"Incidentally, disturbance from cosmic background radiation is something we have all experienced. Tune your television to any channel it doesn't receive and about 1 percent of the dancing static you see is accounted for by this ancient remnant of the Big Bang. The next time you complain that there is nothing on, remember that you can always watch the birth of the universe." ― Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

: :

Sunday, the 5th December (yes, still)
9:32 PM. Emmett and I have officially made an attempt at supper. It took us a burnt pot of rice, a fire alarm & one and a half hours. But finally, we made something special and super complex. Pasta.

Also, note to self, Sarah McLachlan's River, too, is a pretty unorthodox winter song. It will go well with my iTunes list.

Dear Emmett,

After a lifetime of living with you, you are still incapable of knocking on my door before barging in. Why? I always knock on your door when I need to talk to you or use the computer or something. Always. Then again, maybe that's because I'm afraid of catching you, um, you know. I won't spell it out.

Just learn to knock, okay? I'd appreciate it. One day in the close future—and by that, I mean in twenty years or so—I, too, would like to have a sex life. I know, ew. Now that you have that ugly visual, will you please knock? Thanks.

So, on Thursday evening, at around ten PM or so, my door opened.

"Bella, why is your door—dad! Bella's got a boy in her room!"

"Emmett!"

"They're sort of snuggling or—"

"I'm not even on the bed!"

"—something and she's—"

"Shush!" I whisper. "Edward's asleep. He's pretty tired. Let him sleep."

"Oh, it's only Edward."

"Yeah."

"False alarm dad!"

"Stop yelling."

He pauses to look at what I'm doing, and sits down on the floor next to me. I'm leaning on the bed. Edward's feet are dangling off of it. If I hadn't fully comprehended his tallness before, I certainly did now.

"We didn't know you were home," he says, and I don't reply. "So, what're you doing? Math?"

I hum in response.

"Why?"

"We have a test tomorrow. And so do you."

"I know, but it's easy-D material."

"I want it to be easy-A material."

"You are so conscientious it's embarrassing."

"Such a way with women, Emmett. I will take that as a compliment," I reply. "Besides, not all of us have a supposed football career helping us leap into college."

"I do, huh."

I momentarily close my math book to look at him. "What do you want, Emmett? Coming into my room without a reason? I don't think so."

"Just wanted to see if you were up to playing some corona."

"Just the two of us?"

Jasper clears his throat from the doorway. Since when is my room some kind of a train station? What's so special about my room? What I really like about my room, you know—yes, Emmett, still speaking to you—is that it's mine. Mine. I don't own many things, mind you, I've never been raised to be particularly materialistic, but I do value personal space.

Hint, hint, Emmett.

"But Edward's asleep," I reason. I like playing corona with the boys, but it's just… Edward hasn't slept well for quite a few nights, it seems, and if my presence helped him shut off his brain from thinking about his sister's health—which, instead of improving or deteriorating, is now a complete unknown for us (I'll explain later)—the better. After hearing more about his implied worry about his sister (because he never flat out tells me he's concerned, but it's kind of obvious), I think he should sleep. Really.

I would even go so far as to send a text message to his parents from his phone to let them know he'd be spending the night. If written with enough prudence, I'm sure I could make them agree. Even if they did know he's with me, it's not like they think we're involved. Even Emmett doesn't think that anymore. I mean, come on. If Emmett sees how unrealistic something between us is, anyone with enough brain-power to change a light bulb can. And I'm not being bitter or anything. Just stating the facts. Besides, from the sound of it, I really am the only person to know that he's got a sister in Chicago, and I can see why being with his parents would exhaust him. They're probably able to tell something is up, but I'm pretty sure he's trying to cover his foul mood up as the change of scenery or something. I know I would.

So, he's here to have someone listen to him without judgment. Well, actually, he's here to make sure I was alright, but that was prior to me actually being alright. Oh, shit, this is confusing.

Anyway.

Before I can say anything, Emmett and Jasper, in a true soul-mate fashion (hardy har har), jump on Edward. Literally. Emmett leaps onto Edward's back and Jasper on his feet. I let out a weak huff and put my book and papers on the table.

Oh, what the heck. They're just trying to have some fun.

So I join.

I crouch behind Edward's feet and tickle him. Up until then, he'd let out a grunt, but hadn't moved much, but now he twitches and writhes and huffs a chuckle. I beam at both Emmett and Jasper, which they return.

Ladies and gentleman, we have found a weak spot.

"Guys—hmph—I'd appreciate it if you—hmph—let me breathe."

"We're going to play a game of corona," Emmett says. "You'll join."

"Hmph."

"Is that a yes I hear?"

"Hmph."

"Okay, it seems Edward wants to play corona," Emmett says with an exaggerated fake-sigh. "Alright, Edward! If you insist." He hops off Edward's back, and Edward gasps for breath. We can all see it's overdone, he wasn't really hurt, but it still worries me, just a little. Emmett is pretty built.

"I would've agreed had you woken me up without attempting to paralyze me," Edward says hoarsely. He's rubbing his eyes, but he's smiling.

"Sorry, dude." Emmett grins. "But if you're going to make a habit out of sleeping in Bella's bed, we might have to buy her a new bed. If you were sleeping on your back, your feet could've easily touched the ground. There must be some rule against that."

"Ah, I'll just buy her a new bed for Christmas."

"That's the spirit," Emmett answers. "Now, since you insisted, let's go play corona. Jazz'll take you home later."

It's ten PM, but none of us cares. Dad isn't home—oh, gee, what a surprise—and even if he were, he's never forbidden staying up late playing corona or cards or anything of the sort. He's more worried about the time we are not at home. He's smart like that.

I'm not being sarcastic. Really. If I were to do something incredibly stupid, I would hardly bother doing it when dad knows I'm "up and about". Same goes for Emmett. Dad knows very well that a curfew for us would immediately result in some inadequate decisions. So we don't have one. He expects us home in the evening, sure, but if he's not home himself, it sort of defeats the point.

It's half an hour to midnight when we finish playing. It's so much fun. Edward beat us all twice and Emmett got so mad he broke a cue. It was an accident, really—he tripped over a chair whilst talking about Edward "cheating"—but for some reason, we all laughed.

: :

You know what I accidentally found out on Friday? Mr. Black, our class' PE teacher and school's football coach, cannot stand Michael Newton. Yes, really. I accidentally heard him cornering him and threatening that if he 'doesn't stop' (stop what? I have no idea), Mr. Black is going to throw him out of the team and no college is going to want him. I should've known the coach can't stand him for the sheer amount of times he's interrupted Michael's little torments—where the victim was going to be either me or someone else—with a comment or two in Michael's direction.

I wish I could say that, oh, Michael Newton is not that talented anyway, or not that special, not that fast and whatnot. If life were fair, he'd be a below-average player, he'd learnt his lesson and come to apologize and shit. He won't. Not that he could get away with a mere apology for the shit he did, whether it was me or Eric at the receiving end. And Michael Newton? He's fast. He's the quickest effing quarterback since, like, ever, and he's got a great chance to be snatched up by some college, and maybe even some Ivy-League institution. Quick feet open doors.

If his own coach doesn't like him very much, he must think he's hitting rock bottom.

