She Gives Me Religion Chapter 5: What Dreams May Come, a twilight fanfic

Thank you wonderful readers for staying with this story, for writing lovely reviews, and for bringing new friends along for this ride. When you bring a friend to the club, the first drink is on me.

Thank you to robsjenn… she knows why. (Yes, I stole that line from Icy. It always intrigues me.)

Thank you to Sunshine for pre-reading.

Great thanks to my beta, PaintedTeacherLady.

WARNING: This chapter earns its "M" rating for: 1) dark images; 2) dark, religious images, and; 3) graphic lemons which include the flavors of real lemons.

However, this story does not include the blend of dark, religious images and sex. I'll save that for another story ;)

Now, here is our look through the eyes of Isabella Swan…

Chapter Five

What Dreams May Come

Warm water.

I'm submerged up to my neck in a bath of warm water. He is leaning over me. The long, soft fingers of Edward Masen move up and down my back, along my spine. He touches a tender spot on the small of my back and I inhale sharply at the pain, my bare breasts brush against the flesh of his expansive chest. His expression flashes from concern to pleasure and back to concern again. I am not the only one who feels the electricity of our touch. My eyes float from his shy smile and square jaw to the taut, sinuous muscles of his chest, back, and arms. I've always known the triceps have three parts, but until watching Edward move, I've never seen them in action. He is beautiful - more beautiful than any creature I've ever seen. Long and lean, his broad shoulders narrow at his slim waist, creating the perfect triangle. He must run… and lift weights… he must do something. He has that flat muscle on his lower abs, the one that leads the eye to below his belt, the triangle within the triangle dissected by the thin trail to Eden. What is that triangular muscle called—obliques? No, that's something else. The symmetry of Edward Masen is a lesson in Anatomy—a master class in Art.

"Bella." I hear a voice, but Edward doesn't speak.

"Bella… Bells?" That's Charlie's voice. What's Charlie doing here?

"Bella, we're home." I feel a nudge on my arm and begin to wake. Oh, I've been dreaming. I open my eyes and look out the windshield. Where am I? I'm in a car—a car… car accident… wedding, Alice, Alice is hurt, and Mike is dead. I close my eyes, hoping to fall back into my blithesome dream state.

"Take your time, I'll get your suitcase." I must have slept the whole way home, poor Charlie. Was I talking during my dream? I hope not—I don't think I have the ability to explain my nocturnal admissions right now.

Sue Clearwater's car is in the driveway already. Sue is here for Charlie, she's a good friend, and I think maybe more. Someday I should ask Charlie about their relationship. It's a little strange I haven't yet.

I follow Charlie through the front door of our small, Cape Cod style house. The interior of the house is unrecognizable. There are several bouquets of flowers in the living room—it smells like a flower shop. Does this mean there won't be flowers at the funeral? Casseroles, Tupperware containers, crock-pots, and more flowers fill the dining room table. The smell of food cooking suddenly overtakes the smell of flowers. Who lives here? Who did all this? When? Wasn't it just yesterday that we were all at the wedding? Was it?

"Welcome home," Sue says as she walks from the kitchen to the dining room. She hugs Charlie and his tension momentarily recedes into her. It is one of the few times in my life that I see a glimpse of his vulnerability. Sue must be more than a friend—for both their sakes, I pray she is.

"Bella, honey…" She comes to me with open arms, and I allow myself to fall into her. Sue Clearwater is a woman made of steel, covered in thick layers of soft fleece; it is easy to be weak in her presence. One gets the sense that she would find a way to float to the top of the most turbulent ocean. She strokes my hair and says, "Bella, your mom called, she'd like to fly home to be with you."

"Sue, Bella just got home, can't this wait?"

"No Charlie, it can't," Sue is unaffected by Charlie's mild criticism. "Renee is thinking about getting the next plane out of Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam?" Charlie asks, confused.

"Don't you remember, Dad? Phil's new band is big in the Netherlands."

"I thought it was Germany."

"No, Germany was college graduation—it's the Dutch that kept them away from the wedding."

"Oh right, how quickly I forget," Charlie responds dryly. The joking about my mom and her husband Phil's globetrotting adventures started a long time ago. I noticed at an early age that if Charlie and I ever needed to speak of Renee, it would be best to do so through humor. To talk seriously about Renee meant acknowledging her as a real human being, one who left her husband and little girl with no warning and has kept inconsistent contact ever since.

"Do you want her to come, Bella?" Uh-oh. Charlie's question is serious. Do I want her to come? I know it would please her to be here, to make her feel like she is the mother she really isn't. The thought of a classic Renee whirlwind visit, crammed with several years' worth of reserved, fervent guilt, makes me nauseous. Part of me knows it would be a nice thing to do for her, but I just can't, not this time. Charlie must read it on my face. He says, "I'll tell her to come another time."

"I can call if you want."

"No Bella, it's my turn." Charlie heads into the kitchen and I hear him dial the phone.

Sue distracts me by taking a paper plate and filling it with green bean casserole, potato salad, and macaroni and cheese. "Sue, that's not for me, is it?"

"Yes Bella, you need to eat something. You looked too thin yesterday. Beautiful, but thin."

"I'm just not that hungry right now." And it's the truth. I'm full. I'm full of guilt and sadness and confusion. "I'll eat something after I lie down for a little while."

"Well, you have to at least taste my venison stew; I made it special for you." The first batch of Sue's stew is an autumn tradition. As she uncovers the crock-pot, I look around the room and again take in all the food, flowers, and cards. There is a teddy bear in the corner with a red ribbon and a small card attached to its neck. Although I can't hear what Charlie is saying, his voice is tense. They must be arguing.

My chest is tight, I'm feeling overwhelmed. Sue brings a large spoon filled with stew to my mouth, her hand held under it to catch any dripping. I blow and take a small bite. It's a familiar taste—rich meat, salty gravy, acidic tomatoes, heavy with rosemary—delicious, but far too powerful for my dormant taste buds. I smile and tell her that I look forward to a bowl after my nap. Although I should wait for Charlie to be off the phone, I haven't been alone in the last forty-eight hours and I'm eager to get to my room.

"Sue, you don't mind if I head up do you?"

"Not at all Bella, you go rest."

I pick up the teddy bear on the way to the stairs. It looks like a polar bear about the size of a small bed pillow, and it feels even plusher than it looks. Good for hugging. The card reads, "Bella, I'm sending you prayers. Love, Angela." Angela Weber, Reverend Weber's daughter and my dear childhood friend, is sending me prayers. I can use them.

I climb the first three steps, but my legs do not feel like my own. After a lifetime of bouncing up these stairs, today acid burns in my muscles as I take each step. Legs of lead, it takes all my strength to hoist my weight to the fourth step. I continue, taking one at a time and resting a few seconds before I have enough energy to pull my body up again. Is this from sore muscles? Exhaustion? I shouldn't be so lethargic, I'm sleeping like a champ—but I'm out of breath. I have to stop, sit, and take a break before I reach the top.

"Bella, you okay?' Charlie is looking up from the bottom of the steps holding my suitcase.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm taking a little rest." I want to stand immediately, but I don't yet have the energy.

"Stay there, I'm coming up." Shoot, I'm worrying Charlie. I grab onto the banister and raise my body to standing before Charlie reaches me. "You're still sore from the accident, aren't you?"

"A little. I have half of a Valium I can take."

"Let's try aspirin first. If that doesn't work, you can take a Valium—half of a Valium." I suppress a smile. I predicted Charlie would be needlessly nervous about the Valium. He opens the door of the bedroom and puts my suitcase on my bed. A few minutes later, he returns with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.

"If you need anything…"

"I'll holler… Dad, there's a lot of stuff downstairs."

"I know, Bells. We have some nice friends… either that, or we know a lot of people who think I can't cook." I consider asking him how his phone call went, but decide not to. It wasn't pleasant. She's not coming. Case closed. Yet another Renee disaster adverted. "Have a good rest."

"Thanks, Dad." He closes the door, and I am alone, alone, alone. Thank you, Father in Heaven, I am alone in my purple bedroom—my sanctuary. I unzip my suitcase and lingerie springs up like a jack-in-the box. So many times I wanted to throw this all away, but felt too guilty about tossing out the shower gifts of well-meaning friends. I'm sure the peignoir from Rose cost a small fortune. Well, my cup runneth over with guilt, there is room for no more. I scoop up the satin, silk, and lace into my arms and dump it into the too small wastepaper basket. It overflows, of course, but I find great joy in stepping down on the pile and trying to squeeze it all in. The remaining clothes are best suited for Rio, not much that is Forks appropriate. Fortunately, I usually keep a pair of pajamas in my bedroom bureau. I search through the drawers. Thank goodness, they're here—warm, red flannel. What else do I have? Some t-shirts… a sweatshirt… a pair of jeans… comfy white cotton panties… plenty to get me through a visit home. I don't plan to go out at all—what else could I need? Oh… the funeral—what am I going to wear to the funeral? Damn it.

It's okay Bella, you have plenty of time to go shopping; maybe Angela will come with you.

I put on my pjs and walk to my desk looking for a pen and paper—my mind is a sieve right now and if I don't write things down, I'll lose them forever. Let's see, plenty of paper, and a cup with five pens in various colors and styles. I scribble the first pen on the paper and get nothing—it's too dry. I try with the second… the third… fourth… fifth—just a paper covered in invisible curlicues. Not a single working pen, nice one Bella. I give up and crawl into bed with my new teddy bear, repeating my things to do list: need dress, order flowers. Dress, flowers, dress, flowers… and shoes, neither strappy sandals nor sneakers will work for a funeral. Dress, flowers, and shoes. And I should go to confession. Dress, flowers, shoes, confession…

…I drift off to sleep.

