"Black bears rarely attack. But here's the thing. Sometimes they do. All bears are agile, cunning and immensely strong, and they are always hungry. If they want to kill you and eat you, they can, and pretty much whenever they want. That doesn't happen often, but—and here is the absolutely salient point—once would be enough." ― Bill Bryson

: :

Thursday, the 17th of February
7:57 PM. Exhausted but happy, sitting on my own bed, in my own room.

I can't believe it's been six weeks since my last rant. Six busy weeks. Well, no. That was a lie. I can believe it's been six weeks.

There's a lot to be said.

First and foremost (or not): my body finally decided to catch up with the rest of humanity—er, I mean, females—and it seems that at the ancient age of seventeen, I am at last to be recognized as a female. A round of applause for my belated hormones, ladies and gentlemen! I'm almost a C – – (ad infinitum) cup. Or B + +. Or something. Either way, improvement.

Um, no.

I'm such a liar.

This is where I'm supposed to gush about how "breathtakingly" beautiful I've become. No can do, my friend. Still very little boob-material. Still an A cup. Some things in life never change.

But some things do.

Such as my hips, my weight and my extraordinary muscularity. For real. My priorities are a bit skewed, though, because out of those three, do you know which one makes me the happiest? The first one. My hips.

Why yes, I am officially shallow.

In my defense, you are looking at a girl who has—not once in her life—felt feminine. Cut me some slack. Or call me shallow. Whichever makes you happy, Future Emmett.

At 122 pounds and a BMI of 17.5 (which I am incredibly proud of), I seem to have hit a plateau. I've gained nothing in two weeks and it's really starting to irritate me. No, I'm sorry. That was misleading. I have gained something.

Stretch marks.

Yes. Not only pregnant women get them, apparently. So does Isabella Swan Extraordinaire. I'm not too worried, though, a few lines on my hips and chest aren't gonna kill me. One would hope.

If my life were a fairy-tale, this is the place where I'd tell you that an awkward-looking teenager blossomed overnight, became the most gorgeous, popular girl in her school, and even her nose magically reduced itself. Nope. My nose is still there, between my brown eyes and above my mouth that's now too big for my face. But the fat in my body seems to have relocated due to my exercising, or birth control pills, or my natural hormones, or whatever; and thus, my cheek-bones are starting to show. I know! I thought I was born without them, too!

Correction: if my life were a fairy-tale, I still wouldn't thrive to become popular. Besides, what is a fairy-tale? A romantic story with a happy ending?

Cinderella teaches you to cook, clean and be nice to people who borderline abuse you on a daily basis. Being pretty and having a tiny shoe size always helps you land a prince. Wallow in self-pity and don't fix your problems, just wait for a miracle to happen. Also, when said prince is supposed to pick a bride, pretend to be someone else on the ball. That's how you land the perfect man, ladies and gentlemen.

Beauty and the Beast? Please, act violent and hold me captive. Yes, clearly all women should thrive to (continue to) be with a violent man because maybe—just maybe—there's a sensible man underneath.

Fuck no.

In The Little Mermaid, the mermaid literally gives up everything in her life (including her voice) to be with the man who saw her once. Once. And even that encounter was barely conscious. She makes all the sacrifices and he makes none. Perfect relationship, aye?

In conclusion, you're taught to be obedient, cooking and cleaning-loving, gorgeous piece of girl who does absolutely nothing to improve her life. Just sit around and wait. Everything will fix itself as long as you're pretty. A prince will come (as long as you're pretty.) That prettiness factor is really important. Next to the damsel in distress factor.

Fuck that shit. Never aim for a fairy-tale: they lie.

Yeah, I'd love to be loved and adored by a man. Giving up my dreams for him? I'd resent him for the rest of my life. Living happily ever after? Well, I'm sure I'll live a happy life if I decide to work hard and enjoy what I do, but I'm sure I'll have disagreements and I'll fight and make mistakes and be human.

Did you notice the really fun part in Tangled? When Rapunzel's hair is cut off, her magical blonde locks turn brown and lose their magic. Thank you, Disney. Ouch.

Anyway. How in the world you can go from zero hip to 35 inches in two months is beyond me, but my body seems to have achieved it. You know, other women go through this for three or four years. But nope. Not me. Two months of stretch marks, and tada! You're a woman! You know, John Mayer, I think you were right. My body is a wonderland, alright. With stretch marks and no-boobs and everything.

Angela thinks I'll become one of those amazing-looking girls with a really low self-esteem.

Snort.

Because of my newfound curves—but not like pretty curvy-curves, more like a bit on the gangly side curves—I've had to change my wardrobe. Actually, to learn to appreciate the little things in life, I already made a resolution (to visit a few second-hand stores and start to change my wardrobe) before school started. I hope you're imagining a beautiful, classical and chic wardrobe, because it couldn't be further from the truth. I bought pantyhose with stripes and dots and ugly skirts and bright pink suspenders and absolutely everything that couldn't be in fashion right now. Bright colors, light colors, insane patterns with zigzags next to Elvis' face and a random red flower dangling from a button.

Sometimes I'd wear striped long socks with knee-length nasty-colored flannel pants, a red festive-looking blouse and those pink suspenders that don't match with the rest at all. Not that the rest would match.

It's driving Alice nuts.

I love it.

Oh, I made Edward's mom die my hair. It's blond-ish now. Dark blonde or something. Growing closer to my eyebrows. So that's that.

So, at first I started to wear pointless shit just to amuse myself, just for the change, to do something different. But now? I am totally doing it to annoy Alice. She thinks I'm committing fashion suicide.

Thank god for that. It would be awful if she actually approved of what I wear.

Angela, on the other hand, thinks my newfound caring about anything but jeans fits with my personality. Hey, I think I'll trust Angela on this one, I don't care that Alice has famous model friends and shit.

Emmett, I saw that yawn. I feel you, man. Sorry. Just had to get it out, you know?

I don't know where to start with the rest. There's too much.

Do you know how hard I work not to be prejudiced against people, be it their personality, appearance or beliefs? I work fucking hard, alright. If you're a good person, I either don't care about the rest or I'm able to foresee it. It won't matter. That applies to the cheerleaders, the jocks, the band geeks, whoever. I don't really see the world—er, high school—in terms of popularity. Or who's in, who's out, what's in, what's out. Who cares? In a few years, I'll be gone. I don't care who I hang out with. Well, to a point.

But Alice?

During the first lunch we ate together, she asked what was wrong with me that I'm seeing her grandfather (I told her I choked my parents to death when I was five), and that wasn't even so bad.

On the first day, everyone's excited because she's exotic and she's been to expensive private schools all over the world. Her dad is a diplomat. She was born in Shanghai and lived in Milan and Switzerland and London and God knows where else. See? This is genuinely fascinating. It really is. If Edward had come to our school with a background like hers, just kept his own attitude, he would've been the man in a day. No doubt. But the sad part is, the way she presents herself, the awful shit she says about her previous "friends," the amount of gossip she's stirring, and the fact that, within the month and a half she's been here, she has literally talked about every person in my group of friends behind their backs.

It all makes me want to worship her beauty. Not.

Usually, I feel quite indifferent about gossip. It's just not for me, you know? I'm not rigid about it, I can have fun, but I don't spread shit that I know is not true. Alice on the other hand, well. Don't make me say it.

I think I've finally understood her appeal (oh, yes, she's popular): it's the fact she creates intrigue. She's exciting. Never mind that her actions are sometimes transparently guided by jealousy or god knows what, she's intriguing. She's gorgeous. She's friends with well-known models. She's travelled the world.

Too bad it doesn't show.

So, she set her eyes on Edward. Maybe wanting to create this exclusive club for gorgeous-ass group of gorgeous-ass people with their gorgeous ass.

The first time I understood she set her eyes on him, I beat her to death.

Um, no. No I didn't. I wanted to, though. I felt like someone ripped my heart out and replaced it with guano. I have no business feeling those feelings—he's not mine—but it disturbs me. So much. Around him, she's sweet and chatty and smiley and adorable. Such a sweet little girl. The only thing that stopped me from setting her perfect black hair on fire was the fact that, much to my surprise, Edward acted even more aloof with her than with Tanya.

Edward is a better judge of character than I give him credit for. Or he just doesn't like her.

After I understood he didn't seem to be affected by her, not even the friendly kind, seeing Alice attempt to pick up Edward became sort of funny. It was like solo squash. A person and a wall. Not like tennis with two people and a ball.

I think what really solidified his lack of feelings for her happened a week ago, and dare I say it, I was the star of her little whisper.

It's one of the unfortunate days when she sits on the opposite of me, wanting to talk to Jessica. At one point, their conversation quiets down (unfortunately for her, so does ours), and she sort of stares at me for a while until she looks directly at Lauren (sitting next to her) and whispers, "Why's Bella eating with you guys, anyway?"

Hoo-lee fuck. Yes, I'm deaf, you dear sweet angel.

I'm starting to feel like she has something personal against me. Does it show that I used to be bullied a lot? I am no longer tolerant of everyone. I fucking hate this chick.

Half of the table is either coughing their drinks out or gaping, or—in Edward's case—looking at her like he's seen the light and it's guiding him to the lowliest scum on a piece of dirt that is swimming in excrement.

I don't fucking care that Edward and I will never be an item. I will dream and relieve that single look of utter horror on his face, that tight jaw and eyes that have turned into slits, a look that turns into the most protective glare I have ever witnessed. Hoo-lee fuck, it's amazing how much he cares.

"Excuse me?" Lauren asks, looking between Alice and I, clearly confused by her question.

"It's okay, Lauren."

"It's not fucking okay, Bella," she insists, her voice getting louder. Until now, I felt like people were quite impressed by her, but apparently, not as much as I thought. Lauren, with her icy no-bullshit glare, locks eyes with Alice. "That is fucking unacceptable. Have you met her? She makes your personality look so flat it's like old paint peeling off the walls. What kind of shitty schools did you go to that taught you to be so judgmental? 'cause they couldn't have been that good. What the actual fuck?"

Seriously, I'll buy Lauren a gallon of hot chocolate or something.

Tyler high-fives her, and the rest are just gaping at Alice, clearly in shock. Alice, apparently, is unfamiliar with the idea that (I'm trying to suppress the urge to use the word 'ugly'), that, well, a girl like me would be cared about within her group of friends.

In fact, she is so unfamiliar that she looks back and forth between my friends and shrugs. "I don't get it."

"I know you haven't seen many people from the real life, mingling with models and all, but word to the wise: ugly people have friends, too."

