"Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result—eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly—in you." — Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

: :

I wake up to a buzzing sound: Edward's pocket is lit up. My first attempt to reach his iPhone in the darkness proves unsuccessful because even in his sleep, Edward is unwilling to let go of me. (Not that this is any news, mind you.) During my next attempt, I manage to grip Edward's belt and pull his jeans to me. I decline his dad's call and see five unanswered calls and three text messages, the more desperate-sounding ones from his mom and more concrete from his dad.

The last one reads, 'Your mom is ready to call the police and there's only so long I can assure her you must be okay. Please let us know where you are ASAP.'

'Hi Carlisle, this is Bella. Edward is okay. He crashed on our couch. Emmett and Jasper are here as well. Everything's alright.'

Immediately, he texts back.

'Thank you, Bella. I let Esme know he's safe. Make sure he drinks plenty of water. Good night.'

'Thanks. I will. Night!'

Confused, I put the phone down. Somehow, Edward's dad either knows or suspects that Edward has been drinking, but I'm fairly sure this is knowledge he will not share with Esme. If I've learned anything at all during my stay with Edward's family, it's that Esme is often purposefully kept out of the loop. Not out of menace or underestimation of her reaction, but out of care for her. She's prone to overreact when it comes to Edward. Or me. That's probably why she still has illusions about Edward's virginity or his consumption of alcohol. I don't think Edward gets himself drunk too often, but Carlisle's reaction tells me it's not the first time.

I wonder what he makes out of me answering his texts at three AM on Edward's phone. That is, until a few minutes later, Edward's phone buzzes again.

'And please, please be safe.'

He thinks we're about to have sex? Alright-y then.

The next time I wake up, I'm covered in goose bumps when I feel warm and wet kisses on my collarbone. It tickles. Edward is squeezing my breast over my bra and letting his other hand roam around my stomach. He lets out a groan as he nips and sucks on my neck and tries to get rid of my T-shirt, but when I take a good look at his face, I can see that his eyes are closed.

"Edward?" I whisper. He sighs, continues to suck on my neck and starts to dry-hump the side of my hip. "Edward?"

He's asleep.

Lovely.

When I feel his hand go lower (on his body, not mine) and rub himself over his boxer-briefs, I let out an involuntary laugh. His hand slips inside his boxer-briefs, and I just know I have to awaken him. I lean closer to his ear.

"Edward," I say, no longer whispering. "I understand why you'd want to masturbate in the morning, but I think you should know you are not, in fact, dreaming. That's not a talking pillow you're holding."

His lips detach from my neck. I can spot the exact moment he comes to. His whole body goes rigid, he blinks and makes eye contact. Immediately, he shuts his eyes and grunts. For a good fifteen seconds, he tries to get used to the light, but just by looking at his face, I know he's having one heck of a hangover. I hope he's not about to vomit on me.

He locks eyes with me, but I try to make light of the situation. "I take it you had a good dream?" Meaningfully, I glance at the hand in his boxers. "By all means, don't stop on my account."

He blinks at me, lowers his eyes to see what I'm talking about, and his ears redden. So do his neck and chest. He locks eyes with me, and he's petrified. He lets my breast go as if burnt, takes his hand off his, khkm, cock, and plants himself face down on the couch.

"Jesus," he groans, mortified, and holds onto his head. "I'm so sorry, Bella."

I decide that this is the perfect opportunity to have mind-blowing fun with him. So I lie next to him, wrap an arm around his back and breathe in his ear.

"You weren't so shy last night," I say, pretending to be hurt. "Or did that mean nothing to you?"

He freezes, and slowly turns his head to look at my face. Unblinking, I make my best face of 'wide doe eyes' (though we all know I do not have doe eyes) and stare at him. If I thought he looked petrified before, that has nothing on the face of sheer horror on his face, wide panicked eyes and mouth agape, as he digests this news.

"La—last night?" he croaks and clears his throat. "Did I… did we… no, no, no."

"You don't remember?" I ask, pretending to be oh-so-heart-broken.

His Adam's apple moves as he glances at my state of undress (he can't see that I'm wearing shorts under the blanket) and raises his eyes to look at me. He blinks with his glazed eyes.

"Did I… force myself on you?" he mutters. He's barely audible and there's pain in his voice.

"No," I reply, and his whole body relaxes. "You were the perfect gentleman."

"But I… I took your… your…" There's gut-wrenching concern in his voice as he puts his hand against my jaw and kisses my forehead. "Bella," he whispers.

"It's a two-way street. You can't take something I'm not ready to give."

There's so much regret in his voice. He grimaces and swallows, letting his eyes linger on my body until he whispers, "Did I hurt you? Tell me I wasn't… rough with you. Please."

"It was perfect."

He continues to cringe and hides his eyes behind his palm.

"Was it good?"

"Trying to get an ego-boost, are we?" I tease.

"No, no, no," he backtracks. "I mean… I mean…"

"I know what you mean. Of course it was good, it was you."

I smile. His face relaxes somewhat, but he's thoughtful, staring off into the distance before focusing his eyes on me.

"Did we use a condom? I've never had sex without it."

I shake my head. I don't think I can hold back my laughter anymore, but somehow, I do. I want to see what he does next. And he doesn't disappoint. He looks at me with his obvious headache and glazed eyes, wraps both of his arms around me, hugging me with all his might as he kisses my forehead and breathes on my ear. "I'm so sorry," he mutters with a rough edge to his voice. "I'm so sorry. This couldn't have been pleasant with me drunk. I probably slobbered all over you. I just… I'm sorry. You deserve so much better."

The staircase creaks, and Emmett stands there, surprisingly coherent-looking. He grins, motioning at us. "Oh, by all means, continue. Just let me go get popcorn."

"Jesus," Edward mutters, hiding his face in my neck.

"Though, Bella," Emmett says. "Just so you know, Edward is probably sad he can't remember deflowering you. It doesn't bother him you had sex, it's just that he can't remember it. Am I right or am I right?"

Edward's ears feel hot, and he's still hiding his head next to my neck. I wink at Emmett who laughs but then grimaces. Hung-over.

"Well-played, Bella. Just put the poor guy out of his misery," he says, heading to the kitchen.

Edward peeks at me, grimacing, and I flush from his body heat. He frowns. "My misery?"

I laugh and twiddle with his hair. "Nothing happened." I kiss his cheek, preparing to get up.

He grips my wrist, pulling me back. "Wait, what?"

"Nothing happened," I repeat, smiling at him. "I was just messing with you."

Just like yesterday, he pins me under him, with both of his arms and legs on either side of me, and his arousal right against my crotch. I moan. Edward pants against my neck.

"So you want to have angry sex with me now? That would be rather complicated because I'm on my period." I flush, but damn it, all inhibitions are gone anyway. "So you might want to let me go to the bathroom."

His mouth twitches, and I just know he's not angry. "That was cruel," he whispers against my ear. "I thought…"

"I know. I'm sorry, it was too tempting." I start to move out from under him, but he stops me.

"One more thing."

"What?"

"I still seem to remember…"

"Yes, you wanted to tear my clothes off, and yes, you wanted to kiss me."

His ears redden. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"And you…"

"I stopped you. As adorable as you are when you're drunk, I'd rather not take advantage of my best friend when he's not in control of himself."

He opens his eyes and lets his face hover right above my mine. He's so clearly struggling to keep a grimace off his face due to what is a pleasant hangover, I'm sure. There's a glint in his eye, but he hesitates as if he's suddenly shy. "And what if… what if said best friend wouldn't mind being taken advantage of?" His ears redden further.

"I'd tell said best friend to get himself a dog."

I kiss his neck and crawl out from under him. I really do need the bathroom.

"You're evil, Isabella Swan!" he shouts after me, but groans shortly thereafter.

"Ten points for Gryffindor!"

When I've changed into my jeans and enter the kitchen, Jasper and Emmett are sitting around the table, with Emmett face-palming from all the light and Jasper teasing him about it.

"Where's Edward?"

"He took one gulp of water and boom! Shit just hit the fan," Emmett says, groaning. "I wouldn't bet on seeing him for a while."

"Gotcha."

I wish I could handle people vomiting, but I can't, so I'm not going to search for Edward to help him vomit. Trust me, I'd be retching too.

A few hours later, when I'm back from grocery shopping, I fry eggs for myself and Jasper while Emmett groans and nibbles at pickles. It's past two when Edward emerges, looking pale-white but serious and sober. He rubs his neck and clears his throat.

"Bella, can I have a word?"

Emmett whistles. I follow Edward to the couch where linens and blankets are neatly folded under the pillows. I start to sit, but Edward stops me. He sighs, rubs his neck, and starts to play with the hemline of my sleeve. He does not look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "For how I behaved. I just wanted to make sure I didn't… ruin our friendship or, or… traumatize you."

Once again, I hear my own laughter as if I weren't the source. I stop when I realize I am.

I smile. "You didn't."

"But I—" he starts, and clears his throat. He lifts his hand and touches my neck, and he does it so tenderly I just have to close my eyes not to jump him and kiss him silly. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and I see him staring at his fingers on my neck. He raises his eyes, vulnerable and apologetic. "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"I've, uh." The tips of his ears flush. "I've marked you."

My entire face reddens as I take a few steps backwards to see myself from the tiny mirror in our living room, and sure enough, Edward certainly enjoyed himself kissing my neck. Frankly, I'm surprised Emmett didn't tease the hell out of this situation, but maybe he's too hungover. Yeah. I think that's it.

I grin, raise myself on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "Don't over-analyze. You did nothing I wasn't comfortable with, okay?"

He pulls me into a hug, and I feel the smile on his lips. "So you're comfortable with—" He places a gentle kiss on my neck, one that breaks my skin in goose bumps. "—this?"

