"According to an opinion poll, 13 per cent of women in the United States cannot say whether they wear their tights under their knickers or over them. That's something like 12 million women walking around in a state of chronic foundation garment uncertainty. Perhaps because I so seldom wear ladies' clothing I don't fully appreciate the challenge involved, but I am almost certain that if I did wear tights with knickers I would know which was on top. More to the point, if a stranger with a clipboard came up to me in the street and asked me how my underwear was configured, I don't believe I would tell him that I didn't know." — Bill Bryson, I'm a Stranger Here Myself

: :

When I was five, I think, my kindergarten teacher asked us to draw the person we wanted to become when we grew up. With painful diligence, I drew two lines on the picture. Nothing else. My desk-mate at the time, Jennifer, asked me to explain my picture, so I patiently told her the person I wanted to become was so tall he'd never fit on such a teeny-tiny paper. So I only drew his neck.

My teacher told me I'd misunderstood and I could draw another picture if I wanted. I was so hurt I didn't. I listened to my friends say how they wanted to be firemen and hairdressers and doctors and models. When it was my turn, I stood up and announced I was going to become Ryan Stiles.

Jennifer giggled and announced girls couldn't become boys when they grew up. She completely missed my point. My teacher, good-natured woman that she was, asked if I meant I wanted to be like Ryan Stiles. Did I mean I wanted to become an actress?

I sat back down, stunned. Nobody understood. I didn't want to be like Ryan Stiles, I wanted to be Ryan Stiles. She said so herself—she wanted us to draw who we wanted to become, not who we wanted to be like when we grew up.

Really, she should've been more specific.

And I wondered if Ryan Stiles was an actor at all. Was he? He never pretended to be someone else on ABC's Whose Line is it Anyway? The show where points don't matter. We always watched it together. It made my parents laugh and they cuddled up beside each other while watching it. It was one of the only times they acted like my friends' parents who kissed in front of others and stuff. I had no idea what my parents found funny, but I laughed along and pretended to understand. Mom and dad often argued who they preferred, Colin or Ryan. I frequently observed them when they watched the show and decided that if Ryan Stiles made them happy, if he made them all cuddly and affectionate, I would become him.

If I became Ryan, my parents would always be happy.

It was the perfect plan.

: :

My neck is stiff. It is not so much the occasional push and tickle that awakens me, it's Edward's attempt to stifle his laughter. By the time I've fully began to comprehend that yes, indeed, I fell asleep in Edward's arms in his bed, he's already cut open half of the wrapping paper around me. But I have yet to be able to move my hands—or any other part of my body, for that matter—so I simply stay silent and watch Edward as he kneels next to me, clad in boxer briefs or whatnot. He's pale. His chest is reasonably toned, no six-pack or anything, he's just muscled enough to make you feel all safe and protected. And, he's got really broad shoulders, so if he wanted to, he could bulk up and make women faint at the mere sight of him.

Not that I doubt any of that happening regardless of his muscularity.

He's clearly having fun right now as he grins to himself, letting out the occasional laugh. It's like watching a bipolar disorder. He switches from being all childish and having cute disregard for any consequence to being all serious and pensive as he works with the scissors. He gets closer to my upper body, and I close my eyes because I feel bad for having ogled at him when he's unaware. Soon, his scissors get stuck to my T-shirt. He curses and halts to a stop, probably making sure that I didn't wake up. I don't move. He continues until I feel the wrapping paper loosen around me.

Dear God, how long were we asleep? I don't even have to have paper wrapped around me. I feel about as flexible as an icicle.

"Bella?"

I have the sudden urge to pop my eyes open and laugh myself silly, but I don't. I just want to see—er, hear—what he's up to. He straddles my legs and wraps his arms around me, and I'm kind of baffled and curious with my heart in my throat, but then he simply lifts me a little to get the wrapping paper out from underneath me. I hear it fall to the ground.

Shortly thereafter, he leaves a kiss on my cheek, and he lingers, and I'm just a puddle of goo from feeling his breath on my face. I wonder what I would see if I were to just pop my eyes open and scare him half to death. He should really consider being less touchy-feely because I'm starting to struggle (not) looking into it.

Then again, he's teaching me how to be more comfortable with stuff like this and he doesn't even know it.

In a flash, he's gone, and when he returns (he put some clothes on), I'm silently watching him. Not even pretending to sleep. He's surprised to see me awake when he lies down in front of me, but only smiles and rests his head on his palm.

I stretch—dear God, are my muscles stiff or what (totally worth it, though)—and smile. "Good morning."

"There's this girl who gave herself for me for Christmas," he replies with a wicked smile. "I would say it is a good morning, indeed."

"Stop making fun of me, Edward, or I'll never give you anything for Christmas. Ever again."

He just grins. "Except for yourself, huh?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He purses his lips in a line, but only for a second before he lights up again. "I still have you for today, you know."

"No. I totally wasn't here this morning."

"Sleeping with me is an out of body experience? Why Bella…"

I laugh. "Jesus, are all guys like that? Any random comment will be turned into a joke about a man's sexual prowess. I could mention two entirely unrelated words, like a chair and multivitamins, and you'd be popping sexual innuendo all over the place."

"Why? Are you doubting my 'sexual prowess'?"

"Because you totally seem like a guy who couldn't take care of a girl," I reply. "No. I'm sure having sex with you would be an out of body experience. Did that stroke your ego enough?"

The tips of his ears redden. He's embarrassed! Why do I not have a camera? I'll cherish this moment for an eternity.

"But we'll never know, and we should change the subject before I start imagining scary penises and run for my life."

The scary part is, I don't think I'm joking. I look at him—he's silent—and I see an opening, the perfect opportunity for me to just… tell him. Like with Emmett. Only it's Edward. Just open your mouth, and tell him. He's your best friend. He clearly cares a great deal about you.

But when I do, I freeze up, and close my mouth before any sound can get out. I'm fairly certain Emmett is right—Edward wouldn't judge or make me feel bad about myself, but I think inside my epiphany-covered naïve body, somewhere fragile, there's a Zero Point Unlikely percent that is scared shitless of Edward, this really kind friend that I have, being appalled by how weak I've been and then he'll finally open his eyes and see I'm not the girl he thinks I am, that I've been a social outcast for years, and he'll walk away.

I know it wouldn't happen. I know that. But my self-esteem has been at the bottom of a hole for years, and even though mine is just as affected by the way I look as it is by what has happened to me, I can't just shake it off and build a wall to protect me from my less than stellar view of myself. Because the thing is, I don't want that wall there. I'm not building it. I want to be able to look in the mirror and like what I see. I don't want my actions and my self-esteem to be two separate identities always struggling to get along. They need to get along.

I don't know where Emmett got the wisdom to convince me to see a psychologist, but damn, it seems I am in serious need of talking to one.

"Bella?" Edward says, and he's suddenly so close he can ruffle my hair with ease. His voice is tender. "Are you alright?"

"Would you mind telling me about your sister?"

"Now?"

"No, a year from now. I'm just curious. I haven't actually met her—nor do I know anything about her… so, what's she like?"

"She said you've got the persistence of a mule."

"The persistence of a mule?" I let out a snort-like laugh. "I love her already. You should introduce us."

"I will. When I first met her, it struck me that she's about as different from you as a person could be, but then we talked, and really, I think you'd get along brilliantly. There are some things that she believes that are just so you…"

"Like what?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Did her brain filter get swallowed by a donkey, too?"

He chuckles. "No. And I don't believe yours had that fate, either. Half of the time I'm trying to figure out if you really mean what you say or if you're only bullshitting."

"Oh, that one's a piece of cake. Half of the time I mean it, and the other half I'm bullshitting."

"Which half, though?"

"The yellower half."

"I like it how a conversation with you always makes sense."

"Half of the time."

He laughs.

"So when do I get to properly meet her?"

"I'm meeting her on New Year's Day. Maybe sooner, though, I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know."

"So I get to tag along? Brilliant."