And you know what's really annoying? He's won the Seattle Summer Marathon three—yes, three—times in a row. Do you know how rare it is for a person to be a sprinter and a marathon runner? Simultaneously? If there is such a thing as talent, he must have it. And that annoys the shit out of me.

I'm also quite baffled as to where all the Kenyans have been hiding for three years. Because they're fast.

Just before lunch, I catch Edward alone next to his locker, with an expression so detached it almost gives me goose bumps. During breaks, a variety of students have come up to him to say hi and chat about his opinion of Seattle and football and drama and such. They like to be around him. And I've recently noticed that Edward doesn't 'um' and 'uh' all that much anymore. Sure, he still doesn't like speaking in front of a group of people, but even during the month he's been here, he's changed.

But this time, he's alone, and when I tap his shoulder, he raises his eyes and instead of saying anything, a hand with a phone appears in front of my face. I question him with my eyes before he nods.

We regret to inform you that your friend Rosalie passed away last night. We'll have a private family ceremony in her honor on Sunday, in Saint…

Well, fuck. I have absolutely no concept of how to react to something like this. I've never been in this situation, and I don't think anything I say would make it any easier for him. So I say nothing. I just stare at him. He has this completely absent look in his eyes that continues to creep me out.

And I remember. I can't comfort him with words, but I can pull him into a hug. So I do. Because if I've learned anything about him at all during the past month, it's that he sees caring in a simple touch. I know he does. And I care. No-one else knows about this, and I care plenty.

I'm pretty sure we draw quite a bit of attention on ourselves, but it's trivial.

"Thanks," he squeezes me before pulling away. I'm surprised by how composed he is. Not even a glassy look. "But look at the other one before drawing any conclusions. That one was from her current family."

He opens another message, and I read.

She escaped. We don't know where, if she's alone or not. Mentally, she should be okay. She was coherent the night before. I'll keep you updated. —Victoria V.

I'm blown away. This is so far beyond what I've experienced in life, and I have no idea how to react.

So I ask, "Which one do you trust?"

"Victoria. I've talked to her before. The first one came from a strange number, and even though they say where they're going to have the ceremony, they also say it's completely private. No guests. So that's a little odd."

"So she's alive?"

"To the best of our knowledge." He lets out a breath. "Let's go eat, and I'll tell you. As much as I know, anyway."

We get chicken with rice, and sit next to a table where Eric is sitting alone. He always sits alone. I smile and wave at him, and he offers this pursed lips sort-of-smile. Our own table-mates are raising eyebrows at us, but I smile and wave at them, too, just to let them know we're not offended by some imaginary remark or anything.

"So. What's going on?"

"Her current family is bunch of abusive assholes, that's what's going on. Probably." He sighs and averts his eyes from Eric to me and back. Deciding Eric isn't going to gain much from our conversation, he continues. "I'm not speaking facts, though. Just a theory. But she's going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks, and maybe they wanted to discharge her and take her back home, so she ran. But again, just a theory."

"Have you got any idea where she might run? Would she go out of Chicago? Illinois? Out of the States?"

"No clue," he answers, running a nervous hand through his hair as he eats. He looks so much older than his age right now.

"Is there any way for us to help her?"

"No clue."

I sigh and continue to eat. This is such a surreal conversation. I mean, I know shit happens and all that, and life is really unexpected, but you never really imagine anything like this happening to someone you know. It's always someone else out there somewhere, not a friend of yours sitting right next to you.

"Do you know if she's, you know, healthy? Okay to be running alone?"

Even before I utter the words, I know it's a dumb question. She just had brain surgery, like, three days ago? Not okay to be wondering around Chicago alone.

Edward shrugs because he can't answer. Neither can I.

I put a hand on his forearm to make him look at me. "Hey, we'll figure it out, okay?"

For the first time since I discovered him staring off into the distance, he really takes a moment to look at me. "I know." And he smiles. "Thanks for listening to my venting."

"Of course. You listened to me yell yesterday, it's only fair."

"I just wish I could, I don't know, find a solution."

"We will."

He gives me this gentle smile before we both finish eating and continue with the day. Life hasn't shown signs of mediocrity since Edward arrived, and while it's different in a good way, it has also brought problems. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

I ace the Math test. I'm glad I do.

It's sort of become a habit to walk home with Edward (when that's our destination, that is), so we do. And I can't help but think about Edward's comments about my perception of myself. I've thought a lot about that. I haven't written much of it in my diary, but it's been in my thoughts since we had the argument.

"I've thought about what you said yesterday," I admit and look up at him. I don't think I can ever fully appreciate the package he represents. Yeah, he's handsome, all straight teeth and sharp jawline and green eyes. But I never really focus on it because he also cares so much about the people in his life, and he's just such a fascinating guy. And the fact that he'd care about something as inconsequential as the way I think about my appearance? Speaks volumes of his character.

"And what did you conclude?"

"I have a long way to go," I reply. "I know it's a problem, but it'll take some time for me to dig out the cause. Because it really starts with the way I think rather than the way I act. So I should start from there."

"Wow."

"What?"

"You really have been thinking about it. Thank you."

"No, thank you," I answer a bit shyly. "But it's just… It won't come overnight. And I'll probably never be entirely okay with the way I look. But I'm working on it. I'm even…"

And I almost tell him I've started to jog in the mornings, but I don't. I know he wouldn't laugh or anything, but for some reason, I feel more comfortable keeping that for myself. So I do. And he doesn't push.

"It's probably not my place, but… what did Michael Newton do?"

I hum and sigh. "I'd rather not. Not now."

Not ever.

"Okay," he replies, and perks up considerably before asking, "Hey—who's your gift to in Drama?"

I grin. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes. Yes I would." He beams. "Is it me?"

It's not. It really isn't. It's Laurent, and I haven't an effing clue what to get him. I should probably talk to him a few times to understand what he likes.

"Why? Did you get me?"

"I wish."

"I know," I answer. "Every night I dream about the king sized bed we're going to buy after our fancy wedding is over. We'll be having so much sex on it."

He sort of just stares at me for a moment. And then? He laughs. Like, really laughs. "How can you be so self-deprecating and so forward simultaneously? You're such an enigma."

"Aw, Edward, did you really just call me enigma?"

"I think I did."

"Why thank you." I stop my pace to bow. "If you keep up with the compliments, you should watch out, I might jump you. And that would make one hell of an awkward friendship."

"Probably," he answers and changes the subject. "Hey, don't laugh, but I'm going to try out for the football team on Wednesday at five PM, and it'd be pretty cool if you could come and cheer for me."

"Why do you think I'd laugh?" I ask, placing a hand on my heart. "I'm insulted."

"So you'll come?"

"Front row. With a basketful of eggs and a sign to prove I am your most devoted fan."

"So when I mess up, you have eggs for me? That's encouraging."

"No, the eggs are for Shawn, Jason and Michael Newton. If they even sneeze your way, they'll be covered in protein."

"Hard as it is to believe, you make it sound fun."

"I hope they share your perspective."

He laughs. "Hey, what about you and I exchange gifts as well?"

"Deal. What do you like?"

"I like snow and, you know, my friends happy."

So I could just wrap myself into wrapping paper, scrub snow into my hair, stand outside of your window, plaster the biggest smile on my face—and you'd be happy?

"That is very useful for my knowledge in buying you a gift."

