Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.
Let's Pretend
It started off so swell,
This "let's pretend."
It all began so well,
But what an end!
- George Gershwin ("But Not for Me")
.
Third Week of August, 1932
I'm not the biggest enthusiast of summer. Of course winters can quite brutal and frigid, but it doesn't cause me to perspire copiously. I want to cringe feeling the little droplets of sweat fall down my back. I fear to even raise my arms; the sweat may have coated all the layers of my day outfit.
But it isn't the time for such thoughts. It's a time for happiness and some levity in our difficult times. Though it's quite fun and entertaining, I'm somewhat put off. I feel as if I'm in a small tin can, squished between too many people with no way of escaping.
This event is different from parties I attend. Our industrial city is celebrating its ninety-eighth year since being established. Our fair city is quite big, totaling around three hundred and fifty thousand. We are proud to boast our city as the twenty-second largest in these the United States. Of course anyone could quote these facts, I think playfully. It was all written in the Democrat and Chronicle morning paper.
Shouts of enjoyment sound all around me as another float passes by. They really are utterly beautiful in their detail and craftsmanship. It never fails to impress how talented some people are. Of course I don't let the emotions show on my face. I'm still in public and around many not of my social class. One must maintain one's composure.
It also doesn't escape my notice that I get many stares, along with the floats. One might think I was created for the parade, too. As Miss Rochester passes by on her throne float, I do allow a little secret smile to pass my lips.
I was in contention for the spot, but father didn't allow it. He adamantly refused all of mother's pleadings and those also of his acquaintances. Something I'm more than grateful for. I may relish the attention and shine in a spotlight, but the pressure of thousands of people watching me is beyond daunting. It's not something I'd ever seek and would take me so far beyond the realms of my intended life's goal.
The spectators around me look at the reigning Miss. Rochester and then back at me. It's clear by the confusion on their faces they think someone else should have been crowned. I let the adoration pass through me; it helps to keep my mask strengthened. I tell myself that no one can compete with my beauty, but I also allow myself to look somewhat approachable.
"A wife of someone in high standing in society should be regal but approachable, Rosalie," Mother coached me. I think she needed to adhere to her own advice about being approachable, but kept my mouth respectfully closed. "It's important to remain somewhat aloof, but still demure, a little humble. It only furthers one place in society." I nodded my head and committed her comments to memory. She would test me at some point in the future.
On and on the parade continues. Little children squeal in delight as little candies are thrown gently to them. Their true innocence is the only thing that brings a sincere, unpracticed smile to my face (except Edward, my traitorous heart beats). I can't resist, anyhow. I'm too weak when it comes to children. It doesn't matter what social class they represent to me. My heart always bleeds for little wee ones.
I can hear mother berating me for allowing such a weakness to show, but the reprimand floats unhappily to the back of my mind. Children should always be shown kindness and not detachment. In my humble, unimportant opinion at least . . .
One little boy captures my immediate attention. The most beautiful diamond could be shown to me, but it would have no greater hold over me like children. They are the true priceless heirlooms.
Sweet, happy shouts come from his smiling lips. His little gentlemen's suit is beyond endearing as he hops up and down. His puffy little cheeks are flushed pink from his excitement at having caught a flying candy. His father ruffles his sandy locks in love and parental patience. It warms my heart considerably more than the sun.
The little, cheerful boy reminds me of my brothers. I can feel my heart squeeze at thinking of them. Charles is fourteen and three years my junior. Benjamin (or Ben as I refer to him as) is ten and the apple of my eye. Yes, I love both of my brothers, but there is something about being the littlest child of one's family unit. Ben resembles me the most and adores his older sister. He is always stuck to my side when visiting.
Though they are staying in New York City for the summer and not coming home, we shall be visiting them at the end of the summer. I am excited to see their smiling faces and to have Ben shadowing my every step.
Thirty more minutes pass before the end of the parade comes. I thank the heavens above that it's almost finished. Though a cheerful distraction, I'm more than ready to leave.
After the parade is a lunch-in we must attend. It's to be held at the Oaks Hill Country Club and among members of our own distinction. It breaks my heart a little, having to part from all the happy children, but it will be nice having some space to breath. My lungs feel as if I'm breathing in stale, reused oxygen. It's a most unwelcome, disgusting feeling.