"If you want to. I'd like it if you could meet her. But you should know she seems kind of a difficult person to get to know. She's pretty shy."

"That's okay. I've been shy once." I turn and reach for the box I'd hoped he wouldn't see during the night, and fall off the bed in my attempt. I burst into laughter, and as soon as Edward sees I'm perfectly intact, he joins in. I take the blue box (it's pressed against the headboard underneath the bed), I give it to Edward and sit back down.

"Here—it's for you."

"Bella…"

"I already made you two gifts, yada-yada, you don't care for material goods, blah-blah-blah. Just remember, neither of my gifts so far has been an actual, tangible gift."

He pokes me.

"Hey! What was that for?"

Again, he pokes me. "You seem pretty tangible to me."

I snort a laugh, and at a moment's notice, he's pinned me against the bed, his stomach against mine as we form an X with our bodies, only he curls one of his legs inside mine and makes it impossible for me to move anything other than my left leg. He holds me in place, reaches for the gift and gives me a wicked smile. My stomach is practicing somersaults.

He's beaming, but pretends to be annoyed. "Don't mind me. I'm just making sure you're tangible."

I snort. Still semi-hugging me in a horizontal position, he unwraps the book I gave him (yeah, my gift-giving isn't the most creative) and looks down at me.

"Ogden Nash?"

"Do you already have him?"

"The Strange Case of the Blackmailing Dove?"

"No idea what you just said. Yes? I know he's more on the light-hearted end of poets, nothing like Robert Frost or E. E. Cummings, but I figured… a bit humor in our lives wouldn't hurt. If you already have him, though, I can just keep the book for myself. I don't mind."

"I don't have—hey, you wrote a dedication!" he says. "Dear Edward, even as I've never—"

"Please don't." I feel myself flush, but Edward just grins that wicked smile of his and presses more firmly against me. I can feel his heartbeat. He then pretends I don't exist (except for the fact that he makes it impossible for me to leave.)

"—even as I've never wriffen—"

"That's a t, Edward!"

"—poefry, I jusf know mine would suck. So you're nof geffing any. If I could, however, I would wrife abouf —"

"Stop insulting my handwriting! That is clearly a t."

He snickers. "It's an f, Bella."

"Will you pretend to understand my handwriting for my ego's sake? Or stop reading it. Ofherwise I'll jusf fake if back."

"Alrighf." He laughs. "If I could, however, I would write about our eternal escapades of silliness ('cause as long as I'm here, you're outta luck—you just can't avoid it) and how much you mean to me. — Less violence, Bella! I'm trying to read here. — But you're not getting any poetry, okay? Though I expect a love poem dedicated to duct tape because tomorrow morning is going to be embarrassing. Either way, you're pretty awesome. Oh, and merry Christmas, too. Yours, Bella."

Edward puts down the book. The intense look in his eyes scares and thrills me, and I don't know how to react.

I purse my lips in a smile. "I just mean—you're important. I'm not—I'm not hitting on you or anything."

"Why not?"

"Hey, don't make fun of me. You know I didn't mean it like that."

He averts his eyes, and I swear, his face sort of, I don't know, twists, and I feel bad. I've done something wrong, because for a single moment, he appears to be upset by what I've just told him. But when he looks back at me, it's like the moment never existed at all, and he's smiling again.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to upset you or anything."

"It's fine," he replies.

I'm so annoyed with myself.

I mean, I'm used to not being seen that way, so I always assure him that's not what I mean. No guy (well, until Laurent) has ever shown interest in me, and I've never felt like—or been—an attractive girl, so I always nip the thought in the bud. It's just such a ludicrous thought that someone would be interested in me. But really, do I just want to avoid getting hurt? If I don't let Edward see that I'd be (very much) interested in the possibility of us, then I won't get rejected. Because that's what he'd do. But would he, really? What if I stop making those comments and see if his lack of action concerning me is really just… him holding back? Because I make those comments more than I realize?

It's a ridiculous thought, and letting myself believe it even more so, but… I don't know. Either way, maybe I shouldn't reassure him every step of the way that I don't see him like that.

He looks at me, leaning on his elbow, and the twisted expression he previously had is gone. Before I know it, I'm enveloped into a tight, horizontal hug, and seriously, sex only involves less clothes. He's glued to me and I glue myself back to him. I'll make a personal perfume out of Edward's smell because even though it's not strong, it's freshly mowed grass and musk and campfire and yes, mint. It's perfect. I'm going to bottle it.

"Consider this my apology because I accidentally cut a hole in your T-shirt," he mumbles against my ear.

I snort a laugh. "Where?"

"Left side, right above your, uh," he says, and for the first time in ages, I see that awkward, stuttering boy I met a few months ago.

"Where?"

Half of his upper body is on top of me, so I take my hand away from him and slide it down my T-shirt. Edward lifts himself up to look at me, and the tips of his ears flush.

I look down and burst into laughter. Thank God I'm wearing a sports bra. (I don't necessarily have the need to wear a bra—A cup, remember?)

Yes, Edward, my boobs are not there enough to call them anything but 'uh.'

"My left breast, Edward, really? If you wanted to charm my clothes off, you could've just written me a poem," I tell him. "Poof! Panties off."

His ears continue to redden, but he chuckles with me. "It's that easy?"

"It's poetry. If a guy wrote me poetry? Poof! Orgasm."

"I might reconsider not showing you what I've written then."

"You've written poetry for me?" I ask with my heart in my throat. "Me?"

Poof! Love.

He shrugs, but if the tips of his ears continue to redden, we might have to place ice-packs on it. "A few. I've written some for my mom, too. She's about the only person who's ever seen any of it."

Oh. Okay. Still cute, though. Show me a guy who isn't afraid to let you know how much he cares about his mom, and I'll show you my future husband. But if it's all PG-13 and doesn't concern love or taking my clothes off (haha, like Edward would ever write about something like that), it's safe for me to read it, right? Right.

"So, can I be the second? Can I see it?"

"No, still no. No way."

"But if it's all Bella my best friend yada-yada—no offence—I'd love to read it. I'm sure it's brilliant."

Edward's ears are aflame, but he shakes his head. "It's not really like… that."

Just when I start to get up from underneath him to look at him properly—keeping this posture must be killing his arms—there's a knock on the door, and Edward's dad steps in just in time to see Edward leap off of me. He's on the floor at the blink of an eye. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he looks guilty, but that can't be—his dad trusts him, right? But the faint scowl and serious expression convince me otherwise.

He keeps his eyes on Edward, sort of like giving him a silent message, and he doesn't look the least bit pleased. But that doesn't make any sense. We weren't doing anything. If I got Edward in trouble, I need to get in trouble, too. I caused this situation. Not that any of what we were doing was untrustworthy.

"Bella, you left your phone upstairs. There's a man named Phil Dwyer calling you," he says, holding out my ringing phone for me while still not taking his eyes off Edward.

"Sir, is Edward in trouble? We weren't—"

"Phone, Bella."

I take it.

"Edward?" he continues as I gape at his stern insistence. "Let's have a talk."

Edward offers me a look that questions and apologizes and tells me it's fine (yet he doesn't look the least bit convinced himself), and they're gone.

"Hello?"

"Bella?"

"Hi, Phil. How're you? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine. Are you and your brother in Seattle?"

"Where else would we be? Dad's in Georgia, though."

"I know," he replies. "Listen, I don't have much time to explain right now, but I need to see you and your brother tonight. I know it's late notice, and it's Christmas. I'm sorry about interrupting yours. Do you think you could squeeze in a half an hour for me?"

"Sure. What does this concern? Are we in trouble?"

"Not at all, not at all," he replies absent-mindedly. "Listen, can you text me the address from where I can pick you up? You can just show me the way to Emmett's then."

"There's this—never mind. We'll both be at his place."

"Good, just text me the address, okay? I'll be there at around seven. Merry Christmas, Bella, see you."

I can barely respond to his Christmas wish before he's already disconnected.

Huh. That explains that then. Not.