"But you're, you look like—" she starts, and never in my life have I seen a tableful of people looking so uncomfortable.

"I look like what? A horse? You've told me that already. A girl who was bullied in middle school? Yes. Yes I was. How much fucking detail do you want? Do I know what being fucking miserable feels like? Yes. Do you need to stop talking? Yes."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" she starts, but the thing is, she doesn't look remotely regretful. Underneath it all, she looks victorious. Like she made me say what she wanted to hear. Thank you for manipulating. Bitch.

"You did. And you got it."

Edward locks eyes with me from across the table, looking like he wants to scoop me up in his arms and never let go, but then he looks at Laurent, and he lowers his eyes.

I know the environment Alice has been in must've molded her personality (which is to say she is not to be blamed for who she is), but I don't feel comfortable with that estimation. Because every time she says something shitty (alliteration for the win), my first thought isn't. 'Oh, it's only because her parents don't care or her friends have been bad influence.'

No. She's an asshole.

Would it have been possible for me to turn out just like her if I had a different group of friends or a different family? Maybe. Do I think this excuses her behavior? No. And I feel bad about that answer, but I genuinely think everyone is responsible for their own actions. Including her.

She's (sort of) among the people I converse with, sadly, which means I defy her on a regular basis. The weird part is, she rarely says anything straight-out. (That incident about why I sit with them excluded.) Usually, if she initiates something, it's a rumor akin to 'you know, Jessica saw Garrett say something-or-other about Ashley this-or-that and oh my God, Peter is an alien!'

You know what I mean.

To the best of my knowledge, for the first three weeks, she never made up shit about me because I'm not popular or anything. No point, you know? I do, however, have a few friends who are popular, including Lauren. And everyone gets along with Edward, it seems. But after Edward makes it clear he doesn't want to hold a conversation with her, there's a whole swarm of made up shit about me.

I don't know if she wants everyone to hate me or bully me or—who knows? I don't.

First, a rumor goes around that Laurent is only with me because of a bet. That one is laughable, because he's been in Drama for six months and he's not that good of an actor. Trust me, he's not. I highly doubt he's faking being into me.

So that rumor doesn't hurt me at all.

The second rumor is of the same caliber: Edward is my friend only out of pity. When Edward tells me this, he's so offended and distraught he looks like someone shot him in the leg. I hug the bejesus out of him. He holds me like I'm his lifeline.

For the first time, I thoroughly understand the saying: Acting is reacting. Life is not so much as what happens to you but how you react to it. And since my reactions are of the laughable indifference spectrum, Alice hasn't been able to come up with a rumor that people would genuinely believe. Because, apparently, Edward wears his heart in his sleeve and everyone knows how much we care about each other.

Frankly, I'm offended she's not more creative. Why not lie that I have STDs? That I had a threesome with Peter Gallaghe and Mr. Kramer? Nope. She doesn't even know how much fun I could have with those rumors. I would buy myself a doll shaped like Gonorrhea bacteria and name it Kramer. Or buy two: Kramer vs Kramer.

Can you see how much I could work with that? But no. She's just spreading boring stuff about me that nobody believes anyway. Or maybe they do. I don't know. I don't care.

The third rumor that Alice spreads about me is a big deal. It's such a big deal it lands me in the principal's office. Mr. Kramer himself, ladies and gentlemen. So what did I do?

I did not beat up Alice. Tempting, but no. Nor did I break any rules. Again: tempting, but no.

Like a déjà vu of a déjà vu, the school secretary interrupts my class (this time, it's Biology) and asks me to follow her to the principal's office. I feel myself go pale quickly because I imagine both Emmett and dad in a terrifying place where they are very, very—unalive. Not a word, who cares. Edward squeezes my wrist and gives me this questioning, worried glance. I get up and leave the classroom.

When I close the door to the principal's office, I see the ponytail belonging to my coach, Mr. Black, which is strange. I don't have a clue as to why he's here. Maybe I'm amazing and they want to offer a sports scholarship to an Ivy League school? That would be rather nice. But no.

"Please have a seat, Miss Swan."

I sit, glancing at Mr. Black who offers a brief greeting. Curious but aloof, he continues to stare at Mr. Kramer.

"Do you know why I have invited you to my office today, Mr. Black?" Mr. Kramer says, looking back and forth between us. "Miss Swan?"

"You think my fashion choice is incredibly original and want to know who the designers are?"

Mr. Black gives me a brief but warm smile, suppressing a chuckle.

"No. Should it not come as a surprise to me that you, Miss Swan, despite having only Cs, Ds, and even Es—and not a single A or B in PE for ten years—now have suddenly only As? Does that not strike you as strange?"

"Er, not really, sir."

"Really?"

I shrug. "Not at all."

"What about you, Mr. Black?"

Briefly, Mr. Black locks eyes with me and gives me a warm-hearted smile. "She's deserved every one of them."

"Really?" he asks, skeptical-sounding. "Does that include sexual favors?"

Hoo-lee fuck, Alice is dead. Dead, I tell you.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, it's the most surreal situation I've found myself in. Ever. Mr. Black's eyes go wide like saucers, he stares at Mr. Kramer, at me, back at Mr. Kramer and clears his throat. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I ask directly, are you or are you not having sex with Miss Isabella Swan?"

"Where did you hear that? That's ridiculous."

"You did not answer the question, Mr. Black."

"I am not. Of course not."

"I do not normally follow trivial gossip, but it has reached me that Miss Isabella Swan is getting grades she has not deserved, and I find this drastic improvement rather strange in the light of her past grades. How else would you explain it?"

"Sir, I work out like crazy for the summer marathon. Six days a week. At around five to seven in the morning I'll be in the gym to exercise. You can check in on me if you'd like. My grades have improved because I'm working out more. It's as simple as that."

"Is what she said true?"

Mr. Black nods.

Mr. Kramer's eyes flicker back and forth between us, until he finally lifts his chair closer to his table and puts his elbows on the table.

"I believe you. But I will check on you, and if there's even the slightest—"

The door behind us swings open, revealing my drama teacher Peter, who's hyperventilating, tearing off his black hat as he tries to calm his breathing, panic written all over his face. There's terror unlike anything I've seen on his face.

He's panting. "Principal Kramer, this rumor is not true—it cannot be. Mr. Black has never nor will he ever be involved with Be—Miss Swan."

Mr. Kramer's eyebrows hide themselves underneath his hair.

"That is a confident claim," he says. "And why is that?"

Coach Black is literally facepalming next to me, but tilts his head back to briefly lock eyes with Peter, shaking his head with a look on his face that I later decipher as pleading.

"Because Mr. Black and I are in a relationship, sir," Peter answers. "So you see, such a thing would be impossible."

Mr. Black continues to facepalm, avoiding everyone's eyes in the room, while Peter stares Mr. Kramer down, almost as if daring him to say something sarcastic or offensive. Or daring him to fire them.

"I see," Mr. Kramer stands, slightly red-faced. "I guess that's settled then. You may resume to your classroom, Miss Swan."

I nod. The moment Mr. Kramer's office's door shuts behind us, Peter and Mr. Black are at each other's throats, quietly but intensively arguing. Mr. Black, slightly shorter and sturdier, with his everlasting pony-tail and gym clothes, and Peter, with his lean body and pierced body parts and lavender button-down.

"I just can't believe you did that!"

"Your job could've been in jeopardy, Jacob, what was I supposed to—"

"But it isn't! It wasn't. He told us he believed—"

"What are you so scared of?"

"You can't just—you told me you'd give me time—and now? I can't do this anymore! I can't."

Peter takes a step back, looking like he's been punched in the gut, and after two seconds of silence, they both stare at me. "You think Bella is going to tell?"

"I'm blind and deaf and mute," I say quickly. "This never happened."

Peter nods at me, raising his eyes to lock them with Jacobs. He's rubbing his forehead, hunched. I feel like I'm intruding, but when I turn to leave, Peter taps on my shoulder and motions for me to stay. So I do.

"Why do you always have to—"

"What? Take care of you? That's what people do in a relation—"

"Don't."

"—ship."

"Stop fucking with me."

"That train has already left."

For the first time in my life, I recognize lust in someone's eyes, and Jesus, do they have a lot of it or what. Their faces are ten inches apart, they're both hyperventilating, and I'm positive one of them will snap within thirty seconds. So, without a word, I usher them to the closest empty classroom. Honestly, we should have a Room of Requirement.

"This tension is killing me. Either fuck each other senseless or kill each other. I won't come to check which happened, but I'm sure I'll hear the ambulance. I'll never speak of this again until you're consensually able to come out with this. Understood? Good. Have a great time, er, sorting things out."

Using more force than necessary, I push the door closed. When I get back to Mr. Banner, I'm a bit frazzled and disheveled and distracted. It shows. A few people whisper and ask me questions, but I make it back to my bench in one piece. I'm starting to realize I just pushed two of my teachers in a classroom to fuck each other senseless.

Okay-dokey.

Gotta love high school, you know?

After Drama and a few awkward moments between Edward and Laurent, a serious-looking Peter asks me to stay after Drama. So I do. Laurent gives me a kiss (Edward pointedly looks away), saying he'll drop by at AMC Theatre in the evening, and they head off to football practice together. They've grown to be sort of friends. Emphasizing sort of.

That's a whole other story.

I sit on the edge of the stage, looking at my feet as they dangle off the side of the stage in my yellow and red and green dotted pantyhose. Peter stands in front of me, giving me a careful, closed mouth smile. He's still brown-haired. He's still pierced. Nothing's changed, except there's a wary way about him. After a moment of mutual staring, he decides to jump on the stage next to me. He's about three years older than Edward, but I think where Peter just seems careless, Edward fails to do so in my eyes. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. What he appears to be to the rest of the world, that's a different story altogether.

Peter still must be worried, though, or he wouldn't feel the need to talk to me.

"How are you, Bella?"

"I'm not going to say anything, if that's what you mean."

"I know," he replies, glancing my way. "Seriously, how are you?"

I look back at him. He's playing with his lip piercing, and he's completely serious.

"I'm fine."

"But are you really?"

"You don't think I'd know if I weren't fine?"

"You tell me."

"You're weird, Peter. Please let yourself get checked by a professional."

He laughs. Soon, he continues to play with his lip ring.

"I checked your GPA."

"Oooh, I am so scared. So did you decide I am, in fact, having sex with your boyfriend? Because I can assure you, I might be totally amazing, but I lack this wonderful thing called penis."

"You have a disarming talent for expressing things in a way that's incapable of offending anyone."

"Bastard."

He laughs.

"So you checked my GPA."

