"I mused for a few moments on the question of which was worse, to lead a life so boring that you are easily enchanted or a life so full of stimulus that you are easily bored. But then it occurred to me that musing is a pointless waste of anyone's time, and instead I went off to see if I could find a Baby Ruth candy bar, a far more profitable exercise." — Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America
: :
Tuesday, the 28th of December
5:13 AM, my God, it's early. But it's proven to be incredibly difficult to just casually open my diary while being around Edward. I no longer care that Emmett has read this. Jesus, what if Edward found my diary? I'd die. I'd just… throw myself onto the carpet and play opossum. It would be a reasonable enough thing to do.
It's been a week since I last wrote anything in here, and what a week it was. I've taken my diary out to write here twice, and twice, Edward has found me from our "parlor." There isn't a force in the world that will make me show this diary to him, so I managed to sneak my diary away.
I thought I was ready to have life thrown upside down within a day. In a way, I was. I really was. But life with the Cullens, it's been quite something to get used to. Firstly, right now, I'm sprawled on a comfy couch in the basement, in Edward's parlor. That's right, he's got his own floor. When I lift my head, the door to Edward's room is in front of me. It's open. In the direction of my feet, it's "my" room, and there is no door. There literally isn't a door in front of it. Not even a doorframe.
What was I saying about not having a lock on my door? It's like a life lesson. Oh, you poor thing, whining about a lockless door? We'll give you a door-less room. That'll teach you.
It's not that I mind, Edward is really courteous and always says my name before rounding the corner, and never rounds the corner unless I answer. I just think it's funny. One of these days, I'll be stark naked and he'll be all sleepy and heading to the bathroom and we'll all be traumatized. At least it's a bathroom with one door to the parlor. Having a two-door bathroom would be a disaster waiting to happen.
Anyhow, I've skipped a week, and I better get to writing about it before Edward decides to wake up… which is in about five hours. More time for me to—finally—catch up with my own life.
During our dinner, Esme asked me—rather surreptitiously—if I was wearing make-up because I was "glowing." I think I coughed out my spleen and lungs while laughing and trying to decipher what she meant. And when I did, I beamed a mega-watt smile and notified her that I'd discovered that the Earth is round.
Who woulda thought?
I don't know, I just feel so much more comfortable with myself now. I mean, there are things about me that I can change, things I can't, and all I can do is be the best version of myself I can be, right? So I guess I really was "glowing" because Emmett asked in a rather serious tone if I'd had my teeth whitened. I laughed myself silly.
Is this the difference an attitude makes?
Edward kept looking at me with a rather unnerving gaze, kind of like he did when he kissed my temple and appeared to be on the verge of a realization. He's got that exact look on his face, but I can't really find the time or place to ask, not even about his sister. But the dinner is great. Dad and Edward's parents seem to have forgotten (or agreed to forget) my dad wasn't too civil with their son the last time, and dinner is fun. Jasper's parents are concerned about feeding my brother—I try to stifle my laughter—before Emmett announces he isn't picky at all and can cook for himself if that's a problem. Ah, Emmett. I don't think that's what Jasper's parents mean. They're just concerned about how much meat you'd have to cook to make a person look like you.
Not a whole lot, actually. That's just the way he is. Unlike my body, his seems to convert energy into muscle with no effort at all.
You lucky bastard.
In the early morning of 23rd, dad, Emmett and I sit in the living room and open our gifts. Mom sent me a Dell laptop and Emmett an iPad. Emmett claimed that he wasn't aware of this when he violently broke our computer. I don't know. I wish I could just—do so many things differently with mom. I want to thank her for being who she was and apologize for calling her so rarely or forgetting to call. I want to tell her I love her.
I wish she were here.
I got a quality Swiss Army Knife for dad and a T-shirt (as per usual) for Emmett. (He got me one with the sentence, 'If I wanted to listen to an asshole… I'd fart.' That is such an Emmett thing to get me.) Dad got me a necklace. It's made of silver and looks modest with a tiny little heart attached to it. The chain is quite long and it reaches just above my belly button. I love it.
It's the first time in my life I've gotten jewelry as a present.
Jasper's father, Mitchell Hale, agreed to give dad a lift to the airport before dropping me off at the Cullens and taking Emmett to their place, so we haul our luggage to the trunk and say goodbyes to our house. Jasper's dad waits for us in his Volkswagen Jetta—no, I am not a car expert; Jasper's dad sells cars and Emmett is eager to listen all about them—as we trudge together toward check-in.
Emmett and I watch and wait. Soon enough (considering this pre-Christmas environment), dad has his boarding pass and we're walking toward hand luggage control. We're silent until we all stop in front of one of the lines and look at each other.
"So I guess this is it," dad says, pursing his lips in a line. "Give me your phones."
Oh-kay.
He installs a number before returning them. "That's Al's phone number. Al Stephens, you met him. If anything—anything at all—happens which you feel uncomfortable talking about with Edward's or Jasper's parents, he's the person I want you to contact. Alright? He knows about this and he'll answer. In case of an emergency, contact him immediately. Am I clear?"
Dad waits to hear a concrete 'yes' from our mouths, so we comply.
"Good." He seems to deflate, or gather himself for a speech, but he opens and closes his mouth before enveloping Emmett into a hug, and then me. I get a whiff of dad because he just smells like home. I'll miss him so much.
"Bella, if anyone at school gives you any trouble at all, tell Emmett. I'm only starting to realize how good you are at acting like nothing is wrong when that's clearly not the case, and I don't want you to play a hero. When we speak on the phone, I want you to tell me as it is. No embellishing. Alright?"
"No-one is giving me trouble, dad."
"I know, but I need to make sure you know that when you're facing problems, you need to tell me. Tell Emmett." Dad looks at him. "Right?"
"Duh," Emmett says with an exaggerated expression, and the tension is broken. We laugh.
"I need you two to take care of each other."
"We will," Emmett says.
"I'll miss you guys." Dad throws the strap of his grey laptop bag over his shoulder. I hug him once more before he joins the line and starts to take his laptop out. My God, he's so young. The slender woman in front of him drops her purse, dad picks it up, and I swear, the woman becomes bashful when her eyes land on him. He's quite the catch. I think Bradley Cooper is, what, 38 years old? My dad is younger than him, and I like Bradley Cooper.
My God, that's disturbing.
"Have women always been that way with him?" Emmett asks, just before we turn around and start walking back to the parking lot.
"I've never noticed," I reply, still slightly baffled. "Emmett?"
"Yeah?"
I take a breath. "Have you read my diary?"
He's stifling a smile, but nods. At least he's honest. "Are you mad?"
"I don't know. I kind of figured you'd read it. I was just surprised you've never written an entry."
"Do you want me to?"
"God, no," I answer. "So what did you think of it?"
"You're funny."
"I'm being serious," I reply, smacking his forearm.
"What? I am being serious!" he answers in defense. "I am! And I—it was illuminating. Seeing you from your point of view, me from yours, it's pretty different. I've got to say, your memory for dialogue is pretty phenomenal. Why do you write dialogues into it?"
I shrug. "I kind of feel like I'm practicing memorizing lines for a performance, so I make an effort to remember."
"That's pretty cool."