After his 'talk' with his father, there's something off about Edward in the morning. Or, no, maybe not really off, per se, just something distinctly different. He's not avoiding me or anything, but he does seem, I don't know, nonchalant somehow. I repeatedly ask him about it (trying to catch him off guard so he'd accidentally blurt out what the issue is) but he's quick. And it's not even that his physical self is different. He's exactly the same, unnecessarily touchy-feely, like he always is. His mind, though? Not here, that's for sure.

He's not rude or anything. Just… different. And I don't know how, but his parents are oblivious to it, so maybe I know him better than I previously thought to notice such a thing.

Sometimes, it's hard for me to grasp how little time Edward and I have actually known each other. Just over a month. Considering that, it's not surprising there are things about both of us that the other doesn't know, even if we're not purposefully keeping them from the other.

Okay, let me get to that.

At noon, Edward's parents and Edward and I go to church. I haven't gone to church since, well, that one time one and a half decades ago. My parents didn't particularly care and that's how I was raised. Polite oblivion. My dad isn't a passionate atheist, it's simply a topic that doesn't interest him much. I mean, he's at polite terms with Angela's dad, Pastor Webber, and despite his talent for expressing anger at the speed of light, I've never, not once, seen him show the slightest hint of distaste toward any religious person from any religion (provided they're not asshole-y with him). And maybe it's because he's passed his polite disinterest on to me, but that's exactly how I feel. This might sound horrible to anyone who feels passionate about the topic at hand, but I don't care much. I don't mind those who think there is higher power, I don't mind those who don't, I don't mind being the one who frankly doesn't care.

So, anyhow, Edward's parents are—seem to be—believers. In some form or another, they respect the thought of higher power, Esme seems to be quite active (already) in this new community the church provides, and Edward? He is, very clearly, in the habit of going to church. I don't think he goes every Sunday—at that point, I haven't asked—but he questions nothing about the experience while I have an overflowing barrelful of inquiries. I don't know where and when to stand. I don't know where and when to sit. I don't know when to sing.

I don't know anything.

And I feel like asking would be the most impolite thing I could do. I have no intention of telling Esme and Edward's dad that after having been baptized at the age of six months, I haven't stepped inside a church in… sixteen years, I guess. Not that I was able to step into a church as a toddler. You know.

Eh, I don't know why I'm even talking about this. I wanted to talk about the evening at Jasper's.

So, anyway. There's a Christmas party in the evening, and the Cullens' entire family tree is there. I don't usually feel stage fright, but on the doorway, I literally back up into Edward's chest when I see the amount of relatives they have. Edward, fortunately, only chuckles and grasps my shoulders to steady me.

"You okay?"

See? He's still acting like he usually would (from how much I know him).

I step into the foyer (Jasper has a ginormous house) and watch children run and giggle and listen to an elderly lady talking animatedly to a boy my age and adults' laughter coming from the living room. More people arrive and greet everyone with the biggest smiles and scold their kinds and kiss each other's cheeks... it's quite something. The place is bursting with liveliness and joy. It's incredible. It's unlike any Christmas I've ever experienced.

It's also alarming.

What's more unsettling is that, suddenly, I feel this intense sense of alienation. Both Edward and his parents always nipped the thought in the bud—they'd shake their heads at my slightest mention of being a burden for them, but here, I fully began to grasp how I'm nothing but an intruder. It's not my family. They had no choice but to invite me, but at the end of the day, I don't… I just don't belong, you know?

I straighten my white dress (seriously, you thought I own more than one somewhat festive-looking dress? I feel for you, Emmett) and watch as a curly-haired boy, pre–K age, lights up at the sight of Edward and runs up to him to hug his leg. A shorter girl follows, jumping up and down, and begs for Edward to let her sit on his shoulders. Even though Esme kindly comes up to me to assure me I'm part of the family and I can—and should—make myself feel at home (and I thank her, because sometimes she's just… kindness personified), all I really do is observe Edward as he interacts with these kids. Apparently, he's Uncle Edward, and he crouches to let the girl sit on his shoulders.

His face lights up when he interacts with them. I don't know why, but I'm intrigued. I've never been around guys who feel comfortable with kids. No, I don't mean that. I mean, I've never been around guys who are around kids. I've never seen Emmett with kids. I don't even know if he wanted any. Neither have I seen dad around kids. Like, little ones. Hell, I've never been around little kids much.

So, for some odd reason, I find something magical about Edward's at ease behavior and comfort around those kids. I shouldn't, really. It's normal for guys not to be standoffish with kids, right? But I haven't seen it. In movies? Sure. In my life? Not really. But it's enthralling. That's the word I want to use.

Anyway, since the girl is already on Edward's shoulders, the boy tugs at my pinky finger, looks up at me with his doe eyes and asks, "Are you Bella?" Which, really, sounds more like, "Awe you Bewwa?"

"I am."

"I'm Andrew." (Andwew!)

I grin and crouch next to him. "Very nice to meet you, Andrew."

He nods, clearly in a rush. "Will you let me sit on your shoulders?" ("Wiww you wet me sit on youw shouwdews?" It's adorable.)

Edward crouches next to us. "Hey, I'll take you later, okay? You're too heavy and Bella has a pretty dress on. You wouldn't want to make it dirty, now would you?"

He isn't even looking at me, he's talking to Andrew, and yet I feel butterflies in my stomach. Why yes, I am silly and twelve years old. Hey, not many people would use my name and 'pretty' in the same sentence, let me have my five seconds of delusion.

Little Andrew looks me up and down, assessing my dress and how small I am compared to Edward, and frowns. "I guess."

"No, I'll do it," I reply, and Andrew's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "I'll do it if you take your shoes off."

"Bella—you don't have to—"

Andrew has already thrown his little polished shoes against the wall (I place them neatly next to others because I don't want him to get in trouble for this). He climbs on my shoulders like I just offered him the world. I carefully stand, letting him wrap his little fists around my index fingers, and look at Edward. He's grinning at me, and the kids are already yelling for their parents to come and see where they are. We head into the living room, and sweet Jesus, it's packed with people. There couldn't be less than thirty people in this room alone.

Edward starts to introduce me to everyone (including Edward's granny Katherine, who is the most practical-looking no-nonsense granny I've ever seen), but turns out they already know my name and reason for being here, so after letting Andrew and Mackenzie down, we stand behind a couch. I observe the crowd while Edward leans on the wall, hands crossed. Esme is telling a small crowd the story of how I came to be the incredible glowworm (she just doesn't use that exact wording), she even shows them a picture of it on her camera, and after a long, mutual 'awww,' they all look at us.

Can I play opossum now? I want to.

A second later, my dear brother arrives, takes one look at the photo, widens his eyes to a comic extent and places a hand on his heart.

"My little sister is here!" he bellows. People laugh. He walks over to us, still holding a hand on his heart. "Aww, my two little lovebirds," he says, and I cannot control the flush on my face. Embarrassing. He makes a mushy, lovey-dovey looking face and grins so wide his dimples threaten to fall off.

"Emmett, are you drunk?"

He looks at both of us, back and forth, and delivers a stick, about four feet long, raising the end of it above our heads.

"Oh, look, guys!" he mock-gasps. "You're under a mistletoe!"

I look up, and indeed. If it were anyone else, I'd laugh my ass off (because this is my trick, I used to do it all the time with mom and dad when I was little).

But now? Like this? Forcing Edward to kiss me? I want him to want to, damnit.

You are so dead, Emmett. So. Dead.

He simply grins at the both of us, seemingly oblivious, and as a few people see what's going on, we get occasional shouts and cheers to 'do it already.' I flush beetroot red, and the tips of Edward's ears redden. He's really uncomfortable, and I feel so bad by his unease I raise myself on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. He offers a smile and squeezes my hand as I put my heels down.

"Oh, come on! Your granny can kiss better than that."

Katherine, said teeny-tiny granny with snow white hair, hears his words as she's passing, lets out a 'hmph' sound, literally tugs at Emmett's sweater and takes advantage of his surprise, because he get a quick, sloppy kiss on the mouth.