I flush, but before I can confirm the butterflies in my stomach, Edward backs away, a sheer look of utter horror on his face. His face looks ashen, and I think he's about to vomit, but instead, a stream of curses leaves his mouth.

"Edward?"

He looks heart-broken. "Fuck, Bella. Your boyfriend. I didn't think—I didn't—fuck! I'm sorry. Fuck, I didn't mean to—"

"Edward?" I step in front of him, but he's tearing at his hair, looking like he's been punched in the gut. Several times. "Edward!" I yell when he doesn't look at me. Finally, he does, and it's a look of such regret and horror I'd keel over if I didn't have this news for him.

"I didn't mean, I swear I didn't—I didn't think… I'm so—"

"Stop it. Laurent and I broke up on Tuesday. It's a non-issue."

His hand halts to a stop in his hair as he slowly blinks at me. "You're—really?"

I nod. "Really."

"But why? How? Why didn't you tell me?"

I sigh. "We better have this conversation in the kitchen or I'll have to have the same convo twice."

But Edward isn't following me. He's staring off into space, seemingly at the brink of a realization, and I repeat his name twice before he snaps out of it and focuses his eyes on me. The way he's looking at me, it's almost like he's seeing me for the first time, eyes roaming over my body, and the slightest yet somehow absolutely elated smile on his lips.

"Gee, smile at my misery why don't you. Lovely."

"You don't seem miserable."

I sigh. "That's because I'm not."

He smiles, and there's a twinkle in his eye. "Is that why you… that night? And tonight?"

"Yes. Edward, our relationship might be non-romantic, but there's no way in the world I'd do that to Laurent."

"Good," he says, but his face twists, and I'm not sure which part of my sentence he replied to. Still, when I deliver the news to Emmett and answer all of my brother's questions, I feel Edward's eyes on me. And even though he's exhausted and didn't get as much sleep as he should have, he seems lighter. Like the weight of the world lifted. Lifted until it dropped and left Edward sitting here, behind this kitchen table, laughing at my jokes like he's never heard me before, gazing at my face like he's never seen me before, running fingers through his hair and beaming at me like I'm the Jupiter to his Europe. Or something equally symbolic.

Wait, Jupiter has too many moons for this symbolism. Never mind.

I know I'm not. A girl could dream. But I have time. Maybe I'll learn how to behave like a lady and swipe Edward off his feet. Maybe I'll read Cosmopolitan or a How To Guide: How to Dazzle Your Insanely Handsome Best Friend Even When He's the Pillow to Your Carrot.

My point is: maybe there's hope for me.

: :

Sunday, the 27th of February
4.24 AM. Listening to Bach's Suite 846 on Edward's iPhone and risking with my life: I'm in Edward's room with my diary.

I'm lying on my stomach. Edward's arms are wrapped around my waist, his head is leaning on my back, and he's breathing heavily, so I'm counting on him being asleep. His breath is tickling the side of my back, but I just crawled a bit towards the pillows, so I should have a fair warning before he wakes up. If you see a sentence that stops mid-way, you'll know Edward woke up. But I wanted to write this all down before I forgot it, so I'm taking this risk.

Something rather odd happened yesterday. But I'm being impatient. We'll get to that.

The first time I see Jacob Black after the incident in Principal's office, it's a Friday morning. I've changed into my sports clothes when I sit by an ergometer and re-read an excerpt the book Mr. Black gave me a few months ago. Today, we're focusing on anaerobic exercising, something that should make me gain muscle. When Mr. Black enters, he takes one look at me, sighs, and his eyes dart around. I've never seen him look so awkward.

"Morning." I smile. "Heading outside?"

"Good morning," he replies and comes to stand next to me. He's avoiding my eyes. "I should've asked you sooner. Did you take your warm clothes with you? I remember that you usually do, but I wasn't sure."

"I did. Do you want me to ski or something?"

He evades my question.

"Stretch a little, run fifteen laps, and then put your long trousers and a jacket on. I'll be waiting by the front door."

"Gotcha." I do as he says, and in fifteen minutes, he's motioning for us to step into the cold, grey winter morning. The faint light from the east proves that sunrise is hours away. It's cloudy.

"Keep yourself warmed up," he says as we walk toward the stadium. He turns on the floodlights, and the clank of it echoes. The middle of the stadium is covered in snow (no, our school does not have enough money to buy a roof for a stadium) but the track is red and clean. I do jumps and stretch my legs as the coach instructs me. You can see vapor from our breaths.

"I want you to run one hundred and then four hundred meters."

"Not yards?"

"Meters."

"What for?"

"Comparison."

"I mean—why are you making me sprint?"

"To see how much you've improved."

"Okay."

"Put everything you have into it."

I nod. I give my sports jacket to Mr. Black and remain in a jumper. It's fuh-reezing. Just like the coach has instructed me to, I jump high into the air a couple of times and prepare. He jogs to the finish line. Shorter distance first. Gotcha.

He's never asked me to do anything like this before, and that makes me nervous. Maybe, in his eyes, it's like an exam or something—which is rather odd considering that I've been preparing for a marathon. If I'm a lousy sprinter, it's not my fault. I'm preparing for a fucking marathon and not a sprint.

Mr. Black raises his hand to signal that I should take my position, and when I do, I wait for his hand to drop, but instead, he fires a gun. I leap into the air but that's out of surprise and not from my speed.

In another words, I make a false start.

"You've got a gun?!" I shout.

"Yes."

"Should've warned me first!"

"Consider yourself warned," he says back. "Count to three from when I drop my left hand, and then I'll fire the gun. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

I take my position, observe him, and take off at the gunshot. Freezing air whistles in my ears (should've taken a buff with me), but I'm throwing one leg in front of the other like I never have before. I have an odd, wonderful realization: I'm enjoying this. I do not know if I'm good or bad at this, I'm simply thrilled by the rush of freezing wind against my ears and an intense sense of being the maker of my own destiny. The absolute silence of a cold winter morning is what gets to me. It's something odd yet powerful, or maybe I'm imagining it all, but when I finally make it to the finish line, the coach is offering me the buff from around his neck.

"I don't want you to catch a cold."

"I never do," I pant, but put it on nevertheless. I clench my sides as I hyperventilate and put on my jacket again. "So how did I do?"

He hums, not admitting anything. I'm growing to hate that torture hum of his more than I dislike… Alice. Yeah. That'll work.

"Take a breath and warm up, and when you're ready, we'll do the four hundred."

I nod and jump around, letting my breathing slow. This time, the start and finish are closer, and he fires the gun right next to me. While I got a sense of thrill from doing one hundred, let me tell you: running a lap around the stadium, full speed, is like repeatedly running against the wall. I don't think I can describe how tired each and every one of my muscles gets. I'm panting. I'm exhausted.

Just like before, Mr. Black merely hums, lets me catch a breath, and after I've stretched for five or ten minutes (while he's scribbling on his notebook), he looks up and presses his lips together.

"Let's repeat one hundred meters."

He doesn't sound pleased. Apparently, I did not do well. What was he expecting, though?

"Why?"

"Trust me. You can do better."

"I'm not a sprinter, Mr. Black. I'm preparing for a marathon and not a sprint, remember?"

He puts away his yellow stopwatch and his notebook, and for the first time since that incident in Mr. Kramer's office, he looks me dead in the eye.

"A week ago, Michael Newton got an early acceptance to Yale. A football scholarship. How does that make you feel?"

Motherfucking son of a bitch.

Putting every ounce of energy into keeping composure, I offer him a grim nod and jog to the start-line. I'm sure this is common knowledge. It's probably a rumor that's going around, but the problem with me blocking rumors since Alice came around is just that: I've blocked them all. I don't talk about Michael Newton in my diary not because he's not doing something that everyone gushes on and on about, but because I don't want to waste my time on him. Not more than necessary.

So, let it be known that while I always paint him in a light that shows a clear opinion (because my perspective on him has been shaped by endless torment in middle school and one incident in particular), I either have to be Michael Newton's only case of sexual harassment, or his other victims are petrified of speaking to anyone. He has always been the teachers' pet. He's well-liked by the majority of my school and he knows how to make people do what he wants. His grades are definitely above-average, and he's not stupid by any means.

That's what kills me: if he were an open "bad boy," maybe people would believe what he did. But he's not, and they won't. It's too far from the picture they've painted of him. It doesn't match.

Why couldn't I have been somewhere else on that night? Why couldn't I have had more strength to fight three guys and run? But I didn't. I was just a gangly girl and an easy target.

The world is so fucking unfair, and that makes me furious. I warm up with ferocious energy. I throw my jacket off, put the buff on, and all I can see is Michael fucking Newton's smiling face as he, after x amount of years, graduates from an Ivy League school. Like he didn't leave a permanent mark in my psychic. Like he didn't spend time and effort and energy on tormenting a girl in a fragile age and made me feel immensely inferior in every fucking possible way. Like he didn't shove his dick in my mouth on a dark night, letting two guys hold me while I sobbed. Like he wasn't the reason I forced myself to forget hunger. Like he didn't make me doubt if I could be an equal as a sex partner. Fuck.

Why do I have to see him at school, every day, like he's surrounded by a bubble in which consequences don't exist? Why did he pick me? How was I so visibly different? Why does it have to matter so much? Just fucking why?

I nearly cough my lungs out when I finish, and I jump and stretch and pant to hide the fact that I'm crying. I can feel the lump in my throat, and it makes me burn with anger.

"Again."

It's my voice. Mr. Black hesitates for a second, as if wanting to make sure I'm okay, but my expression must've convinced him because he nods. I jog to the start, and I run again. And again. And again. And four hundred. And again. If at first I liked running one hundred, then now, all I can think about is how to exhaust myself even more, and interval training is exactly what I need.

After an hour and a half, when the sun has almost risen, Jacob Black and I walk back to the gym in silence. I'm still panting slightly. He says nothing, I ask nothing. We enter the gym. He hesitates.