My brown and purple patchwork quilt is too warm… I turn over on my stomach and find a cool corner of the pillow… I hear voices. Where am I? I'm home… Forks… Mike is dead, Alice is in the hospital, I had sex. I had sex? I had sex—I'll think about all of that another time. It's dark outside and there are definitely voices downstairs—lots of them. I have to pee. I step out of bed to find my legs are still stiff. Did I take the aspirin? Don't know. I cross the landing and go to the bathroom, careful to avoid my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. When I'm done, I head back to my room, but Charlie meets me on the landing at the top of the stairs.

"I heard you get up." This house holds no secrets; between the loud plumbing and the creaking floor, there is no such thing as sneaking around. "Some folks came over to say hi. They'd love to see you." See me? I don't want to see anyone; but I should, it's rude not to go downstairs.

"Sure Dad… um… let me get dressed."

"You look fine, come down in what you're wearing." Charlie's level of appropriate dress is a little different from mine—well, not that different, but I should at least put on a bra.

"Just give me a minute." Charlie purses his lips in concern. Don't worry Charlie. "I'll be down in a minute," I reassure him and he heads back downstairs.

Since I don't know if the aspirin worked, I opt for the half of Valium and put my bra on. I hear Angela's voice downstairs—I need to talk to her about something, a favor, I think. If I lie down and rest my eyes for a minute, it will come to me. Angela… favor… Angela, she looked so pretty yesterday in that pale blue dress… a dress, something about a dress. When was that? Yesterday. A favor… a dress…

I wake with a jolt. Downstairs, I have to go downstairs. Wait, it's quiet. What time is it? My alarm clock is flashing 3:14, but I have no idea what that means. The house is silent—I missed the party. Party? What do you call it? I missed the mourning. Oh Charlie, I'm sorry. He hates company; I wasn't thinking yesterday, or is it today? I reach for my clock to fix it, but I don't know what time it is. Where's my watch? My apartment—I didn't wear one to the wedding. My wedding. The accident. I don't want to think about that right now.

There's a note behind my alarm clock and a sandwich on a plate wrapped in cellophane. The note reads, "Going to work for a couple hours tomorrow. Call if you need me. Dad." My father made me a cheese sandwich. No mustard, just two thin slices of white American cheese on soft, white bread—my favorite, next to cereal. He even made two diagonal cuts creating four small triangles. This is the way I cut his sandwiches; he usually cuts them in half, but never on the corners—never a diagonal cut. This is proof he's worried.

I bring the plate into bed with me and eat the first doughy triangle. The sandwich is so soft, it barely requires teeth, just melts on the tongue like communion. I'm so hungry—famished, really. Why am I so hungry now, but at other times, I can't eat at all? The second triangle goes right past my lips and into my gullet. Okay, maybe that one went too fast. I take my time with the next one and wash it down with the newly filled glass of water on my nightstand. Thanks again, Charlie. My stomach rumbles in appreciation, I hope it's appreciation, as I take my last triangle. I let the last bite linger in my mouth; it's stuck to the roof—just like a communion wafer. If I'm going to have communion at the funeral, I need to go to confession this week. I should write that down somewhere…

###

... I'm kneeling in a pew of my Catholic church. It's not the Lutheran church I usually attend, the one where Reverend Weber ministers. It's the Catholic church of my childhood. The church is shaped like a cross with four entrances, cathedral ceilings, and beautifully frightening stained glass windows. The air, thick with incense, burns my nostrils. If incenses are burning, it must be an important day, maybe a holiday. I'm kneeling to pray, but my eyes scan the Stations of the Cross adorning the walls. These are such horribly sad depictions of Christ's last days—they terrified me as a child and little has changed.

A nun from my past speaks in my ear, her voice aged, crackled, "Yes, they are horrible, Bella. This is what Christ did for you, for your sins." I look around, but don't see her. Where did she go? Instead, I see others, hundreds of others. The church is packed and more people are flocking in. They are whispering to one another. Pointing at me. They fill the pews and stand against the wall, three and four people deep. Is it Easter? No, these aren't Easter clothes… they wear black suits and dresses. They are mourners. What am I wearing? I look down to see I'm wearing my flannel pajamas. I forgot to go shopping. I was supposed to go shopping! This is all wrong. I drop my head in prayer, "Please Jesus, make them go away, make them go away…I'm sorry for my sins, I'm sorry for my sins, I'm sorry for-"

SLAM!

The thunderous sound of a heavy metal door shutting behind me breaks my prayer. It's quickly followed by the sound of the other three doors closing—Slam! Slam! Slam! The echo vibrates through the pew. Oh, shit. The sound of scraping metal comes from all four sides of the church—the doors are being bolted shut. I'm trapped. I twist my body around to look for help, look for an escape.

Suddenly, I'm alone. The church is empty. The only sound is my pounding heart. I run out of the pew and down the aisle to the back, but the pews go on forever, I can't see an end to them. I can't see the back of the church. It extends to the horizon.

There must be an end. I must keep running… but my legs are so heavy… I can barely take another step. If I can't run anymore, I'll crawl. On my hands and knees, I push forward, desperately clutching at the long burgundy carpet. So much effort, but I make no progress. I'm panicking "Dear Lord, Dear Lord, what did I do? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Isabella." I hear a voice call to me from the altar. I freeze. It couldn't be. I close my eyes as I slowly turn. "Please let it be, please let it be…"

I open my eyes and there he is: Edward is standing like an angel on the altar. Edward is here; he's here to save me. He is wearing a priest's collar, and a black dress cassock that reaches floor. The single-breasted garment hugs every inch of his torso. I'm not scared anymore. Edward is here and he'll find a way out. Fear is replaced with longing.

"Come to me, Isabella." He says in a voice different from the caramel baritone I know—this voice is wisp thin, distant.

"But I'm not dressed, Father."

"Yes you are, Isabella."

I look down to see I'm wearing my wedding gown. No, wait… it's my First Holy Communion dress. Even my thin cross necklace, my first piece of jewelry, dangles at my chest. I stand and walk towards him. Edward gives me life, energy. I can run again, and I do. As I run, I watch him move about the altar. I'm not sure what he is doing. My eyes focus on the billowing unbuttoned bottom of his cassock as he moves—he looks like he's floating.

I reach the altar, not even out of breath. "Father… what are you doing here?"

Edward stops what he is doing for a moment and regards me. He angles his head to the side like he doesn't understand my question and says, "You wanted the Holy Eucharist, Isabella, the sacrament."

"You're going to give me communion?" Is Edward a priest? He looks like a priest. I'm confused. He doesn't respond, just continues to stare. Something about him is different. He's passionless… expressionless… I'm not sure I like this anymore.

"Aren't you going to kneel before the altar, Isabella?"

"Of course… I'm sor-… sorry, Father." Oh, shit… I'm stuttering… I want to leave. I look behind me and hope to see the exit, but there's nothing. I look down each wing that makes up the church's cross, but there are only seas of empty pews.

"Aren't you going to kneel before the altar, Isabella?" he says again, mirroring the same intonation. I want my Edward… where's my Edward?

Frightened, I do as he says and make the sign of the cross, "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen." Kneeling before the communion railing, I close my eyes and pray for my Edward's return. I feel this priest moving, the gentle breeze of air across my face as his walks.

The air stops and I sense him standing close to me, my warm rushed breath bouncing back to me. I'm panicking. My eyes open to meet his wide, black band cincture just inches from face. I tilt my head back; he's looking down at me. A shy smile emerges from the corner of his mouth. He gently strokes my face and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. Are you my Edward?

"Breath Isabella, it's alright. Don't be afraid." It's him. And in that moment, I am not afraid. My lungs fill with air. The serenity I feel in his presence is like no other. Those green eyes, almost kelly green eyes, look down at me with kindness. The lighting of this church catches the bronze in his hair—his hair, his eyes, his whole being is glowing, nearly sparkling.

I surrender in his presence, "Oh Father, bless me… bless me for I have sinned." Tears well up in my eyes, pleading for God's mercy, for Edward's mercy.

"I know Isabella." He looks a little sad—disappointed? He turns his back to me and takes the steps to the top of the altar. The absence makes me cold. I see he has prepared the offering-the wine and bread. Edward walks to the side of the altar and washes his hands before returning to the center and beginning the Eucharistic Prayer.

"Father, let your Spirit come upon these gifts to make them holy,
so that they may become for us the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Edward makes the sign of the cross above the offering. He is so graceful, I can't take my eyes off of him. He continues, looking only at me. This is a prayer for me…

"Take this, all of you, and eat it:
this is my body which will be given up for you."

Edward holds up the bread, genuflects, and then takes the chalice of wine and says,

"Take this, all of you, and drink from it:
this is the cup of my blood,
the blood of the new and everlasting covenant.
It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven"

Edward elevates the chalice and genuflects again. I watch him take the loaf of rustic bread, not a communion host, and rip it into three pieces. He dips one piece of bread in the wine, his eyes never leaving mine, and he says,

"May this mingling of the body and blood our Lord Jesus Christ
bring eternal life to us who receive it."

I watch Edward place the red, wet bread back on a sliver plate, close his eyes and silently pray. I'm supposed to be praying right now. In fact, I think I missed some responses I was supposed to say during the prayer… but I can't concentrate. Watching the theatre of Catholic mass—the performance, the grandeur, particularly with Edward as the lead player, can be spellbinding. He says, "Amen," and begins to walk to me with the silver tray of bread and chalice of wine.

What is he doing? He's supposed to stay up there. Those green eyes burn into mine as he continues to walk, and says,

"Bella, This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper." His voice is thin again.

He waits, standing above me, and angles his head. Right, I remember and quickly say, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed."