Priceless.

I want to burst out laughing (much like Edward just did) but first, I wave Esme over, motioning at her camera. She snaps a quick picture of a now flushing Emmett and Edward's granny, who mumbles something about kids nowadays not knowing how to romance a woman.

Scandalous.

My grin is going to split my face, but Emmett recovers surprisingly fast, leaning on the wall as he raises the stick once again. "See how it's done? Come on now, your granny just proved she can do it better than that. I'm waiting."

The tips of Edward's ears are still red, but he glances around in the room (as do I, and not many people are watching us) before he steps right in front of me, runs his right hand through my hair, and lets it rest on the nape of my neck. His finger rubs the chain of my necklace and, as he leans down, I close my eyes and shiver. I can feel Edward's breath on my nose, and just the gentlest brush of his lips on mine makes my knees weak. The second time, he presses his lips more firmly against the side of mine, moves them ever so slightly, holds them all too briefly, and he's gone.

I am mush. If this is how I react to an innocent kiss from Edward, I might spontaneously combust if whatever it is that's between us ever went further than that.

I'm terrified to look at him, so instead, I raise my eyes to look at Emmett, and I swear, I've never seen him look so smug. I can barely acknowledge his shit-eating grin before I see the camera in his hands, and I just know he took a picture.

"Edward, did you know that Bella is totally in—"

"Emmett! Give me that!"

He backs up and holds the camera behind him.

"Shh, calm down, Bella, it's for your grandkids!"

"Emmett, you—"

He continues to retreat, grinning like a madman, before he turns around and breaks into a run. I go right after him. A whole swarm of kids is running right after us, laughing and yelling and thinking we're the most fun Christmas companions ever, so before we know it, Emmett and I are both sitting in the dark laundry room in the basement, not daring to breathe for fear that the kids will find us and force us to play all night. The entire situation is kind of funny, so we sit and hyperventilate for a while. I'm not even trying to get the camera from him anymore. Who knows, maybe when I'm a grey old spinster I'll have framed the photograph of my one and only kiss with my best friend (well… that he's aware of), even if he was forced into said kiss. It still curled my toes.

"Do you think they're gone?" Emmett asks. We listen intently. A few laughing kids pass the entry to the basement, but it gets quieter.

"I think so."

We both breathe a sigh of relief.

"What're you so scared of, Bella?"

"What?"

"What're you scared of?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why can't you just—I don't know, just let things happen with Edward? He seems like a decent guy."

"Emmett, you're delusional. And never, please, never corner him like that again, okay? Don't force him into stuff. He was so uncomfortable he almost went green."

"Oh, he was uncomfortable, alright."

I nudge him. "You're disgusting, and you're wrong."

"I'm right, and yes, men are disgusting. We're disgusting creatures."

"Edward isn't."

"Oh, trust me—he's just better at hiding it. Or maybe you're just bad at spotting it, you know, with your innocence and everything."

"Jesus, Emmett. Please tell me you didn't just find fault in my supposed naïveté."

"Okay, okay," he replies, pausing for a brief moment. "I think it was about time we found you a psychologist. You're kind of dumb."

"Hey!"

"No, I don't mean, like, book-dumb or life-dumb. Just kind of, you know, naïve dumb."

"Such compliments you give me, oh brother of mine."

"You know you love me."

"Unfortunately," I reply, getting up. "Hey—Phil Dwyer called, and he wants to meet us tonight at seven. I sent him the address."

He gets up as well. "He's in Seattle?"

"Apparently."

"What did he want?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"Is it anything bad?"

"He said it wasn't. I don't know. Maybe he found an extra pair of goose slippers for me and a free football scholarship for you."

Emmett chuckles. We join the others (they've just started to look for us because it's time to hand out gifts). I sit on the carpet next to Edward, and just observe the liveliness and joy of this giant family. I stretch out my legs, lean back against Edward's shoulder and glance at him. He throws a casual hand across my shoulders, kissing my forehead—and, note that he does all of this so absent-mindedly it's almost an unconscious move from his part.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath just tickling my temple.

I nod and hum. It's like nothing happened at all, and I love it and I hate it and I just don't know. Life was so much easier when I genuinely didn't care.

It's pretty much the perfect Christmas (or it would be if dad were here, and if mom were, you know, here too). Edward's dad has finally arrived back from the hospital, so now Edward's parents sit on the couch to give a small package to Edward, and when he opens it, a small, metal keychain lands in his palm. He looks up at his parents, and they're both smiling down at him. There's so much love in their eyes.

"You're kidding me."

"No." His father smiles.

"You didn't."

"We did."

"You—you got me a car."

"Yes."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"It's not a joke. It's yours."

He locks eyes with me, and when I first saw the Volvo keychain, I thought it was ridiculous, too, but now that we're looking at each other, I understand with perfect clarity—no, confused clarity—that he wasn't arguing because he couldn't believe it, or because it was so wonderful, or because it was every guy's dream. Oh, no. He's pissed off. I have never in my life seen Edward so quietly bottled with anger before. I do not know a single teenager who wouldn't be elated to get a car for Christmas. But Edward? He's backwards, alright.

Not saying a word, Edward gets up, raises his hand and throws the keychain in a jug of juice. It lands with the perfect plump, sinks slower than you would ever expect from a metal keychain, and the entire room watches in stunned silence as it happens. Emmett gapes.

Edward's face twists, and he runs a hand through his hair. "Don't—don't pull shit like that on me. Please don't."

With concrete, determined steps, Edward leaves the room, and a moment later, the front door closes with a quiet click. Esme jumps as if it slammed.

And that is the precise moment I realize that really, I don't know Edward that well at all. I only know the tip of an iceberg.

Esme starts to get up to go after her son, but Edward's dad stops her. "Give him time."

So I stand up instead, and they say nothing as I silently walk to the foyer and put on my coat. I exit the house.

Edward is sitting on a bench on the lawn, holding his head in his hands in the dim light of the snow and Christmas lights. He doesn't raise his head as I approach.

"Dad, you can't expect me to buy me shit every time you think you've messed up, or buy me a car in exchange for my right to make choices about my future, just like you made me promise not to get involved—" He raises his eyes. "Oh."

I silently wipe off the snow from the seat next to him, and sit down. We both watch vapor coming from our mouths. I sink my mitten-clad hands further into my coat pockets, and we just sit and watch vapor. We do it for a while. I observe him, trying to see if he's annoyed by my presence, and when he doesn't seem to be, I slide closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. Because he needs that. For a second, a brief second, he stiffens, and I'm ready to be wrong and back off, but then he rests his back on the bench and wraps both of his arms around my shoulders. It's kind of sweet. (And totally freezing.)

"They always do that, you know? They buy me shit. They think they've messed up, they think they haven't spent enough time with me, they think I'm broody, they think I'm mad because we moved—they buy me shit. It's what they do. It's such a fucking joke, you know? How could they have given me the values and priorities they've given me, act like such douchebags about all of it, and still expect me to follow their words and not their actions?"

"They love you."

He voice softens. "I know that. But, Bella, imagine if you met a guy who—every single time he screwed up—bought you flowers. How would you feel about getting flowers?"

"I imagine I wouldn't like them very much."

"And what if you received flowers when he was not trying to apologize?"

"I'd be reminded of the times when he was. I'd see an ulterior motive, probably."

"That's exactly why I don't like getting shit from them," he replies. "But it's just—it's impossible to make them see that I don't want them to sit around trying to solve my problems. Aw, Edward, you've got a fuck-ton of problems? Let's buy you a fucking car. That'll make it all better."

Emmett is right—I'm naïve, and not just about Edward, but because I so much want to see everyone's best, I fail to see issues. Or maybe I don't want to see issues. I would've never thought Edward's parents did that, but I don't think it's only because I'm naïve, but because I've barely spent a few days with them. No family is perfect, and I shouldn't have thought that Edward's was an exception. Every family is dysfunctional in its own way.

But I still think they mean well.