"Have a shower. You can change into your regular clothes. I'll meet you right here in fifteen minutes. Is that enough time?"

I nod. Once again, he wants to say something to recognize my behavior, but I jog to the girl's changing room before he could. Fifteen minutes later, I slump on a bench next to him with all my belongings. He leans on his legs with his elbows, and I copy his posture. I imagine he's going to bring up Michael Newton, and honestly, I've spent too many thoughts on that guy already. A single thought is a thought too many. I don't feel like talking about him.

Jacob Black, however, surprises me.

"How do you think you did, Isabella?"

"Honestly? I was pretty damn lousy."

"Do you feel like you could've done better?"

"With training? Definitely."

"How much better?"

"A lot."

He hums. "That's good to hear."

"I was pretty shitty, huh?" I ask, but I'm so exhausted my hands are trembling. I look at my feet. "Sorry. I did the best I could—given the circumstances today."

"It's good that you feel you could be better," he says, scratching his forehead as he tilts his head sideways and gives a hint of a suppressed smile. "Because you just broke the school record in one hundred meters. Twice."

"You're shitting me."

He laughs. He shows me his notebook, and under 100 meters, he's circled my first (11.41) and second (11.37) time.

I watch him as he releases hair from his pony-tail and rewraps his hair into a pony-tail, glancing at me from time to time. He resumes to his earlier position and mirrors mine because I haven't moved. Mr. Black sighs.

"Peter told me not to ask you."

Oh, no. Not a discussion about Michael Newton again. I don't want to.

"He's a smart man. You should listen to him."

He smiles. "You and that Cullen boy, you're already trying to kill yourself, but… I want you in the track and field team, Isabella. I haven't spoken to Mrs. Haldane yet, but I strongly recommend that you join her team."

I let out a relieved laugh.

"Are you and Peter doing cocaine together? 'cause I'm pretty sure you're both on something."

He chuckles. "No."

"Are you suggesting that I'd be better at short distance than long distance? I'm still running that marathon. I think I could be really good, too."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't do the marathon. By all means, do. But if you could try out for short distance, go to a few competitions, attempt decathlon? You could really achieve something, Isabella."

"How do you know I'm not just a one hit wonder?"

"I don't," he replies simply. "I really don't. But screw talent. With your focus? I've never seen anyone train with that amount of determination before. I have literally been able to mold you in a way that leaves you no bad habits because you're just that teachable. You just broke the school record in 35 degrees when you're still raw. It's unofficial, so it doesn't count, but you still did it. But if we could polish you? You could be a diamond."

"That's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard."

"It's also true."

"So you want me to try out for Mrs. Haldane? For real?"

"For real."

"Huh."

His eyes are on me while I digest his words, and I know I need to react.

"Give me your thoughts. What's stopping you?"

"I'm just thinking… I have so much on my plate right now. I'm not sure if I'd have the time or energy without making sacrifices. I'm ready to tell you I can't, but… I don't know."

"Will you think about it? Give it some serious thought."

"I will," I answer, offering a small smile. "I promise I will."

I expect him to bring up the matter of him and Peter, but when he doesn't, I figure Peter has convinced him that I'm trustworthy. His initial awkwardness wore off when he saw I didn't bring it up once, so I hope he trusts me.

It's half to seven when I head back home. I break into a slow jog and admire the now orange skyline in the east as I do. I'm both physically and mentally exhausted, but the surprise and wonder of achieving something as an "athlete"—it makes me feel powerful. I know I'm raw. I'm an amateur. And I'm sure Mr. Black told me about Michael Newton's early acceptance to draw every bit of anger out of me. To make me faster. But if I found a way to be that fast without the thought of that asshole, would I want to explore that world? I don't even know if you could become an athlete when you start at seventeen. Probably not.

I imagine what it would be like to walk into the gym with people who've ran track for years, maybe a decade and a half. I really don't know the crowd that frequents track practice, but maybe I could win them over? The thought of breaking my image doesn't scare me (image? what image?), it's more the thought of failing myself that does. Maybe I wouldn't be good at decathlon at all. Maybe I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of delivering at a competition.

But half a year ago, I would've laughed at anyone who told me I was going to run a marathon, and look at me now. Running like a pro.

No, not like a pro. More like a kangaroo on drugs.

Could I do it, though? Just like Mr. Black asked: What's stopping me?

Fear of failure, that's what. But then what? What if I do fail? What if I'm the shittiest competitor? I still have Drama. It's not like they can expel me for being a dreadful runner.

When I reach home, I do a bit of googling. I want to see how good you'd have to be as a female runner to be good, and I slam my laptop shut after I've done it.

Well, fuck.

I change into the funniest-looking red dress, yellow pantyhose with bees on it, a sweater with a reindeer, and make a tiny little braid right in the middle of my hair. I put on a sparkly headband. I run upstairs and stop at the kitchen doorway. Edward is semi-asleep, gulping down some coffee, Esme is filling the cross-word puzzle at the back of the newspaper, and Carlisle is typing on his laptop.

"Good morning!"

I hug Edward, 'cause that's what you do, but I also hug his parents before I sit and throw everything on my plate. I'm starving and greedy. Esme loves it.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine this morning?" Edward asks with a sleepy smile on his lips.

Oh, you know, I just filled last year's Olympic B-standard in one hundred meters a few hours ago.

"I've got a feeling about today."

"What about today?"

"Pigs just might fly today. As well as cows and cupboards."

Esme shakes his head and laughs, but so does Edward. The entire day, I feel like I'm floating. It's an odd day. I stop Mr. Black in the hallway to ask if the reason he didn't tell me was because of the margin of error or because he didn't want me to think too much of myself. He says it's a combination of both. I don't know what makes me do it, but I tell him I'll contact Mrs. Haldane and at least talk to her to see what she thinks. It's a crazy idea. That a girl who starts with sports at the old age of seventeen could accomplish something, but hey, since we're already breaking the rules, why not break all of them?

Even Alice doesn't bother me as much. We're behind a History classroom waiting for the teacher to arrive when she and her besties look me up and down, snickering. I hold my head high and continue to talk to Angela and Tanya. That is, until they start being obvious about it.

"Did you tear apart a curtain for that dress, Bella?" Alice says, and her little gang giggles.

"Listen, you—" Angela starts, but I step in front of her. I will fight my own fights.

"I told you, I only respond to Hee Haw."

Jane and the red-haired girl named Vicky laugh, and I'm sure it's a normal laugh, but it sounds like an obnoxious donkey in my ears.

Pardon me, beautiful donkeys of the world, for comparing those bitches to noble creatures like you.

Alice, of course, is clad in tight jeans and a tasteful white blouse with a black belt emphasizing her tiny waist and a Dolce & Gabbana bag (or something equally expensive) on her shoulder. You know, her impeccable sense of style wouldn't bother me in the slightest if it wasn't for this bigoted girl wearing them.

She starts applying lip-gloss as we stare at each other, and when she closes the little lip-gloss with a click, there's pity in her eyes.

"I just think you need some fashion advice, honey."

"You know, I really don't think I do."

Vicky smirks. "The problem is, we don't think there are enough three year olds' blankets for your pantyhose."

"The problem is—" Angela starts, but I stop her. I open my mouth, but Edward has arrived from P.E., and he puts a hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek. As he does.

"You're looking un-curtain-like, as always, Bella."

The people around us laugh, and I beam a smile. Edward's arrival causes an immediate change in Alice's demeanor: She starts to play with her hair, smacks her lips together and gives Edward a coy smile, even laughs along a little.

"Hi, Edward," she says, her voice sounding uncomfortably purr-like. Edward offers a weak smile and nods. Alice's smile widens.

Honestly, I'm starting to feel sorry for this girl.

: :

On Saturday evening, after work and tutoring, I settle myself comfortably on the floor and lean against the couch. Ping Pong is lying in my lap. He has finally learned to hold in his pee and not shit on the carpet, which means less scrubbing for me. He has a spot in Edward's parents' room now for the night (and they seem to love it that he likes it there), so with less scrubbing comes less snuggling. I look at him, and he looks back like he could be trusted with any of my secrets.

I'm starting to feel a lot like a secret-keeper. And a secret, as Sheldon Cooper in The Big Bang Theory so eloquently put it, is a burden. Edward's adoption, his sister, his age, Michael Newton's assault, Jacob and Peter's relationship… I don't spend much time thinking about these things, but it's a lot of responsibility to have. I'm not afraid I'll accidentally slip. I don't think I will. But the responsibility intimidates me.

I put on the headphones and wait for dad to sign into Skype. We haven't been able to speak regularly to each other since the beginning of January. Maybe once a fortnight. This time, we haven't spoken for nearly three weeks, and I miss him. I just miss him. I miss the knowledge that he's in the other room and his scent and the fact that he never knows what we have in the fridge when he's grocery shopping.

I know he might as well not sign in and not have the chance to let me know he couldn't (until tomorrow), but this time, he also sent me a text-message that he'll be free tonight, so I'm crossing my fingers he is. And when his icon turns green, I'm so excited I call him right away.

"Bella, wait. Wait, let me put my ear pads on," he says while I add Emmett to our call. He joins. Meanwhile, I observe dad, and even through the shirt, I can tell he's ripped. His mustache is gone, and he looks incredibly young. Unlike me or Edward, he looks quite well-rested (at least he has a strict sleeping-schedule—unlike some of us). There's a brilliant, wide smile on his face, and he looks at me like I was looking at him a moment ago.

"Your hair looks different."

"I died it. Dark blonde or something," I answer, grinning. "Do you like it?"

He smiles. "I suits you."

"Yeah, Bella is quite the heartbreaker now," Emmett adds as he leans against a window in his current room. "The guys are going nuts over her."

"Oh, really?" dad asks.

"Dad, he's bullshitting. Nobody's breaking anyone's hearts."