He blinks down at me. There is no smile; his face, impassive. The silver plate with three pieces of bread, two dry and one soaked in red wine, rests on the railing. Something is wrong with the plate. He takes a piece of dry bread and puts it in his mouth. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

"The body of Christ," he says as he brings the second piece to my lips. I open my mouth and offer my tongue. Gently, he places it in my mouth. I swallow, make the sign of the cross, and glance at the plate again. The bread… the soaked bread is red… deep, deep red. It rests in a small puddle of thick red liquid. I look at the chalice as Edward genuflects, before he raises it to his lips. That's not wine. That's not wine!

"Edward, no!" He stops. "Edward, that's not wine… that's… that's blood." Again, he angles his head like he doesn't understand me. Oh please, Edward!

"Of course it's blood, Isabella. It's the blood of Christ. Don't you believe in transubstantiation?" I do, don't I? I don't know. He raises the chalice to his lips.

"Wait! No!" I stretch up my hand to stop him, but it's too late. He drinks and drinks, blood trickles from the corners of his mouth. It travels like two thin veins down his chin that merge into a thick stream at his neck. The blood touches his collar, quickly spreading red over white. I can't watch. I bow my head and clasp my hands in prayer. I'm silently begging, "Please, please, please, make him stop." Like rain, droplets splash onto my hands. I don't want to look. I know what it is.

Gently, he lifts my chin with his fingers. I keep my eyes closed and press my lips together. No! I don't want this!

His long fingers span my jaw and grip forcefully to hold me still. "Bella, you asked for the sacrament—the blood of Christ." I feel the cold rim of the chalice press between my lips… wine… no, blood is spilling as I struggle to pull away from his ever-tightening grip on my jaw. I can taste the blood, the salty, warm blood. It splashes down the front of my dress.

"Isabella… the Blood of Christ," he says through gritted teeth. No, no, no—don't look. I know what I'll see… I don't want to see his face… the blood…

"NO!" I yell and whack the chalice away with my arm. He releases me.

My eyes spring open and I lurch straight up in my bed.

Holy Shit! What was that?

I've knocked over a glass of water—nearly across the room. I look at my clock, it's flashing 11:26, and I have no idea what that means. It's daylight. I fall back into my bed, blinking wildly and trying to catch my breath.

It's okay, Bella. It was a dream, just a dream. I try to slow my breaths as images of the quickly fading dream still flash before me like electric shocks: the doors slamming; Edward, tucking my hair; Edward, drinking the blood. No, no, no… don't think about it. Replay it now, and it will be burned in my mind forever. I rub my hands over my forehead as if I can erase the dream with my fingers.

Lying in bed won't help me forget, so I grab a towel to clean up the water. After I sop up the spill, I return the towel to the bathroom hamper. With the medicine cabinet open to avoid the mirror, I begin to brush my teeth. My mouth feels horrible. When was the last time I brushed? Was it The Four Seasons? When was that, yesterday?

The Four Seasons, that's the origin of your dream, Bella. Did I really have sex with a man I just met? Yes. If the cabinet was closed, I would give myself a long, hard look in the mirror, but instead I stare at Charlie's neatly organized razors, soap, and first-aid supplies. What's this? It looks like Charlie moved my Valium from my bedroom to the cabinet. Bella, stop avoiding; you had sex with a man you just met.

Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella, you have three choices: You can admit you made a mistake and beat yourself up. You can admit you make a mistake and forgive yourself. Or, you can be honest with yourself… you are not at all sorry. His voice is in my head, "Isabella Swan, if I lived a hundred years, I wouldn't regret making love to you last night." I can almost feel his breath at my ear. Why did something so wrong in my head feel so right in my heart? I truly believed he was sent from God—an amalgamation of everything I have ever wanted, before I even knew I wanted it. Needed it. I thought he was an angelic apparition, a delusion. I had to know if he was real, and if he wasn't, I wanted to fall down that rabbit hole and never return. He was real. He is real, Bella.

I close my eyes and I can still feel him touching me, his hand firmly around my waist, my back pressed against his chest; kissing me—his soft, moist lips behind my ear, trailing feather-light kisses down my neck. His caramel voice saying my name, "Bella…Bella..." I grab a bar of Irish Spring soap from the shelf and take a strong sniff. It isn't Edward, exactly, but it is clean, manly, Irish… Is 'Masen' Irish? It's close enough.

I turn on the sink faucet and, and as the water warms, I lock the bathroom door and unbutton my pajama top. No harm in getting a little cleaned up, Bella. The soap works into a warm, thick, rich lather in my hands. Oh, the fragrance—citrus, wood, clean—wafts through the air, filling this small room. I need more. Closing my eyes, I bring my sudsy hands to the nape of my neck and slide them around front to my collarbone. His smell envelops me.

Tension drains from my body. We're in the closet, and my slick hands follow the path of Edward's mouth, from my neck to that most sensitive spot between my breasts. I feel his hands on my backside as he grinds his erection into my belly and kisses me. I take the wet bar of soap and slowly slide it up and down between my breasts, imagining what it might feel like to have Edward, there.… so naughty, but so good. The soap slips out of my hands back into the sink, but I don't care. I palm my swollen breasts, my nipples so hard at the thought of him… I pull… oh, my…

I need to get to my bedroom, now.

I dry myself off with the first towel I see, pull my top around me, and cross the landing calling downstairs, "Ch-Dad, are you home?" Nothing. When am I going to get this chance again? My pajama pants are off and I'm in bed within seconds. My bottom lip is swollen, numb with arousal. I bite it as I run my fingers under the waistband of my panties. The elastic is pulled taut between my hipbones, creating a gap where soft flesh used to have a home. I'll eat today—but not now. My hand slips under my panties and over my sex. I'm so wet. I didn't know it was possible to be so… Oh… I draw little circles and close my eyes. It is no longer my hand, my bedroom…

… Edward is above me, surrounding me, in me. We are in my—our—hotel bed. I'm beyond my nervous chatter and now just experiencing the phenomenon of Edward Masen being inside of me. I can still feel his forearms nestled between my shoulder blades and the mattress—his face just inches above mine. Oh, his Irish Masen smell. He rocks his entire body over me, into me, in a slow, even rhythm. He rubs his nose along mine—the mix of our warm breath. I hold onto his shoulders and move my hips to meet each gentle thrust. Edward's body slides between my wet thighs. His dark, hooded eyes never leave mine. Each time he rocks into me, he breathes my name.

"Bella…"

This beautiful angel is inside of me, the thought is consuming. "Bella… Bella…" Inside of me, stretching me, filling me. He dips his head and brushes his soft lips against mine without breaking his rhythm. Again, another kiss… I can taste his feeling for me on his tongue. Like pulling a loose thread on a sweater, my body unravels, opening me further. No pain, only pleasure. He must feel it. He moves in me farther, and lets out a soft, "Oh." I run my hands from his shoulders, along his muscular back, and stretch to reach his sculpted backside.

I hold him to me and my heart swells. I want to say the words, "I love you, I love you, I love you," but stop myself for fear they will disintegrate this illusion.

"Bella… Bella…" He's pushing me higher and higher. He kisses me again, forcefully invading my mouth. I run my hands through his hair, to his face. I feel a pull deep, deep in my stomach. I've never felt something so physically, emotionally, profound… My body quivers. I fear my own climax.

His rhythm quickens…

"Bella, Bella, Bella…"

His face… his eyes pleading. He thrusts into me, hard… stops and grinds his pelvis into my throbbing flesh. "Please, come," he begs.

I fall over the edge, pressing the pads of my fingers into his shoulders.

"Augh." My body convulses around him. The core of me clutches to the core of Edward. He continues to thrust wildly as I orgasm. I squeeze my eyes shut… I'm cresting again… Dear Lord!

Edward stills and I pry my eyes open to watch him come. His face, exquisitely anguished as he grunts, "My God," then falls into a blissful release as he pours himself into me.

He collapses. Then he rolls us onto our sides, his hands on my head and back, holding me snugly to him.

As I catch my breath, and slide my wet hand over my thigh, I can still smell him. Right here, right now in my little bed, I can smell him as if I'm still nuzzled against his chest. I draw in my knees and pull my purple quilt and around myself. The white bear needs a hug and I find he fits perfectly in the nook of my stomach.

"Dad? You home?" I call out. Just checking.

Edward Masen is the kindest, most gentle man I have ever met. Even if I never see him again, I won't regret making love to him—won't regret choosing him. But I will see him again. I know it.

###

I am so thirsty.

And cold.

My white bear is painfully compressed between the mattress and my boobs. I toss him aside as I pull my blanket around me and try to fall back asleep. Wake up, Bella. Don't want to. Wake up! The life coach inside my head forces me to open my eyes. I take in my surroundings, remembering I'm in Forks… the accident… Alice. Mike is dead. I roll over, there's no reason to get up, and hug my white bear.

But I'm thirsty.

I look for a glass of water on my bedside table, but instead find a square-shaped bottle. My eyes adjust as I reach for it… Pedialyte. Grape Pedialyte.

"Edward?" I call out, my voice rough, raw. I look around my silent, dimly lit bedroom. He's not here, Bella. But where did this…? Charlie. Charlie must have spoken to Edward. Quickly, I sit up and drink down several long swallows of the purple magic elixir, feeling it lubricate my sticky mouth.

My alarm clock reads 6:49 and it's no longer flashing. The orange sky is scratched with stratus clouds—it must be dusk. I don't hear Charlie, but he should be home soon. Get your act together, Bella. If for no other reason, do it for Charlie.