"So what else did you find?"
"I never knew you're so insecure. Like, I always thought you were sarcastic or whatever, but I don't think you realize how good of an actress you are."
"But, uh, can you please not tell Edward? I'll do anything you want, just don't tell him."
He sort of looks at me like I grew a second head. "Like there's a point in that. That guy is so far gone it's not even funny."
My stomach does a somersault, but I don't think he meant it like that. "He doesn't even like me, Emmett."
"Bella, I just told you you're a better actress than anyone would think. Put the two and two together."
I don't get Emmett, because Edward doesn't like me like that, he's never said so, he's always so casual about touching and stuff, ugh. I don't think that's what Emmett is implying, that's insane.
"Aren't you mad that I made fun of you in it?"
He shrugs like it's the least of his worries. "You're my sister. I make fun of you all the time. That's what siblings do. It's not like we mean it."
We're now at the parking lot and I start to approach Mitchell Hale's car, but Emmett stops me.
"I would like to know one thing, though."
"Okay."
"What exactly did Michael Newton do to you? There was no mention of it in your diary. I mean, it's pretty obvious he did something vile and disgusting, but illegal, too?" he asks, and I'm surprised by the lack of height difference between us. Emmett is only a few inches taller than me. "What did he do?"
"Emmett, no."
"No, what? I deserve to know."
"No."
"I'm your brother, Bella. If he abused you in any way—I will kill that son of a bitch."
"No."
"Just tell me, Bella. How hard can it be? Just a few words."
"No, Emmett."
"Fuck, can you just use words other than no?"
"I refuse to talk about it," I retort. "Is that better? I don't want to speak about it. Ever."
"Did he—did he rape you?"
I hesitate.
"Fuck! He did, didn't he?"
I huff, avoiding his eyes. "Not exactly."
"Fuck, Bella, that's such a shitty answer. You do know that rape isn't only penetration how we usually think of it, but oral and anal, too? With that knowledge, did he rape you?"
I avoid his eyes. "I'm not really eager to talk about it."
"Fuck, Bella!" Emmett lets out a string of profanities, and he gets so worked up the by-passers ask me if "this guy" is giving me trouble and if I'm okay. I assure them I am. Emmett takes a very deep breath that is somewhat shaky. "Bella, you can't admit shit like that and expect me to let it go! When? How? Where was I? Why did you never say anything? I'll fucking kill that son of a bitch."
"It's been years, Emmett. I don't—you don't need to hear this shit. Just let it go."
"Years, Bella, years?! Not once did you mention—fuck!"
"Calm down, Emmett. Please. Can you just… just calm down."
Emmett tears at his hair and let out a roar so loud and heartbreaking a passing mother gives us an alarming glance as she covers up her daughter's ears. I mouth an apology.
About a hundred feet from us, Mitchell Hale steps out of his car and yells, asking if we're okay. I nod. Emmett doesn't want to let this go, but at this moment, he's got no other choice.
He's in front, I'm in the back, and Emmett is clearly trying not to show how furious he is.
"Mr. Hale? Can you drop me off at the Cullens as well? There's something I need to do over there."
"Sure, do you want me to wait for you?"
Emmett gives me the briefest of glances. "No. I'll walk." He makes an effort to continue talking about cars, and Mitchell Hale is only too happy to comply, so I'm left with my own thoughts, and I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm so afraid of. Telling him won't change what happened, but I'm afraid of what he'll do with the knowledge. I don't want him to beat Michael Newton up again. He's not worth it. I don't want Emmett to do something that would ruin his future.
And I just… I just don't want to tell him. Or anyone.
I'm not prepared to go here right now, but he won't let it go before I do, so I'll just need to… convince him not to go there.
We thank Mr. Hale for giving us a lift. Emmett takes my suitcase and puts it down on the porch before standing in front of me. He leans against the front door.
"I'm not leaving until you speak, Bella. I don't care how vile or disgusting or embarrassing or hard it is. I don't care if you scream or cry or do both. I need to know."
"Please, can you just leave it?"
"Why? So you could go back to your comfort zone where pretending it didn't happen is the easiest way out? No. You need to speak to someone, and you can trust me."
"You can't make me, Emmett," I plead. "Please don't make me."
"Bella," he says, eyes locked with mine. "You need this. You can't just hold it in a cage and pretend it's not there. I might not be the most sensitive of guys, but I'm your brother. I want to hear what screwed up your self-esteem. I want to help you."
"My self-esteem was screwed up before that, Emmett."
"See? You're talking."
I close my eyes.
"Please. You can trust me, Bella."
"I know I can trust you."
"Then what?" he asks, and he's frustrated when the front door opens and Esme greets us with a sweet smile.
"Just in time, Bella! So lovely to see you both again. I'm making a welcome lunch for you."
Both Edward and his dad approach the door as well, and they're all just so darn happy about me being there and I can almost feel Emmett's frustration behind me and it's all so messed up because I don't want to be rude and dismiss their efforts but Emmett has almost convinced me it might help if I talk. The timing is horrible.
"Is anything wrong?" Edward's dad asks, looking at Emmett and me and back again. I let out an audible breath. I feel like I'm visibly shrinking when I do.
"That's amazing, Esme, but I—we, Edward, could Emmett borrow some of your sports clothes? There's something we need to do."
Edward frowns, looking back and forth between Emmett and me, and he's incredibly confused. "Uh, sure?"
Edward's mom asks, "Do you guys need a lift? It's hailing like crazy out there."
I decline, and Emmett squeezes my shoulder. Before we can take in just how rude we are being, we've both changed into comfortable jogging clothes (Emmett's are too long for him) and we're out the door. It's windy. It's cold. But there's no other way.
"It's disconcerting how well you know me, really," Emmett says as we choose a random direction and just run silently for a while.
"I didn't mean to—I don't mean to force you into this. I do think it'd help."
I purse my lips in a line. "You didn't—let's just do this, okay?"
"Alright." He tosses me a sideways glance. "First of all, you've made so many jokes about Michael Newton not wanting you 'even if you laid naked on his doorstep.' I've heard it myself. It makes no sense."
"Self-defense mechanism." I shrug. "Nobody suspects anything you joke about stuff like that."
He pauses. "When did it happen?"
I sigh. "I was in eighth grade," I start. "May, three years ago. I arrived home crying, you knew something was up. You actually beat him up afterwards, you just didn't know what he'd done or how much that helped me."
"Fuck, just—fuck! If I'd known at the time, I would've killed him, Bella. Killed him."
"I know."
"How come nobody knows?"
"Ah, you know, humiliation and guilt and shame and shit."
"Please, please don't tell me you thought you deserved it."
"I don't know. I was weak, Emmett. My middle school experience wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. I was weak, and an easy target, and I felt so guilty for not having the guts to defy him or the courage to tell you or dad and I just… it's not something I want to relive."
"Shit like that is never your fault, Bella. Never."
"I'm aware. But knowing it and believing it, it's not the same."
Emmett is fuming. We continue to jog as my eyesight gets slightly blurry from time to time but I swallow it back and just jog. I like Emmett's way of working things out. I do.
"Rape is one of the most under-reported violent crimes, did you know that?" Emmett spits, not looking at me. "And fuck, I never thought. You're my sister. How did I not notice? How long did he abuse you?"