I follow father as he leads us through the dwindling crowd. Clarence brings up my back. Mother refused to attend the parade with us. "Too common."
Once we find our car, we're off to the club. Mother is already there, probably with her women's society. They are dreadfully boring and stuffy. I wonder if they were stuffed by the leading taxidermist in the field. Only the best will do, after all.
It's also scary to think I can be like them when older. However I may age and grow, my main attention will always be given to my children and not some faux cause that barely registers in my heart.
"Are you well, Rose," my father's sweet, concerned voice enters my personal space.
I look over to him, after clearing my head, and give him a reassuring smile.
"Quite well, daddy. Just taking in the celebratory and festive atmosphere. Why?" I inquire politely.
"You just seemed thousands of miles from me. Can't have my baby girl rushing off, can I? What shall I ever do with only your mother for company?" he jokes. I always feel my love for him increase when we are alone. He gives me a part of himself hardly anyone else is akin to.
"Why, talk of the latest fashions and drink the best imported tea from England. Have you not enjoyed my Vogue subscription I got you for Christmas, father?" I bat my eyelashes prettily. I may be joshing with him, but the subscription is true. I thought it would give him something in common with his wife. It was also a fun gag gift.
"You're lucky to have my love, daughter. I may have to disown you at some point." He eyes me in mock-disapproval.
"Father!" I exclaim scandalized. My hand falls over my heart. "Wash your mouth out. How would you ever survive without your favorite child?" He pretends to think over my question.
"What does Mr. Charles have to do with anything, Miss. Rose," my traitor of a friend claims. I look away from my father's laughing form to the front seat.
"Well played, Clar. But I shall remember this duplicity. And to think I loved you most of all." I raise my nose in the air and cross my arms over my chest. I am the perfect image of affronted.
Gay Laughter fills our car, and I'm only happy to be a part of the levity. If mother were present the air would be thin and frigid. I look to my father and feel my respect for him rise even more than possible.
He winks at his baby girl before placing his arm over my shoulders. I lean into his body and soak in his love. I'm beyond a lucky girl to have such an amazing father and individual time with him. My father is always beyond busy with his numerous obligations.
Though I bask in my father's closeness, I start to prepare myself for an afternoon of fake civility, constant stares, demure decorum and refined gentility. It's all in the work and description of a well-bred, high society lady.
I start to change my mindscape and can literally feel the change start to take place within me. I want to rebel from the oncoming change, but can't. I refuse to embarrass my father in any way. Many of his colleagues will be in attendance. The only redeeming quality to this afternoon will be Esme's company.
I stare out the car window and into the cloudy afternoon. I wonder fleetingly what it would be like to be a cloud: fluffy, soft, gliding, temperamental, free. Attributes I shan't accomplish this afternoon.
I'm the most beautiful of all, I think routinely. Nothing and no one can compete with my beauty. I momentarily look to the front and can see Clar's weary eyes watching me. The transformation is complete. And even he knows it . . .
Don't worry for me, friend.
. .
Oaks Hill Country Club
The hardship of the afternoon is even more gruel-some and tiring than I had ever anticipated. My mask threatened to fall numerous times as I peeked him looking at me. It's wholly unfair and heart-aching. I don't want him to see me like this. Problems have already arisen because of my public persona.
Though we are more stable after our benefit incident, a small insecurity lingers within my heart. I try to keep it hidden from him. Sometimes, when he's walking me to my awaiting car after the library, or when we enjoy the shade of a tree out on the green of campus, I know he's studying me, regretting our fallout. He pretends to read, but I can somehow feel the pain from his actions.
I hold nothing against him and understood his reaction. I am an entirely different girl around him. But I like to believe he has forgiven himself, as I have. What reason is there to seek someone's forgiveness of the wronged if one can't accept it and forgive one's self? It makes little to no sense to me.
A discreet breath leaves my lungs for what seems like the hundredth time. This afternoon and evening seems the longest of my young life.
Talk, Greet guests, smile, bat eyelashes, appear refined yet somewhat attainable, study every movement in the room, be aware of the most available gentlemen, keep my tight façade in place, don't falter, be aware mother is watching my every failure. Repeat again. These are the repetitive steps which guide my every action.