I put on my pajama pants and totter down to the bathroom, happy to find the cabinet already open. I brush my teeth, pee—dark yellow, I think that means something, and find a small jar of Vaseline that serves my sorely cracked lips. The bottle of Valium stares at me and I consider my still aching body, but decide against it. Bella, you're stiff because you've been in bed all day. Now pull yourself together before Charlie gets home.

I make my way downstairs, past the flower bouquets, and into the kitchen. The inside of our refrigerator looks like an aluminum foil graveyard. Never has so much food been in this house. I peek under the lids and open up containers—sweet potatoes, soup, another tray of mac and cheese, and the mother load—a spiral sliced ham. Fortunately, some has been eaten. They must have eaten last night at the party… the mourning… the mourning party.

There are small, soft dinner rolls on the kitchen counter. I nestle a little piece of ham in one to create a tiny sandwich and shove most in my mouth in one bite. Too salty… why does everything taste so salty, even the bread? I toss it out and head back to the fridge. Charlie bought milk; this is a good sign. I reach in the cupboard to see an unopened box of Total Raisin Bran cereal. Very healthy, Charlie.

I make a bowl and eat it right there leaning against the kitchen sink. Mmmm. As I crunch and slurp, I think about the fact that Charlie bought me cereal and Pedialyte. Charlie always buys me cereal, doesn't he? Maybe I like Edward because he's similar to Charlie. Is that weird? No, no, Charlie is a good guy, the best.

After cleaning up my cereal, I wander to the living room and look out the window. Charlie's car is here…and it's getting lighter out. Shit, it's not dusk. It's dawn. How long did I sleep? Don't freak out, Bella. This is good. It's the start of a new day. Charlie must be asleep. I will pull myself together and get something accomplished.

In fact, it is morning, my muscles are stiff, and I know the ideal remedy-sun salutations. Our throw rug will work as my yoga mat. Mountain pose, why can't all the poses be this easy? Inhale, arms up… this feels good. And exhale, head to knees, whoops, head rush. Inhale, right leg back in a lunge… left leg back for plank… whoops, no plank… and… I'm done. Corpse pose. Screw Mountain, this is the best pose.

I've been staring at the ceiling for a really long time now. I don't know what I'm doing, waiting for it to change? It's still white and we still have a cobweb in the corner. That's a reasonable project for today, cobweb hunting. I wonder how Alice is doing—still too early to call. My cell phone hasn't rung; she's probably been in too much pain to call. It's my fault. I don't want to think about that right now. Edward didn't call. Where's my phone?

I roll to my side, stand, and search for my cell phone in my jacket pocket. It's here. It's dead.

The stairs come easier when I'm on all fours. Though I can't find my charger, I do locate Edward's Advil and take two, along with my birth control pill. My teddy bear watches me as I wash it all down with Pedialyte; he approves. Poor little guy, he hates the red ribbon around his neck, and for some reason, so do I. I had a dream about a red neck… or collar, or something. It slips off easily and I give him a good scratch; I'm sure it was itchy. Oh Teddy, no… Pedi, you are Pedi, let's go downstairs and get ready to show Charlie how together we are.

Pedi and I sit on the couch with a paper and pencil ready to begin our list:

I can't think of anything to write.

Blah,

Blah, starts my list.

I know there are things to do… Think, Bella.

Well, I need my charger. Where did I leave it? The apartment? The condo?

Jesus. Christ.

The Earth falls away from me.

I don't have a place to live.

I don't have an apartment anymore.

I don't have a condo.

I have to sell the condo.

I have a mortgage payment due.

I have wedding presents to return.

I'll work… I'll work my ass off and make money…

I don't have a job. Do I?

Oh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Holy Mary, Mother of God… Help me. Holy Mary, Mother of Fucking God—sorry, God—Help me.

Where is my rosary so I can hang myself?

This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not—fuck, I can't breathe. I hold Pedi to me hoping he can plug the gaping hole in my chest. Mike is dead—I can't breathe…

Jesus, okay Jesus… I know I haven't been talking to you in little while because, I've been so freaked out and scared and I don't know why… but I've been a real shit. I just need your help, because if I can't breathe, Charlie is going to freak the fuck out. Jesus, I'm sorry my mouth is getting so bad.

From somewhere within me, I hear Edward's voice, "Breathe Isabella. It's alright. Don't be afraid."

My lungs expand with air like I'm a diver emerging from a pool. The air whooshes out of me.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale…

I can breathe again.

I sit for a long time like this. Just breathing.

What am I going to do?

Keep breathing, Bella.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale…

I stare at the blank wall opposite this couch.

What am I going to do?

I am going to survive, that's what I am going to do.

I will always have Charlie.

I will always have Forks.

I will always have a home.

Pedi looks at me with his sympathetic eyes. I will always have you too, Pedi. We curl into the couch and pull the afghan over us; I don't want Charlie to hear us cry.

I wait for the watershed, but it doesn't come.

I am numb.

###

"Bella, what is Alice doing here?" Mike's mad and I don't care. I slide across the leather bench in the limousine and he follows me.

"Wherever Bella is, there I will be. Get used to it," Alice says as she follows us in and takes a seat across from Mike.

"Really? Are you planning on going to Rio?" He spits at her.

"You don't think she's still going to Rio, do you? Fucking stupid prick."

Can't wait to see these wedding photos.

"Bella, are you going to let her speak to me like that?" He grabs my hands like we're lovers, spouses. We are, sort of. I yank my hand away. I'm going to vomit.

Am I going to let her speak to him like this? Yes. No. I should do my own fighting.

"Don't beg her to save you, you pussy. You made your filthy bed, now lie in it."

I slide away from them and lean my head against the car window, pulling birdseed out of my hair. I watch their mouths moving. They are pointing at each other, waving their hands around, yelling—but I only hear silence. My only gift in this life is to shield myself in, and others out.

This is your fault, Bella. Not only because you went through with the wedding—you could have paid the Newtons back, or told the truth, you coward. This is your fault because you've been in denial for… for… forever. When did you first know you didn't love him? And he you? Yes, this is my fault, and it all needs to go away.

Lord, have mercy. Find forgiveness for my sins… my horrible sins. I swear to you I will open my eyes. I will open my eyes to every sign… every gift… everything… Lord, show me a way out of this marriage. Save me, Lord Jesus Christ, save me.

They continue to bicker. I continue to fall away. Alice's delicate bird-like features, looking so fierce, in spite of the feminine pink flush that matches her dress… I'm so sorry, Alice. Oh Mike, with your mottled red face and round, light blue eyes… oh Mike, where did we go so wrong? How did we end up here?

Suddenly, they both freeze. I watch as everything moves in slow motion. Their faces go slack and they turn their heads to the car window next to them. The clear glass flashes to bright white then shatters into little fragments that fly through the limo, a blizzard of broken glass.

I watch as a piece soars through the air towards me, an errant snowflake. It slices through my bottom lip. The door crumples into us like a piece of paper. There's a headlight… a car… a car is inside the backseat with us…

Whack.

Mike's head hits my cheek and slumps into my lap. He's looking up at me. Pupils dilate. Blue eyes turn black. Blood pours from his nose. He looks like a boy, just a boy.

The slow motion, the silence, ends. A freight train of noise rushes in. The car horn won't stop. There's screaming and running outside of the limo. Screaming inside of the limo—I jerk my head up—Alice! No!

Alice's arm, her fingers, outstretched to me… her wild, frantic eyes, beseeching me as she screams. I pull away from Mike and crawl across the foot well to her. The lower half of her body is pinned under something. I can't look.

I take her hand and hold it to my chest and grasp the top of her head with the other. She stops screaming and I can already hear distant sirens over the car horn. "Alice…" her eyes erratically scan around the inside of the car. "Alice, look at me. You are going to be alright. Fucking look at me, Alice!" She fixes her eyes on me. "Listen, you are going to be alright." Her eyes grow calm; I think she understands. "The ambulance is coming. I can hear it. You can hear it too, Alice." She blinks once, slowly, and I take it as a yes. "Yes, yes, you can hear it too. It's coming and I'll stay here with you…" Eyelids flutter and close. "NO! No, no, no, Alice, no. Please, please God, Alice, don't die, don't die…"

A car door opens behind me. Hands are on me, pulling me. "No!" I kick my legs and claw at the carpet, gaining a few inches. "No! Alice… Alice… I'll stay with you…" The hands are pulling my gown… it rips, granting me freedom to scramble farther into the wreckage. I dig my nails into the upholstery. A strong arm locks around my center, dragging me out. I scream, "NO!… Alice!" as I tear several scratches across the couch.

"Bella!" Charlie holds me to him as I struggle, stretching my arms out to the limo, to the television.

"Alice, no… Alice, Don't Die!"

In one sweep, he pins both my arms to my body and yanks me to his chest.

"Bella, wake up! Alice is fine. Wake up!"

"No… she's… no… she's dead… I saw her…" I'm so confused. Where's Alice? I saw her, dead. I'm staring at the television screen at the end of our couch. I'm disoriented. Where am I? I'm home… on the couch, on my knees—I think. I'm besieged, overtaken by emotions. In spite of being in Charlie's presence, I completely lose control. My mouth opens in a silent cry until air gives voice to my howl. Charlie keeps me in his tight hold.

He speaks slowly, forcefully, "Alice is alive. Your friend, Alice Brandon, is alive and is in Seattle Harbor View Hospital. She is doing fine. She broke her pelvis, but she is doing even better than expected. Do you understand, Bella?"

I swallow a gulp of air and try to get out some words, "But I saw her eyes close."

"Yes you did. Alice passed out in the limousine. It was the best thing for her. You are not in the limo now. You're in Forks with me, your dad, who you call Charlie sometimes." Is he trying to be funny or does he think I'm insane? I am insane, aren't I? It doesn't matter, because Alice is alive.

"Alive?" I need to be sure, say it again.