"Yes," he confirms. "And it told me a lot about your activities this semester."

"Oh, God. Not you, too. Is this the place where you take any random action of mine and start to attach all sorts of hidden meanings to it? 'cause I have a therapist for that."

"I know."

"So you're trying to tell me I shouldn't be with Laurent?"

"Well, according to your GPA, it's the opposite."

"Wait. How do you know I'm seeing a psychologist?"

"I spoke to Emmett."

"And he willingly told you this? Just like that? Bastard."

"He's very proud of you."

"He's also very dead tomorrow."

Peter gives me that new, wary look, and sighs.

"We're friends, aren't we, Bella?"

"Well, as much as a doorknob and a sticky note can be, I guess." He chuckles, and I smile. "Sure we're friends."

He breathes in and exhales really, really slowly.

"I know what happened between you and Michael Newton."

I stop swinging my feet, pull them underneath me, and take a deep, painful breath. I hang my head. In an instant, I'm red-faced.

"Emmett is so fucking dead it's not even funny."

"He said nothing."

"Then who? Fuck, don't tell me this is something Alice is spreading around that accidentally turned out to be true. I'll die. Or is it like common knowledge and I'm the only one trying to be discreet about it?"

"No. It was Jacob."

"He knows? Oh, God."

"What?"

"Does everyone know?"

"No, just me and Jacob. And whoever you've told."

"How?"

"Jacob cornered him."

"He admitted it? You're serious? When?"

"A while ago."

"How long have you known?"

"He told me yesterday," he says, this uncomfortable (unsuitable) weight in his tone. He tilts his head on the side, looking at me with a tight-lipped smile that bears no resemblance to the light-hearted guy I've grown to know.

"You should've pressed charges against him."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda, Peter. It all means shit."

"I dunno. You could get him expelled if you wanted."

"Unless the coach recorded him, I have no evidence."

He opens and closes his mouth, but not a word comes out.

"No, Peter. Not you, too. I couldn't have handled the situation any differently than I did, or any better than I am. There's a level of detachment I'd have to feel to discuss this on such a personal level, and I don't feel it. I'm not ready."

"But people will understand," he says, almost back to the lighthearted guy I know. "They'll be like, 'whoa, that chic is fucking strong.' They already accept you."

"It's beyond obvious you've spoken to Emmett."

"Why?"

I ignore him.

"He didn't rape me, you know."

"That's a bit beside the point, don't you think?"

"No. That is the point. If he'd managed to actually rape me, I would've ended myself a loo-hong time ago."

"So he forced you to blow him. Big fucking difference."

"You don't get it, Peter. With me admitting to being harassed by one of the most popular jocks in our school, that requires readiness for a certain kind of attention. And I don't want that."

"You could go under the radar."

"That never happens. Things you've done or what's happened to you in the past—the stuff you don't want other people to see? That's the first to come out. As to why am I not ready, well, shame or guilt or whatever shit you want to call it is why.

"It's why your boyfriend is probably wary of coming out. I seriously doubt he's ashamed of you. Of himself? I don't know. But when you lie a certain kind of information out there for people to see and judge and think it's their fucking business, that'll change the way people treat you. It will. Trust me, coming from someone who's spent the majority of her teenage years desperate to be wallpaper, I should know."

He raises an eyebrow. "You think that's why Jacob's so…"

"Yeah. But don't look at me like I had all the answers or something. I don't. I'm a fucking seventeen year-old impertinent wallflower. I know nothing about real life. All I have are theories."

"I think you've seen more life than you give yourself credit for."

"Don't start. There are people out that who've got it way, way worse than I did."

"Half a decade of terror and a sexual assault. Gee, that sounds like the life of everyone I know."

"Stop it. I'm not downplaying what happened. I'm just saying, you can't assume I'll start pouring my soul out to everyone who's willing to listen. I won't. I appreciate that you probably want to help, but you can't. Not with this."

I offer him a smile to soothe my words, and he after a second of staring, he nods and sighs. It's weird: while Emmett was busy being offended and surprised by the fact I hadn't told anyone (especially him), Peter seemed more surprised that I hadn't taken action against the cause of my problem.

The thing is, it wouldn't have—and it won't—"fix" me. If Michael Newton died of a heart-attack tonight, that wouldn't change the fact that my first sexual experience made me feel indescribable amount of shame and helplessness and inadequacy.

See? I'm getting better at talking about it in my diary on vague terms.

"Is it helping?"

"The talking? I don't know."

"You have no idea how much this news shocked me." He rubs his face. "You're so different from anyone I'd imagine having gone through that."

"I'm not. I'm just better at channeling the emotions."

"You've done one heck of a job," he says, pulling his legs so that he's sitting cross-legged next to me. He looks at me for a second, opening his mouth, but he closes it again and sighs. I've never seen him so… out of character. He's carefree. He's fun. He's never like this.

"This is actually not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"So you want to know my clothes' designers, too?"

Just like our coach, Peter laughs. "No."

"Damn. I thought you, at least, would appreciate my craziness."

"I do. But I've got something more serious I need to discuss with you."

"That line always precedes a weeping story about having cancer. Please be alright."

"I am," he replies, humming—an action he's probably gotten from his boyfriend.

"I'm leaving."

"To Cleveland? To finish your degree?"

"Yup."

"Okay. Do you want me to replace you for a while?"

"I'm leaving—as in, I'm resigning."

"No."

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, I am."

"No, no. Peter. You can't do this to us."

"It's about time I did this, actually. I've postponed it long enough."

"Who's going to teach us then? You're the reason I go to school!"

He lets out a laugh, but it has a sad undertone to it. "Drama is the reason you go to school, Bella. Or perhaps it's that red-haired best friend of yours. I have nothing to do with it."

"But you're the best fucking Drama teacher we've ever had! Who's gonna replace you?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Is it Mr. Ferton again? That's horrible. People will commit suicide not to have him. The last time he replaced your granny, all but eight quit Drama."

"No," he says, smiling. "Not him."

"Who then?"

"You."

"Me what?"

"You could replace me next year. Be North Cedar's next Drama teacher."

"Are you out of your mind?"

He laughs.

"You want me to teach the entire school's Drama students?"

"Yup."

"That's preposterous."

"I've asked Mr. Kramer, and he agreed if you agreed. But you need to keep your newfound perfect GPA up."

"But I'm a student!"

"Yup."

"I can't be a teacher."

"Why not? Just for next year. You have the authority and you already spent two months of this year replacing me. Not much would change."

"Everything would change."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"You're insane, Peter. Insane."

"I'll take that as a yes," he replies, amused. "I have something else."

"Should I run for president while I'm at it?"

"Very funny," he replies, and raises his eyes to lock with mine. "I want you to apply to Juilliard."

I hear a loud, obnoxious laugh, and not until I close my mouth do I realize it came from me.

Peter is suppressing a smile. "I'm serious."

"That's what's so funny."

"I'm not going to lie: it's a heck of a competition to get in. Only five percent does it. But I want you to try—for your own sake. You owe it to yourself. Your passion and talent and honesty might be just what they're looking for. You stick out. But if you do decide to give it a shot, you need to start acting now—even before getting in, there's application, a letter of recommendation, resume and live audition—all sorts of stuff. I can help you with anything you need. I've done this before."

"Oh, wow. You really do want me to apply."

"Of course."

"I'm flattered. You have no idea."

"But?"

"Don't you think it's a bit unrealistic?"

"Coming from a girl who is so focused on training for a marathon that she has to be minutes away from women's world record to achieve her goals? No. Not really."

"Touché."

"So you'll think about it?"

"Sure. But won't you be in Cleveland?"

"I have… people here. I'll be here occasionally."

"Gotcha."

"And then there's email and Facebook."

"And a hunk of a man with a ponytail."

He laughs. "Speaking of which, can I give a piece of advice?"

"Is it about my relationship?"

"Maybe."

"I thought you liked Laurent."

"I never said I didn't."

"Okay, shoot."

"You just… don't seem happy, Bella. I don't want you to suppress your own desire for freedom and happiness because you're afraid to hurt someone. Making others happy at your own expense is not how a sustainable relationship should work."

"Did you spend the entire day trying to make this piece of advice as vague as possible? If yes, well done."

"Ah, right. You want me to be blunt."

"Please."

"Well, then. I think you should consider that your relationship with Laurent is making that best friend of yours insanely jealous."

"Huh."

"Was that blunt enough for you?"

"Yes, thank you. That doesn't mean I have to agree, though."

"What's there not to agree?"

"Well, there are different kinds of jealousy. It's just that I haven't spent as much time with him as we used to. Or, like with kids, they're just jealous of the time and attention they get. So maybe it's that."

Peter huffs and groans, running a hand along his face as he still keeps a smile on his face.

"Do me a favor, will you? Think of it as practicing for your Juilliard audition."

"Sounds intriguing. What do you want me to do?"

"Go home, and when Edward is there, start talking to your phone as if you were talking to Laurent. Be as lovey-dovey as you can be, and observe his reaction."

"You just want to tell me 'I told you so' tomorrow, huh?"

"Yup."

"Alright. I'll consider it, but just for you."

I jump off the edge of the stage. Peter smiles. "And Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Think about Juilliard."

I offer a smile, nod, and pick up my back bag. On my (snowy) way home, I'm thinking of Peter's words about Juilliard, about my GPA, and of course, about Edward. I saw Peter's reaction to my words for what it was: impatience. The thing is, though, I'm no longer as oblivious as I used to be. Or maybe seeing Laurent's genuine interest in me has taught me to believe in myself and see things I would've otherwise been blind to.

You know, I re-read my diary, and I seem to have left the impression that Edward is a vulnerable, sensitive guy. And he is. He really is. I don't know any other guy so effortless in expressing emotion, and I mean that in the best possible way. But now that I've grown to know him, I ought to correct myself: Edward is an incredibly sensitive guy, but—and this is an important but—this is a side of him that he only lets me see. In a way, that side of him seems to be exclusive to me.

On the second week of January, girls decided to discuss guys in the locker room. They went through guys in our class one by one, but the way they described Edward left me utterly confused. Yes, freakishly tall and handsome, scruffy jawline ("swoon-worthy" in my classmates' words), green eyes, bronze-colored "sex hair." Appearance-wise, I agree with what they said. The character they applied to the man behind the appearance? Opened my eyes a bit.

It wasn't necessarily that I didn't agree at all, it's just that I was surprised by the prevailing opinion. First and foremost, Edward was thought to be authoritative. Charming, effortlessly confident, easy-going and polite. I agree. I wouldn't have listed authoritative as his first quality, but I agree with the general consensus. Who wouldn't? It's safe to say that Edward has charmed his way into the girls' hearts yet he seems indifferent to the attention.