Many times I have wished for Edward to be present at our social functions, but now I am beyond grateful he isn't. I knew it would be challenging to have him near me and sustain my persona, but this seems beyond the realm of possible.
I can't even begin to understand why he even chose to attend. It's truly the first public function we've attended since becoming friend, and I hope it to be the last. I've never been happier about his reclusive mannerisms than I am as of now. This seems like the cruelest form of torture created just for me.
Several times my mask has threatened to fall as I watched yet another "lady" go to him and converse. Never have I wanted to hurt someone so badly. Truly, I dislike this violent side of me, yet it didn't want to be relinquished. It clung tighter to me than one of Mildred's moles clinging to her neck.
As much as I despise these obvious girls, I can't fault them. It would make me the biggest hypocrite east of the Genesee River. No matter what Edward does, or how he politely tries to discourage attention, it comes unwillingly. He has that je ne sais quoi. I'm no stranger to his magnetic north. I'm pulled to him like everyone else.
At times, I catch him staring at me, and sometimes I wonder if I see a fleeting glance of disapproval from him. When I go to look again, there is nothing but polite disinterest, telling me I've contrived it only in my imagination. It's when my insecurity about him comes out the most. I don't want him to ever feel disgusted with me again as he did several weeks ago. I don't imagine I could survive that fallout again.
When I feel myself slipping, from either his attention on me or my unwarranted jealously, I turn from him and focus on the current gentleman trying to vie for my attention. I don't do it out of retaliation, but out of necessity. Mother is staring at me, evaluating my performance. Even Edward's friendship couldn't get me out of punishment from her if I were to disgrace our family name and make an unpleasant scene.
I feel somewhat dirty, resorting to such low tactics, but I can't think of another alternative. I only want the shelter of my room or the comfort of Edward's undivided and limitless attention. But no matter, I don't let these rogue emotions show. I am too well-versed in my public persona. My heart can only hope Edward is able to tell the difference from the little nuances I give him.
"And to think a lady of society would sneak out to go to such an establishment," I hear spoken disapprovingly from some girls near me. I turn around and study them. I take a delicate drink of my tea and wash out the taste of cucumber sandwiches from my mouth. Never my forte.
"Who would even want to dance to such unrefined music," she continues to sneer, bringing me back from errant thoughts.
Someone really should inform her sneering makes her look unbecoming.
"I quite concur, dear," her partner in crime eagerly agrees. I wonder if they know their longing for such unencumbered frivolity is showing through. "I wouldn't be caught at such a seedy club. What is so attractive about big band music, anyhow? Mother claims the waltz is all a lady needs." I want to scoff at their fake bravado. If acceptable, they would be the first in line to go dance at a "seedy club".
I can't be one to look down on them too much. I'm also restricted from such places. Mother would truly die of fright and embarrassment if found there. Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing, I think uncharitably. I go a little closer, making sure to stay subtle and interested in my surroundings. My curiosity is beyond peaked.
"How was she able to even attend?" the sheep of the duo asks.
The leader answers, "She snuck out while her parents were in New York City attending some gala. To think, not only did she disobey her parents, but she danced with such common men. Disgusting. Her maid had no idea," she titters meanly. "Such incompetence. Father is right in saying good help is difficult to come by."
I strongly disagree. One only needed to look beyond one's bubble to see the thousands of people in dire straight who would have gladly taken the job and fulfilled it correctly.
"Jazzy Nights is the name of the club, supposedly staying open to all hours of the night. Isn't it just sinful?" The sheep immediately agrees. For someone having no interest in ever attending such a swinging club, she seems to know much about it. But unlike her, I now plan to attend. Oh yes, it would be quite the rebellion, I think happily, deliciously.
Jazzy nights . . . it sure does have a Lindy Hop name to it . . . I can feel my rebellious juices simmering.
And so I spend the rest of the evening planning, among looking fleetingly at Edward – if I'm honest with myself.
The arduous and highly taxing evening is finally over with and I soon will be free of his delightfully oppressive person. As I say goodbye to Hazel and make my way towards my gesturing father, someone lightly bumps into me.
"I'm terribly sorry," I quickly apologize. I can't have myself coming off as impolite. My father's colleagues would think he raised an improper daughter.
"Not at all, love," I hear whispered too closely to my ear. Without thought and permission my heart starts to beat at a pace that may expel it from my chest. I briefly fear for my life, but it hurriedly passes as Edward's hand closes over mine.