"You liar. Tell him about Laurent."

"What about him?"

I sigh. "We broke up a week ago."

"Yeah, on Valentine's Day. Talk about crushing a man's heart."

"I thought you liked Laurent," dad says, confused.

"I did, but—"

"She likes Edward mooore," Emmett finishes.

"Shut it, Emmett. I meant to say, you can't force something that isn't there. So we're done."

"How did he take it?"

"He's the angriest DE we've got right now," Emmett says. "He's crushed."

"Stop lying. He took it quite well… under the circumstances."

"He's fucking heartbroken," Emmett argues. "You should see him in practice. He's all about beating everyone up these days. And he can't even look at her in the cafeteria. Or Edward."

Dad looks at our banter like it's a tennis match. "What about him?" he asks, almost a warning.

"Dad, I did not cheat on Laurent!"

"Ah, good," he says, relieved.

I clear my throat and lower my voice to a mutter. "But if he and I were to—get involved, you'd be okay with that? Dad?"

Emmett's laughter is so loud I actually have to hold the headphones away from my ears, but when he quiets down, there's the widest, stupidest grin on his face. Amused by Emmett, dad is smiling slightly, but he then nods.

"If you're careful."

"Edward!" I yell. "I have good news! Dad says you and I can have sex now!

Dad is furiously shaking his head. "I said nothing of the—"

"Brilliant!" Edward yells back, and I just know he's sitting against his headboard, ear pads on as he writes. "Let's get to it then!"

Fortunately, my dad can't hear his answer or we'd spend the rest of the night talking about this. "What about your love life, Emmett?" I ask.

He groans. "Not subject to discussion."

"That sounds very fascinating," I continue, messing with him. "Who have you seduced?"

He reddens to a point where I start to worry about his health, but keeps shaking his head, so he's not saying anything. Very interesting.

"So, dad, tell us about life in Glynco," Emmett says. I nod. Dad shows us his room, which looks dreadfully ordinary with two single beds, a chair and a table. He shares it with an Oregon-born twenty five year old Frank, who—in dad's words—"lacks a filter," much like me. Maturely, I draw my irises close to my nose and howl. Dad laughs. It feels so good to talk to him about our everyday lives. His, of course, is much more fascinating with all the firearms training, defensive tactics, high threat trials and general badassing around. It's safe to say our dad is badass. I'm so fucking proud of him.

"So you both alright over there?" he asks after we reach a topic that he may not talk about.

Emmett grins at him. "Bella is now a straight A student, and I got accepted to the University of Warwick. Still pending on Seattle Pacific University and Eugene Lang College in New York."

Dad is smiling, but there's a question in his eyes. "Where's Warwick?"

"It's in England," Emmett says, absolutely serious.

"You applied to a university in England?" I ask. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I was bored."

I laugh until I'm wiping tears from my eyes.

"What?" he asks.

"We are so alike! It's hilarious. I would totally apply to a random college on the other side of the world."

He frowns. "It wasn't random. They had a Skype interview with me and everything. They had the course I wanted."

"Oh, really? And what's that? How to peel potatoes and juggle at the same time?"

He chuckles but shrugs, not answering.

"You've thought about what you want to major in?" dad asks.

"Yes," Emmett says.

"And?"

Emmett shrugs, reddening a bit. "It's not important right now."

Do tell. I always thought I inherited the blushing genes from dad and Emmett got our mom's perfect non-blushing complexion, but he has blushed twice in the course of a half an hour, so maybe not. Intriguing.

However, dad and I know better than to press. At one point, he'll cave in.

"And Bella? You're a straight A student now?" dad asks, grinning. "Clearly my absence has a good impact on both of you."

"Wait till you hear that I filled last year's Olympic B standard for one hundred meters yesterday."

"You're shitting!" Emmett shouts. "But you just started running, like, yesterday!"

"That's what I said," I reply, chuckling. "But Mr. Black made me run track and… apparently, my genes are pretty apt for running."

Dad looks like someone smacked him with a baseball bat. He stares at me in wonder. "Wow, indeed."

"That's so fucking awesome," Emmett says. "You're like a prodigy or something. Why aren't you bursting with pride? I'm so going to rub this under everyone's nose."

"It's not that I'm not proud. I am. It's just… it probably means nothing. It was just a one hit wonder moment. Besides, Peter wants me to teach Drama next year, and to do that, I'll have to keep up a 4.0 GPA, and I'm not sure I can. I'm already struggling with Spanish. And to exercise two to three hours every morning and make Ping Pong socialize and work part-time and tutor and… it's just too much." When I finish unloading my shit, I realize that in order to keep up with my mission to not make dad worry, I should avoid situations where I complain like this. I purse my lips in a smile. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to whine. I'm fine. It's okay."

Dad is staring at me like he's seeing me for the first time. He's wide-eyed. "I didn't realize…"

"It's fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry. I'm just a bit tired right now."

He's not that easily convinced. "I think you should quit your job. I mean it. You'll have your entire life to work, and I'll be able to support you next year as well. Do you have any money left from what I gave you?"

"All of it."

"Then what's the problem?"

I feel independent when I work. The scheduling is often complex, and no, I don't have much free time, but in return for that, I have the freedom to spend my own money on what I want and not feel guilty. Buying silly headbands for half a price for dad's money? I haven't used his money for stuff like that for so long it makes me feel guilty when I do.

"Don't wear yourself out, Bella. Or you, Emmett, for that matter. I couldn't be happier that you're doing so well, but you're not a robot. I don't want you on anti-depressants the moment you turn eighteen. I'm not going to be less proud of you if you take some time for yourself. You used to draw and read and cut poems out of cheap books, do you still do that?"

I haven't cut out poems and articles and quotes for months. I miss doing silly stuff like that.

"What if I suddenly need something that costs a lot?"

"Then you ask me, and we'll figure it out."

I hum, that Mr. Black's awfully nondescript sound that says absolutely nothing.

"Please think about it. I'd be happy if you quit. Give them your two weeks' notice tomorrow when you go in."

I nod, and he knows I'll think about it. I think my head is about to explode from the amount of decision-making I'll have to do. To quit or not to quit? To teach or not to teach? To try out for Juilliard or not? To join Mrs. Haldane's track team or not? To tell Edward about my feelings or not?

To be or not to be?

Now that's just suicidal, Shakespeare. Not to be! Poof! I'm dead!

When I end my call to dad and Emmett, I lie on the floor and stretch. Ping Pong licks my face but the moment he hears the front door shut (Carlisle must be home), he runs upstairs and leaves me by myself. Me and my laptop. How sad. But I get up and knock on Edward's door, and just like I knew he would be, he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, leaning on the headboard. He's got ear pads in his ears. Like the gentle-souled man he is, he gives me privacy when I talk to dad and Emmett. He takes them out and smiles.

I walk to the side of his bed, open my arms wide, face-plant myself on his bed and groan. I hear Edward laugh and shut his laptop. I feel the bed dip from his side as he snickers and lies down right next to me. He turns his face toward me and I turn mine to look at him.

"Everything alright with your dad in Georgia?"

I nod. "He's badass."

"He—sent me a message to talk to me tomorrow morning."

"To you? What for?"

He shrugs.

"He could've just told me he needed to speak to you."

"He forgot. And had to go. He said so in his text."

"Alright."

We lie there, not touching, just looking at each other. His now rather short hair isn't as messy as it used to be, but I love it. I raise my hand to twiddle with it, and his shuts his eyes as I do. He's still got circles underneath his eyes, but he seems lighter—that could be my wishful thinking, though—and happier. But he's sleep-deprived. So am I.

"How are you holding up?"

He smiles. "Nothing to complain about. You?"

He sleeps less than anyone else I know, and all he says is, 'Nothing to complain about'? Edward is not human.

"Trying to avoid decisions. I just want to sleep. Can I—can I sleep here? I mean, you can continue writing. I know it sounds impossible, but I'm known to shut up once or twice in my life. But only after you give me a proper hug."

There's a glint in his eye as he turns to lie on his side. He wraps me in his arms so that I'm facing him and leaves a lingering kiss on my cheek. He stares at me.

"Like this?" he asks with a rough voice. He clears his throat. I nod. Two can play this game, so I place a wet kiss behind his ear (he groans) and snuggle closer, sighing. His arms tighten around me.

"I'm sorry about Thursday morning," he mutters close to my ears. "I have no excuse for how I almost molested you."

"You were dreaming. That's not something you can control."

"Still," he says in a grim voice. "I'm sorry."

"Shut up and cuddle."

He laughs, kisses my forehead, and I don't think I fully understood how exhausted either of us was until I open my eyes again, and it's three AM. We've slept for eight hours. We're both clothed, his bed-side lamp is on, and Edward has wrapped his body entirely around mine: feet around mine, arms around my waist, hiding his face in the crook of my neck and lips right against my collar-bone. I kiss his cheek and reach for the lamp.

"Love? What're you…?"

His eyes are closed, but he's already searching for me with his hands.

"Switching off the—" It clicks. "Lamp."

I pull the cover on us, and the moment I've settled back against him, he sighs deeply and I know he's asleep. I don't think he's realized this, but he's called me love twice now, and that gives me hope. It could be false hope because the first time, he wasn't sober, and the second time, he wasn't entirely awake.

But even false hope is hope.

I can't help myself: I press my lips against his, just for a moment, and as a response, Edward tightens his arms around me and lets out a long, content-sounding sigh.

: :

It's eight AM when I've replaced myself with a pillow and emerge from Edward's room. I slept for thirteen hours. Shower feels good. It's like a new world. When I step into the kitchen, Esme is sitting in Carlisle's lap and showing him pictures on her camera. I don't want to interrupt their moment, so I do a one eighty and step out of the kitchen.

"Bella!" Esme calls after me. I turn and see her get up. "It's alright. Come and have a look. I came down to invite you two to have supper, but you guys were so adorable I just couldn't wake you. I hope you slept well."

