A/N: Most of this story (the marriage, the disappearance, etc.) happens in 2010, but there will be some older background chapters like this. Edward got carried away with the details, so this one is all him. While you read, keep in mind that my characters are not perfect. Edward, especially, has some growing to do. To those wondering: Edward is in his mid 20s; Bella is 20 even.

And I forgot to mention earlier: This story is rated mostly for language, but there is some sexuality as well. I don't think it will scare anyone off unless they are under the age of 16. Though in that case, you shouldn't be reading M fiction anyway, right?

"A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all. But I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl."

- Mr. Bernstein

November 22, 2009

Edward

I duck into the local diner, out of the slight drizzle that's neither rain nor snow. Starbucks or not, if I'm going to visit my brother and his growing family, I'm going to need caffeine.

There isn't any waitress or hostess in sight, so I seat myself at a square table that already displays a beat-up menu.

I wonder if they'll know how to make a latte.

When I look up, I see a brown-haired waitress weaving easily though the small spaces between tables, as if she's been doing it for years.

All thoughts of steamed milk and cinnamon dispensers escape my mind.

Her pale skirt is short enough that just a bit of material peaks out from under the pastel, floral apron. Red slip-on Keds are on her dainty little feet, and the casual outfit might just be the sexiest thing I've ever seen. When she turns in my direction, I see that her face is unique and beautiful, but definitely not strange.

The brunette angel produces a pen from behind her ear as she approaches, and while it is incredibly cliché, it's also endearing.

"Hi, I'm Isabella..." She pauses and winces as if she's said the wrong thing. Curious. "What can I get for you today?"

"Just black coffee for now, thanks." I berate myself as soon as the words leave my mouth in a rush. There's no way I'll drink that, but I spoke without thinking. She smiles, making the mistake worth it.

"I'll bring that right out."

I glance around while I wait, my fingers playing with the frayed lamination on the menu's corners. The diner is actually pretty charming, in an understated kind of way. A few locals unabashedly gawk at me, the outsider, but I don't mind. They seem to be a natural part of the environment; it's only fair that they stare back.

I turn my attention away from an especially curious man when Isabella returns. Her high ponytail bounces as she proudly sets the mug and coffee dish in front of me.

She's so sweet, innocent, untainted, and the ungentlemanly side of me wants to rectify the latter two adjectives immediately.

I look up at her youthful face, unwilling to part with her just yet.

"Sit with me," I ask, though it's not really a question. Her brown eyes widen in surprise before she gives me a slight smile.

"I can't while I'm working. My boss will get mad."

"Just for a minute?" I implore innocently.

"I really can't. Sorry. Can I get you anything else?" Her smile is now forced.

I'm about to speak before an uneasy feeling grips me, the unfamiliar phenomenon travelling all the way to my toes. I think I may be having a stroke until I figure out what it is.

Rejection. I've read about that.

I'm not sure whether to laugh or be angry. I must decide on the latter, because she takes one look at my expression and then scampers off. I sigh. She's a frightened doe, and I'm the hunter, I realize with gloom. I've never found a problem with that before now.

I sullenly stare down at the depths of my dull coffee. This is definitely not a latte.

Reminding myself that I have much better things to look at, I study Isabella religiously as she takes breakfast orders from the other tables. On the way to the kitchen, she sneaks a look at me over her shoulder before she blushes and turns away. Adorable.

Unfortunately, it becomes clear that Isabella finds me less than charming. She avoids my table for the next twenty minutes - a miraculous feat in such a small restaurant - except once when she asks if I would like any food. I say no. She gives me my bill on the spot.

I sigh. I know I can't stay here all day like a creeper, though the thought is tempting.

But how do I get her to talk to me?

An idea pops into my lovesick head that may be just preposterous enough to work.

I quickly slip several hundreds underneath an inconspicuous one-dollar bill, pairing the stack with my check before I leave. I know she might just keep it and never talk to me again, but I'm still hopeful. I throw a last glance at my untouched coffee, surprised at how energetic I am without it.

I walk away from the diner until I'm standing by the bench outside, in clear view of the window front. It's cold. I feel ridiculous. I feel giddy. I just...feel. And that feels amazing, in and of itself.

Isabella picks up the tip, and I can see her eyes widen from here. She instinctively looks up at the window, panicked, until her face turns angry. Oh yeah. She sees me.

The diner door dings its bell, announcing the impending boxing match. Isabella storms toward the bench, making quick work of the dozen strides between us. She's just in her cute skirt and tank top, and I feel a frisson of guilt.

"I can't accept this - and you only ordered coffee!" she stammers in greeting.

Her arms flail for effect, and I can feel the eyes of the patrons as they watch our show. If we're lucky, we might even make the paper.

I gaze at her uncovered skin for a moment too long.

"You don't have a coat." I frown disapprovingly. She rolls her eyes at my topic change.

"Yes, well, take your money so I can go back inside."

"I'll take it back if I can have your phone number," I hedge. It seems like a good thing to say at the time.

"You are infuriating!"

Or not.

"Please?" I implore, trying to show all my long-hidden sincerity. I don't have her, but I can't lose her.

"This isn't a normal way to gain someone's affections, you know," she scolds, her tone lacking any bite.

"I know. I just...I don't do this," I explain awkwardly, apologetically. I'm really not used to trying so hard. I've never even wanted to.

"Fine," she huffs, holding her hand out for my iPhone. My lips curve up as I fruitlessly try to hold back my victorious smile.

When she's finished, my fingers ghost over her ocher-painted nails as I retrieve the money and phone. In turn, I give her a more appropriate five-dollar bill for the awful coffee.

"Thank you, Isabella. I'm Edward, by the way."

A nod. "Well, I should probably go inside."

"Yes. I don't want you to get in trouble."

We both pause for a long moment. The wind is whipping at my neck. The silence is growing uncomfortable. I can smell the incoming slush in the air.

But I'd stand here all day if she would.

She hesitates and rubs her forearms, giving me a wary look. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it's actually been very strange...and cold."

I chuckle, despite her serious expression. She has a point.

"I'll call you." It's a promise, or maybe more of a warning. I know she hasn't given me a fake phone number. Her expression is not calculating, and she's too kind to do such a thing.

She nods before turning toward the door, and I have to fight the irrational inclination to snatch her up and hide her away from this ugly world.

I calm slightly when I remember that I'll see her again. I wonder how soon I should call, what we should do. Date possibilities are running through my head, each seeming lamer than the last.

My phone chirps from my pocket, successfully breaking the spell I've fallen under. Fucking Russians and their failed business ventures.

"Hello," I greet sulkily as I peek at Isabella through the glass. She catches me, but luckily she smiles instead of calling the cops. Is that a blush?

I wave like we're in high school and she's my girl.

Then I force my body to turn away before I can embarrass myself further.

Isabella, I muse on the way to my car.

Maybe Forks isn't so bad after all.