"Yes, Alice is alive. Your friend, Alice Brandon, is alive." My breathing slows. Mike is dead. I don't need to ask.

"You have been having nightmares this week, Bella…" Have there been others? Did he hear? "and you just woke from one." It was a dream? Yes, but it really happened.

"Bella, do you want me to let you go now?" I should say yes, I should release Charlie from this moment, but he's holding me together and it feels right. I selfishly shake my head, a small 'no.'

"Okay, I've got you kiddo." Thank you, Daddy. Over and over, I repeat to myself Alice is alive. I'm here in Forks. I'm home. I want to tell him that he can turn on the game, as long as he holds me like this for a few more minutes. And he does hold me. As we sit like this in silence, it takes a long time, but I feel the hole in my center fill with his kindness, his strength.

"Do your old man a favor, tell me what your name is." Yes, he's definitely checking to see if I've lost it.

"Isabella Marie Swan."

"Okay, and where are we?"

"Forks, Washington. My home." Maybe for a long time.

"That's right, your home. And what day is it, Isabella?" I really don't know, it's getting dark out again.

I look up at him and say, "I… I think… I'm okay now Dad, thank you."

"You sure?" I give him a nod.

"Let's take it slowly." He loosens his grip and I wobble on my knees, not realizing to what extent he was holding me up. Ever so gently, he turns me so I can rest myself into a seated position on the couch. I run my fingers over the couch upholstery, reassuring myself that I'm home, I'm really home.

"Stay here, I'll be right back." He heads to the kitchen, stops and turns. He looks angry and makes a chopping gesture with his hand as he speaks, "As long as I live, Isabella, I will never forgive myself for staying at the accident instead of going to the hospital with you." Oh, Dad.

"Dad, please, don't…"

"George Weber was supposed to call when…" He drags his hand over his face, and mutters, "it's not his fault… it's my fault…"

"Dad, I was fi—"

"Do not say you were fine." Oh, he sounds angry again. "Damn it, Bella, for once in your life can you get mad at me? Get mad at someone?" He turns on his heels and heads into the kitchen before I can respond. I hear the refrigerator door open and several containers being placed forcefully on the counter. Pedi sits on the couch looking at me, he saw the whole thing. Silently, I ask his opinion. He shrugs in a way that says I'm kind of a push over, but he loves me anyway. The microwave pings and Dad returns with a bowl of cereal and a plate heaped with mourning party food. I can only hope…

I move to the longer couch, the one that faces the television. "Cereal? For me?" I try to sound cute and little girly.

"No, I was hoping to get you to eat something a little more substantial." Oh my. Now Edward and Dad talk alike, this is getting creepy. He places the food on the coffee table and pulls it to us as he sits next to me on the couch. "I'm only in the mood for cereal tonight," he grumbles.

I turn on the remote, glad to find it is already on ESPN. There's always a game somewhere. It puts him in a better mood, and fortunately, he allows talking during a most games—especially during commercial. And if I don't want to talk, he's okay with that too.

There is so much food on this plate, a few tablespoons worth of at least twelve different dishes. I will eat this food. I will eat it for my father and I will eat it for me. As I mentally prepare, he notices me eyeing the plate and says, "You don't have to eat all of it, Bells. Just try some different stuff and see what works." This I can do. Charlie digs into his cereal and I'm relieved to be 'Bells' again.

The green been casserole and the macaroni and cheese, the one of the two without the crust, go down easiest. I wonder if there was some huge blow out over who was bringing what—someone messed up and repeated a dish. Though the thought is amusing, I hope the duplication didn't really cause a ruckus. I take a break at the first commercial and ask, "So, you talked to Alice? She's doing well?"

He wipes his mouth on a paper towel and hands me one. "Yeah. Things sound good. Her parents are in town for a few more days. The doctor said she's healing pretty well."

"Good."

"You haven't talked to her, have you?" He knows this.

"My cell phone is dead. I don't seem to have a charger with me."

"Her number is written by the phone in the kitchen, you can call her there."

My stomach does a little flip and I now know there is more than sleep and cell phone batteries behind my lack of phone call. I'm not sure what it is. Guilt? She seemed characteristically chipper and protective at the hospital. Was it an act? She should be mad. I don't know if that's it. Maybe I don't want to let her know that I'm a wreck. A part of me wants to disappear into this house and sever off all ties in my life. Start again. Start over.

I eat some turkey—I missed the turkey earlier. The ham is still too salty. A new commercial break, and in light of his disclosure, I have something to get off my chest.

"Dad, I have a confession to make."

He stops eating and turns to me, away from the TV. "What's that Bella?"

"Um… I do get mad sometimes. I got mad at Mike, a lot. But maybe not enough… and maybe a little too late."

He looks like he's contemplating, and then he fully turns his body so that he is facing me on the couch.

"Um… you are a much better judge of a person than I gave you credit for and I'm sorry." He didn't like Mike from the minute he met him. After a while, he stifled his insults only to appease me.

He nods and looks away for a moment, but doesn't change his position on the couch. Lord, give me strength. This is harder than I thought it would be. The game is back on, but he still looks at me.

"You see, um… I don't think I should have married him. And there, towards the end, I tried not to… but didn't try hard enough."

My father gives me a long look, surprised only for a moment, before he nods in a way that says I'm confirming his suspicions.

"Are you mad at me?"

He cocks his head from side to side, trying to determine the right words. After a sigh, he says, "Not mad… disappointed you didn't come to me."

"I know. I'm always trying to shield you from my silly little dramas."

"This isn't a silly little drama, Bella. And I can handle it… silly ones, big ones… I can handle it."

"Yes, I know." I know now, and I won't forget it.

"Dad, if you promise to be a little disappointed with me for not coming to you, I'll promise to be a little disappointed you didn't come to the hospital." Until he said something, I didn't realize how much I wanted him that day.

"Deal." He turns back to the TV, but I can see he's thinking about something.

"Dad… am I forgiven?"

"Yep. Me?"

"Yep."

He doesn't even wait for the next commercial break before he asks, "Is that bear from Edward?" Whoa! Where did that come from?

"Ah… no, it's from Angela."

"Edward called too." What did he say? What did he say? Did he ask about me?

"He told me about that kids' drink."

"I had some this morning. Thank you." He nods his 'you're welcome.'

"And he said the condo sale looks promising." Thank God. "I like that Edward character." Oh, my. My father's supreme compliment lands squarely on the shoulders of Edward Masen. There have been plenty of 'goof-balls,' 'clowns,' even a 'yahoo' early on, but 'character' is reserved for Alice, Angela, and… no, that's it. Wow.

"Ah… I think I like him too." I feel my face flush.

"Yeah, I know." What? Is it that obvious? Oh, shit.

"Dad, I think we should probably keep this between us for a while."

"Yeah, I know."

Suddenly, I want to call Alice—I have something to say. I grab the dishes.

"I'll take those, Bella."

"No, that's okay. I'm going to call Alice."

I have a new spring to my step. Dad knows about Mike, Edward, Pedi… the world might not crumble after all.

I immediately dial the phone… it rings. I panic and hang up. What am I going to say? Hey, Alice I'm calling because earlier tonight I remembered the accident and it was really bad. Remember that? Remember when we both thought you were dying? Good times. So, I'm glad you're not pissed. BFFs, right? Oh, and big news, Charlie likes Edward. Laters!

Why can't landlines have texting capabilities?

My stomach churns. Oh, no. Adrenalin helps me run upstairs and make it to the toilet in time to watch it all come back up. Food is so overrated. I turn on the faucet and drink several handfuls of water. I finish brushing my teeth and shut the medicine cabinet door. Jesus.

It is not possible.

The ghost staring back at me is not I. Stringy, greasy, dull hair. Grey skin. Even my bruise is shades of grey. My eyes look dead… so sunken into blue-grey circles. The cut on my lip is indistinguishable from the other cracks. I always wanted high cheekbones, but not this way. I run my fingers over my collarbone; I can almost tuck my hands inside and hold it. When did this happen? I take a deep breath and watch my ribs and breastbone emerge from under my translucent skin; I walk my fingers up them like little steps. Pulling up my shirt, I feel my lower rib cage and suck in my stomach to see how concave it is. I'm revolted, but grateful we don't have a full-length mirror.

I stare back at the person in the mirror. Who are you? A face only a mother could love. But…

But my father loves me.

I feel my legs shake from under me. No, I will have only one breakdown per day and I've used up today's. I open the cabinet again and reach for the Valium. Play hard, or go home, Bella—I'm taking a whole one—without water, damn it!

I walk past the landing, and though I want to go to straight to bed, my father deserves a more ceremonious ending to our important night together, so I head downstairs.

It seems like only a minute later, Dad is helping back up the steps. With one hand, he holds my arm around his neck; his other hand is around my waist. I'm dragging Pedi by his foot. He keeps hitting his face on the steps.

"Sorry, Pedi," I mumble.

My head bobbles as we take each step—I'm not in complete control of my body, or my mouth.

"I wish you were still small enough to carry up these stairs."

"I'm trying to drop a few pounds."

"Not funny, Bella."

###

"Open."

I open, but don't offer my tongue, hoping it will lure Edward's finger into my mouth. It does. He places the waffle inside and he lets his finger linger in there a little long. Should I? Play hard, Bella. With my eyes closed, I swirl my tongue around his finger. He slowly slides it out, but says nothing. Not good.

I roll over in my bed and flip my pillow to find the cold side.

"So good, Bella," he whispers in a husky voice.

I flatten my tongue and lick the entire length of his smooth, long finger.

The covers are tangled around my legs. I kick them off and throw my arm around Pedi.