In the middle of this verbal dissecting, I opened my mouth to express my disagreement. But—just as wisely—I shut it.

In my opinion, Edward's most prevalent attribute is the unique ease with which he expresses emotional maturity. Or the incredible amount of warmth he isn't afraid to express. He's so unashamed about admitting the mistakes he's made and having fears and being touchy-feely.

And then I woke up.

Those characteristics that I credit to him? That I think are so prevalent? This is not just a matter of me being right (assuming I know "the real him") and the other girls being wrong because they don't know "the real him." No. It's not that black and white.

It took me a few weeks to understand this, but the other girls are right. But so am I.

This year, Edward threw himself into extracurricular activities. Not only did the coach convince him to focus on basketball because of his height, Edward is now writing for the school paper, taking guitar lessons, and volunteering for WWF. If you add Drama, voluntary work in Harborview Medical Center, and the fact that he's still in our football team, you realize.

Edward stole Hermione's time turner.

Heh, no. Not really.

He's just trying to kill himself.

He's clearly trying to avoid being home at all costs—or—he's trying to avoid thinking at all costs. While there's no doubt in my mind he's craving for more freedom than his parents offer us, somehow, I think he's numbing himself from thinking. Rosalie's words echo in my mind on a daily basis, and I've been trying to be there for him. I have. But he's never home, and I'm rarely home, and when we do finally speak to each other, he has already shut himself out.

No, he doesn't refuse to speak to me, he isn't rude, nothing like that. It's subtle. Way more subtle than a few words and a broken gesture.

He's gregarious. He gets along and mingles. So it took me a while, but I started to understand why you'd say he leaves the impression that he's got an authoritative nature. He does. I didn't see it before, but maybe that's because it just wasn't there. I doubt it's a conscious decision. It puzzled me until I (think I) finally figured it out.

How would I feel if I knew I were three years older than the rest of the students? Angry because of the time I've lost? Frustrated about the level of (im)maturity? Trying to prove myself? I'd feel all of those things, and then some. And that, I think, speaks volumes about why he seems to reach a level of effortless confidence impossible for the rest of us teenagers.

Whether or not he acknowledges it, he's above it. He shouldn't be here. He should be in a university, living his own life. By the time he's done with high school, he'll be twenty two. No wonder he's got freedom issues. I would, too.

Edward's parents are just bursting with pride. It thrills them how active and hard-working their only son is. That's understandable. It is. Regardless, most of the time, I just want to slap them to bring them out of it. Edward is not involved because it brings him such joy (excluding volunteering for WWF, which really does bring a sparkle to his eyes), he's draining himself from thinking. From feeling, too, probably. He's lost. He's losing himself in his extra-curriculars.

I should know. I'm losing myself in my studies.

Same thing, different methods.

What Mr. Kramer (and Peter) said about my GPA, though, is completely true. But it's not just P.E. My Spanish, it used to be a weak C. I had a persistent B in Literature. Mostly As and Bs. Now? All As. Including P.E.

Half of it was sheer curiosity: after getting my first A in P.E., I wondered if I could be a straight A student. Would I be able to do it? As it turns out, yes. Yes I am. It's just a matter of using time efficiently. And bugging Emmett about Spanish.

But the other half? That's escapism. Pure escapism.

A few weeks ago, Edward showed up in Drama looking more exhausted than ever. I know he doesn't sleep much—not because he can't, but because he goes to sleep late enough for me to start waking up—but, that Thursday, I thought he'd fall asleep on the spot. It's blue underneath his eyes. He kept pecking. His head drops as he dozes off, but he lifts it as soon as he understands he almost fell asleep. Like I said, pecking. It worries me.

So, I figure, maybe he should drop a few extra-curriculars and get some sleep because he needs it. Boy, does he ever.

But when I tell him to drop Drama, he's horrified. He's rubbing his eyes, asking if he's not good enough or if he should spend extra time doing this or that. How can a guy so easy-going wear his heart in his sleeve when it comes to me? Exhaustion and frustration are written all over his face, and I never noticed that he's only like that with me. He seems to lack a filter only when it comes to me.

I never noticed.

It's safe to say he's grown to be popular. Again, I don't think he's noticed. In ninth grade, a few girls tried to befriend me to get close to Emmett, but now, it's like the entire school's population suddenly saw that he's my best friend, and I get daily suggestions to hang out. It's weird. Everyone wants to get a piece of my best friend (they've long forgotten about his initial awkwardness), and Edward is so polite and kind it's easy to delude yourself he's into you.

Honestly, I don't think any girl in my school deserves him.

In the evening, after I'm done replacing a co-worker of mine, I manage to arrive home just before eleven PM, and it seems that Edward just got home, too. I have yet to study for tomorrow's two tests (and unlike Edward, I'm not an owl-type creature who can study until four AM) but I do remember what Peter suggested that I do.

I don't talk to Laurent on the phone when Edward is around because I figured, if the roles were reversed, I would definitely not want to listen to him talking to a girl.

It's an interesting theory that Peter has.

When I've taken a bite to eat, I study for a while before I go and land on the couch. Edward is sitting on his usual spot on the floor, laptop in his lap (earbuds, too, yes), eating a banana. I pick up my phone, thinking about doing what Peter suggested, but my eyes land on Edward. There's a faint furrow between his brows as he types furiously, so I conclude he's writing. (If he were studying, there would be a lot more pausing and a lot less typing.) For a moment, he stops and lifts his head to lock eyes with me, and he offers a tired smile. I return it. He resumes to writing.

Regardless of what I told Peter, if there's a chance that Edward feels remotely the same, I don't want to hurt him and assume he'd laugh it off if I pulled his leg like this.

I set my phone aside.

: :

I continue to spend an hour of my Fridays with Dr. Hunter. I wouldn't say it's all rainbows and sunshine, but we've come to an unspoken agreement. He evaluates me without his little clipboard, and I (try to) speak from the heart without fearing he'll judge me. I'm not sure why, but it's important to me that he perceive and help me without judging. I know it's inevitable. We judge everyone every day. With Dr. Hunter, I just don't want him approving or disapproving of my actions. I guess I just want unbiased advice with no horns or pillows attached.

So far, so good.

Mostly, we just talk. It's like having a philosophical conversation with a professional. I sometimes make him reciprocate to actually understand the person who's supposed to help me, and I continue to do it even after he tries to convince me he's not supposed to talk about himself (even though he does). How am I supposed to trust the man if I know next to nothing about him?

I haven't told him about the main reason I'm seeing him.

But we're getting there. I've talked to him about my family. About having been bullied. He suggests connections in my life that I've never thought about. Like maybe my lack of weight and forgetting to eat is directly caused by (or at least connected to) the fact that for years I was forced to give away my lunch money, and as a self-defense mechanism, I taught myself not to care about hunger.

True, my struggle to gain weight is difficult not because I don't like eating. I do. But I forget. I've forced myself to forget for so long. It's a habit like any other.

We talk about self-image. The way I think about myself. And I don't have to tell him that I have (had) problems with that. At first, it really annoys me that he thinks this is worth focusing on. But he's right. It is. He makes me do a test to see what kind of relationship I have with food (if it's my way of gaining control over something in my life or if hunger is my way of escaping the problems I don't want to face or if I'm obsessive-compulsive or… you get the idea.)

I think that's the first test he's made me do that shows absolutely nothing. I'm not afraid of getting fat, I'm not trying to feel control over my eating as a metaphor for the control I "lack" in my life, neither am I obsessive-compulsive. Not anorexic, either.

We talk about self-awareness, and the fact that I don't give people time to reject me, or to disapprove of me, so I presume a cause for their behavior that shows me in the worst light because I presume rejection. I prevent it. Being silly, acting silly, saying things just to shock people so they'd see me for who I really am, I do all of that to prevent their disappointment in me (that I think I know is coming). I nip rejection in the bud. I reject people before they can reject me, even if they'd never do that.

Dr. Hunter never tells me, "The conclusions I make are always right and this is how you should think and act from now on." And I like that, you know? Sometimes I agree, sometimes I don't. Sometimes we just brainstorm ideas that neither of us thinks are correct. I try not to think about his techniques to make me open up and stuff because I know it'll make me self-aware and that will make his job a lot harder.

Well, that, and I hate being self-aware.

But what really made me think and act (nothing profound or multi-layered, I promise) was his last week's assignment. Yes, he still gives me those. Last week, he told me to write down three of the most important people currently in my life, why they're important to me and how they've helped me.

So, at ten AM on a Saturday, I'm sitting at the AMC theatre, wearing my polo shirt and (new) slacks. A few people buy tickets from me from time to time, but mostly it's quiet (morning shift often is), which is why I tear a piece of paper from my Chemistry notebook and draw a table: four columns and four rows. Dad. Emmett. Edward. A word I associate with them.

Dad: freedom and/or optimism. Maybe both. Emmett: trust. Definitely trust. Edward:

I don't know. I'd rewrite trust, but I want something else. Tenderness? Affection? Safety? No. Too lukewarm. Edward is intense. Whatever he throws himself into, he puts all of his heart into it. Attaching a lukewarm word to my relationship with him feels wrong.

At one point during my pondering, I hear a throat clear. Raising my eyes, I see Eric, pushing up his glasses and looking all gangly and awkward as he holds hands with a shorter, equally shy girl by his side. Barely ever have I seen anyone from my school at work because I work all the way down in West Lake Hills, just south from Bellevue. Far away from my school district in Kirkland.

"Hi, Bella," Eric mutters, flushing.

"Eric! Great seeing you here! How can I help you guys?"

With wide eyes, the girl pulls at his arm.

"Oh, we know each other from school," I rush to clarify. She offers a shy, embarrassed smile. She's relieved.

The thing is, Eric and I, we're not friends, per se, but we are torture-buddies—ergo, we know more about each other's vulnerabilities than any two regular friends ever could. He keeps pretty much to himself at school, but if he ever does talk to anyone, it's probably me. We went to the same middle school, and we were both incessantly tormented for various reasons. Sometimes, when we'd go from one class to the other, we'd be subject to ceaseless comments about our "romance."

It was never like that, though.

But if there's anyone out there who understands the amount of terror and fear I went through on a daily basis in middle school, it's him. It's like a wordless bond we have—we've never spoken about it, but it's clear that we both know what it's like to fear going to school because of what's waiting for you.

By the time I give them their tickets, they're flushed from head to toe. It's clear he's very into her, but he's embarrassed about it. It's adorable.