Something is gently placed in my fisted hand and given a light squeeze before released.
"Accidents happen, Miss. Hale," he informs me politely, yet there seems to be something else tingeing his tone. I must be daydreaming . . . (or feeling guilty), I inform myself self-righteously.
He bows over my hand before leaving me as quickly as he came. I don't even have a chance to say anything to him. I want to cry at the thought. My only chance to say something to him. Oh well, I still have something valuable in my hand, simply because he gave it to me.
Once I make my way over to my parents and we give our goodbyes, we are finally on our way home. Who knew celebrating our towns' illustrious history could be so tiring, informative, drama-filled and all around onerous.
When I'm in bed for the night and all tucked in, I finally open the fragile and expensive stationary Edward gave me earlier. I stop at the line of smelling it. That would be borderline creepy. I do however trace the lines of his beautiful writing with my finger. I am hopeless and asinine.
My heart ignores my cynical mind as I take in his note once more.
Rosalie –
You look beyond description, love, among us common people. Hold your head up high, love. You give the spectators something beautiful in a world gone mad with depression and sadness. Beauty may be God-given, Rosalie, but you embrace it and give it to others around you; unwittingly. Don't be embarrassed about your "talent". More beauty is always needed and required in our darkened world. You surpass all. - E
Tears threaten to overtake my eyes, but I refuse to stain the letter with their uselessness. His unadulterated and unfiltered description is memorizing. My heart beats so much for him right now. How am I ever to get to sleep, I think happily.
Over the course of the afternoon I had worried about his disapproval, of him seeing me in such a tainted light again. His note, however, dispels my worries. How could it not have the power to do so? I defied any girl to try and withstand.
The soft touch of his cool hand stills lingers on my skin. It tells me he was truly near me and gave me this note. I lift my head to the night-darkened sky and whisper, "Thank you, Edward."
I secretly bite my lip, trying to suppress the smile which threatens to take over completely. He is so dangerous to my well-being and well-practiced lifestyle. And yet, I can't find any anger to express towards him. I'm only filled with a deep joy.
A deeply, clinging, unrelenting joy!
. . .
End of August, 1932
I cringe as my window frame squeaks lightly. I bite my lip hard, willing it to somehow not awake my mother. Somehow and so fortuitously, father is called away on a business meeting. It is the break I have been waiting for – which seemed like an eternity.
Fresh and freeing air wafts over my smiling face as the window is completely open. I listen intently, making sure mother isn't stirring. She shouldn't be awake until late morning. The sleeping capsules I slipped in her after dinner drink should suffice.
I should feel utterly terrible about lightly drugging my own mother, but I don't. Given the opportunity and the idea earlier, I would do it again. It's hard to feel guilty about oncoming liberation. She also has the pills for a reason, so why not use them accordingly, I think positively.
The night air seems crisper, thicker as it expands in my lungs. I know it is only my reaction to the activity planned for tonight, but I don't care.
A feeling of fear courses through me, but I can't allow it to stop me. My life is lived my family honor and for my mother and her wants - at least until I'm married. I take this night for me and all the freedom it gives back to me.
As I go to crawl out my bedroom window I turn back and make sure everything is situated. My canopy is closed, but still looks as if someone is sleeping in it. Should any of the help look in on me, they will think I'm there. They know better than to enter my room or even think to pull back my gauzy hanging.
Mother shall be indisposed for the night . . .
With my bag positioned on my shoulder and my appearance acceptable for my outing, I shimmy down the trellis outside my window. It is quite trite and clichéd, but enticingly delicious. Father once thought it a bad idea, claiming his sons would "use it to somehow climb on and hurt themselves." He never even thought I'd use it.
I do feel guilt in thinking about my father, but I can't allow it to stop me. It's truly my one opportunity to let loose and allow come what may.
When my feet hit the ground, I feel myself from head to toe. I make sure my scarf is firmly tied around my head and tied low to the side. I know it covers most of my golden hair . . . and is quite fetching if I say so myself.
My full-length coat is covering my cotton-print dress. The material does feel odd on my skin. I'm only use to high quality clothing. It only adds another layer of this free night-blooming Rose. She only lasts for one spectacular night.