"Please don't use that first word. It creeps me out."
He looks at me for the longest moment, and I can see he understands. "Alright."
"All the way through middle school. It wasn't only him, though, but everyone else was harmless. At first, it was just the lunch money. I could go without eating lunch, whatever. Then there were little accidents they caused, putting a leg in front of me, sticky-notes on my bag, whatever. I didn't actually see it coming because if I had, I would've avoided it."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I know. That doesn't change anything. It still happened."
"It changes everything, Bella," Emmett insists. "It was not your fault."
"I know."
"Shit like that is never your fault."
"I know."
"I just wish—I could've helped you, Bella. If I'd known, I would've scared him away. Hell, I would've beaten everyone up. This wouldn't have happened to you."
"You don't know that, Emmett. Don't you dare start blaming yourself. It happened. It might've even happened if you knew how vile he really is. There's no way of knowing," I reply. "And you just said so yourself, I'm good at keeping shit from people. I didn't want you to know I was really just a vulnerable little girl with barely any friends. And so I never told you how it was."
"I wish you had."
"I wish I had, too."
"You should've told us before any of that shit happened with him."
"I was humiliated."
"I would've done something."
"I was humiliated, Emmett. It's not really something you just mention in the middle of a conversation. I didn't want to admit how weak I was."
"You're anything but weak, Bella," Emmett insisted. "I just—I always thought you were a bit of a loner on purpose, like, those middle school girls didn't really get you or whatever, but I never thought… it never occurred to me to ask if anyone was giving you serious trouble."
"It's not like the entire population of middle school hated me, Emmett. They didn't. Yeah, I wasn't too sociable, but I still got along with most of my classmates. It wasn't living hell or whatever. There were only particular groups of people I had to watch out for."
We've already turned back towards the Cullens' house.
"How did it happen? Do I want to know?"
"Do you?"
"If you—if you feel comfortable telling me. You do know all of this, it's confidential, right? I'll never mention this to anyone."
"I know."
"Was it—did it happen a lot?"
"No. Just once."
"Did he—did he—I mean," Emmett stammers. "Rear end… or…" he motions at his face, and even thought this conversation couldn't be about a more serious topic, I chuckle.
"Now that's a description to die for," I reply, but my there's no humor in my laughter. "And no," I reply, motion at my face and grimace.
He takes a sharp breath. "Was he alone?"
"No. There was Jared and some other guy. I never knew his name."
"Did they all…"
"No. Just him."
"Fuck, why would anyone—fuck! That's so fucked up." Emmett is still struggling to hold composure.
"He was probably trying to show his superiority or whatever."
"How did they make sure you'd stay there?"
"They held me."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Were they sober?"
"Hardly."
"So how did you escape?"
"I bit him."
"Oh yeah?"
"Drew blood, too," I answer. "Hell, he might still have my tooth-prints."
"And then?"
"I struggled out of their grip and ran. I got home, you asked what happened and all I could get out was 'Newton' and you'd figured he'd done something particularly nasty, mumbled something about football practice, and as I later found out, you beat him up. You just didn't know."
"And then you got that stomach flu and didn't show your face at school for a week."
"No." I let out a dry laugh. "Stomach flu? Hell no."
"What? You were pretending?"
"No," I answer. "I wasn't pretending. I just vomited my guts out for two days, it just wasn't stomach flu. I didn't do it intentionally, I was just—nauseated, whatever. Kind of, like, you know how people who've been physically abused want to keep on scrubbing themselves to get clean but never really feel clean? Kind of like that. Weirdly enough, it seemed to help. After two days of retching, I felt better. Eating was an arduous task at first, but I figured I was fine otherwise. I now think about it as if it happened to someone else. It's easier."
"Just say the word and I'll kill him."
"Emmett, don't. Don't beat him up or whatever I can see you planning. He's not worth it. I know you have a decent chance of getting into college with a football scholarship. I couldn't live with myself if what happened to me ruined your chances."
"I just—he's so goody-goody at school and I knew he could be nasty, but I never in a million years would I have thought—"
"Emmett." I repeat. "Promise me you won't do anything to him."
"Why are you defending him?"
"I'm not defending him, I'm protecting you. Can you imagine how guilty I'd feel if colleges didn't accept you because of me? Promise me."
"He'd deserve it."
"Emmett."
"What if I made it seem like an accident? Or what if you couldn't tell who caused it?"
"Emmett. Promise me."
We're now in front of the Cullens house, we're both dripping wet from the mixture of hail and sleet, my shoes are drenched. Emmett is just as wet. But we stop, and we look at each other, and I really need him not to ruin his future. If I'm able to put this behind me, Emmett needs to be, too.
"I can't believe you never told me."
"I can. What I can't believe is that I actually just told you all of this," I reply. "Just please don't start acting like I'm this fragile little sister to be pitied who can't take care of herself. Because I can. I didn't tell you all of this so that you'd change your perception of me or whatever."
"Bella, you've managed to move through such deep shit all by yourself, you've kept this to yourself for years, you're about as far from fragile as one could get. You're, like, fucking amazing, how could anyone…"
"Fucking amazing?" I laugh. "I want that in writing. I want that on a T-shirt. 'I'm like fucking amazing, don't mess with me.'"
"Consider it done."
I smile but soon get serious. "Emmett. Promise."
"I can't. I want to have full liberty to accidentally give Michael Newton a fatal concussion on the football field."
"Promise."
The front door opens, and Esme's head peeks out. "Guys, you're soaking! It's freezing out here! Come on inside and warm up."
"Just a minute!" I yell back.
"You can continue your conversation inside. We don't need you catching pneumonia."
"We won't! We'll be right there."
She shakes her head, but closes the door. We walk closer to it.
"On one condition," Emmett says, and I know he means it.
"Shoot."
"You'll see a psychologist."
"What kind of a condition is that? Why is that necessary?"
"Bella, this shit you just told me explains so much. So fucking much, Bella. You have no reason to be as insecure as you are, and this shit, it's like a fucking revelation—of course you're insecure, you've been carrying a fucking trauma with you for years."
"I don't think you could've fit any more cussing into your speech if you tried."
"I don't care. You need to see a psychologist. I'll help you pay for one."
"What if I've moved past it?"
"Then seeing a psychologist shouldn't be a problem at all, now should it? Either you find one, or I'll take the liberty of doing whatever I need to do with Newton. You have no idea how much self-restraint it will take not to smash his nose into the back of his skull the next time I see him."
"Welcome to my world."
Emmett snorts a laugh, we climb a few steps onto the Cullens' front porch, and Emmett grips my shoulders with both of his hands. He's serious again. And he just stares at me, not saying anything, and again, I'm startled to realize how small our height difference is.
"Alright, Emmett." I sigh, pursing my lips in a line. "I'll find one."
He envelops me into a bone crushing hug, and even though we're both so incredibly cold and wet, it's comfort and assurance and so much hope. I feel tears prickle my eyes, and I don't really want to hold them back. I don't care.
"Thanks for trusting me."
I nod. I know he can feel it. He pulls back, but doesn't let go of my shoulders as he looks at me, and I'd usually be embarrassed to cry in front of him, but I don't care right now. I just don't care. I'm a girl, he has to deal with that fact one day. Why not today?