I smile. "Better than a yawning marshmallow, thanks."

She chuckles and holds the camera out to me. There's picture of me and Edward, lying on his bed, facing each other with Edward encasing both of my hands in his and another arm over my waist. Our faces are inches apart.

"How cute is that? You look like his baby sister," she says. "He even holds you like that."

Oh, God, I hope not.

I happen to lock eyes with Carlisle, and I might be wrong, but I think he's suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He grins and shrugs, as if saying, 'What can you do?' But, from that point on, it becomes very clear he's aware that Edward and I might or might not have a thing going on. Jesus, he might even think we're sleeping together. I wouldn't be surprised.

"Sweetie, no," Carlisle says, pulling her into a kiss.

"But look at that picture! They could be siblings."

He shakes his head. "They're not."

"But he certainly treats her like that," she says, adamant. "I think it's sweet."

I grimace, and Carlisle lets out a chuckle at the face I make.

"I treat Bella like what?" Edward asks, sleepy-looking as he rubs his eyes and pulls me into a morning hug and a kiss on my temple. Esme observes us, somewhat smug-looking.

"See? I told you."

This time, Carlisle takes a deep, slow breath, something I've never seen him done, but I just know that's how he deals with his own impatience.

"Told him what?" Edward asks, pouring coffee and still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"That you treat Bella like a little sister. It's really sweet."

Carlisle keeps shaking his head. I grip a plastic milk bottle as I start to straighten my back and close the fridge, but my eyes land on Edward, and he's halted to a stop, mid-pouring. The thought has never occurred to me, and the certainty with which I felt I had finally fully interpreted Edward's actions deflates with imaginary whistle accompanying it and everything. I feel like I've made a fragile decision based on little evidence.

I mentally plead him to deny or laugh it off, but the moment passes, he shrugs and keeps pouring his coffee.

My milk bottle slips from my fingers and makes a dull sound as it hits the ground. It doesn't break or leak, nothing dramatic. I pick it up and sit down. I see Carlisle stare at Edward and then at Esme, who is still beaming at her son. Carlisle leans a bit toward me and mutters, "Morons."

It's such an un-Carlisle thing to say that I burst out laughing.

"What?" both Edward and Esme ask as they sit. I simply shake my head, make eye contact with Carlisle who winks at me, and laugh harder. Carlisle has officially won me over.

Later, when Edward's phone has alerted him of the time he needs to sign into Skype and Esme is off doing their laundry (I insisted on doing mine at the very beginning), Edward's dad and I sit alone by the kitchen table. Well, him and Ping Pong, to be precise. But Ping Pong is a non-talking ingredient, so he doesn't count.

Sorry, Wall-E.

"Carlisle." He puts away the newspaper and leans against the backrest, and I get his full attention. "Er, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your reading."

"It's fine." He smiles. "I see you've finally remembered my name."

"Hey, it only took me three months," I reply. "But if I ever get any kids, your name is out of the equation."

He places a hand on his heart, but he's amused. "You wound me."

"Don't worry, I don't think there's anyone who'd want to mix his genes with mine, so you're not the only one whose name won't be used." I press my lips in a smile. "I actually wanted to ask how I could repay you for my sessions with Dr. Hunter."

"How are they going? Do they help?"

"I think so. How do you measure such a thing? But I think they do. He knows how to get me to speak, and isn't that what he's supposed to do? Either way, he's pretty cool. Odd, but cool. So, how do you want me to pay you back?"

He shakes his head. "He's doing it for free. You owe me nothing."

"He owes you a favor, which means one less favor for you, which means I have to give you something for the favor he'll no longer owe you."

I can see him trying to follow my logic, but he just shakes his head and chuckles. "You owe me nothing. End of story."

"But I—"

"Nothing, Bella," he repeats, unwavering. "Although…"

"Yes? I have to buy you bananas for the rest of your life? Anything."

He laughs. "Although… try not to break Edward's heart, okay?"

"He's doing a fine job breaking mine," I joke.

"Oh, that? That was for show for Esme. If he'd realized the answer meant something to you, he'd have reacted differently."

I'm not as convinced as he is, but I nod. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and looks around; probably to make sure we really are alone.

"I'm sure you've noticed that Esme is often kept… out of the flow of sensitive information. I can't even imagine how insensitive you must think we're being, acting like this, but you have to understand, she's—she's had a tough life."

"I never thought you were insensitive. We're all shaped by the things that happen to us, aren't we? Some more than others. That doesn't make you a bad person if you think the best way to protect her is by preventing pain or worry."

He blinks at me like a lazy stop light, and then laughs silently. "Are you sure you're seventeen? Couldn't have put it better myself. But I want you to understand, the only thing Esme ever wanted, her health prevented from having, and like you said, it has affected her. She's stronger than she thinks she is, much like you, but she worries with intensity hard to imagine for those who haven't seen her concern. It can be overwhelming. So, sometimes, it is easier for Edward and me to not… make her worry."

Children.

He doesn't understand that I know about Edward's adoption, but I do. Esme always wanted children. And because they only adopted one, he's their precious. Their one and only. Of course she wants to protect him and overwhelm him with kindness and keep him from all the evil of the world.

"Are you and Edward having sex?" Carlisle suddenly asks, dead serious, and the bluntness that I always want people to use hits me right in the head.

"We are not."

"Good." He nods, looking me dead in the eye. "Make sure you're on the same page before you take that step. Edward looks easy-going but he—he can be intense." Carlisle smiles. "Esme might just have a minor seizure when she sees you two do not see each other as siblings after all, but I have no illusions about this, or about Edward. He's young. I think he should have the right to break the rules a little."

"Are you saying you'd approve if Edward and I were to date? Gee, that sounds awfully official."

Maybe I'll sign a contract in which I'll state that on a scale from one to ten, my love for Edward is somewhere between Too Fucking Much and Gee, Why Am I Preparing for Our Wedding I Don't Even Know If I Want to Get Married.

I redden. Carlisle laughs and shakes his head.

"I think you're just the right amount of crazy for him."

"Gee, thanks," I add. "But don't forget, I can sing Frank Sinatra and lie naked on his bed and lay it all on the line, he could still let me down easy."

He sort of huff-laughs and shakes his head. "Just don't tell him at school. I don't want to end up in the Principal's Office explaining to Mr. Kramer why my son and the girl whose caregivers we currently are ended up having sex in the broom closet."

I snort.

"It's a deal," I agree. I'm a bit baffled by the amount of freedom he's letting us have, but maybe he's been stricter before and it didn't work. Maybe he remembers the time he was a teenager. Or maybe, just like he says, he has no illusions about young love.

"Carlisle? One more thing. I always felt like you didn't like me all that much when I first came here. Why?"

He laughs. "Oh, I've always liked you. But that is a question you should ask Edward. It's his to answer."

I nod and stand up. "I never noticed how cool you are."

He lets out a laugh, messes with his hair a little so that it stands up like Elvis', and says, "How about now?"

I'm crying from laughter when I turn the corner and bump into Edward. He grips my waist to holds on to me, but he's got a question in his eyes. I point behind me, turn my head and yell, "Carlisle, will you marry me?"

"Sorry, already taken!"

"Darn it," I place a hand on my heart and battle my (many) eyelashes at Edward. "Let's go have sex now."

"Bella!" Carlisle yells, half-chuckling.

"Sorry," I correct myself. "Edward, let's go talk the living applesauce out of each other, and then have sex." For good emphasis, I put my hand on Edward's shoulder and guide his confused butt downstairs. "So, I've been thinking. I think we'd make really good fuck-buddies. No feelings, just good old sex."

He lets go of me and blinks, horrified. "Bella."

"Eh, it was worth a try," I say, and can't help but start laughing. "I'm sorry, you're too precious not to mess with."

"Jesus, that wasn't funny."

"It totally was. You should've seen your face."

He shakes his head and puts his hand on my shoulder like I did with his, and we head to his room. "One day, I will make you pay. Be scared."

"I am very, very scared, my scary man."

: :

I'm sure, in a world more complex, it would be called flirting, but I can't flirt. Maybe that's it, though. Maybe Edward can't understand that what I'm doing should, in fact, qualify as flirting.

I consider lying naked on his bed, just so that my intentions were clear, but I really do think he'd kiss me on the forehead and tell me to get dressed to "not take advantage of me."

In a twisted way, our roles have reversed. I imagine how oblivious I used to be, and then I look at Edward, and I really do think he's got more doubts about my reciprocity that I do about his. It's weird, but it seems to be true.

It's silly, the way I want to tell him, but I'm doing a PowerPoint presentation about him and why we'd be so perfect for each other. I occasionally make myself laugh while making it (hey, that's a clear sign I'm in perfect health), and I do realize how ridiculous my idea is, but I'm going to present it to him on the morning of his real birthday, the 25th of March.

Unless I find his breaking point, I'll have tread carefully, because I'm pretty sure I'm reaching mine.

Until then, I'll torture him however I can.

Yesterday, we were in Westfield Southcenter in Tukwila because Carlisle has a three-day long conference in Atlanta and Esme took us with her as we sent Carlisle off. So we're walking in the mall, not really entering any shops, when a young slender woman stands right in front of Edward, blocking his way.

"Excuse me?" she says, looking straight at Edward. "Excuse me?" she repeats, beaming a mega-watt smile that somehow fails to look commercial. "I'm Kate. I work for the Puma Athlete's Guild, and we're looking for models for Puma. The photo shoot itself will only take about fifteen minutes. Would you happen to be interested?"

She looks at Edward, so I take a step backwards and let out a snicker. Honestly, leave it to Edward to be so photogenic as to get approached in the middle of a mall about a photo-shoot. I can see the set, too. It's right next to us, a gigantic green wall behind a fake mountain with a thirty degree slope, maybe. A blue tent covers the rest of the view.