I bend over and put on my low quality shoes. They shall be thrown in the trash by the end of the night, along with my dress. It wouldn't do for mother or the help to find my rebellious clothes.
Once everything is ready and I know my makeup allows me to look truly different than myself, I start to walk away from my house. I plead for my heart to beat more quietly. It may wake up the neighborhood, from how loud it's pounding in my chest.
Five minutes I spend walking as calmly and confidently as possible from home. So far so good. It took much planning and cunning to even get ready for this night. Even just to buy the low-end clothes was a laborious job.
I smile when I spy the taxi waiting for me. I school my features as I slide into the back seat and suavely give the address of my destination to the driver. He eyes me wearily. Perhaps he thinks I'm some working girl, done for the evening after servicing my high society clientele in the rich Corn Hill district.
"Well, would you like to be paid for your services anytime this year?" I ask meanly, snottily. It comes too naturally.
The driver flinches from my tone and immediately starts to take me to my spoken destination. I can scarcely sit still and act calm. C'est la vie.
. .
Music beats loudly in my ears. The vibrations from the instruments melt blissfully into my skin. I soak in everything, every fine distinction around me. It is everything I'd hope it would be, and more.
Though I am unfamiliar with the band and most of the music being played, I can still appreciate the quality and rhythm. A couple of hours I have been here, and I have yet to tire of it. The club is smoky and thick to see through, but I could care less for once. Everything seems right in this place, as if nothing is missing.
My feet thump against the wooden floor as I watch the couples around me dancing to yet another song. Several times I have been approached to dance, but politely refuse. I don't know the dances, and it's not really the point of this evening. It's simply to bask in an environment and atmosphere so entirely different than my own.
I take a drink from my third alcoholic drink. I can't even define the drink, but it doesn't stop me from partaking. I can only testify it has a high proof rate. Alcohol is still forbidden, yet it doesn't seem to stop establishments from selling it. Well, those that haven't been caught, I think amusingly. An inelegant snort leaves my nose as I laugh at my muddled thoughts. Perhaps I've had too much to drink. My head is thrown back in laughter as I clap my thighs. This place is terribly fabulous. It's sad I can only come for this one night.
A new song comes on and it's finally one I recognize.
"'Bout time," I shout happily. "Something I know a little." People lounging near me look over. They study me before looking away. "Not to your l-liking," I ask risibly. They give me a fleeting look before ignoring me all together. Oh well, 'tis one to their own kind . . . or something like that. My mind is quite muddled. Such a delightful place. And on my mind swirls.
"Would you like to take a spin around the dance floor, Miss.," someone to my left (or maybe my right) asks. I look up and see a quite handsome man. His hair is brown and wavy. His cheeks are rather chiseled and hallowed. I wonder how deep my tongue would have to go before hitting skin. He's looking at me as if I'm piece of bacon. Does he think me fat? "Miss.?" he says again.
"Why the hell not," I agree before slapping a hand over my lips. Such language is not becoming of someone in my position.
"Don't tell my mother I cursed," I plead. He gives me a promising smile that sends my already rapid heart beating faster.
"Only if you dance with me." What choice do I have? Mother would be most displeased.
Before my hand can even land in his, a chilling voice sends pleasant Goosebumps dancing over my skin. It does sound terribly familiar to me.
"I'd rethink that offer." I shiver from the low and menacing tones of the voice. Mr. Hallowed-cheeks turns around to size up his competition. I must look quite fetching tonight in my cheap dress.
"This doesn't concern y-y-you," the man stutters as he finally turns around and sees the voice. That sounds funny – the voice.
"I believe you were saying something?" Again, I can't help the shivers running along my flesh. It should scare me, but for some reason I feel safe, almost satisfied. Odd.
"N-Nothing, sir," Mr. Hallow-scaredy-cat mumbles. Too bad. He held some promise. I really want to dance to this song!
"It don't mean a t-thing, if it ain't got that t-thing," I try and sing. I think that stuttering thing is contagious. Gross! I frown. I don't want to sound like a simpleton my entire life.
"What am I to do with you, Rose," someone asks me. I open my eyes and look into jewels. They are quite pretty and shiny. I want to get lost in those eyes. I shake my head and look over the rest of the face. Of course, he wants to rebel, too. Why didn't I think to invite him? Maybe I still can.
