A/N: I have a twitter account now, in case you guys are interested about my updates (or not!).

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I have posted this chapter again because of the countless errors I had made in the unedited version. Special thanks to my lovely reader, Mariana75 for her help in correcting those errors.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all Twilight characters.

Bella

Saturday found me busy inside the kitchen, all covered in flour and egg shells and what not. My vision was blurred due to lack of sleep. I had spent the whole night pouring over numerous cook books I had borrowed from the library. The evening before that, Renee gave me a hand in the kitchen. Okay, to be honest, she did all the cooking while I just stood there watching, trying to memorize every single detail of the dexterity in which she performed her recipes. She agreed to help me, but first, she proceeded to interrogate me about my sudden interest in being all domestic however I was expecting that so I was ready with my fabricated answer.

"Well, there is this….." I began.

"It's about Edward, isn't it?" she interrupted me.

I was momentarily stunned. A part of me had hoped that she wouldn't ask about him.

"Um, wow. That was….very perceptive of you," I commented, not sure how badly she would react.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for my reply.

"It's really not what it looks like," I groaned internally at how clichéd those words sounded. "What I mean is, we…I mean…he doesn't see me that way, Mum. I have explained this to you before." I looked down at my feet as I felt a sharp twitch tearing through my heart. "He sees me more as a companion, an acquaintance," I said, wondering if my words even made the slightest amount of sense.

She gave me one of those long looks that always made me feel she was dissecting everything I had in my mind. I had to look away once again. Thankfully, she didn't question me about it any further, or maybe she hoped that, at some point, I would tell her myself if there wassomething else going on. I felt like I was betraying her trust, but that feeling didn't last very long. Surely, there was nothing else to tell, nothing at all.

On Saturday evening, after I had burned the non-stick pan enough number of times that it now had a permanent burn mark, cracked and wasted innumerable eggs, spilled flour all over the counter and even managed the catch the end of my apron on fire, I finally handed over my first cooked pancakes, or any food item for that matter, to my ever patient mother, for inspection. Like always, she didn't add any topping to the pancakes and I fretted over that fact, wishing she had added, at any rate, some maple syrup on top of it. If that thing was perfectly inedible, at least the sweet taste of the syrup would prolong the moment until she would have to spit it out. I stood on my tiptoes, gripping the back of the chair by the table at which she sat. She cut a piece of it with her fork and plopped it into her mouth. As she started chewing it, I closed my eyes, mentally preparing myself not to feel the stinging pain when my beloved pancakes that I had spent half a morning making, would be tossed into the trash.

"Hmm," she pondered, while still chewing her first bite. All of a sudden, I found myself hoping. May be, luck was with me today. May be all of my efforts had not gone to waste.

She swallowed it and opened her mouth to give her verdict. To my surprise, she said in a resigned tone, "Bella, honey, I really wish you would tell me why you are going through this much trouble."

My jaw dropped, forming a little 'o'. Had I heard her right? Was it possible that my pancakes were not going into the trash after all? Or more importantly, how the hell was I going to answer her question?

I didn't reply but she didn't wait for it either. "Okay, forget I asked that. I already know the answer to that question. What I don't get is if you know he is not interested in you," I flinched, in spite of myself, "then why do you still care so much? Bella, I need you to tell me, so I can understand. Why, instead of taking a step back and distance yourself from him, are you doing something that you know will inevitably hurt you in the future? I know it may be hard for you to let go, but sweetheart, this worries me."

I realized my knuckles had gone white from holding the back of the chair so tightly. I released my hold, pulled back the chair and sat down. I dropped my head in my hands, unable to face her probing eyes anymore. Slowly, I felt her hand on my head, slowly patting my hair.

"You can tell me anything, dear, you know that, don't you?" she asked. Her smooth voice pleading me was too much to resist. I was about to blurt out the whole truth.

I raised my head, hoping that she wouldn't see the myriad of emotions flickering in my eyes. I blinked once and relayed the entire story about Edward's past, while she chewed on more of my pancakes. She listened to me calmly, not exposing any sort of reaction on her composed face. But I knew my mother all too well. I could tell she was just as stunned and appalled as I had been. When I was done, she laid aside her fork, took my hand and whispered, "I just don't want to see you end up getting hurt, do you understand?"

I nodded as silent tears pooled in my eyes. My mother smiled back at me and I could see the tremendous effort she had to put behind it. She got up and was about to leave when she turned and called, "Oh and Bella?" I looked up from the pattern on the table.

"Next time, add just a little bit more sugar."