"It doesn't take long, and the winner of the photo shoot gets a contract with Puma for a year. It's the third time we're doing it and it's a great way to earn money next to school."

Edward smiles, it's polite and disinterested. "No, thanks."

"And your girlfriend?" she asks, bypassing Edward so that she's looking at me with her too-blue eyes.

I laugh. "We're not—"

"Would you be interested?"

"I—wait, you're asking me?"

Immediately, Edward is behind me, gripping my shoulders. "She's always dreamed of becoming a model. Ever since she was a little girl."

I look back at Edward (he doesn't let go of my shoulders), and honest to god, I've never seen a grin as smug as he's wearing right now. He's so self-satisfied that I elbow his side. His grin only widens.

The pretty woman's eyes sparkle at his words. "Really? Now's your chance." A booklet lands in my hands as she appraises my appearance, nodding and humming as she looks at my calves and my height and my face. "Come on in."

Edward ushers me in, not letting me go. I elbow him.

"You are so fucking dead, Edward."

He simply grins like the sun relocated itself into his mouth.

"This of it as working on your self-esteem."

"Bullshit. Think of my knee in your groin like an accessory."

He laughs.

We enter the blue tent. I'm in a daze.

There's rustling and cameras and nervous-looking models, both male and female. Not too many. I count seven. Make-up artists are working on some of them, others are standing and looking at the current photo shoot, a sleek-looking guy leaning on a gorgeous blonde. All look slender and athletic and not even too tall. Definitely shorter than me or Edward.

The girl motions at the set. "So, the deal is, the winner of the photo shoot gets to be on the cover of Runner's World, and to advertise Puma for a year. Last year's winner, Lara Groove, got noticed by Vogue Magazine and now she's a hotshot model in NYC. How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Edward says.

"Do you run?"

"She's doing the Seattle Marathon in the summer."

"Really?"

"She's really good, too."

"How many have you done?"

"It's her fifth," Edward lies, smiling. "She's always among the top ten, too."

"Impressive," Kate says, still appraising me. "Alright, so I need you to change clothes. Where's George? He'll make you all pretty. What size are you? XS? S? We'll also probably have to use Josh, he's our tallest model. Seriously, where's George?" She walks off, leaving us standing there. I elbow Edward's stomach.

"You're a dirty liar."

He grins.

"I'm going to kill you on the way home. I'll just drag you to a forest and beat you to death after having removed your brain with a spoon."

He continues to grin, and he's still standing behind me, refusing to let go of my shoulders. A shorter, fair-haired and groomed man arrives with Kate and shoves clothes in my hands. Meanwhile, Kate points out a man with such symmetrical features the beauty doesn't even look natural.

"You're okay with modeling with a partner, right? 'Cause that's your partner. His name is Josh. He's from Argentina."

"Hot."

Kate nods, smiling.

"She's not going solo?" Edward asks, tightening his grip.

"Nope. That's why I originally stopped you guys—it's the seventh day in, our final day, and we've only found a few guys. But when we do, their girlfriends aren't always too happy to see them getting all hot and bothered with models, even if it's make believe."

Edward chokes. "Pardon?"

Kate smiles. "It's all fake, I promise."

"I'll do it."

I want to see Edward's face, but he won't let me.

"I mean—is that possible?"

She nods. "George? Bring this young man some clothes."

For a moment, they leave us alone. For the umpteenth time, I elbow Edward. This time, I crouch out of his grasp to see his face. I want to wipe that self-assured grin off his face.

"I'm offended. You were supposed to be my friend. Why do you cock-block me like that?"

Edward blinks. Sure enough, the grin falters.

"I mean," I continue. "Look at that man meat. Think of all that dry-humping in the back room you just deprived me of."

His face pales. "You mean—you wanted to—with him?"

"Duh. Who wouldn't?"

"Oh." He looks almost like I've slapped him. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to be uncomfortable. I can just not do it. I'm sorry."

Honestly, this man's concern for me is so sweet I can't even torture him. So I snicker and kiss his cheek.

"You're adorable."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Edward, I shit more than the average bull. Of course I wasn't serious."

He sighs, it's long and loud.

"Jesus, you'll be the death of me."

"Son of God I am not. Death of you? Yes. Already planning that murder with a spoon."

Clothes land in his hands, and we both go to change. The clothes I'm given are, well, small. There are tight Puma shorts, which are fine, and a matching sports bra slash top. It feels like a very comfortable bra, but looks like a top. They didn't give me a T-shirt, and I saw those scantily clad girls, so I'm assuming I'm supposed to feel half-naked. I don't think I've ever felt more out of my element than at this moment.

But I aim for my old philosophy: fake it til you make it. So I feign confidence as I step out, but I can't even start to look around before bra pads land in my hands. Okay-dokey. Point taken.

When I'm done, I'm ushered to sit in a chair, and a man (who introduces himself as Trent) starts to make a fuss over my hair. Two women, probably make-up artists and/or hairdressers circle me, and I search for Edward, but he's nowhere to be seen.

"I haven't really run a marathon before," I tell Kate when she stops for a moment. She nods.

"I know. You look too feminine for that."

Feminine? Did she just say feminine?

"Good luck," she says, smiling. "You're in good hands." A moment later, she's gone—in search of other victims, I'm sure. I close my eyes as Trent messes with my hair.

"What skin products do you use? You have great complexion."

I open my eyes again. "Er… water?"

"Nothing else?"

"Er, no?"

He smiles. "You're a lucky girl."

Why should I take credit for the stuff that's out of my control? It's unfair. It's like complimenting people on their eye color or height or shoe size—you do nothing to achieve it. Why take credit for it?

At one point, Edward sits next to me, and he's wearing a lot more than I am. He's got shorts and a white, professional-looking T-shirt. Looking effortless and handsome, as always.

"Hey, why do you get to wear actual clothes? That is so unfair."

Edward opens his mouth to answer, but no words come out as his eyes land on my state of undress. He gulps and averts his eyes. Gee, have I really turned Edward Cullen speechless? That's a first.

"It's because you're a girl with skin," Trent says. "Skin is sex, honey. Sex sells." He looks at the blonde woman next to him. "Wig? No wig?"

I notice that literally every other girl has long hair. They make me try on some wigs, and honestly, I never thought I'd say this, but I look way better with short hair. They seem to agree, because after the third wig, they give up and start to style my hair. A lady is styling Edward's hair, too, and I think it takes a bottle of hair product to tame his.

"Have you ever thought of a nose job?" the red-haired woman asks me, completely blasé as she applies some skin-colored cream on my face. It doesn't even show. Why bother if you're aiming for natural? My face looks exactly the same.

Confusing shit, seriously.

"Yes."

Edward's eyes snap to mine in the mirror.

"What's stopping you?" Trent asks.

"Well, other than not actually wanting to do it… I think it's the fact that I like cheese. Definitely."

Trent erupts into laughter, right after Edward. One of the women does, too, the other one looks confused and slightly constipated.

"Is it the money?" Trent asks, still indifferent-looking. He picks up some tweezers.

"No, it's the cheese," I answer, staring at his tweezers. "You're not going to pluck my eyebrows out. I don't care they're close to my eyes. Please don't."

"I'll just shape them slightly."

"Slightly? How much is that?"

He looks at me in the mirror. "Well, three hairs on the right and five on the left."

"That works."

That hurts, too. And they're not even touching Edward's eyebrows, which is totally unfair.

"So, how is this going to work? Are you going to photoshop my face out of the picture?"

"You're selling shoes and clothes, honey. No-one will be looking at your face. And you'd be amazed by how much you can work with angles."

"Then why all the make-up?"

"To make the lighting work."

They find a way to make me look remotely attractive by applying all sorts of invisible skin-colored stuff on my face. I'm confused, though—why compliment me on my skin only to cover it up in a way that doesn't show there's a product used? It makes no sense. They enhance my eyebrows without making it look like they drew them on. I'm impressed. I almost look attractive. Almost.

"So I heard you'd always wanted to become a model?"

"I've never—"

Edward cuts me off.

"She's never thought it could actually happen. She grew up in a strict Presbyterian household, and when her mom passed away, she felt it was unfair of her to dream of becoming a model. It's a heart-breaking story, really."

They 'aw' and look all sad and sappy and shit. If it were anyone else, I'd be cutting his balls off, but when I look at Edward, he's wearing the same bullshitter's arrogant smile.

"Oh, don't mind my friend here, he's gay—"

"Gaining so much from this experience, supporting my girlfriend like this." He grins and holds my hand to squeeze it. They 'aw' again. Shit, a day has come when Edward bullshits me right back.

"It took years for Edward to understand he's gay—"

"I was depressed for so many years, you know, and it's been really important for me to feel gay. My girlfriend really helped with that." He flutters with his eyelashes and squeezes my hand. He's an inch away from laughing.

I can't not do it. I burst into laughter. Trent and the two women look very confused (and amused), and I'm just laughing my ass off.

Seriously. This is why Edward is my best friend.

Soon, we're next to a man with a gigantic camera. He gives instructions, and Kate beams a smile a mile wide when she sees us, all dressed up and covered in "natural" make-up. When it's our turn, I'm asked to lie on the slope, with Edward on top of me, and we're playing out a scene where I fell and Edward is there to pick me up.

Er, original. Haven't seen that one before.

Edward is in a press-up position (with one hand), his other arm wraps around my waist to hold me up, and he doesn't break a sweat while doing it. I breathe on his neck as he looks up and listens to the instructions.

"Bend your knee, yes. Can you hold this position? Just tell me if it gets too much."

"It's fine," Edward says, breathing on my hair. The entire situation is completely surreal. Edward secures his hold, tightening his arm around me, he's instructed to look down at me, completely serious. His palm on my waist is getting clammy while the rest of his body feels hot.

