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Word Prompt: Candle, handle, vandal

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

Not beta'd.

"Masen is your brother?"

At least the car is dark. She can't see that I'm flushed poppy-red from head to toe.

"Brother… idiot… it's a fine line."

"I'm really sorry, Rosalie. I saw your picture on the background of his phone. I assumed… well, you're so pretty, and he had his arms around you. It made sense since he'd already refused my dinner invitation, and—"

"And you presumed we were together. I get it." She snickers.

"It's just that he was so weird about hanging out with me. He was all: 'I don't think that would be a good idea, not that I don't want to.'" Contradictory much? And I tried to ask him about you, but he got angry at me."

"Wait. He was angry because you asked about a picture?"

"I asked him to tell me about the blonde on his phone."

A hint of recognition registers on her features before she evens out her expression, and nods. "That's no excuse for him to fly off the handle. Please tell me that my brother had the decency to tell you that his actual name is Edward."

"Yes, he told me." I smile, but it doesn't feel natural.

"But you call him Masen anyway?"

"That's how he introduced himself, so I assumed that's what he prefers to be called. I do call him Eddie to screw with him."

She chuckles. "You're a better woman than I am, Bella. I'm ready to punch him in the face for the way he's acting."

"I admit I don't understand why he's so moody, but he doesn't feel comfortable opening up to me about it. That's his prerogative."

"True, but that doesn't give him licence to be a prick, either."

It feels like she's testing me. If I agree with her statement, then I'm cold. If I disagree, I'm a doormat. Regardless, I can't let Masen take all the blame for what's happened between us.

"He's a good guy. He just prefers to keep his life private, and it's not as if he hasn't been clear about that. I'm the one who didn't respect his boundaries. I thought we could be friends."

"He's an ass if he lets you slip through his fingers." The sad smile on her lips tells me she's thinking the same thing I am: he's already let me go. At this point I have nothing to lose.

"From the few things he has told me, I was kind of hoping you were his girlfriend. He needs someone who loves him unconditionally, someone who can get close enough to him to carry some of his burden."

"He needs you," she says quietly. "Don't give up on him."

"He gave up on me, Rosalie."

"If that's true, then he deserves to be alone."

The lull in conversation is a welcome reprieve, giving me time to process the things she's told me. I don't like the silence, though. Out of habit, I reach for Masen's phone to put on some music. My stomach bottoms out when I realize what I've done, and then a second time when I feel the glass and metal under my fingertips. In the back of my mind, I know the relief is pointless—he's still angry with me and wants me to stay out of his life—but knowing he wasn't ignoring my texts, that he couldn't contact me because he left his phone in his car, gives me a tiny bit of hope.

"That's such a shame." Rosalie points to the 'Welcome to Claremont' sign as we pass it. The once pristine sign is now covered in black and pink spray paint, the tag of a vandal with too much time on his hands. I quietly agree with her.

A minute later, she's pulling up in front of my building.

"Thanks so much for the ride." My words are polite but too formal, and I feel like a heel for needing to say them. What else could I say? Thank you for telling me a little bit about your brother? Sorry he dumped his reject in your lap? The whole situation is a little surreal.

"It's been a real pleasure meeting you, Bella. My brother has his reasons for burning the candle at both ends, but I'm sorry he's hurt you, all the same."

"I don't have any regrets. If I had to do it all again, I'd do everything the same way." Well, almost everything.

I smile at her, and she returns it. I can see Masen in the way her eyes crinkle and those damned dimples. As I pick up my backpack, I inhale deeply and look around the Volvo, taking in the final vestiges of him—the cool grey interior and the rich leather smell mixed with some other scent that's quintessential Masen.

Rosalie's phone rings. "I should get this."

"Of course. Thanks again." I excuse myself with a tiny wave and slip out of the car.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. The support you've given me has been so wonderful, and I truly appreciate it.

My posting schedule over the long weekend is still up in the air. I promise to do my best, but don't be surprised if I miss a time or two. Tomorrow night should still be a go.

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