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I'm Vulnerable

"People who know me know I'm strong, but I'm vulnerable."

- Catherine Deneuve

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Rosalie's POV – Second Week of August, 1932 – Cullen's Home

A couple of times I have been to the Cullen's home on the out skirts of Rochester. A couple of times I have toured their home. A couple of times I've walked down this very hallway, but never, never have I encountered this room.

The door – like all others in the house – is solid wood. There is nothing cheap or fabricated in this gorgeously decorated home. Esme's style always takes my breath away, quite like her brother, I add mentally.

That is neither here nor there.

I minutely shake my head; however, it doesn't go unnoticed. Of course my overly observant friend picks up on every quirk I fail in hiding. His soft chuckles tingle my skin. I look at him from over my shoulder and send a nasty glare.

His face is impassive, unimpressed. I marvel at his ability to stay so very calm and unaffected. Even when he is most displeased with me . . . I quickly shut that rogue thought down. We have apologized to each other and have put it firmly in the past.

"That is impolite, Edward," I try and scold, however, his half-smile is making it awfully difficult. "Why are you laughing at me?" A small pout forms over my lips.

"When is it a crime to laugh, Rosalie? I'd think you appreciate my good humor." A full smile overcomes his lips and I'm truly rendered speechless. I defy anyone who could stand against such a pleasing barrage.

"Come, love," he bades good-humorously. Like the little lost puppy I tend to be around him, I obediently follow. I already melt at hearing his wonderful endearment. I've never heard one as beautiful and agreeable as when he calls me "love".

His hand comes to a rest over the brass door knob, and I stop behind him. I wait for him to speak. I can see the nerves playing on his face, but don't understand what could have him so uneasy.

His head drops and his hair falls rakishly into his eyes. I want to remove it, but know it would be terribly improper. Being with him alone, even though Esme is in the house, is forbidden by my mother. I shrug off the little guilt and smile at my little rebellion.

Edward's head comes back up but is tilted to the side. I wonder how the angle doesn't hurt his neck. He blinks a few times before exhaling lightly. These are little nuances I can't help but notice.

"Beyond this door is very private to me," he finally speaks. The air is heavy with his confession, and the seriousness of his words swirls deeply in his eyes.

Before he can continue, I toss decorum to the side and tentatively place my hand on his arm. I squeeze minutely and ask, "Are you positive you want to show me something so personal, Edward. I wouldn't be offended if you changed your mind. It's understandable. I'd never want to place you in a precarious situation."

He sighs momentarily before speaking.

"Pease, Rose, just don't . . ." he clears his voice before continuing. I'm truly surprised at his behavior. Many things Edward is, but shy isn't one I'd ever list. His innocence captures me and I can't help but think how achingly endearing he is. His sweet vulnerability calls to something deep within me. "Don't laugh," he finishes.

I do want to laugh now, not at his request, but at the thought of me ever laughing at him in such an opened and susceptible state.

My hand that is already on his clothed arm squeezes ever-so-gently. I know it's impossible for me to even hurt him physically, but I still want to touch him gently. I still feel the void of the temporary hiatus our friendship took; the pain I caused him with the many hats I wear.

Even though he thinks I had nothing to apologize for, I know and feel differently. I don't want to be the cause of such unhappiness in him again. I never want to feel that bitter sting of disappointment he had in me again. I know these are ludicrous thoughts, especially after only having his friendship for a couple of months, but I can't deny the deepest recesses of my heart. It's all that keeps me afloat some days.

"Of course not, Edward," I sigh sadly, however, enjoying the sound of his name on my lips. It tingles so pleasantly. "Something so deeply personal to you would never be fodder for me."

He gives me a wobbly smile which dares to melt my heart into a useless puddle.

"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. I just find myself strangely vulnerable as of now."

I feel incredibly special, that such a person would hold me in his confidence. So many things I am, but someone's confidante I can't claim, at least until now it seems.

"Understandably so," I answer softly. "I may not know what lies beyond this door, Edward," I say removing my hand from his lower arm and placing it on the door in front of us. "But I do know you're placing candid trust in me. I don't take that lightly. I promise never to laugh at such a gift." It is my solemn promise to him.