"I know. So what would you like to have?"

I take a minute to think about it, and when he opens his mouth to repeat the question, I admit, "I'd like my mom," I say. "To be here—for Christmas."

He just gives me this odd look but doesn't say anything. I don't know why, but he makes me feel so vulnerable sometimes. Or maybe I make myself feel vulnerable around him by admitting all sorts of stuff to him. Or both. I don't know.

"Why is it that you haven't, you know, seen each other for five years?"

"It's not this big trauma of mine if you're thinking that. It's just that… five years ago, before my parents got the divorce, my dad was adamant in trying to save their marriage. She wasn't. They got married really young when she got pregnant with Emmett, and… uh, I don't know. Dad was so willing to change himself and all before she repeatedly blew up on him and yelled and stuff. It got really personal. After that, he shut himself out of her life and fought for our custody like his life depended on it. You know how rare it is for the dad to win custody, right? He can look so stoic, but when he's passionate about something, he really sort of, I don't know, puts himself out there."

"Kind of like you, huh?" he says.

"If you exclude the part about being stoical, maybe."

"I mean you put yourself out there a lot. I really like that about you."

"Thanks."

"But continue with your story."

"Not much left to say. I just think that—maybe—my mom never fully got over the fact that he got us. Or maybe she's afraid he still feels for her in spite of everything. I dunno."

"But she could still visit. Or give you money for plane tickets or something."

I shrug. I don't have an answer.

Edward's words, however, made me realize I haven't called mom for about a month, and that makes me incredibly guilty. I usually try to call her once a week, after tutoring and before work on Saturday. So first thing when I arrive home, I call her mobile with Bobsled. She doesn't answer. I've never felt comfortable leaving a message, so even if Bobsled let me, I wouldn't. I'll try again later.

Before heading off to the cinema, I take off and rearrange the posters and poems and newspaper articles on my wall. It's been too long since I last had the time. I find a few A3 posters of athletes from old magazines, Wayne Gretzky, Lance Armstrong and Jerry Rice. All from 1990s. I wish I had a female runner or something, someone really inspiring and motivating and athletic-looking. But those guys have to do. I throw away Lance Armstrong because, well, doping or not, I can't look at someone who might've fought unfairly. It's such a heartbreaking story, but I just can't have him up there.

I work until one AM, come home with a taxi (dad would die if I did otherwise), tutor and spend time with Edward and work again on Saturday. Such is life. I'd elaborate, but I refuse not to jog in the morning, and I have to get up wee hours of the morning in order to do that.

So—adios, Emmett!

I hope you're having a blast reading about my extraordinary life.

: :

Saturday, the 11th December
Phoenix, AZ
03:54 AM

Well, fuck.

I'm baffled. I'm tired from not sleeping more than two or three feeble hours a night. Exhausted.

And then there's this fucking sadness. Bursting and choking and just… fuck.

I guess, on some level, I always dreamed of going outside of Washington State, on a road-trip or an airplane or bus or whatever the fuck. But not like this. Never like this. I cannot rack out… not even for a second. It's not possible.

Fuck it. If I can't do anything else, maybe writing helps. I hope it does, because nothing else has.

It's like the world before this is a flowery goodness where I had a perfect life with the hobbies I love and Edward and no worries and corona with the boys and Drama and… just rainbows and sunshine. And now. None of it matters. I don't give a shit.

I just listen to a song called Gortoz a ran—J'attends over and over and over again. And over again. I listen to it when I break into hysterics (not around mom's friends, though) and when I fall into a fitful sleep and… it's safe to say I've been listening to this song for three days in a row. It's on Emmett's iPod. He's into all the soundtrack music and I've been listening to his iPod since Thursday.

So. On Wednesday, during the sixth lesson with Mr. Newton, during the time I was scribbling something trivial about Waterloo on the blackboard, there was a knock on the door. Peter peeked in. Naturally, I stopped writing. Heads turned.

"May I speak to Miss Swan, please?"

Mr. Newton, who had been casually leaning on the window sill, looked doubtful.

"You seem to have a recurring habit of taking Miss Swan out of my classroom, Mr. Gallaghe. You may speak with her in twenty minutes, after the class."

Peter took a look at the curious students, hesitating. Instead of retreating, he stepped into the classroom, closed the door, and walked over to John Newton. I'd never seen him look so solemn in the two years I've known him, and it kind of creeped me out. My history teacher had a rather arrogant-looking expression up until Peter reached him and whispered something to him. His expression changed entirely, and they both looked at me.

"You are dismissed, Miss Swan. Don't worry about your essay."

I put down the chalk and expected to walk to the door, but Peter shook his head. "Take your stuff."

I reached my table, and when Edward locked eyes with me, we both immediately realized something serious must have happened. He sat, rigid, watching as I tucked my books into my back bag. A moment later, his arm shot up.

"Mr. Newton?"

"Yes?"

"May I go to the bathroom?"

Usually, this results in an immediate resounding denial, but that day, he looked at us both for at least five seconds. Just stared.

But still, he shook his head. "I'm well aware that you two, you're like two peas in a pod, but not this time, Mr. Cullen. I'm sorry."

He visibly shrunk, but leaned over and whispered, "Message me, okay?"

I nodded, if barely.

Peter waited as I packed my belongings, and together, we stepped out of the classroom. I'm glad to get rid of the eyes at the back of my head, but there's an unpleasant feeling in my stomach now. I'm pretty sure he's not here to tell me we have an urgent Drama meeting to figure out who are the lead singers.

"Peter?" Is it dad? Did he have a heart attack or something? Emmett? Cardiac arrest in the football field? Oh, fuck. I feel so light-headed I could vomit.

"Bella? You okay?"

I nod, taking a deep breath. Okay. Maybe they're both fine. Maybe it's something else entirely.

"What's going on? Is my dad okay? Is Emmett? Tell me already." I beg with a voice so distant I wonder if it's mine. "Please."

He avoids my eyes and clears his throat. "I think it's better if we get your brother as well."

I am both relieved and horrified. Emmett is okay. Good. I feel like the character in Hunger Games, capable of only putting together simple sentences waiting for affirmation. Emmett is fine—real or not? Real.

Our footsteps echo. We walk upstairs. We pass a janitor. It's raining outside. We reach 203, Spanish, and Peter knocks, steps into the room, and a moment later, a happy-looking Emmett steps out of the classroom. I'm so glad he's okay, but I can also see he's one step away from throwing his fist into the air and being all, 'We're skipping class together? Awesome!' But his expression sobers once he registers ours.

"What's wrong?"

"Yeah, Peter."

He starts walking. We join. We go back downstairs, pass the classrooms and halt in front of our lockers.

"It's your mother," he finally says. "Your dad will be here any moment to take you home."

Fuck.

These are not the words you hear when someone's been taken to a hospital.

"What happened?" Emmett presses. "She's alright, right?"

"It's not really my place…"

"Peter," I say. "Please stop beating around the bush. You should know me better than that. Just tell us."

"She's alive, right?" Emmett repeats.

Peter just avoids our gaze. "I'd rather you heard it from your father."

"Peter."

He shakes his head. "Just… take your stuff. Your dad'll be here."

Confused and horrified, we do as he says, and pretty soon, dad steps into the schoolhouse. He's completely shut down. Like, no emotion whatsoever. Emmett and I just sort of stare at each other.