So, the next day I woke up literally at the crack of dawn. The sun still hadn't risen and everyone in my house was still asleep, I presumed, since there weren't any distinguishable human noises. I walked down the stairs in my socked feet, not wanting to wake anyone and more importantly not wanting to have to explain my early morning expeditions. With tired and sleepy eyes, I prepared the pancake batter with eggs, baking powder, flour, milk and cinnamon. As an afterthought, I also added vanilla essence, thinking of the way Edward smelled. I smiled at that and had to stifle a yawn simultaneously.

Edward

My eyes flew open little before the alarm went off. I stumbled out from my bed, fearing that I might have overslept and Bella would be here at any moment. I quickly brushed my teeth, not bothering to shave and started to make my way to the kitchen. Just as I was about to head out of my room, I noticed, with a jolt of horror, that I had a basket full of laundry to do. Cursing my luck, I grabbed the clothes on my way out and dumped them into the washing machine at the end of the kitchen. Since I had little time in my hands, I decided I couldn't do something elaborate and fancy like I had planned to. No, Bella would have to eat something simple for breakfast today. And here I was, planning to change her mind about my cooking. I would be lucky if she even agrees to come back next week.

Thankfully, I had stocked my apartment with all the necessary food supplies on my way home from work on Friday. Hilda, the kind faced middle-aged Mexican woman who worked at the cash counter, had knowingly smirked at me, while looking at my large pile of grocery items. I couldn't have blamed her – it was a massive change from my usual shopping list. I had swiftly muttered, "Lately, I have developed quite an appetite," and had to turn my face away to hide the smile that kept appearing these days whenever anything even remotely related to Bella happened. Hilda had smiled even wider at my lame explanation and had replied, "Oh, I am sure you have."

I took out a loaf of bread from the fridge. Next, I beat some eggs with milk, salt, green chilli and chopped onions. In between, I rushed to add the detergent to the clothes and turned the washing machine on. As the slight hum of the appliance began, I dipped the slices of bread in the prepared mixture and deep fried them in cooking oil. After the French toasts were done, I diced up potatoes and fried them as well. Then my washing machine dinged announcing it had finished its task; I hurried to get my wet clothes out and put them in the drier but by doing so, I let a few of the fried potatoes to get slightly burned. After I was done preparing the breakfast, I looked at the meagre two items I had made and I comforted myself saying that I had given it my best shot. I heaved a deep sigh, looked down at myself and realized that I was still in my pajamas. To my utmost dismay, I also noticed that my living room was in poor shape since I had been too lazy to clean it up the previous day.

I stood there for moment, trying to come up with reasons for which I had been so distracted that I had forgotten about doing my laundry or cleaning my apartment. Of course, the answer was right there, in front of me. I had been looking forward to this morning with way too much enthusiasm, which is why doing all the usual chores had completely escaped my mind.

As I rearranged the magazines on the coffee table and the cushions on the couch, I laughed out loud when I realized the amount of trouble I was going through. Yet, I couldn't make myself become self-conscious enough to stop. As far as I knew, women felt more comfortable when they were in a neat and organized environment. After all that Bella had done for me, this was the least I could do.

When my place looked decent enough, I looked up at the kitchen clock, the hour hand of which pointed at eight. She would probably take one more hour to get here, which meant I had plenty of time to make myself look a bit more presentable.

With exaggerated ease, I walked to my bedroom and made my bed. Next, I pondered over what to wear. I had another fit of hysterics when I grasped that this time I was behaving like a sixteen-year old girl, getting ready for her prom. Without looking at what I was picking, I reached inside and grabbed the first piece of clothing material my fingers touched.

As I turned my back to the closet, I noticed a small piece of paper on the bed stand. I groaned out loud when I realized that since it was the end of the month, the newspaper boy was supposed to come and get the bill. As if echoing my thoughts, the doorbell rang. I hurriedly put on my pants and glanced up at the wall clock – eight fifteen. No, it's too early for Bella to come; it must be the newspaper boy.

Attempting to pull the t-shirt over my head, I stumbled my way to the door, with the bill in one hand and my wallet in the other.

Bella

In my eagerness to get there, I ended up being forty-five minutes early. As I pressed the doorbell, I wondered if Edward was even up yet, after all everyone liked sleeping late on a Sunday. I knew I did.

I was holding a paper bag in my arms that contained a box full of pancakes with a small bottle of maple syrup. My hands started getting sore at Edward's delay in opening the door. What if he had been sleeping? Was it possible that I had just woken him up?