"There's one more thing."
I nod.
"You need to tell Edward."
I want to argue because the thought terrifies me, but I know he's right, in a way.
"If ever in your life you meet a guy who's put off by what you just told me, or who'd humiliate you because of it, that guy doesn't deserve you. Am I clear?"
He sounds like dad, and it's kind of creepy but I'm so startled by his words of wisdom.
I nod.
"But I don't think that guy is Edward. Jesus, when he finds out, I'm pretty sure he'll help me hire an assassin. Unless he gets his hands on a gun and shoots the poor bastard beforehand."
"Hardy har, har, Emmett," I answer, smiling through my tears. "He cares a lot, I know, but he doesn't like me."
"You're so perceptive in some ways and just fucking blind in others, you know?" Emmett says, and he's grinning. "What did he do when Laurent asked you out? Was he jealous?" His voice is teasing.
"Emmett! Of course he wasn't! He's my best friend."
"I bet he got all angry and shit."
"Emmett!"
"Come on, I'll show you."
Edward is standing in the corridor, looking very concerned, and when he sees my tear-stained face, he steps really close, places his hand on my back, leans close to my ear and whispers, "Are you alright?" I shiver, lock eyes with him and nod.
Emmett raises his eyebrows at me, but I shake my head at him. You can't really draw far-fetched conclusions from the fact that Edward cares a lot and is really touchy feely for a guy. That's just the way he is. Nothing to do with me.
"Edward, can I borrow your clothes for a while longer? I'll return them at Jasper's Christmas party."
"Sure."
Edward's dad offers to give my brother a lift, but Emmett declines. When he's almost out of the front door, he winks at me and says, "Good luck on your date with Laurent."
He grins at me, and he's gone.
Edward stiffens and withdraws his hand. "Still going out with him?"
"I figured if a guy is interested in me, why not?"
Edward runs a hand through his hair, tearing at them a little, and grimaces. Like a real cringe. I'm convinced Emmett is wrong, I mean, Edward has never said anything, but I don't know.
"Edward—I know you're my best friend and want to protect me and stuff, but I've known Laurent since spring. He's a good guy."
"It's not that."
"Then what's the problem?"
He looks me straight in the eye, and he's so solemn. "What if you two start dating?"
I laugh. He's ridiculous. "Then we'll date and get married and have babies with gorgeous olive skin."
If Edward reacted like my father, this would be the place where his face would go from white to beetroot purple in nanoseconds. Instead, the tips of his ears redden.
"And where would that leave me?"
"You'll meet your Scarlett Johansson, you know, a girl with gorgeous curves and an honest heart and have your own gorgeous babies."
The answer not only displeases him, he seems quite appalled by the very idea.
"Honestly, Edward." I can't help my snicker. "Are you gay?"
He seems horrified. "What?"
"It's totally okay if you are—really."
"I'm not gay."
"It's okay, Edward," I pat his forearm and start to take my suitcase, but Edward takes it from me.
"I'm not gay, Bella," he insists.
"You just made an appalled face at Scarlett Johansson, Edward. I'm female, and I'd totally have her babies."
"Are you gay?"
"No," I answer. "But if Scarlett Johansson asked me to turn for her, I totally would." In an attempt to be just as casual about touching as he is, I draw my thumb across his jaw, and the complexion is somewhat rough. His eyes search mine, but his lips tug into a smile. "Calm down, okay? It's not like I'm going to marry the first guy that I kiss. You take my father's request to protect me way too seriously. I can take care of myself, okay?"
"I know that." For a second, he just stares at me before yelling, "Mom, I'll show Bella her room!"
"Sure thing, honey, just don't forget there's lunch waiting for you."
"We won't," he says and opens a door that I previously thought would lead to a closet. But no. A straight staircase, covered by a soft blue carpet, leads downstairs, into a spacious room with a large TV, the most comfortable-looking couch, a D-shaped table and a stereo system. It screams male, and I love it.
"Please tell me this is my room," I say in awe. "I'll never move out. You'll never get rid of me. Ever."
Edward is trying to stifle a smile. "I think that can be arranged."
"So it's not my room? Damn. What a waste."
He laughs. "C'mon."
There's an opening in the wall in the distant left corner of the room, sort of like an arch, and passing through it, there's a humble beige room with a double-bed and a table. It's modest, like my own room, and lacks any personal touch. It's minimalistic and anonymous.
I love it.
Edward puts my suitcase down. "You're allowed to change everything. Cover the walls with naked pictures of Johnny Depp. Whatever you want."
I snort and laugh. "If I had naked pictures of Johnny Depp, he'd be on the ceiling."
"Why?"
"So he'd be the first and last thing I see."
"You're kidding."
"It's Johnny Depp," I shrug. "You don't make fun of him being naked."
Edward shakes his head, but he's amused. "So do you like the room?"
"It's perfect," I reply, smiling, and Edward seems relieved. "Can I see yours, too?"
"Uh, sure," he agrees, but then his eyes land on my wet self, and they widen. "Oh, shit, I forgot. Are you cold? Would you like to have a shower? I'll tell mom not to hurry with lunch."
I spend some time trying to figure out how Edward's shower works. I forgot my own hygiene products (of course this happens to me), so I use Edward's black and stylish-looking Clear Men anti-dandruff shampoo. It claims to have a mint aroma, I just think it smells like Edward.
I hope this isn't a fancy and expensive product, because I want this. I don't care I have no dandruff.
Did I just say I want to smell like a man? Why yes, I think I did. But not just any man, Edward.
Do you know what the best part about having short hair is? Shower is quick. Hair dries quickly.
I cross the parlor (second living room? I've never heard of a living room being casually called "parlor" before) and opposite of my door-less doorframe-less gap arch thing (hey, what am I supposed to say? there is no door, neither is there a frame) is Edward's door.
How luxurious! He's got a door!
The door is open, but I knock anyway, and there's no reply. I don't want to snoop around, so I turn to look for him, but he already walks downstairs, taking two steps at a time.
"Go ahead." He motions at his room.
I cannot tell the color of the walls because every inch is covered with posters. Pictures of rock bands, of bands I've never heard of, of scantily–clad actresses, of nature. The overall impression is that his walls are black-and-white, even though they're not. Not really. The opposite wall is hidden behind shelves stacked with books; there's Stephen King and Dan Brown and other mystery-thriller writers.
There's no sign of Christmas in his room.
It feels contradictory. He's just so incredibly sweet and humble, and then his room screams alpha male. I love it, though.
And? Edward has a king size bed. I want to run and jump right into it, so I do just that, with my arms open and face pressed against the pillows. I turn myself ninety degrees, swirling around.
"Oh my God, Edward, can I sleep here? Look!" I lie horizontally. "I can be sideways, and I still have room to stretch! This is uh–mazing." I look back at him, and rest my head on my hand. Edward is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, just watching me. He's tall. I'm sure if he lifted his hands, he could easily put his palm against the ceiling. His grey sweatshirt compliments his broad shoulders and lean chest. Defined jaw, shadow of a stubble, strong eyebrows, sharp gaze—and I realize, he looks a few years older than seventeen. Hell, he acts older.