"Okay, kiddos, got your stuff? Let's go then."

"Dad," I say.

"Mom's alright, right?" Emmett repeats like a broken record. It's this one particular idea that holds him together.

Dad stops in front of his police cruiser, and turns around. His eyes flicker from my jacket to Emmett's and back.

"It's your mom."

"Yeah, we know. What about her? She's okay, right?" Emmett says. I purse my lips together when Emmett looks for me for confirmation.

"She…" He shakes his head. "She, uh, Mr. Dwyer called the headmaster because he didn't know how to contact us. Mr. Kramer called me. You two will be flying off to Arizona tonight."

Fuck, why can't he just say it? It's torture. Just say it.

"Is she dead?" I ask, and it sounds incredibly loud and insolent in my ears, but I need to know. I hate beating around the bush. Hate it. Emmett pales as if my words never occurred to him, and we both stare at dad.

Dad doesn't say anything. He just nods.

"What? No," Emmett denies. "She can't be! That can't be. I just spoke to her, like, a week ago. She's fine."

We get into the car, I sit at the back and Emmett at the front. I'm focusing on my breathing. I feel like I'm watching us from afar, judging our reactions and wondering why I'm not crying yet. Emmett keeps repeating that she couldn't possibly be. In the back of my mind, I realize it's his coping mechanism. What's mine? In movies and such, whenever such news are delivered at any point in the story, the protagonist—almost without exception—immediately bursts into tears. Or starts yelling. Throwing stuff. I just feel like, I don't know, like this couldn't have happened. It's not possible.

Almost the entire way, Emmett keeps asking himself or dad—I'm not sure—if mom is alright. I sit. I watch trails of raindrops. It's just… it's unreal. I don't think this could be happening. I wish I had a Victoria V. person to send me a text message saying that she's okay but simply decided to become a nun and move to Mongolia.

We reach home and hover in the kitchen in silence. Emmett is holding his hands in his pockets as he watches dad pull out food from the fridge. I lean on the wall. I'm not hungry. Neither is Emmett.

"How?" I finally ask. My voice is hoarse.

Emmett holds his breath.

"How what?" dad asks, sincerely confused. For some reason, it stirs my emotions.

"People don't just randomly drop dead, dad. How?"

She doesn't own a car. She doesn't drink much. She doesn't smoke. She isn't into extreme sports. I'm not reaching for the moon here by asking.

He clears his throat. "The flu."

"Come again?"

"The flu," he repeats.

"The flu?"

"The flu."

I'm not entirely stupid. I know you can die of flu. But it's an answer so anticlimactic and unexceptional it doesn't seem to account for the stir of emotions of the news. I've watched too many motion pictures, I know, but in movies, it's always 'there was an accident, a drunk driver hit your mother.' Something dramatic. Something to give me an object of anger. Someone to blame. I want to blame someone.

I can't.

"She got—uh—pneumonia and it—it got discovered too late, it was, uh, one of those kinds, and she was, the antibiotics she was on didn't, uh, work, and…" He takes a breath and doesn't end the sentence. I'm blinking at him. At the speed of a blinking smoke detector. Slowly.

Why am I not crying yet? I don't think this is really happening. Or maybe I'm just such a shitty person. I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Okay." I need to act. I'll go crazy if I don't. "So. We're going to Arizona. Tonight. Don't you want to, uh, come with us, dad?"

He looks away, and I think I've asked too much. It's too new. Too raw. But he shifts in his place and stops messing with the food. He sits.

"We don't—I don't—there's not enough money."

"How much is a two-way plane ticket to Phoenix?"

"Four fifty, give or take. I barely have—" he stops. But I know what he's trying not to say. He barely has enough for me and Emmett.

"If you had the money, would you—would you like to come?"

"Of course I fucking want to come! Fuck!" he shouts, and the raw anger is so sudden I back away a little. "She's my wife, for Christ's sake! She's your mother! She's the sweetest—how can you even—"

He blinks furiously and slouches back into the seat. A moment later, he breaks into sobs. Real sobs. Heaving and red faced, tears streaming down his face kind of sobs. It breaks me. It's the first time since we got the news that I actually feel like this is happening. It's real. She's really gone. My throat gets so tight it's almost impossible to breathe, and I sit next to him. Emmett's on the other side and already has a hand on his shoulder.

"I—I'm so—so sorry, dad," I rasp. He just shakes his head with his face in his hands. I've never tolerated a crying man. There's just something so genuinely heartbreaking about it, and it makes me cry, too. And I know he's not really angry at me. But still.

"I think I—I have the money. So—so you can come."

He takes a shaky breath, desperately trying to hide the fact that he's crying. "What—how?"

"I—I've been saving up for, for—I have almost six hundred."

"But, that's—that's your own, uh, money. You—you earned it yourself."

He's leaning his head against his hands, but he's looking at me sideways, with an expression so hurt and heart-broken and sad I immediately know I've already spent the money on his—or mine—plane ticket. He's not not coming. He loved her.

"You're coming," I say. My voice doesn't crack once. He looks at me, all teary and red-faced and sad, and hugs me. Really hugs me. And I know I've won. He wants to come, and he cannot turn down the offer.

"Thank you," he says with a weepy voice. "You—you—thank you. You and your mom, you're so alike."

I nod in his embrace. It's the biggest compliment.

He takes a very deep, very shaky breath, and pulls away. He wipes his face surreptitiously while Emmett and I pretend not to notice his tears. If there's any man on this planet who doesn't want to admit to crying, it's our dad, and we respect that.

"I—we should all, uh, pack. And, Emmett, could you—you're better at… could you buy plane tickets?"

"I'll do it," I offer. I might not be Emmett's best buddy or anything, but I am his sister, and I am well aware that when Emmett needs to digest bad news, he wants to run off for a while and get it out. If he doesn't, he'll go nuts on the plane, and he doesn't need that. He is right to take it out.

Our eyes lock, and I know he knows that I single-handedly offered him an opportunity to do just that. In this tiny little moment, he gives me a small nod, a nod so appreciative I wonder what happened to the brother I knew. He's changed. I've changed. The moment he turns away his eyes, he puts on his oldest shoes and disappears through the front door.

I buy three two-way tickets for a plane that takes off at midnight. We're coming back on Saturday, late evening. Dad excuses himself to go to the store, and even though I know it's probably a white lie, I don't care. We all need some time to digest.

After that, I lie on my bed. I sniff and weep silently without bothering to find a tissue. You could say I just cry a lot. There's no artistic way to put that. I cry myself into a bumbling mess before I force myself to put on the light and sit in front of a mirror. Just sit. Nothing more. I assess my appearance, comparing it with the photograph of my mom. There is barely any similarity. She's got short…ish light hair, blue eyes, dimples, wide eyes. She's beautiful. She was beautiful. Unbelievably.

And something just hits me. I don't know why I do it, but I stare at my less-than-satisfactory reflection and grab scissors. I take my braid into my left hand and cut it off from the beginning. My hair falls out of the braid, and the length is alien. I wonder if I should bag my braid for wigs for kids going through chemotherapy or something. So I don't throw it away. I let it fall. I take more hair, and cut more. I brush my hair. I cut. I brush. I cut. I repeat the process.