Regardless if he shows me beyond the door, I will cherish the vulnerability he gave me. It's obvious my companion expertly controls every aspect of his life with firm precision. This is a gift horse very few will ever witness.

I return his shaky smile and drop all pretenses around him, not that there is much to let go. My pride knows little to no restraint where he's concerned. I allow my most brilliant smile to overtake my mouth.

"Shall we press forward, then?" I inquire lightly, teasingly. I want to give him an easy out from the tense moment. We seem to slide between so many emotions and all within the span of minutes.

A lazy grin spreads his lips as resolution filters into his gaze.

"I know, Rose," he answers a previous statement. "Though I appreciate the out, you've made me surer of my decision. I'm just fairly nervous. No one outside my family has ever seen this, yet alone a friend of mine."

I bite my lips as I try to suppress a sickly sweet smile. He takes me to such heights.

A slight wink crinkles the corner of his left eye, somehow making my knees want to bend. Such odd reactions he can cause in me.

Without so much as another breath between us, Edward's hand twists the brass door knob and my eyes are allowed to see his hallowed sanctuary.

Some would think it's nothing special; others would claim it's a glorified mess (like mother); some would probably not see anything special beyond a room cluttered with paper; oh, but I know differently. This is where his soul resides, where his inner most emotions come out to play. I can all but feel the tangible sentiment reaching out to me.

I feel myself gasp as the errant emotions seem to all but seep into my skin. I don't understand where this irrational response is coming from, only that I feel in my very blood. It sings within me, as if the notes from the stationary piano are playing aloud. But there it sits, motionless, waiting for someone to bring the music to life.

The walls of the room are devoid of wallpaper, yet painted a light grey. The color may seem sterile, but I know it to be different. Many things can lie within the shades of grey. How can anyone thing grey boring?

A long leather sofa takes up the far wall. Angled underneath it is a natural white sheepskin rug. It all but invites me to stretch out on it, become lost in its softness. Two antique side tables anchor the sofa. Two tiffany wisteria lamps sit atop the cherry wood. They glass is lovely as it seem to cascade from its tree-like stand. My fingers itch to touch them.

Long, ivory silk curtains hang from the large bay window. I can see the surrounding copse of trees framing the property. However, the object which grabs the majority of my attention is the baby grand piano. Even with those who have substantial pecuniary funds don't own such an exquisite instrument.

The blackness of the instrument seems to shine in the grey walls of the room. It pops more than anything else in the room, even more-so than the delicate tiffany lamps. The lid of the piano is opened, and the strings gleam, as if asking, "aren't I beautiful?" I so want to answer with a resounding yes.

I sweep the inane thoughts from my head and bite my lip before blurting out an answer to an unspoken, crazy question.

Around the piano, on top of the padded bench, on the floor to the right and left of the instrument are sheets upon sheets of papers. From my position just inside the room, I can see the many notes written in dark ink. Some of the pages look older and more worn. Others look crisp and fresh as if he just finished this morning.

I can feel my heart wanting to hum the tunes out loud as I stare at each sheet music. I can feel my lips tingle with what will, undoubtedly, be sensational, poignant tunes. Because anything he touches turns to clichéd gold. I wonder if he posses the Midas touch.

"Goodness, Edward," I hear myself exclaiming jovially, almost reverently, "this is incredible." I breathe loudly. The oxygen in my lungs seems to want to escape me. "I feel . . ." there are no words to fill in the blank.

To many this room may represent nothing, but it was the soul of Edward. His very core. Something so profoundly private, I think delicately.

"I know," he whispers, as if to preserve the soft spirit of the room. His hand is placed over his heart, and I know he does understand.

Something significant passes between us. His eyes turn dark, as if what's captured him wants to leak from them. I can only imagine what mine must reflect. The intensity wants to swallow me whole, but Edward's gaze keeps me grounded, a firm foundation connected to solely him.

"Would you care to hear something?" he gently murmurs. All I can do is nod my head. I'm too far captured in what is happening around me. I can't explain nor comprehend what is happening to me, but I know I don't want to be saved. I want to feel swept away. I want this tidal wave to carry me far and wide, no matter how dangerous or life-provoking it may seem.