"Edward," I yell. He gives me a silly half-smile that sends my heart into over-drive. Mr. Contagious-Stutter has nothing on this smile. "Would you like to come to this club with me?" I ask politely, genteelly. I make sure to give him my most winning smile.
His pretty grin turns into a laugh. I knew he'd think it a good idea to come here. It was quite nice of me to invite him.
"And here I thought I already had." His hand comes up and brushes my cheek. The coolness does funny yet delicious things to my stomach. Is there something in his skin? I close my eyes lean into his glorious touch. Why doesn't he do that more often? Pity!
"As I suspected. You've had quite a bit to drink, love." I open my eyes and see him kneeling before me. He's been in that situation before. I know it!
"No," I playfully argue, shaking my head. "Only t-three." My smile turns into a frown as I stutter again. That guy must've given me something.
I stick out my tongue and try to get the stutters out. I spy a drink on the table in front of me and greedily drink it down. Before I can even finish it, my Edward takes it mischievously from my grasp.
"Can't you beat him up, Edward?" I plead pitifully. "That guy gave me something foul. And that's my drink, love. With your pretty smile you can have one of your own." I giggle, thinking about him using his pretty smile to get a free drink. I can't think why that seems funny. Oh well.
"I thought you wanted to dance instead. If you're too busy drinking forbidden alcoholic mysteries we shan't dance." I think of my options. Drinking nasty drinks or dancing with Mr. Pretty Smile. Decision made!
I jump up from my seat and lace my arms around my tall Edward's neck. He catches me as he weaves his own arms around my waist. The song, however, ends as we finally make it to the dance floor. For shame!
"I didn't get to dance, Edward," I pout. "Make them play it again." Why is this band against me? What have I done to upset their sensibilities?
"Wouldn't you rather dance to this one playing?" my pretty partner asks me. I look away from his captivating face and try to listen to the music. I lean further into his embrace as I find it hard to stand. I hope Mr. Contagious didn't make me incapable of walking, too.
"I know this song," I finally say. "Ginger something sings it." Edward's low chuckles fan over my face as I watch him. How can he smell so good? My legs feel like giving out again.
"Quite right, love," he whispers closer to my face. My head is bent back as I watch him watching me.
"Are we dancing, Edward?" My fingers somehow find their way into his hair. It seems too soft for a boy. He is so pretty. I can't help but sigh as we sway back and forth. Everyone else around us seems to be copying us, but I only have eyes for this pretty smile in front of me.
"Right you are." We sway and hold each other. My fingers play on the cool skin of his neck and silky hair. I want to lay my head on his chest but don't. How could I see him otherwise? My eyes feel heavy from the soft swing of our movement.
I feel his fingers removing the scarf from my hair. It falls a little into my face because I have it unbound tonight. No one knows because it is hidden behind my head scarf . . . or was . . . I couldn't care. Long tender sweeps run through my hair. It makes me close my eyes happily. I want to stretch like a contended cat.
"You were always meant to wear your hair down," I hear murmured into my ear. I press myself closer into the hard chest. It is my shelter, my comfort. "So beautiful. Beautiful Rosalie." I bit my lower lip and try to stop the soft tears that want to fall. I don't know why.
I lean back further again. His eyes are so dark, as if too many emotions are present and the colors representing them are competing for dominance.
"Pretty smile Edward. So u-unbelievably pretty." A cute, adorable smile comes over his pretty lips. Are they fuller than my own? It should be me pouting.
"Handsome, darling. Never pretty. That's reserved for ladies such as yourself."
I lean back and give him a lazy smile. "Pretty . . . handsome . . . gorgeous . . . sublime . . . transcendent . . . superlative . . . s-s-splendid," I finish my list of adjectives.
"You're too much, Rose," he laughs. My teeth nibble on my bottom lip as I try and give him my best stink-eye. It doesn't seem to be working. Unfair!
"You can annunciate superlative with no trouble, but become tongue-tied on splendid."
"It's a difficult word," I argue . . . okay, pout. But he's unfair! How can I think around his pretty lips?
"I'll relent, love, and allow you the glory of a win." A silly, wobbly smile overtakes my pout. I knew he was fair! Who kept saying otherwise?