When I finally take the time to process my reflection, I am almost unrecognizable. In the front, my hair falls in the middle of my forehead, and it is one and a half inches at most. I cut off the parts at the back that feel longer, and… I'm done. I have short hair.

I put my hair into a bag so that I can donate it later.

I don't really pack. I just empty my back bag and throw some necessities into it. A toothbrush. Undergarments. A clean shirt. Sports trousers. Penguin-pattern pajamas. My diary.

Both dad and Emmett stare at my hair when they see me. Neither comments. I'm glad.

Our ride to the airport at nine PM is quiet. Emmett got back only a few hours ago, and he seemed a lot more like he'd accepted it. I wouldn't say he's calm. More like determined. He'd clearly shaken some feelings out of himself on his jog.

It's my first time on a plane, so I pay close attention to the safety information. Dad, Emmett and I talk quietly, dad asks me about my Drama and Emmett about football and it's all suddenly so very polite, so very meaningless. But necessary. It's like we all think if we get off-topic one of us snaps and then we all start to either yell or cry. I don't want to find out if we would.

We arrive at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport when the sun has just risen, at half to eight. It's so bright. We would've arrived much earlier if we hadn't had a layover in Salt Lake City, but was cheaper this way.

Phil and mom live (or lived) in a town called Gilbert in Phoenix area, and even though that's where we're headed, we don't stay in Hyatt Place. We stay at their home.

It's odd. I'm the youngest, and suddenly I'm the one who's taken charge of the trip. I let Phil (whom none of us has ever met) know we've arrived—just like I'd let him know when we're coming—and half an hour of disturbingly bright taxi-riding later, we're here. I never quite realized what an affluent part of town my mom lived in. It's not a castle, but it's a three-story brick house in a very neat subdivision. It's one of those places where you might get scolded for walking on grass.

We meet Phil. He's about dad's height, bald, and in a black suit while us, travelers, wear jeans and whatever. He's also surprisingly young and his mannerisms kind of remind me of dad, which might explain why they actually get along. Dad stays up to talk to Phil and such, but I go straight to sleep. So does Emmett.

Emmett wakes me up at before sunset (even though I ended up napping for only a couple of hours), just before dinner, which involves about a dozen friends of mom's and Phil's whom we've never met. They're all incredibly compassionate and super nice, some of them hug me and say comforting words, but I don't know any of them, so I'm not on the verge of tears yet. I wonder what would happen if Edward were here instead of them.

I'd be a weeping mess, probably. Because he's familiar, he's my friend, and he knows me.

I've gotten a few text messages from him.

what happened? are you okay? I hope you are. —E.

school is kind of boring without you, you know? you brighten the day. I hope your dad and brother are alright, too. —E.

everyone is baffled by your absence in Drama. even Peter doesn't know how to act without you. he refused to tell us anything. I'm worried. when you're ready to talk, I'm here, okay? please be alright. —E.

Thanks so much, Edward. Don't worry about me. Bella

I don't elaborate. I don't want to break the news through a text message. I hope he'll understand.

Just after I excuse myself from dinner (where, again, everyone looks pretty fancy… except for us), Emmett excuses himself as well. We think alike recently. I tell dad we'll be out, and won't be too late, and out of the door we go. It's not even fifteen minutes from the sunset, but it's really dark. Without lighting it would be pitch black. It's funny how latitude matters. In Seattle, there's at least forty minutes of dusk. Here, it's like a switch.

We choose a random direction, and start walking. I feel a little dizzy from lack of sleep. The entire situation was kind of thrust upon us, and it still feels unreal. Being here. Everything.

"They probably think I'm a complete bitch."

"Why?"

"Because—everyone's, you know, compassionate and teary-eyed and such, and I haven't even felt like, you know, crying. Here, I mean. I don't know these people. I've never met them before. I feel like they knew an entirely different person from the one we knew. And they're all so… fancy."

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Who cares about what they think?"

I hum.

We walk. Some houses have cacti in their front yard. Some have palm trees. It's a different world.

"Hey—what did you talk about with—with mom a week ago?"

"Ah, you know… football. Women."

"Har, har."

He sighs. "She told me she'd grabbed a—a cold. And she's taking, uh, vitamins," he says, struggling not to stutter. "And I told her about what's been happening with us, you know. When I told her you'd met a boy, she—she got really excited. She told me to tell you to—call her." His lips form a line. "I'm sorry—I really—I just… forgot."

"Not your fault."

"She was so happy you'd met Edward. Like, really."

"It's not like that, Emmett. And you know it."

"Yeah," he says, pausing. "I know." Another pause. "But if you were to—you know—suddenly fall madly in love with him and choose him, I don't think dad and I would mind." He gives me this odd semi-grin that looks joking and sad simultaneously. A moment later, he says, "Don't give me that face—you know I'm kidding."

"I know."

But he's talking like it's my choice. Mine. Like Edward's choice didn't matter. I'll just grab Edward by the collar and be all, 'Ahoi, I choose you.'

"I don't want to—to go to the, ah, funeral tomorrow. I just want her to keep living in my head. I don't want the reality."

"Me either."

There are some kids shouting and laughing in the distance.

"Emmett—do you think we could, you and me and dad, we could do our own little, ah, ceremony back in Seattle? Without all these fancy people? Just the three of us."

He pauses. "I'd like that."

We continue to walk.

"Do you remember how mom always loved weird shoes? Like, the rest of her outfit was always perfect, and then she had to have a ridiculous pair of shoes to go with it? I distinctly remember one time when she had this gorgeous white costume and carrot-shaped bright orange heels. It was kind of her thing. Remember?"

"Yeah." He chuckles. "And white. She always wore white. I remember when you were three, I think, I was four, and you'd just discovered you were a girl. You took one of mom's white dresses and fit into her heels. You'd covered your chin and mouth with strawberries. I think it was your idea of a lipstick. It was all over the dress, and dad's friends were over, and when you limped out of mom's bedroom in those ridiculous heels, they just looked at you and laughed. They thought you were the cutest thing ever, and mom didn't even have the heart to be mad at you."

"Oh, wow. I don't remember that."

"Yeah. I was so jealous of the attention you got."

"Really? I'm sorry."

"No-no, it's just—one of those things you don't get when you're a kid. Like, the idea of getting attention. Remember when I hid a stray dog in my room for two days? Mom was allergic and she didn't know why she kept sneezing and stuff. But I don't think I even wanted a dog, I just wanted the attention, good or bad."

I snickered. "And that you got. Couldn't play corona with us for two weeks."

"We've had that game for a long time, huh?"

I hummed. "What else do you remember about her?"

And we just walk and talk. I don't know if I've ever kind of, I don't know, connected with Emmett the way we do here, but I'm grateful we do. It's so enlightening to see our childhood from Emmett's perspective, without my self-esteem affecting my thoughts or hatred of the word talent, or just my point of view. I find out Emmett always liked my piano-playing. He misses hearing it. And that when he was five and I was four, when dad and Emmett saw some girl pushing me on the climbing frame (which very rarely happened when I was at that age), dad made Emmett promise him he'd always look out for me. And that he doesn't know if dad remembers it, but he has. He's looked out for me ever since.

And I tell him how frustrated it used to make me that Emmett was always this strong and fast older brother, and that I could never run faster than him. And that he was always so good at everything (except for math) which made me want to be really competitive at times. I've always envied the fact he could juggle. I'd tried in vain.