I've also never heard Edward cuss so much. I mean, I curse all the time. Emmett? All the time. Dad? When he's angry. Edward? Very, very rarely.

"Have you told them you feel like this?"

"I've tried. It just won't get through to them. They don't listen. It goes right where my attempts to have a conversation about independence go. Right through the window."

"What about it?"

"What?"

"What about your independence?"

"There is none. I mean, yeah, it's gotten better since you came around because you're just… you just charm their pants off, they think you're amazing, and they trust your dad, so that helps, but otherwise… why do you think I'm so involved with everything?"

Oh.

"What were you going to say earlier? They made you promise you wouldn't get involved with—what?"

"It's… uh. Nothing."

"Okay," I reply. "But if you—if you… you said you have problems and that they want to solve them for you," I say quietly. "You just… I'm here, you know? You can always talk to me."

"Obviously."

"Unless—unless I'm like an extra problem, in which case I'm really sorry. I don't, I didn't—"

"Jesus, Bella, no," Edward says. "It was just the time Rosalie's fate was so uncertain, that's when I really couldn't understand what I wanted and I just walked around all lost and stuff… so they figured I'm unhappy here and they should buy me a fucking car to make me happy again."

"Oh. You scared me." I take a breath. "Tell them all of it, the part about raising you with values and the part about your independence and them trying to throw money at your problems… just tell them all of it. They just want what's best for you. And they won't understand what that is unless you speak to them."

"They won't listen."

"Make them listen."

"How?"

"Show up in a bunny costume and sing Hallelujah while doing push-ups in your kitchen," I answer. "That'll definitely get their attention. Try it out. If that doesn't work, try doing it with a cup of juice on your back."

He lets out a laugh. "You're brilliant."

"Always at your service." I raise my legs to wrap arms around them.

"Hey, Bella… I'm sorry, uh. Sorry your first kiss had to be like that," he says, and he looks so sincere and apologetic with his face all twisted like that. He casts me a pained glance.

Please, please don't apologize. It breaks my heart that you'd be sorry about that kiss.

We both watch as a car approaches the house, and I get up. "It's fine. I guess it's a good thing I'm not going to marry the first guy that I kiss, huh?" I lean in to give him a silly kiss on his cheek. "Go talk to your parents. And be honest. Meanwhile, I'll go and see if that's Phil who arrived."

He gets up, too, and with both of our hands in our pockets, we walk back to the house.

"Bella, you're just… there are no words, you know?"

"I would hope so." I snicker. "Wouldn't want to be covered with compliments or anything."

He smiles, and I'm engulfed in one of his wonderful hugs. "I really am sorry that I took your first kiss from you."

"Jesus, Edward. Apologize once more and I will take offence that you were so repulsed by it."

"I'm not—"

"Shh. I know, you're too nice for that. Let's just drop it."

And he does.

"So… who's Phil?"

"Oh. Mom's boyfriend. Apparently he's here to talk to me and my brother. Maybe he's got an extra pair of goose slippers or something."

Phil has indeed arrived. I encourage Edward to talk to his parents, and ask for Emmett to join me and Phil. Seeing that Phil will be in a bit of a hurry if he has to be in SeaTac in an hour (it takes half an hour to get there), I suggest that instead of finding a cafeteria, we could occupy one of Cullen-Hales' many rooms. So Phil sets down a single stack of papers, and I close both kitchen doors.

Phil looks so utterly exhausted I fill a plate with food. He's grateful.

"So, how have you guys been?"

"Ah, you know, Emmett is applying for colleges and I'm half-way falling in love with my best friend. It's an unrequited disaster. How're you?"

Emmett gives me a shit-eating grin, and even when I nudge him, he makes that annoying lovey-dovey mock face brothers are so good at.

So I put an ice-cube in his shirt. That should keep him occupied for a while.

Phil seems amused by our antics, but he shrugs. "All things considered, I'm alright. Pretty busy."

"Not that we aren't happy to see you, but what brings you here?"

He slides two copies of the same thing in front of us, and in large, bold letters, it says, Last Will and Testament.

I swallow. "So is this, like, the reading of a will?"

"No. There is no reading of a will nowadays. I can only assume they used to do it because many people mentioned in them were illiterate and they wanted to avoid confusion," he explains. "Just read through the document. It's only a few pages. We'll discuss the contents of it."

"But… but mom was so young," Emmett says (having successfully removed my ice-cube from his shirt). "Why would she have written a will?"

"Read it first. We'll discuss later."

Phil eats and watches us read, and we do. Both Emmett and I are at one point confused by the amount of legal mumbo jumbo, so we ask to clarify, and he does.

"Well?" he asks when we're both done reading.

"I'm still confused—why would she have written a will?"

"I've been raised to be very specific about those things, and when her income grew, I suggested that she should at least have an outline."

"So you're trying to tell us that we now own two spa resorts, or destination spa, or whatever you call it, and co-own the third one?"

"Yes."

"I know she worked there, but owning those places… where did she get the money?"

"I helped her out at first. She continued on her own, mostly."

"So, really, by agreeing to take these, we're taking your money, not hers," says Emmett.

"No. It's hers now, which makes it yours."

"How big was your input?"

"Not much. Maybe one fifth of what she owned."

"But neither of us knows anything about having a successful business."

"That's why I'm here."

"You want to buy them?"

"If you feel like you want to sell them," he says. "Listen—you don't have to decide anything today. I just happened to be here on a business trip, and I wanted to see you face to face rather than sending you a confusing document. Is there a chance you'll cause trouble for each other for being equal partners in this?"

"You mean are we going to get the other killed to keep the money? No."

"Good. Has either of you thought of majoring in business?"

I shake my head. Emmett hesitates, but then shakes his head, too.

"So what do you suggest we do?"

"Think about it." Half of the stack of paper in front of him lands in front of me, half in front of Emmett. "Read about it. Don't worry too much."

"So is there like a secret clause in this?" I ask.

"A what?"

"A secret clause, you know, person A will only get his share if he gets married by the age of yada-yada and if he doesn't become a cokehead, that kind of stuff."

He chuckles. "No. But your father thinks you should only be able to get the money—or full responsibility—at the age of twenty one, and only earlier in case your need for the money is directly associated with furthering your education. I personally think your mother would have agreed."

"Emmett, would you be okay with that?" I ask, turning to my brother. I can't remember the last time I saw him look so serious.

"Yeah, I mean, is that to make sure we wouldn't go nuts after realizing how rich we'd become overnight?"

"You could say that. People almost always lose perspective if too much resource is thrown at too eager hands."

"How much exactly are we talking about?"

"Just enough to comfortably pay for your college."

Emmett and I look at each other, really look at each other, and I think we're both more than okay with that. I mean, he's not here to tell us we've magically gained so much money we'd never have to work in our lives.

"Phil? Do you know anything about owning a business?"

"I own several."

"Would there be a way of putting you in charge of what we own until we're old enough to need the money or figure out what we want to do?"

So we discuss it. It's kind of surreal. Emmett and I keep looking at each other as if our fairy godmother decided to turn up and make it possible for us to attend a good college (should we get into one) even if we fail to get a scholarship. At what expense, though. We're not grinning, ear from ear, thinking our futures are all set and shit, because there is no doubt in our minds this should never have happened. I'd take having mom here with us over having less trouble paying tuition any day.

By the time Phil has to leave, we've given our signatures to several papers (after having read the documents to dad on Skype, whom Emmett and I decided to call). Phil leaves, and in a daze, Emmett and I simply sit around Jasper's oak kitchen table, completely baffled by what has just transpired. Several people enter and exit the room, and we simply sit there.

The rest of the evening flies by, and when it's time to leave, I'm semi-asleep on the couch. Edward comes to wake me, so I sleepily follow him to the car. I only notice that it's just the two of us in the car when we're already on our way. I smell polish. I look around, and yes, it's a new-looking car. Extra clean.

"I take it you settled things with your parents."

"More or less," he replies, glancing at me and smiling at my sleepiness. "Either way, the car can't stay at Jasper's."

