Edward has been pacing back and forth for nearly ninety minutes, and his copper hair is glowing beneath the bright stadium lights, a violent mess of strands where his hands have run through it with each heart-stopping play. With two minutes to go, Ben Cheney is fouled just inside the eighteen-yard box, and when the referee makes the gesture to play on I think Edward is going to become unhinged. He jumps up and down and points toward the penalty kick spot; I can hear him yelling something at the ref about maintaining control of the game, and the referee pointedly ignores him.
I've never particularly cared that much about athletics at Forks High School, but in the last sixty seconds of the Forks/Montesano game, there are moments when I think my heart might beat right out of my chest. When the final whistle sounds, I let out an exhale that leaves my body feeling used and deflated on the metal bleacher seat.
"Jesus, that was a good game," Jasper says, and his posture and expression probably mirror my own.
"Seriously," I agree, and Angela nods in silent concurrence. We sit for a few moments watching the players shake hands before I spy Charlie hovering at the foot of the bleacher steps. "Okay, see you guys at Plaza in thirty? Gotta get the old man home." They both make noises of assent, and as I make my way down the bleachers, I notice Edward packing soccer balls into an enormous mesh bag on the sideline while his players jog across the field and back to cool down. I grab Charlie's elbow and nod my head in Edward's direction. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the coach," I say, and my father doesn't turn down the opportunity.
At our approach, Edward looks up; he is flushed and smiling, his damp hair sticking to the nape of his neck and his temples, and it is the most relaxed and happy I have ever seen him. My mind flashes unbidden to another scenario in which I could see him sweaty and content, but I force the thought away.
"Congratulations," I offer, and his grin widens.
"Yeah, thanks," he replies, his green eyes as bright as the grass beneath the stadium lights. "That was a big win for us."
I nod. "Edward this is my dad, Charlie Swan. Dad, Edward Cullen," I introduce.
"Nice to meet you sir," Edward says, extending his hand toward my dad.
Charlie accepts the handshake. "Good team you've got this year," he offers, and Edward nods again.
"We're excited about the season," he says, tying the drawstrings on the ball bag before letting it settle at his feet. We stand in silence for a few awkward moments before I hear Charlie clear his throat beside me.
"Well, good to meet you," he says, turning to head for the parking lot.
"See you next week," I say to Edward as I turn to follow my dad.
"Hey, Bella." I feel his hand in the crook of my elbow, and a small thrill rockets through me as I turn. "I, um…I was wondering if the offer still stands. For tonight. I wouldn't mind celebrating, and I don't really know anyone in town yet."
"Of course!" I reply, trying to tamp down on the grin that desperately wants to be set free. "I'm meeting everyone at Plaza Taqueria in half an hour. Do you know where it is?"
"Yeah. Over on Calawah, right?" I nod, and he does the same. "Okay. I'll see you there."
Edward in jeans is nearly as arresting as Edward in slacks, and the black crewneck sweater he's wearing makes him look like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.
"Hey," he says as he draws to a halt beside the booth. His hair is still damp, though the scents wafting off his skin tell me that it's the result of a shower and not sweat or rain. I gesture toward the vacant bench seat across from me.
"Hey, Coach. Grab a seat." He does as ordered, sliding across the fake leather upholstery and dropping his car keys on the table. A waitress appears almost instantly, and he orders a Dos Equis after eyeballing my margarita.
"No tequila for you?" I ask once she's gone, and he shakes his head with a small smile.
"Definitely not," he replies. "A beer is enough of an indulgence for me; one of those and you'd have to take my keys away and drive me home."
"I could take you home," I say, and while I intended it as a friendly offer of a designated driver, it comes out sounding like something else entirely. Judging from his expression, Edward doesn't miss the innuendo at all, and we're reduced to staring at each other in mutually embarrassed silence until Angela appears at the end of the booth.
"Hey, Edward! Great game tonight!" She slips in beside me and dumps her bag to the floor beneath the table.
"Thanks," he says, straightening slightly. "The guys played really well."
"I can't believe the ref hosed you out of that PK," Jasper adds as he appears and slides in next to Edward. "That was a bullshit non-call."
"Tell me about it," Edward grumbles, thanking the waitress as she slides his bottle across the table to him. "I hope we don't have him for too many games this year; I think I made an enemy out of him tonight."
Jasper chuckles. "Don't sweat it too much. Clapper was the most hated coach in the league; you're undoubtedly the lesser of two evils in the referees' books."
Edward smiles. "Good to know," he says, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a pull as Jasper orders his own beer and Angela requests a margarita.
"Where's Jess?" I ask once the waitress disappears, and Angela smirks.
"Hot date," she says, which is code for the same booty-call Jess has been entertaining for nearly a year now. Why she doesn't just date the guy is beyond me, though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the first time Jessica tried to talk to him about science, he thought she was saying "Adams" instead of "atoms" and launched into a ten-minute diatribe about the best domestic beer brands. They're not exactly a match made in heaven in terms of their interests, but something keeps her going back.
"You guys want apps?" Jasper asks, eyes flicking out of habit over the menu that we've all memorized.
"Sure," I say, glancing at Edward. "They give you chips and salsa, but we usually order a couple of appetizers to split before doing entrees."
He nods. "Sounds good."
"What do you like?" Jasper asks him, looking at him over the menu, and Edward shrugs.
"I don't often eat red meat, but other than that, I'm flexible."
Jasper nods. "That's cool. Angela doesn't eat beef, either."
Angela, for her part, chuckles. "Thank God Jessica isn't here," she says, taking a slurp of her just-arrived drink. "She would have knocked that one out of the park."
Jasper laughs. "True. She could have triple-whammied us; a three-for-one." His eyes flick to Edward. "Unless there's something unknown about Edward that would make it a home run."