They've barely left when a brown-haired girl with a smiling companion appears in front of me, grinning.

"Angela! What're you guys doing here?"

"We just thought we'd surprise you. I've never really seen where you work."

"Nice." I smile. "I haven't seen a familiar face for a year and then our entire school decides to show up."

"Can we come in there?"

There are few people around, so for a while, I let them. I invite Angela to "my" place for the evening, and I observe their interaction. Just for research purposes. It's so clear how into each other they are with both of them finding reasons to touch each other and laughing at each other's jokes. They're so happy and carefree. I want that.

Don't I have that already though? But I don't think I do. I do feel special when I'm with Laurent, but I also feel guilt. Lots and lots of it.

When they've left, I resume to my paper, and all color drains from my face. There, in capital letters next to Edward's name, with no conscious effort, I've written LOVE.

Well, fuck.

: :

There are moments in life when you feel like you've been living in a fog under an overcast sky. But then, the fog evaporates, the sky clears, and it's like you're seeing the blue sky for the first time.

This is definitely not one of those moments.

A caterpillar tractor crushing the remains of your life is more like it. Chaotic, confusing, and unrecognizable.

By the evening, I've driven myself nuts (not raisins) and made more mistakes than the twelve-year old Harriet (the girl I tutor) did. I arrive home by dinnertime, and because Edward (as well as Emmett and Laurent) has a football match in Spokane, I'm alone with his parents. I've learned that having dinner together as a family (if we're home) is the big thing in the Cullen family, and I've tried to live by their rules.

Other than sneaking out at night through my bedroom window, I've been successful.

Even though I've already taken the liberty of asking Angela to stay the night, I ask Edward's parents if it's okay. It is. In fact, they both seem a bit relieved that I do converse with females. With Laurent calling me, Ben wanting my opinion about his gift for Angela, and Skype calls to Emmett (and dad, who is no longer available at random moments), I seem to have left the impression that I only speak to guys. That's probably because I do. Isn't that sad?

My pajama party with Angela is long overdue, and there's so much I want to know about her and share with her. Especially in the light of, well.

I hug the bejesus out of her when she does finally arrive. While she's surprised, she hugs back. She's wearing jeans and a warm-looking sweater, something so utterly normal you could've accused me of wearing the outfit half a year ago. Angela laughs when she sees my bright orange cardigan, short gallus jeans and pantyhose that have penguins on them. I introduce her to Edward's parents, and they already imply I should have my friends over more often. Does it look like I have no friends outside of Edward? It probably does.

I give Angela a tour and let her change into yoga pants before building a blanket-fort for us underneath my bed. I take a lamp, (coach-approved) snacks, Emmett's iPod (yes, I still have it) and Edward's loudspeakers. (Yes, I did ask if I could use them.) When we're nicely settled in the darkness under my bed, I put on some soundtrack music and switch on a lamp. I lay on my side, resting my head against my palm, and Angela mirrors my posture. It's not awkward by any means, but I do spot differences in her mannerisms and mood ever since she began dating Ben. She looks like she's glowing happiness, and I couldn't be happier for her. For a minute, we simply look at each other in the silence.

"I'm totally turning into a sentimental sap, but I've missed you, Angela."

"I've missed you too," she replies, smiling. "You have no idea, really."

"You've changed."

"Look who's talking."

We chuckle.

"So, how've you been? How're things with Ben? And your dad and brothers? What about Ben leaving for college? Do you know where he's going? Do you know where you want to go next year? 'cause I'm thinking, screw this shit, I'm becoming a cleaning lady."

"I take my words back," she replies, smiling. "You haven't changed at all."

I grin. "So how about it?"

She sighs. "I've been… amazing. Ben is… so amazing. Risking our friendship for what we have now? So worth it. You have no idea—or I guess you do." She pauses. "So, you and Laurent, huh?"

"So it appears," I say. "What about your family, though?"

"The usual. Dad's doing his best, and when he doesn't have the time, I look after the boys. Ben's helped me, too. He's making football fanatics out of them. It's all pretty amazing."

I smile. "That's a lot of amazing."

"It is," she replies. Her smile vanishes when she looks at me. "You look exhausted. Have you slept at all?"

"I look exhausted? Have you seen Edward lately? He's only semi-alive."

"You're both pretty out of it," she says, and I shrug. Angela mutters, "And how are… how are things with you? How are you… coping with, you know?"

"My mom? Or dad's leaving?"

"Both, I guess."

"I'm okay."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I'm sorry," I reply. "I'm alright, though."

"I'm worried about you."

"Worried? About me? Why?"

"You look so tired. It's like life is being sucked right out of you. Don't get me wrong, you're the same chirpy nutcase I used to know, but you're just, I don't know. Throwing yourself into everything and forgetting to take care of yourself."

"I'm fine. You should worry about Edward. I know I do. The man is trying to kill himself with extra-curriculars."

"Like someone else I know," she says, locking eyes with me. "Seriously, what's up with you two?"

I shrug. John Barry's Somewhere in Time switches to Gravity by Coldplay, and we both stop to listen to it. I lie on my back and look at the striped pattern of timber and mattress above me.

"Angela?"

"Mhmm?"

"How did you know you were in love?"

I glance at her, and she's trying (and failing) to suppress an all-knowing smile.

"I see you're getting pretty serious with Laurent."

"How did you know, though?"

The smug smile is still plastered on her face. "Honestly, I can't remember a time when I wasn't."

Well, that doesn't apply to me at all. I can clearly remember a time when Edward was just a touchy-feely friend. Do I love him, though? I don't know. How does anyone know? Edward never did answer that question for me.

"I guess it's the little things they do. I just… want him to be happy, whatever choices he decides to make about college or anything in life, really."

"And you want to touch each other all the time," I add.

She snickers. "Comes with the territory."

"Isn't that where the territory begins? Wanting to touch each other?"

"Maybe," she says. "But it's more than that."

"Like sex?"

She laughs.

Being in a relationship, apparently, has made us regard boys without embarrassment. Half a year ago, it would've been strange discussing this with Angela, but now, we're not even blushing. (Not to say that I won't—I'm sure I will.)

"Angela? Can you not judge me when I tell you something?"

She gives me a sharp look, as if saying it's self-explanatory.

"I'm a shitty person."

"No you're not."

"I am. I really am."

"What makes you think so?"

"I just want you to know I'm aware of this before I go into detail."

"Okay."

I take a deep breath. "I think I'm in love."

She lets out a laugh. "That makes you no more a bad person than jumping off an airplane makes you an eagle. Does Laurent know? He'll be thrilled."

"That's the problem."

"What's the problem?"

"It's not him."

She turns her whole body toward me, rests her head on her forearm and frowns. "I'm confused."

"I have to break up with Laurent, but he's a good person and I don't want to hurt him. I have to, though. But even when I do, I can't—I don't know if it's realistic, you know? I don't want to hurt Laurent, and then I can't get my hopes up for—"

"Wait, wait," she says, placing her flat palm between us. "Slow down. Let me rewind. You're in love with someone, but it's not Laurent?"

"I think so."

"Who is it?"

"Edward."

She shakes her head.

I nod. "I'm afraid so."

"No way. You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"Er, no."

"You're not kidding?"

"Why do you keep saying that? No. I'm serious."

"Wow," she says, still wide-eyed. "Just let me—gather myself."

"Is it really so hard to believe?"

"Yes!" she replies. "When? How? Why didn't I hear about it until now?"

"I don't know. I guess it just… happened. Why's it so hard to believe?"

"You used to dismiss him all the time! Ben and I, we thought he made a move and you didn't feel the same, so you started dating Laurent when the opportunity arrived to make Edward back off."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"That's ridiculous. He's never "made a move," and that's not why Laurent and I started dating."

"Oh, wow," she says, turning back to look at the bottom of my bed. "Wow. I never thought…" She looks back at me. "Wait. Are you and Edward already seeing each other behind Laurent's back?"

"Angela! Of course not!"

"Just had to be sure."

"Okay."

"Have you told him?"

"Who? Edward?"

"Yes."

"Are you kidding me? Of course I haven't."

"You're waiting until you've broken up with Laurent? That's actually a good idea, I think."

She's talking like it's a given I'll run into Edward's arms the moment I'm "free of" Laurent. But I don't think I will. I don't think I could.

"No, I mean yes. I'm not even sure it's love, or if it is, I don't know if I want Edward to know."

"Why not?"

"Be real, Angela."

She turns her head to look at me. "Why not?" she repeats. "And none of that out of your league nonsense."

"It's complicated."

"Alright," she says. "Give me a paper and a pen. We'll write down all the pros and cons of telling Edward, then you have it on black and white, and it will cease to be complicated."

I let out a laugh. "You're fucking brilliant."

She grins. I know she doesn't like me cursing as much as I do (I've never heard her utter a single curse word), but she says nothing.

"Bella?" We hear Edward. "Are you home?"

"Come on in!"

We listen to footsteps, but they halt soon. "Where are you?"

"Under the bed!"

A few seconds later, the edge of a blanket rises. A damp-haired and soap-smelling Edward is crouching right above our faces with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"If I ever had any doubts about how odd you are, Bella, they've just left the building."

"Aww, pity," I reply. He chuckles. I'm well-aware that Angela is appraising our every glance.

"What are you doing under there?"

"We're wondering how much vodka would it take to make you agree to be my fuck-buddy," I reply. "Well, that, and we're discussing sex positions."

He locks eyes with me, unblinking, before a sort of scoff-sigh escapes his lips. "Point taken," he says, not smiling. "Your boyfriend is outside."

I smack my head against the timber, and let out a yelp. "Oww."

"Fuck, are you alright?" Edward says, reaching for me. I feel strong hands grip my shoulders. He drags me a few feet toward him, encasing the back of my head in his hands as he brushes aside the hair from where I hit my head. He leans so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. I feel goose bumps on my arms.

"I'm fine. Fine," I answer, grimacing. "Did you say Laurent is here?"

"Do you feel dizzy?"

"I'm fine," I repeat. "Why is Laurent here?"

"You're bleeding. Let me get some disinfectant and peas for you." Edward tenderly brushes my hair back and gets up. His voice is firm. "Wait here."

I don't. I make sure Angela is fine on her own before I run upstairs (ow, ow, ow!) and see Laurent all awkward-looking in the foyer. His face lights up at the sight of me, and I suppress a grimace from all that pain in my head. I do smile, even if it's not the beaming kind.

"Hey, Bella, I was wondering if you would—what happened?"

"Just hit my head," I reply and offer a closed-lips smile. "Sorry I made you wait."