I nod and ask permission to take off my old Ugg boots to curl up, and I get it. So I wrap my arms around legs, still clutching mom's Last Will and Testament along with other stacks of documents, and before I know it, Edward is drawing lazy circles on my jaw.

"We're home, sleepyhead."

I hum and rub sleep from my eyes.

As we approach the house (Edward has thrown a hand on my shoulder because I'm too sleepy to be coordinated), Edward says, "You know, I'm surprised you haven't noticed you've given me three gifts, and even with our agreement, I only gave you one when you should've gotten two. I'm sorry if you're disappointed."

"Oh, that didn't even occur to me. I don't really care much. You can just write me a poem and we're even."

"I actually had a better idea, and I asked your dad's permission, too, but it's a risky gift, so can you just wait in the parlor until I call for you from my room?"

"A risky gift? My dad's permission?" I am immediately awake. "Are you going to propose? Why, Edward..."

"No, uh—nothing like that. It's just, well, you'll see."

I do as I'm told, (Edward also tells me I should change into something comfortable, so I do), and when I sit on the couch in our parlor, fighting with sleep, Edward opens his door, but before he's able to say anything, a dark brown beast of a dog runs out. He's barking like there's no tomorrow, jumps on the couch, smells me and starts licking my face. I'm wide awake.

Ho-lee fuck, Edward got me a dog. He got me a dog!

It's official. I'm in love.

I hug the beast, he growls so I let go, but then he starts to lick my face again. I cannot stop grinning, so I let the dog go, hop up from the couch, and jump at Edward. Literally. Luckily, he notices me coming quickly enough to be able to catch me, so now I straddle his waist as he bumps into a table and backs up onto the wall. I hug him and beam at him and seriously, this dude is amazing.

"Jesus, Bella," he lets out, half-surprised and half-amused but mostly very happy to see me happy.

"You got me a pit bull, Edward! A pit bull!" I squeal like the girl I've never been. "Do you know what that means? You're my bestest friend, Edward. How did you know? Did you ask my dad if I'd wanted a dog? How did my dad agree to this? How did yours? Oh, God, Emmett will be so jealous! What's his name? Or is it a she? How did you know I always wanted a dog? I would totally have sex with your right now if you wanted to because I'm so happy! Where did you get him? How old is he?"

"Jesus, Bella," he repeats, having no other choice but to support me by putting hands under my bottom, and just when he does, I come back to my senses and suddenly, a conversation with Emmett from the laundry room makes me notice that me straddling Edward does, indeed, make him a little, uh, uncomfortable. He's aroused. I immediately flush beetroot red, even though I can't take it personally, I mean—he's not reacting like this because it's me, he's reacting like this because I'm a woman and for men, it's maybe sort of uncontrollable, you know?

Oh, you do? Well, I don't.

Either way, I ask him to put me down, and he carefully does just that. His hair is all over the place, his neat and tidy button-down doesn't look so neat and tidy anymore; he looks frazzled and molested and so incredibly sexy.

"I'm, um, sorry I molested you."

He laughs, and it's almost like a rumble from the middle of his chest. He clears his throat, but what he lets out is barely audible. "Impossible."

"No, I'm pretty sure that was sexual abuse right there," I reply, and I lean in to put a wet kiss on his cheek. "So I'm sorry about that. I'm just so happy! You got me a pit bull!"

It looks like he can't help but keep the dopey smile off his face, either, because he gives me this tender, caring look as he leans to kiss my cheek and starts telling me all about him. I can't tear my eyes off the dog. Or Edward.

Edward is one fuckawesome dude, you know?

: :

So, on Monday (yesterday), I went to see a psychologist. My psychologist's practice is on the twenty first floor on Columbia Street, just a couple of blocks away from Harborview Medical Center. Even without a high-class interior, it is clear at the blink of an eye that this place—these people—are out of my price range.

Thanks, Edward's Dad Whatever Your First Name Is, I'm going to have to rob a bank for this. I just know it.

James T. Hunter's office (overlooking Puget Sound) feels cozy, with two couches, an armchair, shelves and shelves of books, and fastidiously clean surfaces. I wonder if he's a hypochondriac. If I sneeze, is he going to make a swarm of surgeons disinfect this place inch by inch? His assistant urged me to enter the office, but upon entering, it became clear he's not here himself. I wonder if this is some sort of a test. Maybe he's got a few cameras to observe what will draw my attention and scrutinize and analyze my behavior and diagnose me with psychotic depression.

Or maybe I should be here for paranoia. Maybe he's just busy and talking to a patient. What the hell, Bella.

As is to be expected, the office draws my attention, so I drop my bag and observe the few paintings on the walls (nothing recognizable, just a few blobs of color—maybe for mood-setting? I don't know) and his books: mostly psychology related, but there's a whole shelf dedicated to Milan Kundera's different editions of The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Interesting.

I keep walking counter clock-wise and reach a framed diploma, an M. A. degree from Metropolitan Community College (Kansas City, MO). It surprises me. But Edward's dad is a reputable doctor, and I trust his judgment. He did emphasize that I could and should change my psychologist if I find Dr. James T. Hunter unsuitable, but he also said he'd known him for years and he's good at what he does. Of course my thorough knowledge in the field of psychology makes me an expert, so we argued for hours. Not.

I have no idea what to expect. Not a thought. A few prejudices? Yes. Actual knowledge about what a psychologist does on a daily basis? Nope.

I mean, I guess I'm nervous, but at the same time, I hope he isn't just going to sit there, asking, "And how does that make you feel?" Not because I'd mind answering that question, but because I'm afraid I'll burst into laughter. And I don't want to be rude, it's just, you know, that question.

As I stand there, he enters the room and joins me, and I glance at him. He's a balding man in his late sixties, perhaps? He's paunchy, he's wearing genuinely old old-school glasses, he's dressed casually in a cardigan and unflattering sandals. An old, forked tattoo extends over his barely noticeable double chin. I'm intrigued.

He remains silent, seemingly observing the same piece of paper I'm looking at.

"So what's it like in Kansas City?"

"Lots of friendly people and fountains."

"Sounds fierce."

He takes a clipboard and asks for me to sit on the couch as he sits on an armchair. I'm pretty sure he could decipher my body language in his sleep, so I fight with the urge to cross my arms or legs or fiddle, or actually, do anything at all. I don't think I've ever sat so still. I feel kind of naked, afraid that he'll take my slightest gesture and start interpreting and twisting it in a way I'm not comfortable with.

"That's a first," he says, throwing one leg over the other and looking at me.

"I'm the first one not to fiddle?"

"No," he replies. "You're the first one not to express doubt at my qualification after having seen that I only got my Master's from a community college."

I shrug. "I kind of figured… you can study anywhere, right? It's not the name behind the school, it's the drive behind the person, or something like that."

He smiles, and I'm not quite sure how to interpret it. He's got two golden teeth right next to each other, one slightly larger than the other, and yet, his smile is warm. I think.

"Want to hear a secret?"

I raise my eyebrows, and he closes the door. Behind it stands a diploma, James T. Hunter, PhD, Harvard University, Department of Psychology. Okay, I admit. I'm scared shitless. This is intimidating. I'm pretty sure he could tear me apart piece by piece and make me cry about each and every ant that bit me when I was little. And I don't think I was bitten by ants all that much during my childhood. That's how intimidated I am.

He leaves the door closed and sits back down.

"I'm intrigued."

"Care to elaborate?"

"You have a PhD from Harvard University and a Master's Degree from a community college, and yet, you display the second and not the first. I imagine you have a good motive, too."

"Any guesses?"

"Either you're ashamed of having gone to an Ivy League school, which I doubt, or you want to elicit a reaction, or you'd rather surprise people by being better than they might expect from a man who went to a community college."

"Interesting."

"Did I nail it?"

"I'm more interested in prejudice, so in a way, you were right."

"So where do I place on the scale of prejudice? Am I a threat to society?"

"Hardly," he answers and smiles. He gets up for a moment to offer his hand. "Isabella Swan, it's a pleasure. I must apologize, I hate starting with introductions. My name is James. You can call me Dr. Hunter or Jammy."