I mean, I'm a girl and it's difficult for me to discuss feelings without being sarcastic. Is that because I've grown up with dad and Emmett and Jasper? But Edward, he's just so mature, his attitude and behavior and yes, looks. I don't know any other guys my age who'd be so casual about insanely embarrassing stuff, or who'd admit to having fears like stage fright.
I feel like I won the lottery when he decided to sit next to me in Biology and made me realize how insecure I am.
He's an amazing dude, and yet, there he stands, completely at ease watching me watch him.
"You seem different," he admits, still leaning against the wall.
I smile. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good," he answers. "Definitely good. I can't pinpoint it exactly, just something different in your stance. You seem at ease with yourself, like you reached a point of truce in your mind." He doesn't take his eyes off me, and it unnerves me. "What changed?"
"I had an epiphany."
"About?"
I shrug. "Myself."
"So you finally decided you're amazing?"
I laugh. It's loud and carefree. "Yes, Edward," I answer. "I decided I'm amazing."
He smiles, and it's pearly and white and so warm. "Good."
I just smile at him. "So," I say. "Can I move into your room?"
"I, uh," he answers, rubbing his neck. "We can switch rooms if you want."
"No, Edward! Hell no. I was just kidding. I would never take your room away from you. I might be, however, tempted to sleep with you every once in a while."
He sort of freezes before relaxing, realizing it's just one of my jokes. He shakes his head, chuckling.
"You're absurd."
"I am," I agree, letting my eyes linger on the posters: one in particular stands out, right next to the doorway.
He has a poster of which actress? Scarlett Johansson herself. I stand up to examine it closer. It's in black-and-white. She's sitting in a white blouse with black bra peeking underneath it. She's semi-pouting, one of those pouts that's completely ridiculous when mere mortals attempt to intimidate it.
What can I say? She's a beautiful creature.
Edward walks up to me and put a gentle hand on my back to move me out of his room. "I'm sorry, Bella."
"What for? You didn't do anything."
"I know how you feel about appearance and—I probably seem like such a hypocrite."
"Not at all," I reply. "Come on, Edward. I'm not allergic to beautiful people. I can ogle at prettiness just like everyone else," I defy. "It's not like we're defined by that."
"Fuck," he curses, and his mile-wide grin is completely unexpected. "Finally!"
"What?"
"I could just—" He encases my face in his hands, and God, it looks like he wants to kiss me, but then he kisses my forehead and I let out a shaky breath. Why does he have such an effect on me? It exhilarates and unnerves me simultaneously.
"Edward—how did you meeting with Rosalie go? Was it worth it that I convinced her to come?"
"Was it worth it? Are you kidding me?" I must've done something right, because I get one of his crushing hugs where I get to put my head in the crook of his neck and take in the smell that is Edward.
Apparently, he is doing the same, because he pulls back slightly, and then tilts my head toward him as he runs his fingers through my damp hair and sniffs it.
"Bella…" My name on his lips is almost a growl.
"Please tell me it wasn't some cream in your shampoo bottle that will make my hair fall out in fifteen minutes."
He sort of snort-snickers. "You used my shampoo."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I just forgot my own and—"
"Bella," he growls again. "It's hot."
I laugh. "Now that is definitely not a word to describe me."
"Really," he repeats. "It's hot. I feel like I've peed on you."
"Aw, and here I thought it was a lovely scent."
"I mean, like dogs do to show it's their property."
"I'm not a piece of property, Edward."
"I don't know, it smells better on you than it does on me," he replies, leaning forward until his nose touches the side of my neck. "Definitely better on you."
Is he trying to make me attack him? If he is… it's working. I'm turned on. Hey, it's Edward, you know? Let him sniff your neck and tell me you're not turned on.
Yes, Emmett. I don't know how much Edward would like to sniff your neck, but you could always ask, right?
I clear my throat. "Weren't we, uh, supposed to have lunch upstairs?"
He snaps out of it and pulls back, but his eyes are still slightly glazed over. "Right."
"Will you tell me about your meeting with Rosalie?"
He nods. "After lunch, alright?" We reach the dining room where Edward's dad is reading a medical book. "Dad already boasted about how much you're able to eat, so mom can't wait to stuff you with every recipe she can think of."
Esme carries potato casserole to the table. "No problem at all. Girls your age shouldn't be afraid to eat."
"Oh, I'm in love with food. No problem at all."
She chuckles.
It's a comfortable lunch. They're interested in how much I like my room and what I like to do in my leisure time and what I like to eat and if getting my own house key after Christmas is alright and how well I'm coping. They're tactful and warm-hearted.
Esme keeps looking at me in wonder. "I've never seen a person eat as much as you do, Bella."
"Do you keep your eyes closed when Edward eats?"
She laughs. "I've never seen a girl eat that much."
"What can I say? It's a gift. It's one of my two talents."
"Oh, really? What's the other one?"
"I have a spectacular heart rate."
They laugh.
When we've all eaten, Edward's father asks if he could speak to Edward and me. I feel like I've been caught robbing the bank, that's how nervous those words make me, but he assures us it's nothing bad.
Yikes.
"I just want to remind you, Edward, and make sure you both know that we want you to keep the basement door open. We trust you, and we know nothing would ever happen between you two, but we want it open just in case. Trust but verify. So whenever you two are home, we want the basement door open. Day or night."
Oh, wow. 'We know nothing would ever happen?' That is incredibly encouraging to hear. Has he spoken to Edward and he's assured him it's purely platonic? I feel faint. It's nothing I didn't already figure out, but to hear it like that—just when I've figured I might gather the courage to put myself out there if only Edward wanted more—that's discouraging.
It's not like we'd jump each other if he hadn't said that or if the door were closed all the time, but uh, I don't know.
"No problem," I reply, offering a smile. An assuring one, I hope.
"Good." He gets up to leave, and so does Edward, but I ask Edward's dad to stay for a moment and assure Edward I'll be right downstairs. He's puzzled.
I wait until he leaves.
"Sir?"
"Please call me by my name. I feel so old being called sir."
"I would but I forget your name all the time."
He chuckles. "It's Carlisle. So how can I help you?"
"Alright, Carlisle, I just wanted to ask about that psychologist you suggested I should see. I—I think I want to see one, but I don't really know anyone."
"Of course. Do you want a phone number?"
"I'd really appreciate it. I know they're expensive, too, so I don't think I have the money for a world-class psychologist. Just someone who's willing to go at my own pace."
"Of course, Bella. If money is an issue, we'll help you out."
"Oh, no. I wasn't implying anything, I just mean—I want someone trustworthy."
"I didn't think you were, Bella," he says. "Wait right here, I'll get his number and you can call him today." He gets the psychologist's number, I install it into my phone and call right away. I talk to his assistant (no times available for another month), but when I mention Dr. Cullen suggested him (which Edward's dad told me to do), I get Dr. James T. Hunter on the phone, and a time for next week.
I guess nepotism really does work.
Edward is sitting on his bed with a laptop in his lap, but he closes it immediately after my knock. I enter and sit cross-legged next to him.
"So do you have like a secret club of joggers with Emmett?"
I laugh. "Yes, Edward. Yes."