I'm on my knees before Edward Masen, The Beautiful and Kind—that should be his title. He's nude, and really hard. Huh, I never knew an erection could be so beautiful. It's a sculpture you'd find in a fine museum. I stroke one finger down the shaft. It's cold, hard—he is a statue. Am I really here? Where am I? Maybe I'm dreaming.

I'm cold. Where are the covers? Half asleep, I take the ends of the balled up quilt and fluff it out in front of me, letting it fall like a soft cloud over my body. I roll back over on my stomach.

My open hand fits in the space between Edward's erection and his triangle-stomach muscle. He's warm, real. My other hand strokes his upper, inner thigh as I make small circles with my thumb. I start at the base and sweep my flat tongue side-to-side until I reach his head. There's drop of him at the tip waiting for me—it's mine. I circle my tongue around and through his slit, capturing my droplet and sending a shiver through his body.

He exhales a quiet, "Ahh," and I have to see this. I raise my eyes to him as I continue to circle my tongue around his head. His wet lips, parted. Dark, hooded eyes, gazing into mine. The smooth planes of his chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Brows pulled together in, what, surprise? Awe? Am I making him have that face?

Possessed by a sexual confidence I never knew I had, I lean forward, open my shirt, and glide his head down my sternum, between my breasts—just once. Just once and I hear my name falls from his lips like a quiet prayer, "Bella. Oh, Bella."

I wrap my hand around his base, and take his head in my mouth, sucking and rolling my tongue over him. The backs of soft fingers ghost down my cheek and I hear a deep moan. Edward takes my other hand in his and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. Oh, Edward, you are beautiful, kind, and gentle. I want to give him everything I have. If I can make him feel what he makes me feel—even half of what he makes me feel—I want to show him. I sheath my teeth with my lips and take him in as far as I can. He grunts. It's deep guttural sound that goes directly to my core. I've never felt this kind of pleasure from giving someone else pleasure.

Up and down, I work in unison with my hand, sucking, pulling, and licking. Edward murmurs, "So good, Bella. You feel so good… Uh."

I open my throat and take him in farther than before. His breathing is rough, ragged. He lets go of my hand and I feel both hands weaving roughly through my hair, massaging my scalp. He pulls my hair and starts to move his hips. It's so erotic to feel his excitement, his lack of control transmitting through his fingers, his hips. I keep going, increasing my pace. He pulls my hair little too hard. It grows uncomfortable. I bring my head back up a few inches, stop my movement, and pull at his hands, as a gentle message. But he doesn't stop. He holds my head tightly, his hands a vice, and thrusts me down onto him, hard. What the fuck…?

"That's right sweetheart, yessss, like that…"

That's Mike's voice.

Mike holds my head still and begins to thrust into me. He's fucking my mouth. I scratch at his hands but, "That's right, Bella, be rough," that's how he likes it.

I fight my instincts to bite down and instead open my throat, knowing it's the fastest way to finish him.

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Yes!"

The sour come of Mike Newton shoots in hot spurts down my throat. I swallow as quickly as I can, feeling him fall limp in my mouth. He collapses back onto his bed.

"Jesus Christ, Bella! You still give the best head in Seattle."

I look down at the floor as I wipe the remaining come from the corner of my mouth with my fingers.

"Come on, Bella, you used to always laugh at that joke."

"I know… I just… I just don't think it's funny anymore." I can't even look at him.

He tucks himself back in his pants and sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me. I can see myself in my mind's eye, kneeling before him on my heels. I look pathetic.

"Come here, sweetheart." Mike takes my arms and pulls me up to sit on his lap. "Bella, you know that yours are the only lips that have ever been on my dick. You know that, right?"

I nod my head.

"Look at me, Bella." I do, and his face looks young and boyish in this moment. He looks like the kid in high school who followed me around and carried my books, and asked me on dates no matter how many times I turned him down. He looks like a boy, just a boy. I put my arms around his neck and remember when we first dated. He seemed so honored to be with me. Like I was special.

Ping. There's a sound, I look to see where it's coming from, but see nothing.

"Yours are the only lips. And in a couple of short weeks," he opens my knees and runs two fingers over my jeans, over my sex, "I am going to finally get in the tight, wet, little pussy of yours." He continues to rub me, with his whole hand, and my body responds against my will—or maybe it is my will—I don't know anymore. It's been so long since he's touched me. He continues to stroke, maybe tonight…

"I know it hasn't been easy for you, Mike…" I've given this speech so many times, it's become unoriginal, "but it really does mean a lot to me."

"No, it hasn't been easy," that's his typical response, "but, in the end, I get to marry the girl of my dreams." Oh, he's never said that before. "You know I love ya, Bella."

I'm sincerely moved. I lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away.

"Christ, Bella, you know I don't like to taste myself." He gives me a hard slap on my thigh, intending to be playful I'm sure, and slides me off his lap, leaving me bereft. My thigh stings, a lot.

Ping.

"Where are you going?" I ask as Mike takes off his shirt and tosses it in the laundry basket.

"Getting in the shower." He's cold, distant so quickly.

"Oh, okay. So we're still going out tonight, right?"

"No, not tonight." No? But it's… when was the last time we went out?

"You don't need to shower if we're just staying in." Didn't you just take a shower? "Um… I can order a pizza or make something. How about I make us a nice dinner? It's been so long since I've seen you, hanging in is actually better than going out." He grabs a towel from the linen closet, and I follow him down the hall to the bathroom.

"I said we would do something this weekend, but I didn't say when. My plans changed. Call Alice or something." I'm confused… I thought we we're going to…

"So, you're going out?" I'm just trying to understand. Ping. Where is that sound…?

He turns and snaps at me, "Yes, I'm going out. I'm getting together with the guys. Trust me, you'll get plenty of time with me when we're married." He's being sarcastic; he's really annoyed.

"I'm sor-… sorry… I'm not trying to start a fight…"

"Bella, sweetheart" he's trying to soften, "let me… just… can you just let me be a guy for a few more weeks, please Bella?"

I nod, but I still have a question, I start carefully, "Um… I'm curious… please don't get mad but… since we're not going out tonight, would you like me to make reservations…"

"Jesus Christ, Bella, would you stop nagging me!" He slams the bathroom door in my face.

But it's my birthday.

Ping.

What is that sound? Wait, that's my cell phone.

I open my eyes immediately remembering I am in my bedroom, my Forks bedroom. There is a bouquet of flowers on my bedside table—a stunningly simplistic arrangement of calla lilies and white roses. Who would…? Could they be? I jolt up, grab, and open the card. It reads:

Please, please, please, please,
please, please, please, please,
please, please, please, call me.

I miss you,
Edward

Holy shit! Ping. My cell phone! Charlie must have bought me a charger. I eye it behind the flowers with a new bottle of Pedialyte. I guzzle down half the bottle; I'm so parched. Oh, thank you, purple goodness. I grab my phone, not sure why I'm suddenly so alert. Is it the flowers? Did I sleep well? Adrenaline?

Voice mailbox, Full

Test Messages, Full

I'm nervous again. Where do I begin? Can I do this? Yes Bella, you can, look at the last message. Start with messages.

The most recent text is from Alice. It reads:

Last time I'll bother you
Worried sick-let us know you're ok-
If no word, E is going to Forks tonight.

-Alice Brandon

Alice is the only person I know who signs her full names to text messages. Oh, no. When was this? I look at the clock, 6:11; the text came in less than an hour ago. Wait, is that a.m. or p.m.? I'm so confused. Don't freak out, Bella, just text back.

Don't worry
Fine—just sleepy

Love,
B

No, wait… I'll send it to both of them at the same time. But if I'm sending it to Edward, I shouldn't sign it 'love.' He didn't sign his card 'love.' So…

Don't worry
Fine—just sleepy

Thanks,
B

That's better.

I scroll through, find Edward's number, and send it to both of them. Big exhale. The phone rings immediately. It's Edward. Holy shit. I freak. Damn it, Bella, just answer it! Here it goes:

"Hello. Edward?" my voice sounds so scared.

"Bella?" Oh, I missed his caramel voice.

"Hi…" I say back, not sure how to start.

"Bella, I'm coming to Forks tonight. I'll be there in a couple of hours." His words are firm, but gentle. Though I long to see him, he cannot come. Not with me in this condition.

"Please Edward, not tonight. I'll see you in a few days, at the funeral." There's a long silence on the other end of the phone.

"Bella tomorrow is the funeral."

"No, the funeral is Thursday." It is, isn't it? Another long silence.

His voice returns, thick with concern, "Bella, it's Wednesday night. Right now, it's Wednesday night. The funeral is tomorrow."

"Oh."

I hear some sort of struggle on the other end of the phone, and a distant voice say, "Give it to me."

"Bella, Bella honey, it's Alice…" What? They're together? I feel a pang of jealousy, but it quickly dissipates. "Listen, Edward is going to be in Forks in a couple of hours, he's going to stay there tonight—maybe the Forks Four Seasons—and go to the funeral tomorrow. After the funeral, he's going to bring you back to Seattle, back home." I cover my mouth to hide my gasp at the word 'home,' but it's too late.

"Home?" I ask, not sure how to explain that I can't afford my condo; that I'm staying in Forks. "But… the condo…"

"Oh, Bella. Home to me, you're coming home to me, our apartment."

"But, Rose…"

"Rose?" Alice let's out a long sigh. "Honey, you haven't even been able to listen to your messages, have you? Rose is going to stay in her Barbie Dream House with Midge and Skipper and Ken, the whole crew. You're coming home to me." Tears well up in my eyes, and I think maybe this is why I haven't talked to Alice, to anyone. The compassion of others swells my heart until it can take no more, and it spills out of my eyes. I don't know if I'm worthy. "We've been busy, you'll see. Things are much better than when you left. Your bedroom is all ready for you."