I chuckle.

"Carlisle gave me the name in college. Nobody calls me James anymore."

"I'd rather use Dr. Hunter, then, or I won't be able to take you seriously."

He leans back on his armchair, clipboard in hand. "I heard you're staying with Carlisle's family."

"I am."

"How do you like it there?"

"They couldn't be more welcoming if they tried."

"How do you feel about your dad leaving the state at this point in your life?"

"I'm proud of him."

"And?"

"That's it. I think he made the right decision."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"An older brother. He's a year older than me. He's the reason I'm here."

"Oh?"

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, so I nod.

"Mature of him to see and suggest you need help."

"If he wants."

"Pardon?"

"He's mature if he wants to be."

He smiles that not-unhappy-but-not-quite-pleased-either smile of his.

"So you don't think you need help?"

"I do. I just don't believe you could help me."

"Me in particular or me as a psychologist?"

"As a psychologist."

"Has your experience with psychologists not been positive?"

"I've never seen one before."

"But since you've voluntarily stepped into my office, I assume you agree I might be able to help you."

"Just because I agree I need help doesn't mean I want to receive it."

He writes down something in that clipboard of his, and for some reason, it annoys me like nothing else. I wish he'd just tell me what's wrong and how to fix it.

"Carlisle mentioned you suffered a significant loss recently," he continues. "I'm sorry."

This might as well have been said by a matchbox. He makes me feel so defiant, and even though I bullshit and burst into silliness on a daily basis, I don't deliberately provoke reactions I want to see. Right now? I'm tempted.

"Is it written in your job description to pretend to care? Do you need my opinion about every insignificant detail of my life? Am I supposed to watch out for my language and gestures and posture and mood because I have no control over how you feel you should interpret them? Or can we just cut to the chase?"

He puts his clipboard next to him and rests his elbows on his knees. Something flashes in his eyes. "Or we could do this."

"What?"

"You yell questions at me that you give me no time to answer."

"I wasn't yelling."

"I don't mind."

"Are you going to play mind games with me? Are you already doing it?"

"So you do want me to answer your questions?"

I'm exasperated. I'm discouraged by the fact that he hasn't done anything and he's already showing me a side of myself that I don't like. I take a breath, and I know he might be watching my every move, but I still hide my hands between my knees.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I'm pretty blunt, but I'm usually not downright rude for no reason," I say, and take another deep breath.

"You can yell at me if that's what you want to do."

"That bothers me."

"Yelling?"

"The suggestion that doing so is okay."

"It is. You're expressing an emotion."

"I'd like to be able to control my way of expressing it."

"You think feeling anger is okay, but expressing it is not?"

"Expressing is okay, I just want it to be on my own terms."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"When I feel embarrassed, for example, I want to be able to express it by laughing at the situation. When I feel angry, I want to be able to express it by doing twenty crutches. Or by making a blunt joke—not by yelling. Something like that."

He writes something on his clipboard.

"Would it be against the rules for you not to write things down?"

He finishes what he was writing (I assume), and puts down his clipboard. "Does it bother you?"

"It makes me very self-aware. I start to analyze everything that caused you to write things down. I imagine that you repeatedly write down, 'Isabella Swan—Incorrigible Idiot.'"

He lets out air from his nose, sort of like a sharp huffing sound, but his eyes tell me he's amused.

"It would help me remember our conversation later on, but I guess I could make an exception."

"Thank you."

"So, it appears you have some questions."

"Do I have reason to be self-aware? Do you really analyze my every thought and gesture?"

"In no way do I claim to own any telepathic powers. Reading body language only goes so far, and fails to work once you're as self-aware as you seem to be. There's no reason to be. I'm only here to listen and help."

"So when I cross my arms, you won't immediately draw the conclusion that I'm closed-off or protecting myself?"

"Or maybe you're just cold? What I do or do not believe about you, Isabella, is of no consequence."

"Nice. Sneaking in my name like that. Is that supposed to make me feel special?"

"Or maybe repeating it helps me remember," he replies. I don't know how he does it, but he makes me feel confronted without actually confronting me. It's unsettling.

"So what if I just want to cut to the chase? Then what?"

"Then we figure out the best way to help you."

"So you don't need all that jibber-jabber about my life?"

"It would certainly help me get to know you. Each person heals differently. Helping you without knowing you would be neither effective nor professional."

"What about my childhood?"

"What about it?"

"Are we going to end up psychoanalyzing it? Doesn't every deep issue go back to our childhood? Does crying over shit that happened ten years ago ever really help?"

"Depending on the person. What helps you might not help your brother. What helps your best friend might not help your neighbor. It's not all black and white."

"That's so vague."

"What really interests me is that you've just spent half an hour on deflecting the issue when you're so eager to confront it and cut to the chase. Despite your current skepticism, I have dealt with grief counseling the most. I'm adequate at helping people overcome it."

Oh, fuck.

Edward's dad referred me to Dr. Hunter because he's good at helping people deal with loss.

I stand. "This was a mistake."

He nods, stands, puts his left hand in his pocket and sways on his sandals. He offers his right hand. "Regardless, it was nice meeting you, Isabella Swan."

I'm blown away. He doesn't even care.

"Likewise."

I pack up my stuff and rush past a stunned-looking assistant, but just when I wait for the elevator's ding, I realize I left my hat and mittens on the couch. Uh. This is going to be awkward. So I turn, sighing, and rush past the assistant again. Dr. Hunter is still sitting in the armchair, leaning back as he writes something in that trunk-colored clipboard of his. He looks up. I motion at my woolen belongings and take them. I stand there for a few seconds, looking at him.

"It bothers me," I finally admit. My voice is quiet.

"Pardon?"

"The fact that you just let me leave like this. That you don't even care," I say. "It bothers me a great deal."

"Why?"

"There's so much negligence in this world," I reply. "You get paid to care but you don't. What hope does that leave for the rest of us?"

"I get paid to help, not care."

I stand there, looking at him as I consider the pros and cons of leaving versus the pros and cons of staying. If I leave now, Emmett might make me see another person. Edward's dad might refer me to another person. I don't know if what Michael Newton did to me will be a portable issue in my life, if it will affect my life in the future, if I find myself lacking as a sexual partner one day… but if there's a chance it will undermine my sense of self-worth, I shouldn't walk away. It would be a coward's way out.

And, as peculiar this sandal-wearing tattoo-owning psychologist is, there's just something about him that makes me accept him. Maybe it's how he challenges me without actually doing anything, or how he gives me free will to approach this however I want to. Just… something.

In a momentary act of bravery or cowardice—depending on your point of view—I sit opposite him, still in my jacket.

"I want you to help me."

Something flashes in his eyes, a glint of happiness or understanding or knowledge, and he nods, motioning for me to take off my coat. I do.

"How did you know I'd come back?"

"You kept confronting me."

"And that shows something?"

"You're not as afraid as you think you are."

See? Jibber-jabber.

"What if I hadn't come back?"

"Then you would be outside."

I laugh. He's startled by the sound, and I think he's equally startled by my character.

"You do care," I accuse. He smiles, and I know he does.

"I'm not here because my mother died," I rush to explain. "I mean, we can talk about that, too, if you think it'll help, but I have something else I want help with."

He does this hand motion as if saying 'continue.' And even tough, half an hour ago, I spoke about cutting right to the chase, I don't think I can do that.

"Is it, uh, okay if we work up to that?"

"Of course."

"So what am I supposed to do? Do people lie on the couch?"

"Most do. Some don't. Depends on what you feel comfortable with."

I lie on the couch, put my hands on my stomach and stare at the ceiling. I feel silly. The moment my feet are on the armrest, I slide them off and sit up again. I can't lie on this couch. I'll never be able to take these sessions seriously. So I curl my feet underneath my body and lean on the armrest instead.

"So what's up with your sandals?"

He huffs, that sharp noise from his nose, and chuckles. It's as close to a laugh as he can get, it seems.