"What do you have to do to be included in the club?"
"Become Emmett."
"So whenever you're angry at each other, you go for a jog."
"No, whenever he's upset by anything, not just me, we go for a jog," I correct. "I have this theory about people. I think everyone has a different coping mechanism, and since that is his, I want to help him."
"What's mine?"
"Proximity."
He averts his eyes from mine, clearly in thought.
"Isn't it?"
"I've never thought about it like that."
"I didn't mean to assume, Edward. I just figured… if I had to guess, that would be my answer."
"No, I think you're right," he answers, looking back at me. "So what's yours?"
"Denial."
"That's not a coping mechanism, that's a non-coping mechanism."
"It's the perfect coping mechanism until you realize you're in denial. That's when the mechanism stops working."
"Interesting," he replies, still in thought. "So there are things you only share with your brother, and now you have secrets with my dad, too."
"Hardly," I sort of snort-huff, and it's very lady-like. "I just wanted advice about health or whatever."
"Are you alright?" he asks, all frowning and concerned and adorable as hell.
Nah, just kidding. I don't think hell is adorable at all. But Edward is.
Edward puts his laptop on the bedside table and stretches out next to me. He rests his head on his hand, and it's so odd seeing him like this; casually doing nothing but talking to me. I wish I could just cuddle up next to him.
"No, Edward. I just discovered I have an autoimmune disease and a month left to live."
His face pales.
"Seriously." I laugh. "You should be used to my deadpan by now."
"Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack."
"Edward, if I had only a month left to live, I'd be trying to convince you to take my virginity so I wouldn't die oblivious to what sex is all about."
"You're right. That wouldn't do at all."
"And you're saying that from experience?"
He doesn't even blink. "Yes."
"Ah, so you were an early bloomer."
He snorts a laugh, raising his eyebrow. "You can say that again."
I'm surprised by how easy it is to discuss this with Edward, but he doesn't seem uncomfortable at all, and I'm curious.
"How early is early?"
"Very," he replies. "Too early. You don't want to know, trust me."
"What if I do? I'm intrigued."
"You'll be shocked."
"Alright, shock me. No wait, let me guess," I say. "Nine?"
"No. Not that early."
"Thirteen?"
"Take it down a notch."
"Twelve?"
"Almost."
"Eleven, Edward? No way."
He isn't proud. He seems to be contemplating as he scratches his chin and nods. "A week from my eleventh birthday."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"But that's—Jesus. You were only a kid. Please tell me the girl was older than you. Please."
"Oh, yes. She was sixteen. Five years older."
"How does that even happen?"
"I was very, very curious about my sexuality," he replies, and the ease of the conversation continues to amaze me. It's surprisingly easy to discuss such things with Edward. "I was also a giant in my class, always the tallest. We were in summer camp. I don't think she knew how young I was."
"I'm traumatized for you, Edward."
"No reason to be. It happened. I think dad had a heart attack when he found out."
"Holy fuck, did you tell him?"
"No. But the girl thought she was pregnant."
"No way. No… just no."
Edward's smile is sad. "Yes."
"Didn't you use protection?"
"I did. I might've had gaps in my decision-making, but dad at least kept me well-educated about those things."
"Is it even possible—I mean, physically—to get a girl pregnant when you're that young?"
"I, uh," he clears his throat. "Developed very early."
"And the condom broke? Holy fuck."
"Ah, no," he replies, chuckling. "It was a false alarm."
I let out a breath. "Jesus Christ, no wonder you're mature for your age. I cannot even imagine what you must've been through."
"It was a real wake-up call for me. And dad."
"And your mom?"
"Dad didn't tell her. I hope she never finds out."
We just look at each other, and it's not uncomfortable at all. I raise my hand to tickle the stubble on his cheek, and he closes his eyes for a moment.
"You're right. I'm pretty shocked."
He offers me a sad smile.
"So you've been sexually active for six years now? Jesus."
"Ah, no. Dad didn't tell me not to, he just told me if I'm not ready to talk about sex with the girl then I shouldn't be having it. So I waited a couple of years."
"Thirteen is still very young."
"I know. But it's better than eleven."
"So was it how you imagined?"
"I don't think any girl wants to hear this answer, but it's always good for guys."
"Even the first time?"
The tips of his ears redden. "Yes. Though that one was quite short."
I laugh.
"I've heard that can happen, yeah," I answer. We look at each other for a while. "So I don't know if I'm stepping any boundaries here, but how many girls have you been with?"
"Four."
"No kidding?"
"No."
"I thought you said you weren't a womanizer."
"I'm not." Edward sits up. "I'm not, Bella. I swear. I was in a relationship with two of them. The first one was, yeah, clearly a mistake."
I really like the fact that he's not boasting about any of this.
"Does it bother you?"
The look he gives me is quite vulnerable.
"What?"
"That I've been with four girls."
"Of course not. It's none of my business."
"Does stuff like this bother girls?"
"I don't know about other girls. I have few very close female friends, and I've never talked about this even with Angela. So I'm not really a fountain of knowledge. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he replies. "But would it bother you if we were involved?"
"I really doubt it. I mean, everyone's got a history. Even lack of history is history. It's not really something you can change." I look down, shrug and somewhat change the subject. "So you've been in love two times?"
"Uh, no. I don't think I really loved them. Cared for them, yes. In love? No."
"But how do you know? How does anyone know? I'm so confused."
"I didn't before. But now…" He ruffles my hair and smiles. "I just know."
He's so tender I'm finding it really, really hard not to look into it.
"So now that we're done dissecting the mistakes that I've made, are we going to dissect your love life now?"
"You mean the absolute lack of it? Sure."
"What about that guy you like?"
I flush. I can't help it. "Ah, no, Edward. That's a no–go zone."
"A–ha! So there really is someone?"
"No–go zone, Edward."
"How's that fair? We just discussed the most embarrassing mistakes I've made."
"But the difference is that you're not embarrassed by them. You own up to everything. I'm much more prone to embarrassment. You—you're immune."
He smiles. "So I'm not allowed to discuss the object of your affection?"
We just did, Edward, and it was a thorough discussion.
"You can ask about anything else that is embarrassing."
"Okay. Is it my turn to ask who you've dated?"
"Not applicable."
"Really?"
"Oh, please, Edward. Look at me. You don't have to feign surprise."
"Bella…"
"Sorry, old habits die hard," I apologize. "I'm too used to that approach. I'm sorry. Either way, my complete lack of experience with men makes this a much more pitiful and boring discussion."
"What about the first guy who kissed you? Am I allowed to know who that was?"
The moment I feel my blush, I cover my face with my hands. "Still not applicable."
Edward sits up straighter and gently takes my hands away from my face. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"But it is, Edward. I'm seventeen. If there were a ladder with ten steps, each of them describing how experienced you are for your age, I'd be underground."
He lets out a laugh, but sobers soon. "Bella, you have no idea how much I wish I'd made the decision to wait. It's not like there's the perfect age to start with all of it. It's a different age for everyone."
"What a pair we make."
"What?"
"You're, like, the earliest sexually active person that I know, and I'm such a late developer I probably won't find a guy to have sex with me when I'm fifty."
He laughs. "You're not a late developer, you've just waited. Nothing wrong with that."