I don't know what world they live in, but this is an awful lot of trouble to go through to sell shoes and clothes. Just put them on a hanger with a '20% off' sign or something.

"You are so dead after this," I whisper.

"You had every freedom to say no," Edward mutters back. "I expected you to. Why didn't you?"

"Touché."

But damn it, it tickles. So I laugh.

"Passionate, good. Keep it up, Edward, very natural. Go lower, right above her face. Isabella, smile less. Look like you have a secret."

Look like you have a secret? He's high.

I let my head fall closer to the ground to look at the photographer. "Yes, but when you're in the arms of a man as hot as Edward, you don't hold back."

A few models chuckle. I stop to look at the photographer, and he looks right at me, completely serious. A tall, brunette, authoritative-looking man walks up to him. He asks to see the photos the photographer's taken, and they discuss something. After a half a minute, the brunette man eyes us. "We changed our minds. Isabella, was it? Smile."

No hay problema, as Emmett would say.

"Edward, put the tip of your nose in front of hers. Higher… there. Chest touching hers, lower. Very good. Put your knee down right next to her hip. Good. Isabella, look at his lips and smile."

Edward tightens his hold, gazing down at me, and suddenly, the situation stops being funny. He strokes my waist with his thumb, and I hear him hum, low and growl-like as he breathes on the side of my lips. His nose is (instructed to be) touching my cheekbone, probably in an attempt to cover my profile, but I barely listen to the photographer. I'm starting to feel Edward's arm quiver ever so slightly, but when the man next to the photographer asks if he can hold this exact position, Edward claims to be fine. He's not. Either he's too much of a man to admit this is difficult, or he's trying to show off. Or maybe both.

"Edward?" I whisper.

He draws a line on my cheek with his nose, nodding. Our proximity is maddening.

"It's okay if I'm too heavy."

"You're lightweight," he mutters, still stroking my waist.

"But you're tired."

"I'm fine."

I can feel his arms quiver from the exertion of holding me.

"Great," the photographer says. "Now, Isabella, lie down. Yes, like that. Edward, grip her knee, but lean towards her like you did before. Brush your lips against hers, just slightly."

Edward stares at my lips and breathes on them, and I'm nanoseconds away from molesting him. He growls when I shift, so it's assuring to know that he is, too. He starts to play with my nose with his, brushing them against each other and earning a grin from me.

"Alright guys, I think we've got it," the tall brunette guy next to the photographer says. "Thanks. Kate will explain what happens next and lead you out."

They resume to observing the pictures they made. Edward has set me down and our bodies are lined up with each other, but he mutters in my ear. "Don't move."

I try to shift myself to see his eyes, but he growls, grips my hip and presses himself against me. "Don't. Move."

I can't help but let out a laugh. I've given him a boner.

"It's not funny," he says, hiding his face in my neck. I start to sit, but he grunts. "Bella," he warns.

"Edward," I reply innocently.

"Stay still," he warns. "Unless you want me to attack you. Give me a moment."

And I do. He takes deep breaths, but even when he's calmed down and able to stand, he moves a bit awkwardly and always behind me. We put down our information, and Kate explains that they'll contact us in two weeks regardless of whether we got it or not. When I've changed clothes, I exit the blue tent and wait for Edward for a good five minutes before he emerges with the most self-satisfied grin on his face. He throws a hand on my shoulder and leaves a lazy, happy kiss on my forehead.

"You just totally jerked off in the changing room, didn't you?"

The tips of his ears redden, but his grin widens. "I might have."

I laugh. I hide my face in his chest and laugh, I cower and laugh, and when I make eye contact with Edward, he's grinning. Not even slightly embarrassed by what he did (except for the red on top of his ears, that is). He shrugs.

"When you're in the arms of a girl as hot as you, you don't hold back," he quotes.

It's a surreal, out-of-body experience I had, pretending to be one of the pretty girls, and honestly, I don't really care if they got the shot they wanted or not. Edward and I stroll to Esme's car with stupid grins on our faces, and I tease him mercilessly. It's a wonderful day.

: :

Friday, the 5th of March
2.22 PM. I'm hungry. Edward better smuggle some Greek yoghurt in for me. So, bear with me. It's a bit difficult to write.

Monday, the 1st of March, is my mom's birthday. It's a day that starts horribly, and then gradually gets worse.

I'm not really a girl who lets bad mood get to her, but there's a first time for everything. Monday morning, I wake up with a headache. I don't get ill easily, so I try to shrug it off and head to the gym. But during my daily exercise routine with Mr. Black, I insist on running a hundred metres again, and again, and again. And you know what? I can't repeat my 11.37 seconds. I can't even repeat 11.41. Mr. Black keeps assuring me that it's fine. It happens. You can't be on top of your game all the time. But, fuck it, I don't want proof that I was just a one hit wonder, but that's just what I get. I run a lousy 12.09.

As if on cue, the headache that I forgot about returns and multiplies after practice.

Emmett's old sports bag's strap breaks on the way home, and at home, I discover that I have a huge test in Math that I haven't studied for. At that point, I'm almost ready to crawl under my bed and pretend I have the plague. But I don't. To prove to myself that: fuck this headache! Fuck Math test! I am the maker of my own mood! So I wear my white dress and chicken slippers. For mom. It almost doesn't stretch enough to fit my hips, so at least that's good.

I'm silent during breakfast. On our way to school, Edward walks next to me, hands in his pockets, quietly appraising me.

"Are you okay? Did I—do something?"

"No," I assure him and even manage a smile. "I just don't think pigs fly anymore." I sigh. "Or giraffes or ponies."

"Is there anything I can do?"

I press my lips into a closed-lips smile and shake my head.

"Are you sure?"

I nod. Edward throws an arm on my shoulder, squeezes it and we walk to school in silence. I appreciate that he doesn't press. He questions me with his eyes when we part ways—I think I see the vulnerability in his—but simply leaves a kiss on my temple and tries to pull my lips into a smile with his thumb. I snicker at his effort, and he rewards me with a genuine grin.

I don't even think I'm in a bad mood. I just get contemplative. I observe the students in my high school as if I weren't part of them, I watch them interact and laugh and tease each other. During the second break, just when I'm about to catch Edward to see if he could borrow me some lunch money, I stop when I see him smile at Tanya as they talk. Edward is holding his notebook and Tanya is right next to him, holding a finger on something when she throws back her head and laughs. She's got a really pretty laugh, too.

I stand there, watching them together, and catch my own reflection from the mirror above an old, dry fountain. Now, bear in mind today is a low point, and we've all got those, but I envision the moment freeze as Tanya laughs her beautiful, feminine laugh in slow motion, and I just look at my reflection, brown eyes under undefined eyebrows, bumpy nose, giant forehead covered by my short hair, and I catch myself thinking: Who am I kidding? Have I convinced myself that Edward is genuinely romantically interested in me?

Maybe he's physically attracted to me, no feelings attached.

It goes against anything I've learned about him, but it's a horrible day, and that day, my self-worth is six feet under.

I look down at my feet and the chicken slippers I'm wearing today just aren't doing it for me. Instead of making myself known, I give one last glance at Edward—he's laughing at something Tanya said—and turn around. In the back of my mind, I know he's being polite, and this interaction must mean nothing to him, but my thoughts today are making me feel as lowly and inferior as possible.

I walk away.

During Art History, I further dig myself into a hole as I (for the first time, seriously) entertain the idea that I've entirely misunderstood Edward and I had to be delusional to think that a guy like him goes for an ugly duckling like me. The thought makes me feel empty. I catch my reflection on the window, and I just feel emptier. There's a battle going on inside me. My heart says that Edward being affectionate with me means something, but my head is dominating every other part of me, so I'm uncharacteristically grim and quiet during the lesson.

I also think that the Alice girl can sniff a bad day from a mile away, because during the third break, when I leave the bathroom, she's standing in the corridor, and I'm suddenly aware that I've never seen her wander in the corridor alone. She usually has either Jane or Vicky, or a swarm of people I do not know around her.

"I think I might be able to help you out," she says, and her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You know, make you look acceptable."

Make me look acceptable? If this is not a ploy or a bet that ends with me embarrassing myself, I'm a juggling Chihuahua. I'm not in the mood for this.

"Fuck you, Alice."

She throws back her head and huffs. "I was just trying to help."

"Sure you were. You find every fucking possible situation to humiliate me, and now you're trying to help."

"I was just being honest," she says. "And I could make you popular if you wanted. So excuse me for trying to help!"

"Fuck. The moment you waltzed into our school, you made a perfectly okay crowd obsessed with their status! Most of us actually got along and then you came in with your fucking obsession about the way everyone looks and starting rumors you know aren't true and humiliating people at every turn! But did it ever occur to you that some of us genuinely don't care? I refuse to be your fucking charity case, Alice."

"You're just jealous because girls like me could get guys like Edward anytime and you'll always be the perpetual best friend!"

I know we're gathering attention, but I don't pay enough attention to care. I find myself pouring my today's insecurities into a battle with Alice.

"Ah, that's so fucking rich. So what if guys like him don't notice me? So what? So what if he would never choose me? He's nice enough not to want to change me. Unlike some of us, I'm not desperate enough to constantly assess people's opinion of myself so that I could evaluate my clothing choice and language and behavior for it to fit into how I wish to be perceived! I'll repeat—I don't give a fuck!"

"Puh-lease. Everyone sees the way you look at Edward, it's like you've been in a desert for a week and he's the oas or something!"

"It's oasis, which you would know if you actually did something other than applying lipstick in Earth Sciences."

"You're such a bitch, but I guess it runs in the family, huh?"

I step closer to her and back her up against the wall. "You ever speak about my mother like that again, and I will steal my dad's gun and practice shooting on a picture of you, are we clear?"

I am surprised by my behavior, by my words, by the fact that I am standing up for myself. But she just makes me so. fucking. angry. There's the slightest hint of fear in her eyes, and I back off, dismissing her before she says, "So if Edward chose me over you, you'd be okay with that?"