"Thank you," is all I can manage to say for a moment. "Alice… Edward can't come here tonight. I need this night. I need to find a way to transform myself back to the world of the living." I know she understands. Though she's silent, she must be telling Edward with her eyes.

I hear him say, "Alice, give me the phone." But she doesn't. Thank you, Alice.

"Edward will stay, but you have to promise me you're going to eat something tonight." She's spoken to Charlie.

"I'm trying," I whisper.

"I know you are, Bella. Keep trying, okay?" Her voice is soft and I hear her sniffle. "Because Edward told me he prefers a woman with a juicy ass," I giggle-sob and hear in the background, "Alice, give me the damn phone!" but she holds out, "and, Bella he has a new funeral haircut and everything." I laugh. Oh, Alice what would I do without you?

"Thank you, Alice."

"You're welcome, Bella."

"Alice… I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for, honey?"

For not calling. For not taking care of you now, when you need it most. For leaving behind a mess for you to clean up. For the accident. For too much to say in this conversation.

"How are you, Alice?"

"I'm good, Bella, really good." Her voice is bright, but I don't know if I should believe her.

"Dad says the doctors are happy about your progress."

"Bella, you know me. They'll be writing about my case in medical journals for years to come. 'Patient wills her pelvis to fuse together so she can wear a decent outfit.'" She says this like she's reading a headline. "Rose brought me a Juicy Couture sweatsuit to wear. I mean, really? Juicy Couture? Sweats? Were do I begin? Has she never seen my wardrobe?"

"Oh, I love you, Alice."

"I love you too, Bella. Now, Edward is doing his jaw-clenching thing, so I better give you back to him. Okay?"

"Okay."

"One more thing," she takes a deep breath, "Bella, you know I can't come tomorrow, right?"

"I know, my friend." We say nothing more about it. I know it kills her to stay behind, but she's saving me from her angst.

"So, I'll see you later, Bella."

"See you later, Alice."

"Bella," he's back to me. "Bella, are you sure? You're absolutely certain you don't want me there tonight?" And in that moment, I'm not sure. I want nothing more than to have Edward's arms around me, holding me to him. I look over to those flowers, the card…

"Edward, these flowers are beautiful." And then it occurs to me, I haven't ordered flowers for the funeral. I don't have anything to wear. There's so much to do, and no way I can do it all. The funeral is in what? Sixteen hours? Seventeen? I don't know. Feeling defeated, everything gets caught in my throat. "Edward, these flowers are beautiful." Did I say that already? I need to get off the phone. Yesterday's breakdown was big enough for a two-day supply. I'm feeling a little bewildered, suddenly exhausted, I need to go back to bed. "I should go, I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, no, no… wait. Bella, Bella, stay on the phone with me, just a few minutes, okay?"

But I'm so sleepy.

"Bella, a few minutes."

I hold onto Pedi and gather myself. "Kay." The background noise on his end of the phone changes; it's louder and has an echo.

"Edward, where are you?"

"We're taking a walk, Bella. We're taking a walk around the hospital."

"Oh, okay." I could probably use a walk. I try to think of something to say, but I have nothing. I'm empty. I want Edward to talk, to hear his voice. "Edward, can you tell me a story."

"A story? Absolutely. Um… you see there's this guy…"

"What's his name?"

"Edward Masen."

"I see a reoccurring character here." I hear him smile.

"I'm a one trick pony, Bella."

"So, tell me about Edward Masen."

"Oh, well… he got separated for a few days from this girl, and he really missed her."

"He really missed her?"

"Yes, a great deal. He was a little worried about her and had a lot to talk to her about."

"What's her name?" There's a bit of a pause.

"Hospital Socks." Oh, I'm Hospital Socks!

"I'm a little jealous."

"No, don't be. You have no reason to be." His voice is light, young. The background sound changes again.

"Edward, where are you?"

"We're in the chapel, Bella. It's a great place if you ever want to be alone in a hospital."

"We're alone?"

"Yes. My stories are for you, Bella. Only for you."

"Oh." I love you, Edward. "What did he want to talk to her about?"

"He wanted to talk to her about funerals."

"Funerals?"

"Yes, strange topic, I know. You see, he's been to a few, and he knows that some of them… the ones of people who are… who are important… can be difficult. A little surreal, even."

"He's been to a few? Whose?" There's a long silence. "Edward?"

"He's a seminary student, so he sometimes helps out his friend Reverend Cullen when he performs a funeral. Edward's been to a lot of them, but mostly people he doesn't know."

"Oh."

"Anyway, he's not sure if Hospital Socks has ever been to one—a funeral of anyone close to her. Do you know if she has?"

"Um… her Dad's friend, Harry Clearwater died. She was just a little kid, so she stayed in the church vestibule with some of the adults. But she remembers seeing her dad cry for the first time. I think it was the only time."

"And that's the only one?"

"Yes."

"Okay, okay…" I hear him processing. "So, she should know a few things. You see, she's going to be sort of the center of attention and that can be a little overwhelming. Some people are going to say some strange things to her, because they really don't know what to say. Do you think she can handle that, Bella?"

"Yes, particularly since she knows ahead of time."

"Good. So Edward's going to be there too, and he's going to want to hold her hand and sit next to her the whole time. But he understands that it probably wouldn't be good for her-for people to see that. Do you understand that, Bella?"

"Yes." Tell me more.

"But really, if she wants him too, he'll hold her hand, because he doesn't give a fuck what people think…he only cares about her. Do you understand that, Bella?"

"Yes, yes I do."

"And even if he's sitting a few pews behind her, she'll still feel him holding her hand. Won't she?"

"Yes, she will."

"Good."

"And another thing she should know about funerals, if it gets too much, she can leave."

"She can leave?"

"Yes, yes she can…" His voice is so strong, determined. "People understand, and if they don't, fuck 'em."

"Fuck 'em?" Is that a little harsh?

"Yes, Bella… fuck 'em. Say it like you mean it."

"Fuck 'em." Oh, it does feel good.

"Good girl."

"Just give me a sign and we're out of there. Understand?"

"Yes." I hear him sigh, a sound of relief.

"Good. Do you know what Edward's going to do after the funeral, Bella?" The coach voice is gone; it's soft, quiet.

"No, what is he going to do?"

"He's going to take her home, to her Seattle home. And he's going to tuck her into her bed. And she's going to have good dreams-sweet dreams Bella, no nightmares."

He knows.

"Alright, Bella? She's going to dream of only good things… rainbows and flowers…" I again hold back my tears. He's softly commanding me, and I'll take it, I need it right now.

"…And puppies, and April rain?"

"Yes, Bella… puppies and April rain. She's going to have good dreams tonight, too. Isn't she?"

"Yes, Edward, she is."

"And when she's awake, when she's scared or sad, she's going to let it go, she's going to let herself cry, isn't she?" Is she? I don't know.

"Tell me she is, Bella."

"Okay, she is." But no more than once a day, and only when she's alone, at a time and place of her choosing, and not for too long…

"Good."

"Edward, thank you."

"Say the word, and I'll be there tonight." He's as persistent as Alice.

"Please know… please, please, please know that in so many ways, I want you here. And the offer… it fills my heart, but I think I owe Charlie one normal night with his daughter."

"I understand. And Charlie understands, too." I have to smile at their newly formed friendship.

"Are you two best buddies now?" Edward laughs a soft, musical, baritone laugh—I love the sound. Maybe they've talked even more than I know.

"He's a good guy, Bella."

"The best."

We sit in silence for a moment and he finally says, "You know, we could just stay on the phone like this all night." I giggle at the vision.

"I'd love to, but I need a shower. I'm smelly."

"I miss your smell." Oh, I have a smell? I didn't know I had a smell. I wonder if I can get it back before tomorrow.

"Edward, I miss you."

"Me too. More than you know. We'll be together again soon."

"Yes, we will."

"Now, go drink your Pedialyte and get yourself to Charlie."

"Kay."

"Until tomorrow, Bella."

"Until tomorrow, Edward"

"Good night."

"Good night, Edward." It's difficult to end this call, so I don't.

"On the count of three," he says and we both laugh. "One, two…"

"Wait, are we hanging up on three, or after three."

"Good question. Let's do it after three. Ready?"

"Ready."

"One, two, three." I squeeze my eyes shut and hang up the phone wondering if he did the same.

Though I should be scrambling around and panicked about tomorrow, I'm not. For the first time in a long time, I feel like myself, Isabella Swan, The Capable and Strong. I know I am loved, and not only by my father.

I strip my bed of the sheets and get a good whiff of myself—wow, off to shower.

Over and over again, I wash my hair until a lock of it squeaks between my thumb and finger. As my deep conditioner replaces healthy doses of what I stripped, I shave my already waxed legs hoping to remove the dead skin of the last few days. From head to toe, I scrub myself, washing until the warm water turns cold. But I don't care; it feels good, refreshing.

I finish drying myself when I decide it's time. "Dear God, I know I've been avoiding you this week—a time I should have been talking to you more than even usual. I hope you're okay with it. I'm coming back though, if you'll still have me. I know, I know, you're good about forgiveness. That's the other thing I need to talk to you about. I know I'm supposed to talk to you through Jesus and priests and go to confession and whatnot, but sometimes I prefer just to talk directly to you, if that's okay. And maybe, because I keep breaking the rules, I'll stop calling myself a Catholic. I don't know. I have to think about that one for a while. Let me know what you think. I love you. Oh, and thank you for everything. There's a lot, so I'll just say thank you for everything right now. Amen."