Edward silently passes by me and I feel the thrills of awareness from just his nearness. No part of him touches me, but it seems as if every part is caressing me.

The seat from his desk is situated next to the piano. He gestures for me to sit as his hands reside on the back of the chair. I shakily make my way over and try terribly not to be ungraceful. I fluff my skirt out around me, occupying my hands with a senseless task. I'm afraid they will do something culpable and reach out towards him.

His deep breath passes over my bare neck and hair as he leans over and whispers, "Relax, Rose."

I want to laugh at his silly, lazy command.

I precariously turn my head to the side and look at him from over my shoulder.

"You precede me, Edward," I challenge.

His deep laughter is the balm I need to calm my rushing nerves. We are on even ground here, the banter we share.

"Touché, love." His index finger passes over my chin in humor while pulling a brilliant grin from my soul. I adore this side of him.

I turn back around as he seats himself at his piano. He stretches his fingers before placing them in the correct position. I can see that strange vulnerability overcome him momentarily. How can he ever doubt I'd not admire anything he's created? I ask myself confusedly. He is my friend . . . true friend. I could never think to hurt him intentionally.

Before I can voice my concerns, he shoots me another one of his sly winks. His face then morphs into what I can only describe as intensely hallow. His fingers start to work over the ivory and black keys.

My heart doesn't even ask for permission as it starts to soar with each notes he plays, each note that touches the inner most chamber of my heart.

It's as if the music rules over him, posses him fully and all he can do is play. If he is to ever be whole again, the music must escape from his fingers. He brings an entirely different meaning to the word 'play'. My beating heart begs to leap from my chest as it pounds beneath my ribs. Tears carelessly fill my eyes before gently falling over my lashes.

No word in my extensive vocabulary can describe what I'm witnessing. It's as if his soul is bare, seeping from his body and begging me to understand what it wants from the music he plays. My hands clinch ever-so-tightly around the chair frame. It's the only thing keeping me seated and not wanting to devour what his soul is offering.

I know I become somewhat insane as I listen to his astonishing creation. I've always had an infinity for music, but what Edward creates seems far beyond that. I can't understand, even attempt to wrap my head around the extent, the totality of his gift. Could God, himself comprehend it? I think blasphemously. Probably most profoundly of all. And I envy him that.

The music slowly ends and the sweet swelling is still serenading my ears, my spirit. I can feel as each individual tear falls onto my ungloved hand. They each tell of the overwhelming emotions that surge through my quivering body.

His head bows for a moment, as if trying to bring himself back to center. I don't even need to see his face to know his emotions must be surging.

"May I ask you a question, Edward?" I finally ask after an appropriate amount of time. I tilt my head to the side in fascination. Everything about this individual has me enraptured.

Do I have that same sort of affect on you, my friend?

"Of course, love."

"I don't mean to offend in any way, but I wonder as to why you study Medicine at university? You posses a gift in music to the likes of which I've never encountered. Do you ever feel as if you're depriving the world of your excellences?" I sound more astounded than exasperated. Good, I'm not offending him too much, I console myself.

"No offense is taken, Rose. And I thank you for the compliment. But no, I shan't want to play for everyone. It isn't my style, and attention wouldn't be conducive to the lifestyle I wish for."

Once again, his answer sparks so many new ones inside my head. I bite my bottom lip, desperately trying to control myself.

"I would only wish to share my music with those I feel the closest to." My teeth stop nibbling on my bottom lip as it drops slightly. "It's entirely private and I would feel too exposed. It's nothing I would ever endure. I'm far too solitary."

A sly, yet wholly endearing smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He is so blindingly handsome at times, it almost impossible to form coherent thought. However, my well-practiced side perseveres, but just slightly.

"You would consider me someone close?" Can he hear the uncertainty and hesitation in my tone? This ineffectual behavior is something difficult for me to stomach.

"Yes, love," he says simply, sweetly. I find myself waffling, feeling as if I'm on a Ferris wheel.

"We're fine, right, Edward," I blurt out softly, finally finding the strength to raise my greatest fear in regards to him.