He steps closer, encases my face in his hands and tilts my head toward him. There's no tingling or goose bumps. Just cool hands.

"Yeah, you're bleeding a little," he says, tilts my head back and kisses me. He smiles. "But I think you'll survive." He leans in for another kiss, but a throat clears. A grave-looking Edward is standing behind me, holding a stack of frozen peas. His mom and dad are behind him.

Great.

Like the Swan I am, I flush the color of beetroot.

"Bella, Edward told me you—" Carlisle starts, but the rude girl I am, I don't let him finish.

"I'm fine. Can you give us three minutes?"

"But your head—" Edward starts.

"Three minutes," I say, desperately wanting to roll my eyes. I don't. Instead, I grab my coat. "After that, you can call the ambulance and head over to the cemetery with shovels." Esme and Carlisle chuckle and head to the living room, Edward doesn't seem remotely amused.

When we're outside, Laurent takes my hand and starts to draw circles with his forefinger on my palm. I smile.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted your evening," Laurent says. "I just wanted to see you."

What sane girl wouldn't swoon at that? I smile at him, and he returns it.

"I actually wanted to ask if you'd come to a family dinner with me on Wednesday. The 15th," he says. "Do you mind if that's what we did for Valentine's day? Or do you want something special? I wouldn't mind. I just really want to show you off to my parents." He grins, and through the dull ache of my head, I return a meager smile.

I've let this go too far. I've let him fall too deep. I've let him make too many false assumptions. But after a month and a half, it's clear that the feelings Laurent has for me aren't something I can grow into. I could learn to respect him and love him as a friend (I already do), but I can't force myself to have feelings for him. I can't. I've tried. Boy, how I've tried, but nothing. Not even a hint of a butterfly in my stomach. It's not fair to him—he's a good guy. He deserves better than this.

Am I really considering breaking up with him just before Valentine's Day? It seems I am.

I feel dreadful and it makes me dizzy.

"Laurent," I say with a careful, closed-lips smile. "Could we see each other tomorrow? Or Monday?"

"I can't. I'm sorry." I can hear the regret in hisvoice. "Not even around midnight. I've promised my little sister I'd build her a mini-house for her dolls for this year Valentine's Day. I haven't even started yet."

"Aren't you just a knight in shining armor?" I tease, and he snickers, stealing a kiss.

"What about on Tuesday? Valentine's Day? I'd love to do something with you."

Good God, breaking up with him on Valentine's Day? I want to kill myself.

"Leave it up to me, okay?"

He grins. "Okay. I'll call you."

I nod, he leans in for a kiss, and leaves me in the porch feeling nauseated. But it can't wait. If I wait until Wednesday, it will be beyond cruel to break up with him after I've just met his parents. But I don't want to pull him aside at school and not give him closure. I want him to understand why I'm doing this. He deserves to have closure, and as shitty as it will make me feel, he deserves to hear everything from me. Well, almost everything.

I've barely put away my coat when Edward, silent as the grave, makes me sit in the dining room. He locks eyes with me, searching for something, and I'm pretty sure the doctor-sounding questions that leave his lips are not the (only) questions he wants the answer to. When I touch my temple, it's a bit wet. There's blood on my fingers, and when I feel my jaw drop, Edward raises his eyebrows as if saying, 'I told you.' He says nothing. Carlisle (see? I've finally learned his name!) checks on me, too, and repeats questions about nausea and such. For a brief moment, I see him glance at both of us, thoughtfully, but when he makes eye contact with me, he offers a polite smile and leaves us.

The way Edward brushes my hair aside feels like a caress, and I close my eyes. I feel guilt. So much guilt. If Edward's touches meant nothing, I wouldn't—but they do, and I do. Why does Edward's touch mean the world to me? Why couldn't Laurent's? Why can't I choose the one to fall in love with? The world would be a much happier place if we could.

The funny thing about me being apparently oblivious is that I'm not. Not as much as I used to be. Because, surprising as it may be, I've learned to find hope in Edward's actions not because of how they differ from Laurent's, but because of how similar they are. I'm not saying I think Edward is in love with me, no. Maybe not. Not yet, maybe never. But the way he sometimes follows me with his eyes, wraps an arm around my shoulder, rubs absent-minded circles on my skin that makes me want to crawl into his lap and stay there—all of that is surprisingly similar to how Laurent treats me.

Not the same but similar.

But my reaction to him? Completely different. Edward and I, we've barely hugged since Laurent and I started dating. We're close, but we're not as close as we used to be. That was the inevitable part of our friendship that we both knew had to go. I already feel too much guilt from not being able to return Laurent's affections. I couldn't sleep next to Edward, innocent as it may be, and spend the day with Laurent. I couldn't.

I look up at Edward. He's squinting, pressing his lips together as he pours hydrogen peroxide to cotton and it bubbles on my head, I'm sure. It feels cold, and I grip his knee.

"I'm sorry," I say, seeing that his eyes fall on my face. I swallow, and when he makes eye contact, I repeat. "I'm so sorry, Edward."

He's puzzled, but even more so when we both get up. I grip the pack of peas and lean in for a hug. A real hug. We haven't had one of those for over a month. A hug that makes me hide my face in the crook of his neck, breathe him in and press my lips against his collarbone. He lets out a low, barely-hearable grunt but slips his hand around my waist, tightens his hold and hides his (much higher) face behind my ear. I feel his heart-beat quicken and his scruffy cheek against my neck. I sniff the smell of his anti-dandruff shampoo. It smells like home.

"What's this about?" Edward whispers, letting his nose play with my earlobe. His voice lowers. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," I mutter.

Edward relaxes.

"What are you apologizing for?" he asks, still not letting me go. "Accidents happen."

For a good half a minute, I don't reply, I just refuse to let him go and—clearly confused by my sudden need for intimacy—he embraces my hug. I'm not going to say or do anything before I've broken up with Laurent. But I've missed Edward as a friend. So much.

"I miss you."

His arms tighten around me, and he almost lifts me up, that's how tight his arms get around me. "I'm right here," he says with a broken edge to his voice. He clears his throat and repeats. "I'm right here."

When I open my eyes, I notice that Angela has climbed upstairs and is looking at me rather smugly. Edward and I break apart, I kiss his cheek to thank him, and when Angela and I head downstairs, she mumbles a long, smug, uncharacteristic, "Mhmmm."

"Shut it, Webber."

She laughs, we crawl back under my bed—yes, I'm still balancing a pack of peas on my head—and there's a paper and pen between us. She rests her head on the back of her hand and stares at me, grinning like a maniac.

"What's that Cheshire grin supposed to mean?"

"I can't believe I never noticed."

"What?"

"You're so obvious."

My heart nearly skips a beat. "That is not what I want to hear, you know."

"I'm sorry. But you are."

"Do you think he's noticed? That's disastrous."

"That's the thing." Her grin only widens. "I don't think he even suspects. I don't think anyone does. I didn't. It didn't even occur to me."

I let out a breath.

"Look, if you two were books, he'd be a hard-cover best-seller from the 19th century."

"And I'd be a coverless 99 cent book printed on recycled paper? Gee. Thanks, Angela."

She chuckles. "No, if he's a hard-cover best-seller, you're a laptop. An expensive Apple with three passwords."

"So much subtle symbolism. Edward has a Mac. So you don't think he's noticed?"

"No," she says. "But you should've seen his face when you kissed his cheek. I'm pretty sure he would've died to have his wicked way with you. Or to kiss you properly."

"I call bullshit. You should know better than to get my hopes up. Now, let's get to that pros and cons list. I want that shit in writing."

She laughs. "I've missed you too, Bella."

: :

The beginning of the next week flies by under the looming clouds of Valentine's Day. Or Single Awareness Day. I'm in a silent mood (with a bump on my head), which—because it is so unlike me—makes everyone, including Laurent, suspect that I've caught a cold or something. I often catch Edward's eyes on me, and he's got that impenetrable expression, semi-grave and bubbling with hurt yet absolutely approachable to the rest of the world. He stops making eye contact as soon as Laurent tries to get my attention, and I feel heavy. Guilty and heavy. I hope he doesn't think I've discarded our friendship for a relationship. Maybe that's the hurt in his eyes. Heck if I knew.

By the end of Drama on Monday evening, I've made my decision. There's no other way but for me to break up with Laurent, regardless of what I might want or get with Edward.

That's why, the first time ever for me to be in a relationship with a boy on Valentine's Day, when every other couple is having romantic dinner, I've convinced Laurent to take us to see the Pacific Ocean, just outside of Forks.

We sit, side by side, on the edge of some old ruins of a church. Even with a coat of mine underneath me, I can feel the rough pattern of bricks. Soft snow is falling on us (and on Laurent's grandpa's car.) It's cold, but the fading horizon of the ocean is a sight to behold. We're both wrapped in all kinds of woolen clothing, and my fingers are intertwined with Laurent's inside his sleeve. My other (mitten-clad) hand is holding a jar with raisins.

I'm gathering my guts.

"Honey?"

Strange. Just… strange.

"Yeah?"

"When did you start doing this?" he asks, stealing a sweet (literally) kiss. It's familiar and it's nice. Not butterfly-y, but nice. "You always bring me to these places."

"When I was twelve and Emmett thirteen. I wasn't allowed to take the bus alone, so I forced my brother to go."

"What did you do when you got there, though? How did you find these places?"

"We got off the bus and walked. It's not hard to find places to think when everyone's trying to avoid thinking."

"That's deep."

"What can I say? I'm deep."

He chuckles. "But what did you do when you got here?"

I shrug. "Kept on walking."

He stares at me, and I raise my head to look at him. His white hat that compliments his darkness seems to hover above his smile. Late at night, I often feel like I'm hanging out with his smile. A perpetual, floating smile.

I've learned about him. What makes him tick, what has shaped his character, what he values and how he sees the world. Our world views are a bit different, and we argue, but he always makes light of the situation. We have a great time together, no doubt about it.

"Laurent?"

"Honey?"

Still strange.

"Why me?"

"You mean why do I want to be with you?"

That sounds… long-term. Okay. I can deal.

"Yeah."

"Well, other than the fact that I think you're beautiful," he says, and I don't have to look at him to know he's smiling. It's in his voice. "I didn't think I needed a reason. You're intriguing. Unlike anyone I've ever met. I think we've had this talk."

"See, I don't get that. I know aesthetics is a matter of opinion, but our view of what's pretty is still shaped by the opinions around us. How did that not scare you away?"

He laughs. "You're talking like everyone spoke shit about you."

"Welcome to my world, dude."