He tells me that mom had always had problems with respiratory diseases, a fact I've never been aware of. I guess I remember her having an occasional bronchitis or angina, but I can't remember it being serious. Apparently, it was, a few times. I never knew.

He lets me listen to a song on his iPod that he's filled with soundtrack music. We agree we're both sick of our respective songs, so we switch our technology. I give him my MP3-player in return for his iPod.

We talk about him going off to college, where he's applied to—Seattle Pacific University and a college in New York whose name I've forgotten—and suddenly, we talk about anything and everything. It's good. I ask him if he could stay with me during the funeral, and he gives me this 'duh' look that makes me chuckle. It's a weak one, but it is one nonetheless.

And he does. We don't move from each other's side the entire time. I don't know if I can claim to be a support for Emmett, too, but I will, because it doesn't feel like he's just there for me. I'm there for him, too. Neither of us cries because it doesn't feel like our mom being sent off. They make such perfect and exalting eulogies, such praising speeches that the person described doesn't feel like mom. Like, yes, mom was amazing. She was. But she had her funny quirks and faults that made her, her. The person they're describing is a saint.

Our mom wasn't, and that's why we loved her.

Like, she sometimes judged people too quickly, mostly those who wore clothes that were less than satisfactory in her eyes. She valued appearance a lot. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, I'm just saying it's something that mattered to her. The way I remember her, her appearance was always impeccable. And I was usually covered in mud with old trousers. We didn't exactly speak the same language, you could say.

She scrunched her nose every time someone mentioned pickles. She didn't like them at all. If there was even a smell of a piece of pickle in a salad, she could pick it up at the snap of a finger.

She used to read fairy tales to me every evening, and fell asleep before me. I wasn't a big fan of fairy tales, but I loved the fact she wanted to read to me, so I never said anything. I just liked spending time with her.

She made the best lasagna I've ever had. Mouthwatering lasagna.

At one point, people start to leave and offer their condolences, which we accept, side by side. Dad has joined us. He's pulled himself together really well, I have to say. It's obvious this ceremony has spoken to him in a different, heavier way, and I can tell he's struggling with his composure. But I think you'd have to know him well to understand that, so others don't notice.

As people go, I realize most of them are wearing white. Like in a Buddhist funeral. I'm touched by the fact that her friends remembered such a thing.

That evening, as we have another dinner with a group of friends—since dad seems to be oddly fitting into Phil's circle of friends—Emmett and I sneak off again. We're both exhausted. Surprisingly, despite everything, I've managed to jog every day and forced myself to eat properly. It's never been more difficult to shove delicious food down my throat. I cannot afford not to gain weight.

We repeat our walk, and continue with the conversation. I really feel like I've never properly known my brother until now. It's not like I didn't know him well before, it's just so different.

There's this immediate trust between us now.

I'm going to go for another jog. We have a flight in the evening, and then we'll be back in Seattle.

I'm glad that writing helped. I wonder if mom ever wrote a diary.

: :

Tuesday, the 14th of December
10:01 PM. Back in Seattle. Now listening to Hans Zimmer's Tennessee on repeat. I think it's progress.

Phil was gratuitously welcoming toward us for the entire duration of our stay. He even went so far as to mention we're welcome to stay with him if we happen to be in Phoenix.

Yeah. Oops! Where am I? Oh, I just found myself from Phoenix, sorry.

He wants me to have mom's entire collection of beauty products, and let me tell you, it wouldn't fit into two suitcases. There is a lot of it. I politely decline, but I do notice a pair of sparkling, yellow chicken slippers. Even with mom's standards, it's one of the most ridiculous things I've seen, and I immediately know that if he's offering me to have something, this is what I want.

"Can I have these?" I pull them out from under the table.

"I'm offering you anything of hers, all her pearl and gold necklaces, and this is what you choose?"

"Yes."

He frowns and scratches his bare scalp. "Of course. She has others, too—would you like to see those?"

"No. Just these."

"Nothing else?"

I shake my head.

"Wow, she wasn't kidding about you."

And I cannot not ask, "What? What did she say about me?"

"I asked her about you two because you're hers. She said you weren't one for the glitter, that you're one for content rather than appearance. And that you're so very genuine. She emphasized that. And fun. She really appreciated and loved you a lot, you know, even though you two didn't see each other for a while. I hope you knew that."

"I did," I say, swallowing back the tightness in my throat. "And, Phil—thanks for taking care of us and everything. I am happy she found a guy like you."

"If only we'd had more time, huh?" he asks, and it is the first time during these three days that I really see the damage my mom left behind. He breaks eye contact, but he's got tears in his eyes.

I nod.

Dad shakes Phil's hand and thanks him before we go. So do we. It's been a surreal couple of days. A heartbreaking couple of days.

The flight back is different, and that's because right away, I ask dad about mom. To tell us about mom. Things he loved, things he hated, situations he remembers, just… the real part of her, not the saint part. And dad? I never knew, but he's as eager to talk about her and remember her best as we are to listen. So he talks. How they were best friends before anything. How they fell in love. How they struggled with two little kids and full time jobs. How much they loved each other.

We listen. I learn things I never knew, I learn so much. I want to remember the best of her, the real her, not a phantom saint worshipped at a funeral. She was real. At one point, we're all teary-eyed and snickering at a joke dad made, and the rest of the passengers don't know what to make of us.

When we arrive back, it's like stepping from bright day to wet night. It's still raining in Seattle.

As we head off to the bathrooms, dad pulls me aside before we can enter. He takes a deep breath and looks nervous. Like he's about to deliver a speech.

He looks dead in my eye. "Bella… did I make a mistake by fighting for your custody?"

His words are so silent and vulnerable.

"What? No! Dad, why would you think that?"

He averts his eyes. "Just… you could've had more time with her… And now you saw where you could've lived. She would've been able to offer you so much more. I was just so stubborn and determined to at least have you guys I didn't—think."

"Dad, no."

He looks really torn. "And now you had to spend your savings on my plane ticket—I'll pay you back, Bella. I will. You've always been a little different from other girls. You've worked and saved money for years and I doubt it was for an iPad. What was it for?"

I just shake my head. "It doesn't matter, dad. Just look at it as if I'd paid for my own ticket, okay?"

"Bella, please," he pleads. "I'll pay you back regardless of what it was for—even if was for an iPad, I'd just like to know. Amuse your old man."

"It's not important, dad. There's no need to pay me back. I'll live."

"You don't want to tell me?"

"Not really. You'll laugh."

"I promise not to."

"Why are you so determined to find out, dad? Why does it matter?"

"Because I want to—to understand my daughter better. Is that a crime?"

I realize—he's never really asked me anything important in his life. And even though this isn't as important to him as it is to me, I decide to trust him. He would've found out anyway had I actually gotten far enough to go to an interview in the application process.

"It was for a plane ticket to go to an interview in—New York. There are a few colleges over there that I hoped to get in." Just one, actually.

His mouth pops open, just slightly, and it's not a gasp, but it's as close to speechless as I've ever seen him.

"It was for—college?" He clears his throat and purses his lips in a line as if he were about to cry. "Fuck."