Funny, isn't it, how one can know a person for such a short time, yet live in fear of losing that individual from one's life. How can such a fear even exist in a short amount of time? I find nothing in my body seems to have the missing answer I require.

"I mean, with everything having to do with our fight?" I end on a whisper.

He's taken a little bit aback; I can see some bewilderment touching his dark eyes.

Why did you have to ask such an idiotic question, Rosalie? I scold myself. Everything was fine. But I know the answer without having to speak it or think it: I've always been a curious child. Being seventeen hasn't really changed the propensity.

I remember the play I read from Eugene O'Neill in which he wrote: "Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." It is wisdom to heed cautiously. But such caution doesn't seem to be Rose's Modus Operandi.

I want to raise my mask, to bring some sense of normality to my rising fear, but I refrain. I don't want to be that girl around Edward. I don't want to hide behind a mask of coy gentility, perfect mannerisms and somewhat cold indifferences to others.

I take in several deep breaths and make myself look up at my silent friend. I'm scared of what I might see. I don't want to anger him and I don't want to be without him. No matter how fanatical it sounds.

My eyes find the courage to lift up to his. Peculiar regard is all I think to describe his look, and perhaps a bit of fascination. But that has to be my own wild imagination. Surely.

The soles of his leather shoes sound on the wooden floor as he walks closer to me. I want to shrink back, not out of fear of his personality, but fear of myself breaking.

His knees land on the floor before me and we are now at eye level. Only once had I ever imagined a situation like this, and the image before me is so far beyond what I had envisioned. There is no blissful happiness; there is no sparkling diamond ring that tries to compete with me in beauty, there is no courtship or even romantic relationship. The only thing before me is my friend, Edward, and his undeniably gorgeous face.

Sometimes I feel myself wanting to drown in his imperial topaz eyes, and this is no exception. Those eyes call to me like none other before.

"Rose," he speaks softly, breaking me from the fast pace of my thoughts.

"Yes?" I question stupidly, not knowing how else to respond. I wonder if he can see the vein throbbing in my neck or on the inside of my wrist. I wonder if he can see the wildness in my eyes that I feel in my head. I wonder – most of all – how I get myself into these uncertain situations with Mr. Cullen.

"Again, I can only apologize."

"I didn't mean to insinuate –"I rebut. However, he politely cuts me off.

"I know. It is of my own will that I want to apologize again, Rosalie." My name falling from his lips sounds completely different than when mother says it. His tone is infinitely more caring, which is quite ironic. "I was altogether out of line. I had this undistorted picture of you in my mind's eye, and thus unfairly classified you. I should know more than others how wrong it is."

"Edward," I go to reassure, "you put too much pressure on yourself. We're all guilty of classifying someone unfairly. I can't pretend the Rosalie you saw at the benefit wasn't me, because it was. It's understandable you wouldn't like her after seeing such a different side to me. But it's how I was raised. It's no excuse or justification, simply me explaining to you how I'm able to cope in tedious functions. There's only so much even I can take, regardless of what my mother may think."

"Be that as it may, but I've always had a greater insight into others. It's a gift which has been both a blessing and an enormous curse."

Some would think Edward boasting or tell some over-the-top falsehood, but the honesty in his eyes is quite startling.

"It's as if I can see a person and have amazing insight into what they're thinking. It's been that way since I was a small boy. This, whatever you'd like to call it, has made me somewhat conceited, and rightly so in many instances. However, it's not always the case. Especially in regards to you, Rose. I was wrong, and I hope you know of my sincerity." His index finger once again swipes gently over my chin. The coolness of his skin is reassuring, simply right!

I shiver, not from the coolness, but from the weight of the situation. His eyes tell such a compelling and forthright story. I can't think of what I may have done to deserve such a friend, but I grab onto the gift with a strength I don't even realize I posses. I feel myself fall even more for him and the different sides of life he brings into my one-dimensional world.

Edward sees many facets in me, and instead of just seeing the sparkle which reflects off the facets, he sees beyond the reflection and into the glass. I'm not just another bauble to add to someone's extensive collection.