"Never call me dude again, honey. It sounds wrong."

"Duuuude."

He grins, shaking his head. "So."

"So."

"Honestly, I thought you'd turned them all down. Ergo, you'd turn me down. That's what took me so long."

I air-quote. "Them all?"

"You know." He shrugs. "Other guys."

I snort-chuckle. "There's probably some dating rule against me saying this not to make myself look undesirable or whatever, but I meant it when I said you were the first guy who's ever been interested."

The grin could split his face. "More power to me." He leans in for a kiss, and a moment later, I'm right next to him, straddling the brick wall, letting him kiss me. It's like I had the worst case of short-term memory, it's like I'm hoping I'll grow into the feelings he's already feeling, it's like I'm wrapped in guilt because I don't feel as much as he does. I probably never will.

I need to do this quickly. Like a band aid.

He pulls back and lowers his eyes, a bit nervous. I can see the resolve in his eyes, I can see the affection before he says the words, but they still paralyze me.

"I love you," he mutters, letting out a nervous laugh as if he couldn't help himself. He raises his eyes. "I love you, Bella. You're so—you're so free, you know? And I don't care if you're not there yet, I can wait. And not just physically. Whenever you're ready."

I can feel his sigh more than hear it, but that familiar nervous smile from our first date still covers his lips. He brings his face closer to mine so that he's touching my nose with his.

"You're it for me, Bella," he says, stealing a brief kiss before he pulls me to his side and makes sure I'm warm.

How do you break up with someone after those words?

How do you break up with someone after those words?

God, I'm such an asshole.

Why couldn't my life be like a crappy movie about high-school? The jock you're dating (Laurent) is supposed to turn out to be an asshole, so that a knight in shining armor (Edward) could come and save you and admit his eternal love for you.

I have none of that.

I shouldn't have let this get this far, not because I couldn't figure out my lack of feelings sooner, but because I will hurt him too much. This would be so much easier if he were an asshole. If he dated me to get into my pants or something. But he isn't. He's so nice and perpetually happy and we're so compatible in our interests, but I can't. It's either I break his heart, causing immense pain short-term, or I pretend to possess feelings that I don't and suppress my long-term happiness, causing dull but long-term pain.

Lose-lose.

"Laurent, I—"

"You don't have to say it, honey. It's alright."

"Can you just—hear me out? I don't want you to freak out, okay?"

"Oh-kay."

"You're an amazing man, you know? You've taught me so much about relationships and life, and I know I'll be the bad girl in your autobiography. But I don't think I'm the peanut butter to your jelly."

His smile falters, but only slightly.

"I'm allergic to peanuts."

"Ergo, my wording," I reply, offering an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear I never led you on for the sake of it. Never. I guess I really did hope I'd start to see in you what you seem to see in me, over time."

He pulls back, and even in the darkness, I can sense the hurt in his posture and silence. After a half a minute of awkward staring, he leans in for a slight, barely-there kiss.

"So when I do this," he says and kisses me. "You feel… nothing?"

I nod. It's a sad, brutal truth.

His shoulders slump but I feel his unblinking eyes on me, and I'm ready to a face an angry man whose dreams have just been broken. I'm ready to face the fact that he'd leave me here, sitting on these old ruins, to my own means. Instead, he silently gets up, even offers a smile. It's nothing I expected.

"It's over one AM. I'll get you home."

I wrap the coat underneath me, and we sit in the car. You know, in a Harlequin novel, this would be the place for a "deathly" silence. It is not. He makes easy, trivial conversation, and I return it. He turns on the radio. Quite a few times, he smiles, but he's a lousy actor, and I can see that I've broken him. I feel dreadful. I didn't want this to happen, and he definitely didn't deserve this to happen.

When we're outside of Edward's place, he turns off the engine far enough from the house so it wouldn't wake Edward's parents. It's what he usually does.

Suddenly, he lets out a somewhat hysterical, unexpected chuckle.

"Do you know what Edward hates the most about me?"

I shake my head.

"It's that I'm actually a decent fellow. He was ready to sweep you off your feet, waiting for me to make the wrong move. I think he was actually more disappointed that I treated you well than he would've been if I was an asshole."

After a few seconds, his face sobers. It's borderline furious, and I'm ready for whatever he's going to yell at me. We've all got our breaking point. That doesn't make him a bad person. But he wipes his face, as if to clear it, and smiles. It truly is a perpetual smile if he can smile in a situation like this. He doesn't smile with his whole face, neither does it really reach his eyes, but it's the attempt that makes him who he is.

"So, this is really it."

I nod.

"I'm sorry, Laurent. You have every right to hate me."

"I wish I could. I guess I've… I don't know. I wouldn't say I've known, but… it's not as unexpected as it should be." He sighs. "A guy could hope, right?" A weak smile.

"I know it means nothing now, but I don't regret that we tried it out. You taught me a lot."

He squeezes my hand and opens his mouth, but closes it. Nothing comes out. Instead, he swallows and nods. I'm not a mind-reader, but I'm pretty sure he's not as tough as he's trying to show. I know he'll wait until I've crawled into my room, so I take my other coat and say goodbye. When I'm half-way to the house, Laurent rolls down the passenger-side window.

"Bella."

"Yes?"

"You're worth it," he says. "And if Edward doesn't see that, I can take him, alright?"

Not until when he's rolled up his window and I've pushed mine open and hopped to the basement do his words really sink in. I can hear his car pull away, leaving the silence of a winter's night. I push my window closed and lock it. There's a human-shaped line of pillows and clothes under my blanket, and I put everything in their place. It's the oldest prank in the book, going to sleep early and making your shape out of pillows when you're sneaking out.

I clean the floor from melting snow, change my clothes, and lie above my covers. I can't believe I've done it. I broke up with him. I feel lighter, a mixture of excitement and regret. And he took it surprisingly well. I always thought that teenage break-ups were, indeed, what my dad seemed to think. But maybe, if you have the right person and you make enough sense and he sees your logic and cares about you, there's a way to be human about it.

That is not to say I underestimate how much I just hurt Laurent. I don't. But how amazing is it of him to think I'm worth it? Whatever the 'it' means?

I can't sleep, so I don't. I stand, enter the parlor, and see Edward's door, slightly ajar. Just enough for me to see a beam of light create a dust wall in the parlor. You know, the wall of light that lets you put your fingers through it and only see a piece of your skin. It's like a dust wall from childhood, the dust that makes you see the air. The air you don't think about. But it's there. It's always there. But only because of that dust can I see it.

There's something magical about it, and I don't know what. I know I should have known better, but I didn't, and I don't regret my decision to try it out with Laurent. He taught me a lot. He let me see a lot. He let me see things I couldn't understand were there, and he didn't even know it. I'm sorry I couldn't give him that part of me he needed, but it's no longer mine to give. I needed him to teach me that.

I can only hope I taught him something, too.

Barefoot, I curl my cold toes into the carpet as I peek into Edward's room, just to see if he's, you know, masturbating. I'll leave him alone if he is. But he's not. He's sprawled on his king size bed, sideways, reading what appears to be a Stephen King novel with two men fighting on a beige cover.

It's almost two AM.

Ever so slightly, I push the door and knock on it. He inhales and drops his book before his eyes land on me. Edward sits. I stand there, wordless, with my toes curled into the carpet, watching him with my bits of insight into life that attached themselves on me without my consent. Edward is in grey pajama bottoms, bare-chested, letting his bare feet slip to the ground as he turns to me. His hair is up. It's a disheveled, beautiful mess. It's a lot shorter now, too, shorter than mine.

"Did you just get back?" he asks. I twiddle with the edge of my T-shirt and give him a closed-lips smile. I nod.

"Are you alright?"

I shake my head.

"Did something happen with you and Laurent?"

His voice is lower, grim and guarded.

I don't nod. I don't shake my head, either, I just stare at him, at his awake yet disheveled self, his (seemingly) permanent concern for my well-being and the clear affection in his voice. I think I've always seen it. I'm not sure I'm ready to look beyond that and risk what we have, but I can't deny there might be something. Maybe not. But maybe, just maybe, there is.

That is a bold thought, and I wouldn't dare to think it were it not for what Laurent taught me.

Silently, I sit right next to him. I put my head on his shoulder. I feel his heartbeat.

"You're starting to freak me out," he says, wrapping a hesitant arm around my shoulders.

Ever since Laurent and I started dating, my friendship with Edward has been wrapped in a cocoon, waiting for the right time. It's been a fragile month and a half. We're still best friends, sometimes too busy in the evenings to even be home at the same time, studying and exchanging bullshit thoughts and arguing about nonsense when we are. Life has changed, and yet, I feel like the month and a half never existed at all. He's still here for me, and that? That's invaluable.

"I just want to be held," I mutter, right against his neck. He kisses the top of my head, and we settle in the middle of the bed where Edward lies on his back, and I'm settled on the crook of his arm. It's not beyond the borders of friendship, but it's intimate. For a few minutes, we look at each other.

"Is it okay that I came to bother you? You can continue reading if you want."

"It's more than okay, Bella." He offers a sad smile. "I just hope the reason for it is not that you were hurt."

I hum. I still feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, and the warmth of his skin under my cheek and fingertips. I run my finger across his skin, and the three moles that form a line on his collar bone. I think I feel goose-bumps on his forearm.

"I should put a shirt on."

"I don't mind. If that's what you mean."

He stands to throw on a random T-shirt lying on a chair. He's back barely five seconds later.

"It's not fair to your boyfriend."

Except that I no longer have one. But he's right. I didn't understand it at first, but one of the many unspoken rules for a relationship is: if you're unsure whether or not what you're doing is wrong, imagine having your significant other in the room. If you're comfortable with them watching you, you're fine. If not, you're walking on thin ice. Edward taught me this. There is also an unsaid rule about the length of hugs that remain within the borders of friendship, and we haven't crossed it since the beginning of January (except for that one time a few days ago). It wouldn't have been fair.

But I've missed Edward. He's been right here, and yet, I've missed him more than I've been able to admit to myself. I miss him, miss him.

I kiss the side of his neck before I start to draw patterns on his shirt-clad chest for no particular reason other than it's incredible to be so close to him again. He tightens his hold on me.

"Do you want me to take you back to your room after you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Bella."

"No, it's just— oh. Are you sleepy?" I ask. It's two AM. He's perpetually sleep-deprived and I'm keeping him from what he needs most—a good night's sleep. I get up from his arms. "I don't have to be here. You can sleep."