"Dad—it's okay. Really. I probably wouldn't have gotten in, anyway. It's no big deal. It would've been next year, anyway."

"Bella—my daughter makes her own money to hope to get into the college she wants to go and I use it because I don't have enough. How is that okay?"

"It is, believe me. It's not like we wasted it."

He keeps shaking his head, but drops the subject. "But—I just want to know—did I make a mistake by having you here?"

"You mean did we suddenly realize we would've loved to have fancy dinners every night and not walk on grass and have a TV so big it covers the entire wall? No."

"Thank God. But you—you could've had more time with mom. I'm so sorry. We could've had a road trip to go there or something. I'm sorry, Bella."

"We didn't know, dad."

He sort of exhales with the words. "So I did good?"

"Yes. You did well."

"I never tell you this, Bella, we never seem to talk much, but I want you to know—I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of the woman you're becoming."

: :

The only white article of clothing in my closet is a knee-length simple dress. I realize I haven't worn it for two and a half years, I think. I pull it over my head, over my long-sleeved white shirt. The dress is almost mid-thigh now, not as loose around me—it's almost tight, even—and unbelievable as it is, it accentuates my non-existent curves. I pull on white pantyhose before turning in front of the bathroom mirror and acknowledging the faint line of my calves. Two weeks of jogging haven't turned me into a gorgeous lady, but I feel healthier. Slowly, I'm developing muscles, and I've probably gained a few pounds.

I feel pretty.

When I head downstairs, I immediately notice that Emmett is wearing a white button-down. Sure, he's got black suit pants, but it's not like he's got a closet full of white pants. The proper official-looking attire is not him at all, but it looks good. Girls will be throwing themselves at him one by one. I doubt he'll notice.

We nod at each other, eat breakfast in silence and walk to school together. It's like we silently acknowledge our respective effort, so there's no need to talk about it. So we don't. It's our silent salute to our one and only mom.

We stop just after entering our two-story schoolhouse, in the wardrobe. I know that going to school will help us move on more quickly, but that doesn't make moving on any easier. Interacting. Talking. Smiling. Edward.

I feel the intense need to go back home and not see anyone I know, and when I look over, Emmett seems to share my feelings. We stand there for half a minute, perhaps. I don't know. But we do pull each other into a hug, a real hug, and stay that way for a minute.

He mutters, "It'll get easier. It has to."

I hum in reply.

"I like your chicken slippers."

I chuckle weakly before we pull away. He raises his pants, and he's wearing pink toe shoes. They must've cost a fortune. I let out a sincere snicker, and he gives me a sort of sad grin.

"She would've found them hilarious. Especially since you're this popular jock and everything."

"I know," he agrees, shifting from one foot to the other. We're late for class, we know it, but still, we just stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Maybe it's better that we're late.

"Let me know if Michael Newton or any other asshole finds a problem with your choice of footwear."

"I'll kick him in the balls with my sparkly chicken slippers if he does."

"I just don't want to miss all the fun." He pauses. "And you look pretty, by the way. Mom would've loved your outfit."

"Likewise."

We start toward the classrooms, not really in a hurry, and he gives me a sad smile in front of his classroom door. "So we'll need a battle strategy."

"Battle strategy?" I repeat.

"If you, uh, you know, at one point feel like you can't—you know—be around others in class," he starts, and I blink furiously. He continues, "You can always tell them something about me, like your brother hurt himself or beat someone up or… you know."

"Why?"

"I know the teachers would excuse us either way, but I know you don't really like to appear weak, so you'll have a valid excuse for leaving the classroom at random."

It's official. My brother is amazing.

"Wow. Thanks."

"Anytime," he replies and tenderly ruffles my short hair. "So I'll see you at lunch?"

"Definitely."

It's like a curse, the way I always unintentionally interrupt only John Newton's class. I have him on Mondays, the first lesson, on Wednesday, the sixth lesson, and on Thursdays. I take a deep breath in front of 122, grasp the doorknob and enter. Tanya is writing something on the blackboard, but stops as the door closes. Eyes land on me. Eyes wander on my outfit, my slippers, my hair, my earrings. I hadn't fully realized how much different I'll feel to them now, but who cares.

I sense déjà vu.

"Glad that you could join us, Miss Swan," the teacher says, observing the change in me just like the others. But he's cordial. He's nice. Not arrogant at all. "And please take a seat next to Eric. We're working in pairs."

My eyes snap to Edward's, and the seat next to him has books on it, but no occupant. I recognize the back bag, and it's Tanya's. My eyes lock with Edward's for the briefest of moments and I feel so guilty for not properly contacting him I look away. I've felt so much bafflement and exhaustion during the past week. So now it's guilt. Gnawing at me. Wrapping around me. Why couldn't I have been more persistent in trying to contact mom? I could've called every single day. I could've written so many letters. I could've visited with the money I gathered for my university interview. I could've done so many things.

Fuck.

My eyes shimmer of tears as I slide myself next to Eric. He politely explains what we're doing and I help him half-heartedly. He agrees to go to the blackboard, and I'm glad because it's so much more difficult to be around everyone than I thought. I'd snap the chalk in two, run out and slam the door.

I slide my essay on the teacher's desk before leaving. I know he told me it didn't matter, but it was writing the essay or crying until I dehydrated and lost my voice. So I wrote an elaborate essay about Napoleon's life. It had to be three pages. I wrote nine. He can flunk me if he wants. I don't care.

I press my lips together and exit the classroom. I feel eyes at the back of my head. It bothers me more than it should. I just want to be alone. No pity, no communication, nothing.

Just when I turn to head in the direction of 107, Math, someone wraps an arm around my shoulder and ruffles my hair. I already know it's Edward. He doesn't say anything until we reach the end of the corridor with less people around. Once there, he puts his hands on both of my shoulders and looks at me. Really looks at me.

"How are you?" he asks, careful. "What happened?"

I gulp. I didn't realize he still didn't know. Does that mean no-one knows and the looks I get are purely because of the way I look? I'm not sure whether I feel relieved or anxious.

I do, however, feel like I can't talk about this with Edward without bursting into tears.

"It's, uh. We were in—in Arizona. The, ah, the funeral was on Fri—Friday morning."

I was right. The tears are immediate. Not a drop during funerals, but talking to Edward, and I'm dehydrating through the eyes.

He immediately engulfs me into a crushing hug, and I'm weeping. It's the first time I've had to deliver the news to someone, and it's so difficult to keep myself from crying. My throat is tight again. It annoys me.

"Do—doesn't, uh, anybody know?"

"No—Peter's been really tight-lipped about you. Everyone in Drama kept asking. Apparently it's the first time you've missed Drama in years."

I hum. I'm glad I'll receive no pitying looks, per se, but having to deliver the news myself… that's like breaking my heart each time I let the words out. It'll be too difficult to tolerate.

"I—I'm so, so sorry, Edward. I—I didn't, uh, mean to—to ignore you, or anything."

"Don't apologize," he replies. "Do you want me to tell everyone myself?"

"If you—if they ask."

"Okay."

He's being so nice to me, and I cry harder. I'm making his grey cardigan wet. He sort of leans against the window sill and lets me get it all out. I am honestly glad he's such a touchy-feely friend because I'd die if I had to cry at school without having his chest next to mine. He's so comforting. So heart-warming.