I raise my own hand precariously, trepidation lingering in every cell within my arm, and barely touch the pale contours of his left cheek. A wondrous coolness meets my touch and I can't help but think how incredibly handsome he is. How could such brilliance be born? Even I can't measure up to his regality. I fall so short of the mark.

But beyond the exterior lies a confidence, a deep wisdom, a convoluted and complex understanding of the world we reside in. I wonder what things he has seen and what hardships he had to endure to receive such an intricate intelligence. Some would envy his intelligence, and though I do, I feel something sadly profound on how he had to obtain it. There is a darker knowledge of the world I could scarcely understand in my very sheltered life.

As I lightly feel the underside of his left eye, I marvel at his unblemished skin, the unmarked smoothness and the glorious perfection of everything my gaze beholds. Simply astounding! No other words come to me.

His eyes close briefly. I can only hope he doesn't think me too forward or familiar with touching a man in quite an intimate way. I may be confident around those of the opposite gender, but it only goes so far. My knowledge is only theoretical, not practical.

I remove my hand and bite my lip. This is the closest I've ever come to intimately touching a man who isn't a member of my family. It leaves me short of breath and my skin flush. I can only imagine how silly I must look, so in awe of him. Does he think my interest only superficial, skin deep?

When I feel his skin, I can feel not only the hard beauty, but also the inner strength and radiance that shines from within. It's simply astounding . . . my friend. I smile endearingly.

Not much space separates us. He is still kneeling before me and looking incredibly adorable. His countenance seems to invite so much, and so unwillingly.

"I think no such thing, Rose. I can see it, remember?" he points out humorously. I adore the mischievousness twinkling in his orbs.

"You're incorrigible," I tease, a blush staining my cheeks. I dislike being read so easily. It's dreadfully embarrassing.

"Many things I may be, Rosalie, incorrigible is definitely at the top," he quips and I giggle helplessly. "Not to mention frightfully handsome, physically appealing, wholly smart and all around enviable . . ." My mouth drops open at his conceit. He rewards me with the sound of his very appealing laughter.

I hide my smile as I gently push his shoulder away from me. He graciously falls over and pretends to be mortally wounded.

An enchanted smile takes over my entire face. Here is my very serious, rich, distinguished and gloriously beautiful friend hunched on the floor pretending to be hurt. Edward may be many things, but he can also show some levity. Those who observe him in public would be beyond astonished. But they are only allowed a small piece of him.

I'm just terribly grateful and over-the-moon happy he considers me a friend, allowing me to see his playfulness. I can imagine it doesn't happen often.

I throw my head back and allow a definite unladylike laugh leave my body. When in Rome, I think and join in his mirth.

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The way home seems almost lonely. Silence reins in the car as darkness starts to descend. Clar keeps both eyes on the road and hands firmly around the steering wheel. I know he takes the condition of my safety earnestly. It's something I cherish deeply in him.

I sigh as the outskirts of Rochester pass us by. Farm land dominates the surrounding area. And though my "friends" complain about the filthiness of farming and how rudimentary it is, I find a simply happiness to it. Without their hard work and determination to produce such substance, how would they ever eat at another endless party?

I know I shouldn't be looking down my nose at the parties; mother would have my sitting in front of the mirror for hours if she knew my thoughts.

I can't help but think how they don't find any happiness in the simplicity of the land, yet find plenty in the backbiting and social politics of the elite.

I enjoy beautiful dresses, bubbling champagne, twinkling lights that play wonderfully off silk, compliments on my beauty which takes me hours to practice and many other things about high society. These things, sadly, validate the existence I was born into. But even with the good comes the bad, and the fakeness of friends can be quite stifling at times.

I don't disparage my place in society. I cringe sadly, thinking about being born to a pauper, or into a Hooverville. The prospect scares me greatly. I think of my beauty being wasted in such squalor.

What mother has taught me is the truth, to an extent. Beauty is my gift. I'm not really talented at many things, but being beautiful and knowing how to stand out is one thing I do know and succeed at.

Years of practice and hardship have gone into creating my mask and appearance. Some may think me vain, privileged and spoilt with nothing but fluffy bits floating in my gorgeous head, and they are correct to an extent.

But . . . but, those lessons have come at a price. I often wear my mask with a badge of honor and pride. Having Lillian Hale as a mother and instructor isn't always easy, and hardly advisable.