I cover my body in thick moisturizer, wrap my head in a towel and pull on jeans. I idly think I shouldn't get them dirty since I'll have to wear them to the funeral tomorrow, but I need to wear real clothes right now. Maybe I can wear my pjs to the funeral. What will people think? Oh, fuck 'em. My language is getting foul, good thing I usually don't curse—it gives me plenty of words to use for when things get really bad.

An important task remains before I can head downstairs. With great trepidation, I open that little pink case of birth control pills. I count the empty blisters of plastic, count again, and exhale. Though I don't remember taking a single pill, I'm completely up to date. Maybe those months of fear and perfectly scheduled doses etched into my subconscious and saved me. There's a lot I don't remember from this week—it's probably better that way.

I take the dirty laundry and head downstairs, meeting Charlie on his way up. He's holding a breakfast tray with a bottle of Pedialyte and plate of food. That's strange; we don't have a breakfast tray. Oh, Charlie, you bought one for me, didn't you? In that moment it isn't Charlie that I want, or my father, or my dad. I want my daddy, and he is here for me. "I'm coming down."

"Good. I thought maybe we'd try scrambled eggs tonight."

"Sounds great."

As I follow him into the living room, I see a garment bag from an expensive boutique in Port Angeles hanging on the back of our front door.

"What's this?" I ask as I unzip the bag. On the hanger is a simple, refined, black wrap sweater dress. The material is luxurious—fine cashmere, I think. "Dad, when did you…"

"Angela picked it out, I hope it's alright." I'm stunned.

"It's lovely. How did you…?"

"You kept talking about it in your sleep. Oh, and I ordered the flowers too." I love this man. How could Renee ever leave him? Sue Clearwater, she might be worthy. "There's some other stuff in the bag."

In a shopping bag next to the couch, there is a new pair of shoes, conservative, simple black pumps in my size, black undergarments, and a satin jewelry travel bag. I open it to find the string of pearls Angela received for college graduation, her stud pearl earrings, and two hair combs, also adorned with a simple row of small pearls. She's thought of everything. And there's a little note, "I'll see you in the morning. Love, Angela."

"She's going to come over tomorrow, help you get ready." Good. I'll have time to thank her before the circus starts. Also, she's a much better make-up artist than I. Maybe she can cover the grey bruise… and lips… and face…

"Come on and eat before it gets cold."

I sit with my dad on the couch and notice he's eating cereal again—he too has lost weight. "Can I make you something to eat, Dad?"

"No, I'm just in the mood for cereal tonight."

We watch the game and I'm able to stay fully awake, alert even. During the fourth inning, I flip the laundry into the dryer, and make three more eggs, one for me, and two for him.

Dad tells me that Sue will also be over in the morning to prepare the house for a post-funeral get together. Another mourning party.

In the last inning of the game, Dad eats another egg and I have a coffee cup filled with cereal and milk. We try some of the salty dinner rolls with Mrs. Cope's delicious homemade raspberry jam, but the rolls have become stale. I come to the conclusion that I am addicted to carbohydrates.

Since the house will be filled with people tomorrow, Dad and I decide to spare feelings and get rid of the uneaten food. Fortunately, Sue had enough sense to come over and freeze most of it. The rest goes in the trash, behind the house.

Dad insists on helping me put the clean sheets on my bed. As we tuck, fold, and smooth all the wrinkles out, it occurs to me that this is our last night together. Though we see each other every few of weeks, I started to like the idea of moving back in with him, and particularly after this week, I'll miss him terribly.

"Dad, everything you've done for me this week… not just this week, everything you always do for me, I just want to say thank you and I lo-"

"I know, Bella. You don't have to say it." But I want to. He tosses me the last of the pillows. I fluff it and put it on my bed.

"You know too, right?" he asks. I do, but please say it.

"Yes, of course." I give him my best attempt at a smile.

He walks over to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, looks down at me and sighs. "Bella, you are the most important thing in the world to me. You are my little girl, always will be. I don't say it enough, but I love you."

I throw my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest. "I know. I know you do, Dad. I love you, too. You'll always be my daddy." I'm a grown woman who is speaking like a child, and I simply do not care. I feel him kiss the top of my head.

"I guess it's nice to hear aloud, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes it is." I look up at him, and blurt out, "You should tell Sue, too. Tell her you love her." He has a look of utter shock. His mouth opens like he's going to deny it, but he stops, mulls it over and says, "You're right, I should. I will." Good.

I fall asleep and wake well rested, not remembering a single bad dream.

~0~

"Almost done, Bella."

For the past hour and a half, Angela has worked her hardest at making me look like Bella again. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, holding Pedi, waiting to see the results. My hair was first flat ironed then curled. Why people do both is beyond me, but I'm not arguing. At one point, she combed my eyebrows with what looked like a little toothbrush. I've never combed my eyebrows before. They are quite thin. I didn't know they needed combing. But she brushed each up, up, up, and then swept them back down. I'm sure she found a way for them to look better.

Angela looks quite pretty today. She always looks pretty, always did. The artistic, brightly framed eye glasses have been exchanged for a conservative black-framed pair. Her navy high-collar dress would look lovely with the pearls she gave me to wear, but she wouldn't hear of me giving them back to her, "Goodness, no, Bella." Angela Weber doesn't curse. I have a gutter mouth. Though she's tried her darnedest to engage me in chitchat, I'm not much for talking this morning.

I ate an egg.

We have to leave for the funeral soon.

I don't want to go. I'm glad I'm numb.

I want to see Edward, but I'm still numb.

"This is the last part," she takes my hand, Pedi and I stand, "now, I just want you to walk through the spray." Angela pumps a little pink bottle and I walk through the mist of a light, floral, fragrance. It almost wakes me up, but not really. I wonder if I still smell like Bella or if she's trying to help me to smell like Bella. "Ready?" She's excited. I better make this good. She turns me towards the mirror.

"Wow. Angela—this is amazing. I look like myself again."

"I know, right? You look really good Bella. And you're going to do fine today. You're going to do really well."

"Thank you Angela, for everything. Picking out this dress, the make-up, Pedi, you are a very special person."

"It's nothing. You're my friend, Bella. I care about you." She hugs me warmly. "Okay, your suitcase is packed for later. And here," she places a small clutch bag on the vanity, "I packed a purse for you… and… well, I guess that's it. I'll give you some privacy."

"Thanks, I'll be down in a sec."

Angela leaves and I turn back to stare at the woman in the mirror. "Hi. I don't know who you are, but you're doing a decent impersonation of Bella Swan, much more so than the lady I saw in there last night." My hair falls in soft curls around my shoulders. I can't hide my bruise behind my hair, the combs expose my face, but Angela's done a good job of hiding it. It's definitely there, but more of a shadow than a bruise. Huh, she used a lot of makeup to make me look like I'm wearing very little makeup. I can't hide my dead eyes, but the circles are hidden, and the three shades of blush make me look I have some color, some blood running through my veins.

Yes, blood in my veins. Yes, that's it—I look alive, or an impersonation of the living. Like a corpse with expertly applied mortician makeup to fool people into believing I'm sleeping instead of dead. I'm a walking corpse.

Mike is a real corpse. Is Mike having… is this an open casket funeral? I can't remember. Oh, God, no. Please, not an open casket—I can't take that. Fuck, is it? I can't remember. Think, Bella. I don't want to see him again—not like that. Not in any way. Please, please, not an open casket. Blue eyes turn black. Blood pours from his nose. No, Mrs. Newton wouldn't want that. Wait, I have to see Mrs. Newton—probably sit with her all day. I grasp the edges of the vanity noticing that the expression, 'white knuckles' has an actual reference. I want to fall down this sink drain. Oh, Jesus… I can't… my chest… my stomach. I'm going to be sick. No, no, no. Pull it together, Bella!

I sit on the edge of the tub and breathe through a little opening in my pressed lips, like sucking air through a straw. I cannot throw up. I will never be able to reapply this nude lip liner. It's nude… but still…

Okay, I can do this. I look over at Pedi; he gives me a confident nod. He has faith in me. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ—and Valium-who strengthen me.

I take a Valium, wrap it in a piece of toilet paper and use my fist as sledgehammer, giving it two strong thumps. The pill breaks into five jagged, little pieces. I take the largest piece, still less than half a pill, and wrap the rest back up to put in my purse.

Oh, Angela... she's packed my purse with my rosary, mints, tissues, lip-gloss, and a pack of cigarettes… you bad girl, Angela. I quickly remember the weekend in high school that we spent teaching ourselves how to blow cigarette smoke rings. It's the only time I've ever smoked—thankfully, a failed attempt.

I look to Pedi and he gives me two paws up, he has no thumbs. Just the knowledge that the Valium is in my system brings me back to Earth. I turn to the mirror, "Alright Corpse Bride, this is it. You are a child of God, who loves you. And of Charlie Swan, who also loves you. Today you are Isabella Swan, The Capable and Strong. Let's do this."

###

"Mr. Masen, with tax, your bill comes to $74.63."

I hand her my credit card and look around the hotel lobby wondering how many of these people are in town for the funeral. Bella's bedroom light went off a little after 11:00. I hope she had a restful sleep. It's going to be a long day.

"Here you go ," she gives me a friendly, small town smile as she hands me back my credit card and receipt. "We hope you come again soon."

A/N

Dear Readers, I am going to attempt a regular update schedule of every other Saturday with a teaser on the off Saturdays. Hence, for as long as my beta and I can, you will be hearing from me each weekend.

If you are wondering what a Priest's Dress Cassock looks like, think of the character Neo in The Matrix. It was the basis of his costume. Mmmm.

So, as you know, I'm new at this and um…new at writing lemons. Writing groans, grunts, and moans has been an interesting learning experience. Sometime I read "Augh" and I think hot, other times I read it and I think pirate. So…what are your favorite 'sex sounds' to read?

Love to know what you think.

Regards,

Liz