I raise my eyebrows. "See, that's where you're wrong. If there's a medical term for a late bloomer, it's in my medical record."
"That's nonsense."
"Are you trying to make me reveal embarrassing things about myself? Because it's working."
"So what if you're a late bloomer? That's what I'm trying to tell you. It doesn't matter."
"Jesus, where did you come from, Edward?"
"What?"
"You're just so kind and intelligent and you've got such a sensible world view. How are you so mature for your age? I feel like I've hit the jackpot when you decided to become my best friend."
His expression is indecipherable, but he gives me this secret smile. "Do you really want to know the answer to that?"
"How you're so mature? Ah, right, I forgot."
"Bella—you don't even know what you unraveled when you convinced Rosalie to meet me." He takes a breath. "So the reason why I don't act or look like a seventeen year old? Because I'm probably not."
"I—I don't understand."
He shakes his head, and there's a distant look in his face. "Rosalie's birthday is listed as being on same year as mine, even though hers is in the middle of December and mine is in June. It makes no sense. She literally gave me my birth-certificate that claims I'm born three years earlier than what we've always thought."
"Holy shit."
"So when I'm going to be eighteen this year, really… I'll be twenty one."
"Holy shit."
"Neither my dad nor mom showed any signs of unease or recognition when I introduced them to Rosalie. I don't think they know she exists at all. Because my sister has been in and out of families, she's always known. She's searched the answers for years. She has incredible connections, like, she's spoken to… uh, anyway, she gave me this.
He hands me a piece of paper.
It's dark blue. It's a little rugged, with a British Columbia stamp in the middle, and I hope I've memorized all this information correctly, because it looks something like this:
CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH
CANADA
BRITISH COLUMBIA
Name: Edward Junior Masen
Date of Birth: 25. March, 1992
Place of Birth: North Vancouver
Date of Registration: 7. April, 1992
Name of Father:
Birthplace of Father:
Maiden Name of Mother: Elizabeth Jeanne Thompson
There's a signature by the Director of Vital Statistics underneath.
"Holy shit. Is this real?"
"Until anyone can prove otherwise."
"How did she get it?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
"Holy shit. You're not even a United States citizen."
"Maybe my father is American. I don't know."
I give him back his Birth Certificate, but I'm completely stunned. "But three years, Edward—that's a long time. How could they have made that mistake? I mean, if they got you when you were three, they couldn't have mistaken you for a newborn."
"Rosalie says she has reason to believe I was seven years old and malnourished and even though I was—in all probability—tall, maybe I didn't respond or talk much. I don't know."
"Holy shit," I repeat, sitting closer to Edward. "Don't you want to speak to your dad and Esme?"
"It's too soon."
"How are you coping with all of this?"
He shrugs. "One day at a time."
I tickle his stubble with my fingertips. "So that's why you have that five o'clock shadow going on when most guys in our class barely ever have to shave."
Edward snickers and shakes his head. "You have no idea, Bella. If all of this is true, and I'm actually three years older than I've thought, I wasn't eleven when I became sexually active. I was fourteen."
"Thank God, Edward. You scared me with all that talk about being eleven years old when it happened. I know, fourteen isn't too old, either, but eleven…" I shudder. "Seriously, that's way too young."
"Tell me about it."
We sit right next to each other, Edward is now leaning against the wall and I'm facing him, cross-legged, touching the rough complexion of his face with my fingertips. He's closed his eyes, and I observe his face. I'm overwhelmed by what he's learned about himself, and I have so many questions, but I think we've had enough excitement to last until the end of the year. Which is in a few weeks.
"Bella?" Edward asks without opening his eyes.
"Yes?"
"If I decide to tell my parents," he says, running circles along the back of my hand. "Will you be there with me?"
"If you want me there."
"I do."
"Then I will."
: :
Just this morning, I find myself standing in front of a mirror. I'm stark naked. I just stand and observe. Esme has a scale on the second floor, and I use it. The good news is, I've gained two pounds per week. I'm 110 pounds now. It doesn't come easy, gaining weight. I eat often, I eat properly, I eat a lot and I eat healthy, but I still feel like one hour of extra exercising would just wipe away all my hard work. Mr. Black told me it's usually not wise to gain more than two pounds per week, but since "I'm still developing" (so much pain and hope in one sentence, huh?) it shouldn't scare me if I gain a little more than that (per week) within the first month. Basically, he told me not to freak out by anything.
I know that gaining fifteen pounds per week would not only be unrealistic, it's also unhealthy. But still, I was hoping with all my devouring, I'd see more than two pounds. At least I haven't hit a plateau.
Lauren told me I have it all backwards and the rest of the world is trying to slim down while I'm desperate to gain weight. She's right. Every girl who knows about my attempts to gain weight—not that there's many since I don't announce it to everyone, but I don't lie when anyone asks, either—has told me they envy me. I've tried to reason with them, but unlike me, they do seem to think that if they were only slimmer, a certain weight, they'll be happier and smarter and prettier and the world would suddenly be perfect.
That's such bullshit.
I do not think I'll be perfect when I hit a certain weight. Let's be realistic. That's not going to happen. And I refuse to make weight the center of my universe. I don't want that. If I hit a point where all I think about is how much I weigh and how to achieve that, I will immediately take Edward's dad up on his offer and find a psychologist for that, too. I've decided to take it easy and weigh myself once a week on Tuesdays.
So far, so good.
So I stand there, in front of the mirror, just like I did a month ago, and I look at myself. I look at myself critically and amiably and I try to think nice thoughts about myself. I'm still tall. I'm still lanky. But I'm starting to see the faint lines of muscles. They aren't obvious, but they're there. And either my eyes are deceiving me or my hips have finally decided that they belong to woman, they seem a little wider. I don't know. Maybe what Mr. Black mentioned about me "still developing" is true. Is it? I am, after all, a late developer. Does that mean there's still hope for me? Do I have hope to find my curves?
Oh, well. Only time will tell.
My nose still looks like Jennifer Grey's before rhinoplasty. It's a hawk nose. (Hey, John Lennon supposedly had a hawk nose, so there's hope for me, and besides, mine looks more like Stephen Fry's, just not as crooked.) My eyes, while not too small, are still under two somewhat undefined eyebrows that are close to my eyes. What really surprises me is that my gigantic forehead no longer bothers me. My haircut hides it.
You know what? Yesterday, Esme complimented me on the shape of my skull.
The shape of my skull.
Ugliness, level 5831: Getting compliments about the shape of your skull.
Sorry, couldn't resist. But the thing is, she really meant it, she said I'm lucky because my haircut really compliments the shape of my skull. She's so lovely.
I'm adding the shape of my skull to the list of my positive traits. Jesus, I can't even write about it without giggling. I don't want to wake Edward.
Anyway, as I stand there, I smile at my reflection, and I decide my smile is wide and toothy and quite lovely. It's the one thing about me that I've never felt self-conscious about. There's a dimple on my right cheek when I do smile, and even when it's not as prominent as Emmett's adorableness (he has two very prominent dimples), it's still there. I always thought it made my face asymmetrical—and thus, unattractive—but hey, it's a part of my smile, and even a smile with no teeth is lovely.