"You," he informs me quietly. My ear is about to fall off from his silky whispers. They beg for him to swallow them. Every part of me seems to want to abandon me for him. Ah, who can blame them?
"Oh."
And then without warning, we stop swaying. What happen? Have my feet abandoned me for him? I'd understand! I'm a very understanding person.
"The song has ended. And I think so has our rebellion for the night. Time for home. Yeah?" he asks.
That one word sounds so funny yet entirely too appealing coming from his mouth. "Yeah" . . . who would have thought it could send my heart racing. Probably only coming from his very cultured and sinfully refined lips. It's as if the word is forbidden, too perfectly common for his vocabulary. I wonder what else is forbidden with him . . .
"Rosalie, seriously."
Does his voice sound higher or is it just me. Maybe he swallowed something forbidden.
"You're driving me to distraction. It is time to leave." I watch his lips – which are definitely fuller than mine – caress each letter. I can't help but lick mine in response. Can he swallow my tongue?
Before I can ask him my very thoughtfully probing question, he groans and wraps his arm around my shoulder. We must be leaving. Why didn't he tell me? I wrap my arms loosely around his waist and allow him to lead the way. He is such a fine and wonderful leader. Dancing with him convinces me of this. His hard body seems fine, too. I wonder if he'll allow me to lick it. But first his pretty lips.
I squeak as my coat is placed on me a little roughly. He's careful not to hurt me, but he is most definitely rough. Unexpected, too. I thought I was supposed to be driving him to distraction. I'm not quite sure where that is, but I'll ask for directions on the way.
I then watch as he puts his own light jacket on. Isn't it summer? Why are we even wearing coats? I feel sleepy. I might not be up for driving.
"Edward," I mumble between a huge yawn. I hope I covered my mouth; being a well-breaded lady and all that rot.
"Yes, love," he answers softly, but while laughing. What's so funny? I shrug my shoulders at his silliness.
We walk down the empty pavement, snuggling perfectly. I burrow my head further into his chest. I like the feel of his laughter on my skin. It tickles very pleasantly. What would it feel like on my entire unclothed body? I want to know.
Someone clears their throat and interrupts my very important thoughts. Quite rude! A lady has to have important thoughts or else she's a ninny. I can't be a ninny, thus need to be naked against Edward. Makes complete sense.
"If I'm naked with you, does that make me a ninny?"I ask forthrightly. It's a very important question that deserves a well-thought out answer.
"You want to take off your shoes, you say?" he asks after clearing his throat roughly. Why does he like it rough? I hear him groan loudly. Odd. He's acting very peculiar tonight.
"You're silly, love," I tell him. I look up at him and give him my most reassuring smile. The poor boy seems to need it.
"That I am, darling." His lips are too enticingly pretty. My tongue, for some reason begs to lick them. "Do you still want to take off your shoes?" Did I say I wanted to?
I shrug my shoulders and cuddle into the welcoming hardness of my Edward.
The sound of our feet sound funny with each step we take. His seem to clack while mine click. Is it even possible? Even our walking seems in sync with each other.
I take in a deep breath and cherish the coolness of the air. It was quite hot in that swingers club. My fingers curl into Edward's jacket and makes tight fists. I like the feel of the fabric.
"I drugged my mother tonight. I bet you couldn't have guessed that," I confess. I feel a need to tell him. I know he'll understand and keep my secrets. Edward is beyond amazing like that.
"It wouldn't have crossed my mind, no," my cool cucumber answers. Those who don't know him would think him cold and standoffish, but their wrong. I should tell them that. They will rue the day.
"Easy there, Athena. There is no need to fight any battles tonight. I shall defend myself quite well, otherwise." I look up at my strong Edward, and no, he isn't fibbing. His body says the same. Goodness is he healthy.
"I'm Rosalie," I tell him. He must have confused my name with someone else's. My Edward is silly.
"And so you are." His finger gently touches the curve of my cheek. I want him to glide it down to my lips so I can lick it. I love him touching me so gently, compassionately. I can see it written in his jewel eyes. "No comparison." His finger strokes the skin under his touch. I close my heavy eyes and bath in his sweet affection.
"I like you a lot, Edward," I tell him for no reason. My eyelids are very burdensome. It's as if someone put a sandbag over them. "You're my dear friend." I feel him exhale slowly, immensely. I didn't know he had such big lungs. I must lick them, too. "We're friends . . . right?"