"Isabella Swan, I do believe we'll get along just fine."

For the subsequent twenty minutes, he asks me more questions about my life, mostly general, makes me fill out a personality test—which, surprisingly, isn't one of those see-through tests where you can immediately understand what they want, and therefore, manipulate with the answers depending on how you want to view yourself—and overall, it's not too bad. The first time he asks an open-ended question where I recognize I'm supposed to provide a deep, meaningful answer, I call him out on it. He's surprised. (After all, it is his job to get me to ponder on my deep and meaningful answers.) After his third attempt, he no longer tries. And it's not that I'm purposefully trying to be rude, but I want to recognize the moments he's really evaluating me. And sorry, Jammy, it won't happen today.

And, no, I don't want to recognize the moments he evaluates me to change my answers or whatnot. No. I just feel the need to understand how this is supposed to help me.

"So, does Fridays at four PM work for you?" he asks after we're finished with talking more about me than I've ever talked. In my life.

"But first, I really need to know if I need to sell one of my kidneys to pay for this. Or both of them."

He stands up, gripping that clipboard of his again. "Don't worry about that," he says. "Carlisle is an old friend of mine. We go way back. He's performed heart surgery on me and I owe him more favors than I could ever return."

"Regardless, I want to pay for myself. How much does a usual session with you cost?"

"It's no problem."

"How much?"

"It's not an issue, Isabella."

"I'm not leaving until I know how much this'll cost me."

"You really want to know?" He stares at me, scratching his tattoo-covered neck. "155 $ per session."

Ho-lee fuck, I'm going to sell my furniture and dignity to be able to afford this.

I hold out my hand. "I guess this is it, then. It was nice meeting you, Dr. Hunter."

He doesn't even recognize my hand. "But, as already promised, I'll help you for free."

"Why would you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you'd lose money every time we meet."

He places the clipboard on the table, and puts both hands in his pockets. "Is it really that you don't want to receive help? Or do you feel like you don't deserve help?"

Psycho jibber-jabber. I hate it. I hate it because I'm angered by his comment. I'm angered by his comment because I know it's close to home. He's right. I just want to scream my lungs out because of his audacity to believe he's got me all figured out after talking to me for an hour. It bothers me. Am I really that transparent? I kind of thought I'm a halfway decent human being. But if you're able to figure me out that quickly… that's kind of disappointing.

"I do," I reply, the only possible reply I could give.

"And do you like challenges?"

"I'd say I do."

"So I'm asking you to receive help despite your feelings of unworthiness."

"How is that a challenge?"

"Alright, so it's not a problem for you to agree to my help."

This man is really something, let me tell you.

I guess I'll confront Edward's dad about this.

I sigh. "Alright."

"Good," he replies, and goes to sit behind his table. "Now, I want to give you some homework. I understand your primary reason for coming here is not your mother's death, but I want to address the issue sooner rather than later. I want you to write a letter to her. Write about whatever you feel. I will not ask to see it unless you want me to, but seeing how much was left unresolved between you because of your distance prior to her passing away, I think it would help."

I feel conflicted about this exercise of his, I love it and hate it and ugh, this man just gets to me.

"Okay."

He smiles, I'm not sure whether it's pleased or not, but it's a smile, so I feel like returning it.

"So, Carlisle told me you attend North Cedar High School at the edge of Kirkland. One of my granddaughters just recently moved here, and I think she went to your Christmas party to see what she's getting. Her name is Alice Brandon."

Okay, what am I supposed to say? I need to pee.

"Never heard of her."

"I figured. She's a lovely girl, but she has trouble finding friends. As her grandfather, I feel obliged to ask if you could introduce yourself to her, just so she'd know someone. For her to feel welcome."

"No problem."

"She's actually here right now, so if you have a moment, you could have a word with her."

At that moment, I'm kind of in my zone. I don't know. I don't even feel out of my element to go and introduce myself to a girl who doesn't know anyone. I'd love to help out. He offers to introduce us himself, but I refuse, so I go to the (living-room looking) waiting room, and observe the place for the description Dr. Hunter provided. There are six people in the room (Dr. Hunter is the founder of his practice where four fellow psychologists work, so they're not necessarily here for him) but spotting a petite, stylish-looking girl with short black hair and delicate features isn't difficult at all.

She's gorgeous.

I really, really need to pee.

So I figure, I'll go to the bathroom first and introduce myself later, but in order to do that, I need to pass her. As I do, she catches a glimpse of me, and goes back to talking to the girl by her side. I think nothing of it until I hear bits of her conversation that make me… just… yeah.

"…anyone be more similar to a horse? Seriously. Hee-haw. Talk about a butter-face," she snickers, thinking she's all clever and quiet and subtle and shit. "And that nose, Jesus, I'll pay for her nose job so I wouldn't bear witness..."

I quietly close the bathroom door.

So we're back to that, huh.

Fucking hell. A lovely girl? Finds it difficult to find friends? I wonder why. Can't wrap my head around it.

Why do girls talk shit behind your back without it being behind your back? This is why I don't have close female friends. If Angela came up to me to explicitly tell me a story about not just hilarious and good natured oddity of a girl she saw, but downright mean shit, I would slap her.

Sticks and stones, my ass.

Words hurt.

See, diary? Emmett? Whoever. It's not just in my head. But why do people judge me by my appearance before getting to know me? Does she think that just because I don't look like her, I'm underneath her? Does it boost her ego to think she's prettier than everyone else? I didn't think about any prejudices—not a single one—after I saw she was beautiful. I didn't think she must be airheaded or mean or arrogant. I didn't. I have plenty of beautiful friends, and they don't talk shit about me. And if they do, at least they have the decency to not shove it down my throat.

And why do I still, after all these years, take it to heart? Why can't I genuinely not care?

I relieve myself before I take a deep breath and wash my face with cold water. Every imperfection is screaming at me, every ugly bit. I just feel like the scum on the dirt of a piece of shit that got dragged around in a bigger piece of shit. That's how attractive those words make me feel. Furthermore, I start to doubt that little ray of light I discovered when it struck me that Edward might simply be holding back. To hell he is. The likelihood of a guy like him being even remotely attracted to me in a romantic way is not slim to none. It's none. That's why he's being touchy-feely without initiating anything (without Emmett forcing him to). That's why he hasn't said anything. Because he doesn't feel anything. I wouldn't deserve his affection, but at least I know it now.

It still hurts like hell to realize this. It's physically painful. It fucking aches.

But I take another breath, push the door open and face the lovely Alice Brandon.

"…in need of a plastic surgeon, seriously. Though I doubt it would fix her fashion sense, have you ever seen a scarf that—"

Still going on about me, huh? Get a fucking life.

I clear my throat, and plaster the biggest fucking smile that my face muscles have ever achieved. Kill them with kindness.

"You're Alice Brandon, right? I heard you're lovely. Your grandfather told me you're attending my school next year. That's pretty amazing. You'll be a hit for sure."

You'll be hit by my fist if you keep shitting on my self-esteem.

She looks at my lips like she's never seen words come out from someone's mouth before, and then into my eyes. She's startled by the mere fact that I'm talking. To her. Or maybe it's because someone as ugly and lowly as me would have the audacity to speak to her. I don't want to know.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're gorgeous, everyone'll love you."

She briefly looks at her uncomfortable-looking friend, and her face lights up, but it doesn't look genuine at all. "Thanks. I mean, I know the color of my eye shadow doesn't really match with my blouse, and I just had a bad-hair day…"

Bitch, please.

Fucking hell, there is nothing more annoying than a drop-dead gorgeous girl trying to pretend she doesn't know she is.

"Don't worry, though. It's perfect."

She smiles, and I've never seen a smile as fake as hers. I can't look at her anymore, so I wave half-heartedly and turn around to leave. Just before I turn the corner, she calls out to me.

"Hey! What's your name?"

I turn my face without moving my body. The four remaining people in the room look at me.

"Oh, it's Isabella Butter-Face Swan. My friends just call me Hee-Haw, though."