Okay, so the good thing is that I've gained four pounds. The bad thing is that, well, I've also grown an inch.
An inch.
I'm not sure if it's necessarily a bad thing, I just—I didn't know. I mean, I can't think of a girl at school who'd be taller than me, but I always thought I was five foot nine. I'm five foot ten.
But Edward is still way taller than me.
He towers over all the guys, I tower over all the girls and some of the guys. What a pair we make.
But you know what? Tilda Swinton, that gorgeous actress with Edward's eyes (haha), she's over five foot ten. I'll survive.
Maybe it's time to embrace the fact that I'm unlike anyone else I know and that's not necessarily a bad thing. And there's nothing wrong with me. I look like a normal teenager, maybe a little late in development, but still a normal teenager.
: :
On the 25th of December, at around seven AM in the morning, I'm sneaking upstairs with a roll of wrapping paper and silver duct tape. I find Esme humming a Christmas song in the kitchen. There are candles on the table and Christmas lights everywhere.
I must be the silliest creature on Earth because of what I'm about to do, but I don't care.
"Good morning," I offer, smiling. "Can I help?"
"Thanks for the offer, honey," she replies. "Not at the moment. Go and enjoy freedom."
She glances at the duct tape in my hand and wrapping paper in the other. I raise them. "I was actually wondering if you could help."
She wipes her hands and turns to me. "I'm a little busy at the moment, could this wait? Or could you turn to Carlisle? He's much better at handicraft, anyway," she replies.
"Is he in the living room?"
"Yes."
I go to the living room, and even though Carlisle is hidden under stacks and stacks of paper, he looks up as I enter.
"Good morning, Bella," he says, smiling. "You seem happy."
"I am," I answer. "Sir, I was wondering if you could help me out a little."
"Carlisle."
"Yes, that's what I meant."
He chuckles. "Sure thing, what do you need?"
"I'd like you to wrap me into this paper," I raise it, "and then cover it with this," I raise the duct tape.
He stares at me for a second before snickering. "I'm not sure about the purpose it'll serve, but alright." And so, I hold my hands close to my body as Edward's dad wraps me into this bright red wrapping paper covered with smiling Santas, and I twirl as he adds the duct tape. In the end, I'm like a giant glowworm. I can't move my arms, I can barely move my legs, and I've never felt so silly in my life.
I love it.
"So." Edward's dad puts away the duct tape and observes his handiwork. "Am I allowed to ask what this is for?"
"Edward told me all he wanted for Christmas was snow, and for his friends to be happy. I made a snowball, and I'm happy, so I decided if material goods aren't enough for guys like your son, this will have to do."
Edward's dad throws back his head, laughs and sits back down. "How are you even going to go downstairs? Should I carry you?"
"I figured I'd just—" I hop, turning. "Hop."
Carlisle bursts out laughing as I hop in their corridor, half a foot at a time, and when I pass the kitchen and Esme's gobsmacked expression, I burst into laughter myself.
I carefully hop downstairs, snickering like a crazy person even though I try to stifle it not to wake Edward up before it's time. By the time I've made it to the parlor, I'm nearly dying of laughter. I take several breaths to force myself to calm down before I grip that little pink bucket (with my little snowball inside) with my teeth. I hop closer to his door and stop in front of it.
This is the difficult part.
I try pressing my nose onto the doorknob, and when it doesn't work, I burst into fits of giggles. I'm stuck in red wrapping paper, there's duct tape all around me, I feel like the immovable incredible hulk—except I'm a glowworm—I'm gripping a pink bucket with my teeth and attempting to open the door with my nose. I hope I don't die of laughter before making it to Edward.
Just when I turn my head, Esme takes a picture of me. She's laughing, too, and asks me if I need help with the door. I do. She opens it and leaves with bursts of giggles.
I'm praying that Edward is not masturbating. Would that be embarrassing or what.
I pause, just to make sure he's still sleeping. He is, so I hop in. My jaw is killing me, and I quietly place the tiny bucket on the blanket and make sure Edward hasn't woken up yet. He's without a shirt, lying on his stomach, gripping a pillow (why does this not surprise me?), and his chest is rising and falling rhythmically. His back and shoulders are more defined by muscles than I expected. It's sexy. His mouth is slightly open and he's drooling on the pillow.
Still not losing points from the sexiness. Damn.
I giggle quietly and turn over the bucket with my nose. It creates a wet blob on the blanket, but I ignore it and push the snowball toward Edward with my nose. I decide I have to bite into it for full effect (hey, it's just water), so I do, and when I let go, it lands on Edward's bicep.
Snow splashes all over his face, and in a nanosecond, Edward is sitting in the middle of the bed.
"What the—"
His eyes land on me, first squinting, focusing, and then widening as he watches me suppress giggles. But no, my giggles win, and soon I'm gasping for breath as I watch him stifle his own laughter.
"Bella! Why are you—you look like a turtle!"
"Turtles have legs, Edward," I reply, laughing. "I'm incapacitated. I'm a glowworm."
"But… why?"
I take a breath to be able to reply properly. "You said you wanted snow, and I gave you a snowball. Then you wanted your friends to be happy this Christmas. I am happy."
"So…" he laughs. "You're like my gift for Christmas?"
"Yes."
"Bella…" he says with so much tenderness and strength and every emotion in between. "This is the reason we're best friends. You're so fucking awesome."
"Really?"
"Come here," he says, and I hop next to him. He laughs. I'm glad he at least has a pair of boxers on (if he slept in the nude, this wake-up call would've been much more embarrassing). He opens his arms for me, but his expression tells me he's up to something, so I'm very careful. When I'm within his arms reach, he wraps both of his arms around me and lifts me to the center of his bed. I squeal.
"What're you doing?"
"You are going to sleep here now. It is way too early to get up. And you said you're my gift."
"I am but—"
"Shush."
He's beaming as he wraps both of his arms and a leg around me, just for the mock effect, probably. He makes me rest my head on his bicep, pulls up the cover (halfway) and… just grins at me. I try to look annoyed, but I fail completely, because I'm just grinning back at him. I can't move, but I trust Edward.
"You know, that's the most romantic gift I've ever received," he says.
"I didn't mean for it to be."
"Do I get to keep you for forever?"
"Er, maybe just for today."
"What kind of a gift is that?"
"A practical one. People grow tired of their gifts too soon anyway."
"So can I do whatever I want with you today?"
"Consensual things, yes."
He hums, and closes his eyes, but he's still grinning. I love it that I put it there. After a while, though, I get a nose itch, and I start to rub my nose against his shoulder blade and neck.
"Bella?"
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Scratching my nose."
"Can you, uh, not do it?"
"Why?"
"It's turning me on and I don't want to assault you when you sleep," he says, and he looks sheepish. I burst out laughing.
"If I could, I would give you a high five right now for using deadpan so well. I take the credit for teaching you, of course."
He looks sort of, I don't know, conflicted, but then the smile covers his face again when I stop. My nose still itches though.
"Edward?"
"Hmm?"
"Can you scratch my nose? Left side."
He does, and he's laughing silently when he stops.
"All better?"
"All better."
He sighs, closes his eyes and pulls me closer to him again.
"Can I just keep you for myself?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good."