He doesn't need to answer. The soft kiss to my sticky forehead is answer enough. I knew his lips were fuller than mine.
"Yes, love. We're friends."
Le sigh, contentedly.
As the cool air swirls around me, making me happy but drowsy, I know I'm about to fall asleep. That can't happen. My bed would miss me entirely too much.
"Edward, love," I whine unenthusiastically. I wonder if he knows how tired I am.
"Would you like me to carry you home?" An instant smile spreads over my lazy lips. I can barley open my eyes or my mouth to tell him "yes, please". But words aren't needed. My pretty-lipped Edward knows me better than I know even myself.
He gently stops our lethargic walking and picks me up. Isn't he the most wonderful man? I should carry him, too. But I'd rather lick him languidly. I know he would taste as sweet as he smells.
I bury my face in his available neck and release my sleepy breath. I didn't even know oxygen could be sleepy. I nuzzle my face in the crease of his shoulder, wanting to find the most comfortable spot. And goodness do I. He smells like candy apples: the ones my father would buy for me at the local church bizarre and traveling fairs. Mother detested them. Oh well, she is at home sleeping off her pills. La. Her disapproval is also taking a much needed slumber.
"I adore you, Edward," I tell him. He needs to know of my abiding affection. He's like my moon that I confess my secrets to at night. He's cold, but so very beautiful; mysterious, but so very tangible; far away, but so very understandable. He listens contently to me.
"I know, love," he so very nicely informs me. I needed to know that he knew. I can go to sleep now.
"You have permission to change me, Edward," I tell him. I don't want him to feel shy when he changes me out of my clothes and throws them away. I can't have mother seeing them at all. She can't know.
For some reason my adored Edward stops breathing. He goes still for a while before exhaling sharply. He is so silly sometimes. He needn't fear seeing me in my unmentionables. I'm quite pretty like his lips.
"I'll be sure to remember that, Rose. Now go to sleep, honey. I have you. Safe and sound, Rosalie."
"I know, Edward." It's my turn to reassure him. It's a very easy and thankless job. He makes everything easy. "I want only y-you," I slur for some odd reason. My mind feels as heavy as my eyes, and quite fuzzy. It makes no sense to me, but there it is.
And before my mind shuts off completely because it is being quite the brat in not letting me stay coherent, I allow my lips to touch the skin under my lips. I only want a little sample. His lips would be preferable, but too far away.
Just as I thought . . . candy apple. Delicious! Hopefully his taste will linger on my tongue. I keep my lips there as I finally allow sleep to take me as Edward holds me safely and soundly.
This must be distraction.
.
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Author's Notes: Well, it has been quite a while. Things in my life have been chaotic and therefore I give no excuses.
Anyhow, what did you think of the chapter? It has been one of my favorites to write. I know it was heavy on Rose's thoughts, but it added to the humor for me. I loved her inebriated, silent ramblings. And I'd also like to taste Edward . . . Just saying.
Wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and PM'ed me. You are all so very wonderful and gracious! I so ever grateful!
That's the end of my ramblings for now. I hope all is well with everyone. Much love to everyone!
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[1] 'The Democrat and Chronicle' is a newspaper in the greater Rochester, NY area. It was founded in 1833 under the previous name 'The Balance' and later merged with 'The Chronicle' in 1870 to become 'The Democrat and Chronicle'.
[2] In 1934 Rochester celebrated its one hundredth year. Thus 1933 would make Rochester ninety-nine. In 1930 it was ranked 22rd in overall population in the United States (320,000 +).
[3] The Corn Hill District is located on the banks of the Genesee River. The architecture and streets of Corn Hill are the first truly prosperous neighborhood in Rochester. Many of the buildings originate to the 1850s and earlier. It was home to many of the City's business and political leaders, Corn Hill contained rows of elaborate mansions whose grounds reached the banks of the Genesee.
[4] "It Don't Mean a Thing" was composed (August 1931) by Duke Ellington and made quite famous by his band. It was in top 20 songs of the 1930's. Edward and Rosalie dance to the song "But Not for Me", sung by Ginger Rogers in the Broadway show "Girl Crazy" (Cir.1930). I listened to the Judy Garland Version while writing the scene.
Updated: Friday, 19 October 2012