I can only imagine what the by-passers are thinking.

"Would you like to go home? I'm sure they'd dismiss you. I'm sure the teachers, at least, know."

"No."

"Bella, you're in no condition to think about Napoleon or Algebra or whatnot."

"No, I just—I'll break apart at home. Here I have a reason for pulling myself together."

"Did you at least sleep okay?"

I shake my head. I haven't slept properly for almost a week. Less than three hours a night.

He holds me tighter. "Shit. I'm so sorry, Bella. You can sleep at my place tonight if you want to. We could watch a movie and sleep in the living room and act all kinds of silly. Distract you."

"Thanks," I say, with a hint of a smile (I hope) which he doesn't see anyway. "That—that sounds pretty cool."

He stays that way for a while, just holding me until my sobs die out. How come I can be completely alright when I'm alone and a weeping mess around him? I strive to be a strong, independent woman, but enter Edward after a funeral, and I'm beat.

Or maybe I shouldn't beat myself up so much. I don't know. I don't know anything lately.

"And by the way, this hairdo looks really chic on you. Kind of edgy. It suits you."

"Thanks, Edward. I'll just tell Emmett one of his theories isn't bullet-proof."

"Theories? What're you talking about?"

I just shake my head.

"Hey, Bella—you okay?"

It's Emmett, and he's really quiet, like I could be asleep. Edward releases me a little, but leaves a comforting hand around me.

"Yeah," I answer, my voice hoarse from crying. I sniff. "Just a—a bad moment."

He nods, and the bell rings. Edward gives me one final brief hug before making sure I know I'll see him during next break.

For the first time in my life, Emmett and I sit together in Math.

It's an odd day. People give me looks. In corridors. In the classroom. In the bathroom. I notice. But I don't care if they're wary of my new 'do. I don't care if they think my legs are too wiry for this dress. I don't care if my shoes are ridiculous. That's kind of the point, actually.

In gym, I fiddle with my T-shirt, wondering if I have the guts to walk up to Mr. Black and say what I want to say. I never have a problem, I know, but this time, I'm afraid I'll start to cry, and I will never agree to cry in front of my classmates. Not willingly. Not without Edward to make it look like it's okay to cry in public.

But I approach him. The minute his eyes lock with mine, I'm aware he knows. His dad is friends with mine. He knows.

"Miss Swan," he starts. "I heard. I know this doesn't mean much, but I'm really sorry about what happened to your mother."

I nod, pursing my lips in a line for a moment. "Thank you. But I was kind of wondering if I could ask you a bit of a favor, Mr. Black."

"Anything. What can I help you with?"

"I know you have your schedule, but could you please make today's PE really tough? Like physically demanding? Tiring. I want to crawl out of this place in muscle pain and exhaustion."

For almost ten seconds, he simply stares at me, and I'm almost entirely sure he's trying to find a way to refuse. But he doesn't.

"You're just full of surprises, Miss Swan," he says, still staring at me. "Alright."

He doesn't ask why, but I don't think he needs to.

"So you'll do it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Black. I really appreciate it."

He gives me our signature curt nod, and delivers. It's a PE class so tiring and demanding that I almost regret asking, but I know I'll be beyond grateful as I'm trying to fall asleep. And when other girls groan about the newfound sadistic tendencies of our usually amiable coach, I stretch and feel a silent thrill.

I will finally be able to sleep. I'm sure of it.

For the first time in my life, I don't utter a single syllable in Drama. I just watch the others work. Peter seems incredibly worried, but he's too polite to force me to act (or sing, in this case). Edward checks up on me occasionally, but other than that, I sit and observe. He sings with the others, but his voice really stands out. It's incredible. I will definitely convince him to apply for Julliard.

It's almost half to eight when I finish packing my stuff. Dad is home, and I tell him I'm headed to Edward's place and I'll be spending the night. I'm not really asking. But dad doesn't seem to mind, he just hugs me and tells me to be safe. Emmett, apparently, is with his friends as well.

If seeing Edward at school was any indication, seeing his parents would tear me apart. They're just so sincere. So I'm silently crying when they finish offering their condolences, and Edward wraps me in his arms again. There's so much comfort in him.

I don't know what I was expecting of Edward's house, but that wasn't it. Edward's house is smaller than ours, with only one story, and it's incredibly homey with wooden walls and paintings of scenery and Christmas decorations. It's quite small and modest but beautiful.

We end up laying on a pull-out couch, watching Pineapple Express, eating sweet potatoes with chicken and drinking tea. I've seen the movie already, and though I'm not a huge fan of Seth Rogan, I am a fan of James Franco. But I stop watching the movie as I realize a fault I've made in my self-absorption.

"Edward! Your try-out for the team! How'd it go?"

As startled as he is by my interruption, he grins. "I made Newton very silent and so very green."

"So you got in? That's amazing, Edward, why didn't you tell me?"

"It was just..." He shrugs. "Not a good time, I guess."

"You mean it's kind of awkward to be happy when I'm a weeping mess."

"I didn't say that. But it would've been kind of insensitive of me, don't you think?"

I push his shoulder, but I'm smiling. "You're such a gentleman."

He grins, and even though it's a little sad, it makes my stomach flutter.

: :

I awake to the sound of clock's ticking from the corridor. The strange sounds of a house I'm not used to, I guess. I can see fat snowflakes swinging slowly toward the ground from the window, with pinkish urban light illuminating them. It's pretty. I absently gaze at the sheer beauty of it for a long time. It must be very, very early in the morning, but I can't be sure. I'm on my back with Edward nearly crushing half of my shoulder. He's snuggled against me to either keep us warm or just because he's a snuggler. Because he is. I can feel his breath on my ear, making my now short hair flutter.

I don't wake up because of a nightmare. I haven't been asleep long enough for REM sleep to begin. But it makes such a difference to have Edward next to me. I haven't slept for even four hours in a row, not since what happened to mom. But I'm pretty sure today I have.

I don't cry. I've cried myself empty and I've cried myself exhausted. It doesn't help. So I don't cry today morning. I'm not saying I won't anymore, because that would be a lie. I'm sure I will. It will take time for me to find a sort of, I don't know, emotional balance. Nothing else but time.

So perhaps it was the fact that I felt so comforted by him. I don't think he likes me or anything—I'm not delusional, don't worry—but at that moment, it feels so right to be here with him. His mouth is agape ever so slightly, his hair is a mess, and his eyelashes are really long. How come guys have the longest lashes? Unfair. So I don't know if I'm just in such a vulnerable state, or if I want to feel anything but this gripping hurt. I don't know.

But I'm not making excuses. It happened. I don't know what possesses me to do it, but I turn my head completely towards his, and feel his breath on my mouth. My stomach is in knots. I gently slide my left hand behind his neck and press my lips to his. Just for a few seconds. It's warm and moist and completely innocent. I quickly pull away, holding my breath and silently waiting for his reaction. Praying that I didn't wake him up. A side of his mouth twitches, he sighs, and strengthens his arm around me.

Nothing else happens, and even though I realize my left hand is now trapped behind his neck, I'm relieved. I'm startled by my forwardness and I feel incredibly guilty. I hope to God he never—ever—finds out I stole my first kiss from him. I'd die.

For the next hours of the dim morning, I watch those pretty and fat snowflakes make their way towards the ground.