Edward's brows pull together in utter confusion as I attempt to kick Jasper beneath the table; I miss, and Edward yelps as the toe of my boot comes into contact with his shin. "Shit," I hiss. "Sorry."
"No worries," he says, shaking his head even as he bends, ostensibly to rub his injured leg. "I was more surprised. Former soccer player; I've been kicked a thousand times. Don't sweat it."
While my faux pas didn't exactly have its intended effect, it has mercifully banished Jasper's ill-disguised attempt at nosiness from everyone's recent memory.
"Chicken quesadilla and guacamole dip?" Angela suggests, and we all nod.
"Done," Jasper says, sliding the menu back between the wall and the salt and pepper shakers. We order the appetizers and the conversation splits, with Jasper and Edward rehashing the game and Angela describing how the students in her introductory drawing class managed to make Shakespeare look like a fried egg, an alien, and an ice cream sundae, among other things. The appetizers arrive, we order entrees, and Jasper brings the conversation back to all-inclusion.
"So, guys, how's the birds and bees curriculum going?"
Edward glances at me, and I raise an eyebrow in response. He's doing most of the teaching, so it seems only right to let him take the lead. "It's going well," he replies finally. "Bella's been a really big help."
I snort. "Please. I haven't said a word." I toss him a smile. "Edward's rocking it."
"Maybe not in the classroom," he argues. "But your advice beforehand really helped me keep control. That's invaluable."
"You don't give yourself enough credit," I reply, and it isn't until Edward flushes slightly and looks away that I note Jasper and Angela's silent study of our conversation. "Anyway," I say, grabbing a chip from the basket and dunking it in guacamole. "No one's knocked up and we haven't had to send anyone to the principal's office, so I think it's a win."
"No doubt," Jasper says, taking a bite of his quesadilla triangle. "I can't imagine teaching that curriculum. Give me numbers and theorems any day of the week."
Edward chuckles. "It's certainly different from teaching the rules of lacrosse, that's for sure."
Edward has inadvertently hit on Jasper's lone sport-specific passion – lacrosse – and the boys lose themselves in jock-talk once again while Angela and I resort to shamelessly gossiping about Jessica's long-standing hook-up. Conversation continues as we polish off the appetizers and our entrees arrive, and I see that Edward's taco salad is missing sour cream and guacamole – in fact, all of the fun stuff.
"What?" he asks when he catches me eyeballing his plate.
"Nothing," I reply quickly, spooning chicken and onions and peppers from my sizzling fajita griddle into a tortilla shell. Mercifully, he lets it go, and conversation resumes as we stuff our faces. After dinner, Angela excuses herself to hit the ladies' room and Jasper slips out of the booth to take a phone call, leaving Edward and me staring at each other over empty glasses and discarded side plates, the debris of our dinner – shreds of lettuce, pieces of tortilla chips, slivers of grated cheese – dotting the tabletop. I sigh, and his eyes widen slightly in expectation. "Listen, Edward, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to make you feel even more uncomfortable around me."
His heavy brows pull together in a frown as he considers me. "What do you mean?"
"The…taking you home comment. I didn't mean it the way it sounded, I swear."
He shakes his head. "No, I figured. I meant, what do you mean 'more uncomfortable'?"
I trace the base of my empty margarita glass, pressing the pad of my index finger to an errant granule of salt and watching it melt against my damp skin. "I get the feeling I make you uneasy, and I didn't mean to make it worse."
"You don't," he says instantly. "Bella, please look at me." I do as he asks, and his green eyes are serious as they pinball back and forth between mine. "You've been really great with the whole health class thing, and inviting me out tonight…you're the first person who's gone out of her way to be welcoming without an agenda, and I'm really grateful." Off my dubious silence, he sighs. "When I got here, to Forks, I had no idea what living in a small town would be like. I grew up in Chicago, and my idea of small-town living was the result of what I'd gleaned from movies and sitcom television. I didn't realize just how into everyone's business people are, and I didn't realize the kind of microscope I'd be under as the new guy in town. I just…very early on, I realized how important it was to make a good impression if I was going to be a teacher, and I've resisted forming any alliances until I got the lay of the land, so to speak." He frowns suddenly. "Am I making any sense?"
"Perfect sense," I assure him. And he is. Small towns can be as ruthless as they are charming, and withholding judgment on people and resisting "alliances," as he put it, is actually a very astute tactic. "I grew up here," I add after a moment, shrugging. "The lay of the land is something I've known since I was a kid, so I guess I never really had to think about it that much."
He nods. "Makes sense." Suddenly I feel his hand cover mine on the table between us, his palm warm and his fingertips cool from his beer bottle. "Really though, Bella, you don't make me uncomfortable. I'm sorry that my…reservedness…made you think that."
I'm trying desperately to focus on his words, but my senses are all honed in on his hand atop mine; all too soon, he pulls it away and mine stays flat on the table, as if waiting for his to return. The gesture is so at odds with the Edward I've been coming to know, so affectionate and open, and my mind is trying to file this new piece of information in the card catalog of data I've been amassing in the short time I've known him. When I refocus on his face, he offers me a small smile. "I promise to stop being such an uptight ass," he says. "My brother's always telling me to lighten up."
At that I laugh, remembering Jasper's assessment of Edward before they met. "And I promise to offer any insights I can to the small-town wonder that is Forks." I arch a teasing eyebrow. "And to resist compromising your integrity by luring you into unfavorable 'alliances'."
He chuckles. "Deal." And yet, as I watch the way his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow when he lifts his beer bottle to his lips and drains the dregs, I can't stop my mind from rolling over all of the wonderfully tempting ways in which I'd love to compromise his integrity, small-town rumor mill be damned.