"Bella? Bella," he repeats, catching my wrist before he pulls me back. He's smiling, but it's the same sad, lost, exhausted smile. "I usually fall asleep after four. There's no chance in hell I'll fall asleep so early."

Early? Yeah. Edward is not normal.

He settles me against his side again, and I don't dare to move.

"Would you mind if we just… talked? Is that okay?" I ask.

He offers a smile and turns off the lights. There's some light coming from the window, but it's very faint. We push ourselves under covers, and he now holds on to me like his life depended on it. I'm pushed against his neck. I breathe on it. His arm is wrapped around my waist and his thumb is drawing lazy circles against my back.

"What happened?" he whispers against my ear. "Did he—hurt you?"

I nod.

But I hurt him too. I'm hurt because I hurt him and because relationships are confusing and you want to do what's best and sometimes you still hurt a person who doesn't deserve to be hurt. It's confusing. But at least I think he understood. It was for the best.

I can feel his whole body stiffen next to mine. I hear the pain in his voice. "Were you… intimate?"

I chuckle, and it shifts the mood for a second. "It's okay. You can say it."

"You had sex?"

"No," I answer. "We never did… cross that line."

Or any preceding lines, for that matter.

He exhales in a way that makes his whole body go limp, that's how relieved he is.

"Never?" He repeats, like a wish or a whisper. I nod, and he squeezes me so tightly against him it's like he wants to crawl underneath my skin.

"Why are you so relieved that the man just wouldn't put out? Less pleasure for me."

The sound he makes is between a snicker and a snort. It feels loud in the dark room.

"God, I've missed you," he says. I relish it all, the warmth of his body and the security his arms make me feel.

"I've missed you, too."

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not exactly."

"What happened?"

I don't even know why, but I don't answer him. I sigh. "How's Rosalie?"

Her surgery has been postponed for nearly six weeks. The first time I didn't hear from her for six days, I was a wreck, sure that this was it. I was going to get an email saying that she's passed away. I prepared to tell Edward his mom is dead. But that didn't happen: Rosalie simply didn't have internet at first where they moved. I made her promise to always find a way to contact me when she doesn't have internet.

"She seems happy," he says and hesitates for a moment. "Thank you for being her friend. She doesn't have that many people. You have no idea how much she appreciates that."

"She's not a charity case. I love speaking to her."

He smiles against my forehead. "That's what makes you so amazing."

"Keep the compliments coming, I'm all ears."

He laughs. We talk for a while. We fall asleep just before five AM. For the first time since I started to work out, I sleep in and don't show myself to the coach in the morning. Instead, at seven AM, I tear myself away from Edward's arms (replacing myself with a pillow) and place a kiss on his forehead. He moans, searching for me with his hands before he hugs the pillow tightly against him. Cutest boy ever.

: :

Wednesday passes in a haze. Laurent hasn't told anyone we broke up, and neither have I, so people are curious why Laurent is suddenly hanging out with the guys in his class. Edward follows me with his eyes, clearly puzzled by what has happened, but I explain nothing to nobody. I'm tired yet happy, and when I hear one of Alice's friends, Jane, make a joke about my violet cardigan with a Scottish flag on it, I literally laugh into her face. I raise my hand, twiddling with my fingers.

"One of these is for you, can you guess which one?"

None of them gets my 'fuck you' joke, but it lifts my mood. During the day, I make a discovery, something that I've never either seen or that hasn't been there before: people know me. Students seem to think I'm the fighter against the new popular girls, a fighter standing with the judged ones and the minorities. Everyone comes to chat. Sure, some of them just want to get into Edward's pants, but still. It's odd that my subtle fight with Alice has made people choose sides.

For example, when Alice or one of her friends makes a particularly nasty joke about my clothes, my classmates make it a point to come and compliment (really loudly) my clothing choice. This week, it has become a 'thing.' Especially when I'm wearing something absolutely hideous.

On Wednesday evening, it becomes clear Thursday will be a snow day. Everyone's ecstatic. I ask Edward's parents if it's okay for me to spend the night at home, and even though it takes a while to convince them, I do. Emmett and Jasper have convinced Edward to go out, after all. (Not that Edward's parents knew anything about that.)

I really need this evening to myself, just to… think things through. I listen to music, draw a little, read one of Edward's Stephen King novels and try to make sense of this world. That is until, just after I've brushed my teeth, there's a knock on the door. It's way past midnight.

"Bella," Edward slurs, locks eyes with me and smiles. It's a lazy, careless smile. He keeps a firm grip on the side of our porch to appear to be as sober as possible, but sober he is not. He's clad in dark jeans and his pea coat, with a hand in his pocket. Cautiously, I walk next to him. He wavers but opens his arms for me to step into them. He frowns when I don't—I see Emmett, who has gotten himself drunk and is currently laying on his stomach on our driveway, patting the pavement.

"Bella!" he yells. "Bella! We… I got Ed—Edward wasted!"

"I saw."

His frown is child-like. "You mad?"

I can't help but smile at him. "No, Emmett."

He shakes his head, back and forth, a stupid grin on his face. I hear Jasper sigh next to me. He's the only one who appears to be somewhat coherent. It's a situation we've been in before, and when Jasper and I look at each other, he knows what we need to do. He helps me take Emmett to his bedroom. I force as much water into Emmett as he can take, but when he falls asleep mid-talk, I remove his shoes.

"Jasper?"

He nods. "I'll take your room."

I can't sleep next to someone vomiting their guts out in the bathroom.

"Thank you."

For a brief moment, we just look at each other. It's an odd relationship we have. I'd like to think I know him pretty well: somewhat geeky, loves video games, only child, plays football with Emmett, and very modest about everything he does. But we rarely talk. He doesn't talk with a lot of people, to think of it. He always goes to the parties, but claims he doesn't trust himself to get drunk. What he thinks he'll do, I'll probably never know.

I turn to leave.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"You remember the old saying."

"What saying?"

"A drunk man's actions are sober man's thoughts."

"Err, I don't think I do."

He smiles. "Think about it. It'll come to you."

I head downstairs and prepare the couch for Edward to sleep on.

He is sitting on the arm of our couch, struggling to tear off his sweatshirt and T-shirt together, but instead, his clothes (inside out) hang from his head as he grunts and curses. He looks like a helpless child. I step right in front of him to free his head, and blindly, he reaches out for me and grips my left elbow while the other slides around my waist.

"Bell-uh," he slurs, and I don't have to see his smile to know it's there. "Bell-uh." He starts to rub his hand on the place where my waist dips, up and down and up again. It tickles. Meanwhile, I manage to take off the shirt he struggled with, and suddenly, he's grinning at me, all drunken-haze and droopy eyelids. For a second, he watches his hand on my waist, and then his locks me in his arms, rubbing my back under my clothes. He pulls me to him, makes me stand between his legs, and suddenly, his fingers close around the hemline of my shirt. He glances at me and gives me a childish smile as if trying to test waters to see if I'll let him take off my shirt. He's an adorable drunk.

"Yes?" he says, all wide-eyed and bright teeth, starting to raise my shirt.

"No," I reply, wrapping my hands around his. His face falls, but I kiss his cheek. "You're drunk, Edward. I don't want you to regret anything."

He shakes his head with such violence he gives himself a headache and stops. Then, he tears off his jeans, and as if his abdomen wasn't enough a distraction, now he's in his boxer-briefs. God help me. He gets up, all wide-eyed and adorable, and wraps his arms around my waist again, except this time, he's half-naked. Edward nips the skin below my ear, drawing his nose back and forth, and encases my head in his hands. Having tilted my head back, he stares at my mouth as if he's in a desert and it's the only source of water.

I am being seduced by my almost naked and very drunk best friend.

And he's not the one who needs help.

"Edward, I put some clean sheets on the couch. I think you should sleep it off."

It takes him five seconds to focus his eyes on mine, but then they flicker back on my mouth, and suddenly, he's a vulnerable little boy. He frowns.

"You don't… want to," he says, sad-sounding and surprisingly coherent. I let out a laugh.

"I do," I say, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree. He leans in again, breathing his booze-smelling breath on my face, but I turn my face away. He presses his lips on the side of mine before pulling away. He avoids my eyes.

"But you… won't… let me," he says, taking his hands from my neck as he sits, holds his head in his hands and eyes his lap. "You don't want me." He sounds earnest and heart-broken and childish at the same time, it's almost like I'm depriving him of his deepest wish. That can't be the case. He's just a very seductive drunk. An adorable, seductive drunk. I'm sure he won't even remember this tomorrow.

"Edward." I sit next to him, and he looks up at me with pained eyes. "You're drunk. If you wanted this when you're sober, I'd kiss you silly. But you've never said that's what you want, and I don't want to take advantage of you when you're not coherent."

"Kiss you silly." The edge of his lips twitches as he repeats my words. "I want to kiss you silly." The slightest of smiles widens, and a moment later, he's grinning. Sooner than I can react, he has pinned me under him on the couch, he's rubbing circles on my cheeks with his thumb, and placing little maddening kisses on my face. Edward keeps his weight on his elbows before he puts his knees on either side of my hips and pulls my face toward him, searching my eyes. His eyes are glazed. Having leaned against me, he breathes on my ear.

"Can I kiss you, love?" he whispers, rubbing his nose against my hair. "I just want to kiss you."

He hovers above my face, his eyes filled with so much affection and adoration (and inebration) the task feels impossible. But I manage to utter a few words.

"Edward, stop."

As if burned, he jumps to the other side of the couch, and I almost snicker at his antics before I see his eyes. There's so much hurt in them. He leans his head against the armrest, avoids my eyes and starts to draw patterns on the blanket I brought him. It strikes me how fragile Edward is. Just when I figure out how to make him go to sleep, he raises his pained eyes.

"But your nest?"

I let out an involuntary laugh. "My nest?"

I don't think I realized how drunk he was before he started to rant about random nonsense.

He nods and starts rubbing the middle of his chest. "You won't let me."

I kneel on the floor in front of him. "I won't let you what?"

"Make my nest."

He points at my breasts, and I laugh. He seems so hurt by my laughter that I stop.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, shyly. I sigh and nod. I already figured he'd probably chase me to dad's bedroom and I'd wake up cuddling with him, so I take off my (only) jeans and let him wrap his arms around me. I pull a blanket on us. Edward starts to cover my neck with kisses, and I can feel his arousal against my back, but I ignore it. He keeps asking me if I'll let him make a nest. His whole body relaxes when I agree, and within a few seconds, he's asleep.

I stay up for a while, feeling his heartbeat. When I'm sure he's fallen asleep, I press a simple kiss on his lips. His arms tighten around me.

"I love you."