After another long minute, I heard the door being cracked open. The first thing I saw was Edward pulling a t-shirt through his arms, as he held out a small piece of paper in front of him along with a few dollar notes. His view was obstructed by his t-shirt which is why I guessed he probably couldn't see me. But the next thing that I saw took me completely off-guard. The lower half of his torso – pale white skin stretched over a flat stomach that shimmered in the morning sunlight that came from the windows - was still discernible from underneath the t-shirt he was still putting on. What surprised me, were the numerous pink scars that ran along all over his skin. A particularly grotesque-looking one went right through his navel and the sight of the deep gash made me gasp out loud.

On hearing the sound, he struggled even harder to pull his t-shirt down and when his face finally came into my view, I saw that he looked stunned at my expression. He swiftly retrieved back the hand holding the money. I fought hard to keep a neutral face.

"Bella, you're here," he said. He smiled to make it seem less like a question, I presumed.

Words were all jumbled up on my tongue. I opened my mouth to say something but no sound came out. He quickly stood aside, motioning me to come in and explained, "Sorry about that." I did not have a clue as to what he was apologizing for and it must have shown on my face because he immediately added, "I thought you were the newspaper boy."

He came forward, took the paper bag from my hands and placed it on the dining table. To break the somewhat uncomfortable silence, I said the first thing that came to my mind. "I hope I didn't wake you."

He turned to face me and said with a wave of his hand, "No, I was up already." I swayed on the heels of my feet, wringing my hands, feeling extremely awkward all of a sudden. Edward stood, facing me, his hands rigid by his sides, looking just as uncomfortable as I did. Except that in his blue t-shirt and plain black slacks, he looked even more striking than usual while I looked plainer than ever. He broke the silence saying, "I am sorry I couldn't prepare much for breakfast today." He looked down, suddenly embarrassed.

My insides melted at his announcement. I smiled guiltily and said, "Please, don't apologize. I am not much of a cook myself so I perfectly understand."

At this, he looked up and flashed one of his dazzling smiles that almost made me dizzy. "Let's go eat then and see for ourselves how this impromptu breakfast turns out." He held out a chair for me. I sat down and took out my pancakes while he went to get plates and glasses. From the microwave, he brought out dishes, one containing French toasts and the was other full of home fries. He set them on the table and turned on the coffee machine. I placed one of my pancakes on his plate and poured maple syrup all over it. I waited tentatively while he took a bite.

He kept eating silently and I figured it was impolite to ask him how it was. In the morning, I had tasted them after they were done. Even though they were nowhere close to the little pieces of heaven Renee makes, I didn't think they were entirely revolting either. I finished my pancakes and gained a little bit more confidence, reinforced by what I had first thought about them this morning. After a while, he got up to get coffee and I took one of the toasts and bit into it.

I narrowed my eyebrows as I chewed. "Why are these spicy? Aren't French toasts supposed to be sweet?" I inquired. He brought the coffee mugs to the table and sat down. "Yes, they are. But this is how they are made in India. Back in college, my Indian roommate taught me how to make them," he said with a smile. Then he looked nervous all of a sudden, "Why do you ask? You don't like them?"

"Ha! Are you kidding? These are brilliant! I have never, ever had anything like them before," I said, enthusiastically finishing the small piece left on my plate. He had been right about his cooking. He did know how to manage it all on his own. He smiled again and my heart fluttered in response. "Phew! That's a relief. Then allow me to say that those pancakes were quite delicious as well."

I choked on my coffee and started coughing. Edward ran to get me a glass of water and I finished it instantly. Following that, we continued eating in silence, none of us making small talk. Thankfully, he didn't comment on my cooking skills any more because obviously I didn't react to them properly. After we had finished every last piece of fry, I sat back on the chair. "And you thought there wouldn't be enough food?" I asked, raising an eyebrow and burst into laughter. Edward joined in.

Like the previous week, after breakfast, I helped him do the dishes. While I scrubbed the plates, I asked "So what college did you go to?"

He had his eyes cast downward, carefully wiping the clean dishes dry. "Dartmouth, class of 2002" he replied wryly.

I looked up at him and mouthed, "Wow." I felt even more intimidated by him. He chuckled softly. "Bella, I could say I had the same reaction when you told me you majored in Applied Chemistry. Imagine how inadequate I felt at that moment," he said, pretending to look mortified.

Before I could reply to that, he took all the clean dishes and stacked them one by one neatly inside the kitchen cabinet. I stood with my back resting against the kitchen counter while he stood, once finished, facing me. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, "Who are you, exactly?"