I've endured my mother and with that my conceit knows no bounds. I am a product of my mother's tutelage, her greatest creation.

Even with all the advantages, I find myself also becoming disenfranchised with all the glitz and fake companionship. I guess Edward would be the ultimate catalyst to have sparked my dislike. There were cracks in the foundation before he came along, but his true camaraderie fills in the gaps and causes them to expand even wider.

I truly fear mother's reaction to my questioning. I've held the mask in place firmly when she's around, but eventually she'll notice the tiny fall. She always notices the most minute slips if studying me too closely.

Whatever her backlash on me may be will ultimately be worth it, because I have determined Edward to be worth the sacrifice and punishment.

My afternoon with him was beyond delightful. His levity and playfulness are terribly appealing. Even I can't fight the pull of his charm. Not that I try valiantly.

The merrily buoyant Edward, versus the one I witness in public, is so different. He isn't like me, in that he preens under the vast amounts of unwanted attention being offered him, but he is regal and authoritative without meaning to be. He simply is.

I wonder if he even realizes the dichotomy he poses. No one can deny how intelligent he is. One can learn much from books and such, yet Edward's wisdom seems to be twofold: he has an innate knowledge built into every fiber of his being. When he speaks, his words and speech are so refined, naturally gifted. And his eyes, posture, and elegance give away his other wisdom, that of life lived.

Edward may only be nineteen, but seems so much older; not in the way he looks, but how he carries himself and acts. He is by no means a self-righteous snob; that's my role to play, but he tends to come off as standoffish. His presence is intimidating, yet so poised in his very skin.

When he first spoke to me of being uncertain about several aspects of his life, I was genuinely surprised. He doesn't seem to have an unconfident bone in his body, yet he admitted otherwise to me. I was firm in the knowledge that just because one don't behold something with one's own eyes, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Only Edward knew himself so intimately.

Who am I to refute him?

I watch other people watching him, especially when he walks me to my waiting car after our time in the library. I can see the envy and intimidation lingering on their faces, in their body presentation. Edward is one to be noticed, no matter how much he may want to object.

However, very few select get to witness the cheerfully vivacious Edward: the playfully and surprisingly mischievous Edward. The way he laughed, teased and generally tried to goad me this afternoon was incredibly tantalizing.

He left me simply enchanted beyond speech.

The confidence still coated every part of him; while he let his playful side rein. Yet the stiffness retreated, only to be replaced by this unpredictably adorable boy.

His friendship is cherished beyond recognition.

The rural landscape becomes more populated as we make our way back into greater Rochester. The Cullen's home has such charm and peace radiating from it, nestled in the trees around the property. It's easy to see why they'd crave such space and anonymity. Instead of being sad and disjointed at leaving their serenity, I find myself humming happily.

Though I now must endure mother and the beyond heavy burden she places on my already sagging shoulders, I truly have a friend. One who sees beyond all my façades and performances, and still wants to be wholly associated with me.

Blessed, I think, for one happy, pure unblemished, eternal moment.

.

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Author's Notes: Hello, lovelies. So . . . what did you think of the chapter? I know to some it may feel like a filler, and it probably is. But, I hope it wasn't too boring for you. There is a reason for this and its development. This is their relationship strengthening and transitioning. Are you able to see it? Hmm . . .

Don't worry too much, this is going somewhere, but for now I say enjoy the softness of their friendship, the intenseness it's gaining.

To all who reviewed last chapter (all five of you), thanks so much. I hope you were able to receive my replies. To those who reviewed anonymously, thank you, too. I appreciate the effort so very much!

Anyhow, I hope all is well with everyone! Be safe out there. Much love to all!

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(1) Eugene O'Neil (1888-1953) is an American playwright whose plays were among the first to be used in everyday language.

"Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." Is an adage attributed to the play, "Diff'rent" written by O'Neil in 1920.

(2) If you like to see an image of the Tiffany lamps in Edward's music room, Google-Image the phrase "Original Tiffany Wisteria Lamp". They are quite stunning and worth the time to look at them.

Updated: Sunday, 16 September 2012.