His question and the way he asked it made him seem genuinely curious about my dull life. Yet, I couldn't be sure if he actually wanted to know the answer, so I didn't know how I should reply to that. "What do you mean?" I asked, snapping my eyebrows together.

"Well, apart from the fact that you love to read classics and you have a strange way of chewing your food, I don't know a thing about you." He bit his tongue and scrunched up his face, looking like he had given away too much information.

I digested that for a minute. Nonetheless, I couldn't fathom as to why he would suddenly take an interest in my life and since he was still waiting for his answer I decided I should start saying something. At least it would be better than the awkward silence surrounding us again.

And what was that he said about the way I chewed my food?

"Well, you haven't talked much about yourself either," apart from that dreadful accident, I added silently.

He sighed, giving in. "Okay, I guess you are correct. I'll tell you about my life if you tell me about yours," he said.

"That sounds about right," I replied, feeling excited, dazed and anxious all at the same time.

We settled down in the living room. He sat across from me on the loveseat while I nestled down on one of the single couches, with my feet comfortably tucked under me.

"I was born in New Jersey. My father, Carlisle, was a neurosurgeon and my mother, Esme, was a high school teacher. I was their only child. The year I turned twelve, my father passed away, due to a heart failure." He paused for a while, looking down at his palms, his expression unreadable. "My mother struggled a lot to pull us through. She worked full-time and after she got back home in the evening, instead of taking a break, she would engage herself in preparing our meals, inquiring about my lessons and asking me about my day. She yearned to see me as an educated, responsible and all-around good human being. Whatever I am today, it is only because of her." He said this with a peaceful look on his face and it was clear how much his mother meant to him.

"After I had passed my SATs," he continued, "I wanted to stay in New Jersey and go to some local college. You see, I didn't care much about Ivy League. However, that was when my mother put her foot down and asked me to apply to Dartmouth. My SAT scores were good enough so I got in, but I had no intention of actually moving away to New Hampshire, because I was fully aware how lonely Esme would get without me around. Yet, she kept pushing me and finally forced me to move out. That was one of the most difficult days in both our lives; however neither of us let the other know about it. People said that was one feature I had inherited from her – the ability to hide well my emotions," he chortled.

"After four years of college, majoring in Marketing, I decided to move to New York. I wanted to drag Esme along with me but she wouldn't budge saying that she couldn't leave my father's house. She said the place was still full of memories of him and she could not leave those behind her and move all of a sudden to a new place. Seeing that her decision had been made and that I had no intention of leaving her behind once again, I changed my mind and decided to stay back in Jersey and get a job there, instead. But she wouldn't let me do that either. She said she didn't want me to plan my life around her and it would be foolish of me to miss out on good opportunities by staying there. For the second time, she forced me out to live life on my own," he laughed again, but it was a mirthless one this time. "You could say that being stubborn was another one of the habits I had gotten from her."

"Then after I got a job here, I enrolled for a post graduate's degree. In the meantime, I continued my violin lessons with an orchestra. That was something I really enjoyed doing," he said, his face lighting up all of a sudden, casting brightness all around him. "It always felt so good to play before a full-room audience, that didn't boo you at the end of the show. I remember it made me feel extremely relieved and satisfied with my work. I tell you, there is no better sensation in this world than making someone happy with your music," he said, meeting my eyes, with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I felt a strange pull in my heart, knowing how his tragedy had put an end to something he took so much delight in doing.

He remained quiet for some time. "So that's basically it. Are you content now or there's anything else you would like to know?" he asked, smirking.

"I'll think of something," I said, holding my index finger up and biting my lip. All of a sudden, his gaze shifted to my lips and I automatically froze, with my fingers hanging in air and my bottom lip stuck between my teeth. Our eyes locked and several, tense moments passed, making me feel those electric sparks again, even though I was sitting at quite a distance away from him. After a painfully long amount of time, or it could have been seconds – I couldn't be sure because like they said in books and movies, time did lose its meaning on such instances - he broke the eye contact and muttered two words: "Your turn."

I cleared my throat, feeling thoroughly bewildered at what had just happened. "Well, I have lived in New York all my life. My dad, Charlie, is a retired government officer and my mother, Renee, is a housewife. I have an older brother, Oliver, who annoys the hell out of me on most days but he and I are very close." I paused, licking my lips which had suddenly gone dry. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see his eyes following that trail and I quickly resumed, in order to quench my nervousness.

A/N: As usual, review please?