"I'll sob my eyes out."

"I'm sure you will. You're just a plain little girl pretending to be tough. But I guess Edward knows that and that's why he hasn't made a move. Guess what? He knows you're single, and you're still the best friend. Guys like him never end up with girls like you."

"Fuck. Are you trying to pick a quarrel? You're saying that like I wasn't aware. But I am. Your point?"

"No, I'm just saying, you don't even admit to yourself how hopeless your crush on him is. Not unless you'll become like a normal girl."

"If a layer of makeup made me like you, I'll never touch a makeup kit in my life. You make the rest of makeup users look bad."

I've struck a chord, and don't I know it. She puffs out her chest and steps closer to me. But she's so much shorter than me, so I tower over her, and I'm not the least bit intimidated. But that doesn't mean she wouldn't know how to strike me with words. She knows exactly how to do that.

"He wouldn't choose you if you were the last woman on Earth."

"Did you ask him?"

"Oh, please."

"Did you?"

"You have about as much chance with Edward as you do winning the Seattle Summer Marathon."

"You didn't, did you."

"It's so obvious. The likes of Edward Cullen always go for the popular and beautiful ones."

A crowd has gathered around us.

"Oh, really? What else do the likes of Edward Cullen do?" A man's voice challenges. "Please enlighten us."

Alice pales. Edward stands a few feet from us, hands in his pockets, calmly regarding Alice. He's looking down at her, only her, with an expression so serious it gives me chills. He doesn't run a hand through his hair, he doesn't rub his neck, he's completely composed, and yet, I've never been so intimidated by his expression in my life. I'm sure emotions are raging inside his calm demeanor.

How much did he hear?

Alice nervously wrings her hands together and averts her eyes from his. "Well…"

"No. I'm curious. You prove to be an expert on the topic. What else do the likes of Edward Cullen do?"

"I mean—I just meant—"

"You were right about one thing, though," Edward says, still completely composed. "The likes of Edward Cullen go for the beautiful girls."

Edward tosses his back bag in front of the lockers.

"Fuck it."

Edward grips my hips, presses me against the wall, encases my face with his hand and runs his thumb across my cheek. He breathes in my ear and whispers something, but I can't decipher the words. I shiver. He secures his left hand on my neck, his right on my back, and presses me against him. He nips my upper lip with his before pressing his lips on mine, and suddenly, he's frenzied.

I slide my hands behind his neck to tug at his hair, and the moment I return the kiss, I hear a rumble from his chest, and I just cannot not snicker. He pulls back a bit, amused, and locks eyes with me before diving for my mouth again. His kisses are wet and warm and fuck, he's amazing. I don't know why I haven't jumped him before. I let out an involuntary sigh when he places a kiss underneath my jaw. I don't want to stop, but of course, we have to.

We're both hyperventilating, Edward smiles a toothy grin next to my lips, and I mirror it. His forehead touches mine. He pecks me on my lips—still pressing against me—before he turns his head and looks at Alice, who is just standing there in shock.

"You were saying?"

I just—I just fucking love this man, you know?

The crowd whoops and claps, but seeing as the show is over, they disperse and return to their own lives. Alice huffs and leaves. I'm overwhelmed.

Edward doesn't move. Instead, he presses me against the wall and wraps his arms around me. I sigh in his embrace.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," he says. I'm not. "She's just—she can't say shit like that. Are you alright?"

I nod, and I'm sure he feels it.

"How much did you hear?"

"I wouldn't choose you 'if you were the last woman on Earth,'" he answers against my ear. "Why? What else was there?"

"Nothing," I murmur, still breathy from his kiss.

"Listen, Bella—" he starts, but the bell rings, and he curses as he presses his lips against my neck. "We need to talk."

Aren't those the words you're supposed to be scared of? Because, presented with them, they sure do sound frightening. But when Edward pulls back and sees my expression, he backtracks. "No, no! Not like that. It's nothing bad. Or, well, it depends on what—" The second bell rings, and Edward becomes bashful as he looks down at me and makes eye contact. He looks a bit frightened and a lot fragile. "Please don't run."

The hallway has almost emptied.

I offer an encouraging smile. "I promise I won't. We have lunch. I have things to say, too, and I think you'll like them."

His lips pull into a smile. "Oh, yeah?"

"M'hmm," I answer, raise myself on tiptoes and place a small kiss on the side of his lips. He can interpret that however he wants. His eyes are closed when I pull back, but he opens them, and there's confusion but so much affection.

"What did that—"

"I need to run, I have Spanish and I suck at it."

"Talk to you later?" He asks with the most adorable smile on his face.

"Later," I assure him, grab my bag and run. In Spanish, thank god, we're working in pairs, and the teacher has temporarily left the room when I enter. I sit next to Eric—he's pretty good at Spanish—and try to focus on the task at hand and not the conversation that's about to change everything between me and Edward. It does make me slightly giddy, though, the thought of what is to come, and I'm more distracted in a classroom than I've ever been.

That's why it takes me a while to realize, there's something wrong with Eric. Seriously wrong. Not health-wise—he looks just fine—but the empty, detached look in his eyes scares me.

Five minutes to the end of the class, when some people are leaving, Eric and I still have a few exercises to do. I observe him, the acne on his face, the glasses, the gawkiness. Nothing is different except for the freaky calmness on his face.

"How're you, Eric? How's your girlfriend?"

He stares in the distance before making eye contact, and his expression is empty. "She left me."

"Shit. I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond, he simply stares at me with the same empty eyes. The strange atrocity makes my stomach roll. I can't understand it, but it scares me.

"Eric?" I ask. "Are you alright?"

Finally, he folds his arms, leans closer to the table, and looks me dead in the eye. "Why do you think Newton's gotten away with the shit he's done?"

I blink at him. "He's good at choosing victims who he knows wouldn't dare say anything?" I guess. "No evidence?"

He leans back against the backrest with more confidence I've ever seen his wear yet his eyes are vacant. It's freaky.

"What would you say if I told you you're wrong? On both accounts."

"You—you've got evidence?"

He shrugs. "I might."

"Are you serious?! What kind?"

He ignores my questions.

"Bella, can you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Take care that the evidence reaches the right news outlets… when I'm no longer here to do it."

"What do you mean? What do you mean you're no longer here? Eric?"

Eric offers me a smile so cold and detached it gives me goose bumps. He pats his bulging pack bag, and stands up.

"Nothing. You're safe," he says, "Newton & Co., though? Let's just say he messed with the wrong guy."

I jump up. "Eric, no. Whatever you're planning, don't do it."

He plants that same emotionless smile on his face, steps aside, and starts walking. "You're safe," he repeats, and exits the classroom, leaving the door open.

Well, fuck.

Is he planning what I think he is? What if I misunderstood him? What if I didn't?

I throw my bag over my shoulder, enter the corridor and start walking in the direction I saw Eric go. With trembling fingers, I take out my phone and press 911. I observe the students, laughing and sitting and talking on the phone, and my finger hovers over 'dial' button, but I don't press it. I don't want to cause unnecessary panic if I'm wrong. Instead, I remember Mr. Stephens—he'll know what to do.

He picks up immediately.

"Marshal Stephens? This is Isabella Swan, Charlie's daughter."

"Hi, Isabella. How may I help you? Not to be rude, but I'm in the middle of something, so could you make it quick?"

I can hear rustling and talking in the background.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but I didn't know who to turn to, since Charlie is out of the state," I reply, taking a breath. "How should I act if I have reason to believe there is the possibility of a school shooting in my school?"

Some more rustling, the sound of a door closing, and complete silence.

"These are serious allegations, Isabella," he replies, deathly serious.

"I'm aware of that."

"You have my attention. Are you safe? Is there anyone already in your school with a gun?"

"I—I don't think so, but I don't know. I don't know if the guy I think might do it even owns a gun."

"What's his name? I'll run a background check."

I look around in the hallway to make sure I have no-one's attention. There aren't too many people around, most are already in the cafeteria. I walk in that direction.

I clear my throat. "Eric Yorkie."

"Did he threaten you? Did he say anything? Why do you think he'd have a reason to shoot anyone?"

"He's been bullied by the same guy who—oh, fuck."

I stop just after entering the cafeteria. I can clearly see Eric leaning over his bag, and there it is. The position of his right hand, the furtive glance around the oblivious students around him, the cold, detached expression. He's eerily calm. Not one student has noticed. Not the teachers, not anyone.

No-one except for me is looking in his direction.

Holy fuck.

"What is it, Isabella? What happened?"

"I'm in the cafeteria." I gulp. "Yes." I let out a breath, whispering. "He's got a gun."

"Isabella? Do you hear me? Slowly back out of the cafeteria, do not hang up on me, do you hear me? Stay calm! Police is on their way! I'll be there in a moment."

I let out a broken breath. He keeps saying my name, but all I can see is Edward having a silent argument with one of Michael Newton's hanger-ons, Shawn. Emmett, thank god, is on the other side of the cafeteria.

Everyone is completely oblivious to Eric's actions.

And fuck, Edward is right in front of him, right next to Michael Newton, and if Michael Newton is the person Eric is going after, he might—intentionally or unintentionally—shoot Edward as well.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Isabella?" the voice at the other end insists. "Isabella? What's happening? Has he shot anyone?"

I feel like the entire situation is an out-of-body experience. I quietly place my phone—without hanging up—on the table next to Eric's and walk over to him. Slowly. Calmly. He hasn't shot anyone yet, and I can stop this. If anyone can stop this, it's me.

I'm determined. I'm calm.

I stop right in front of Eric, and I realize, this might literally be the last moment of my life. Everyone's oblivious. I take a breath. I can feel my heart beat.

I love you, Edward.

"He's not worth it," I whisper, and he looks up. He pushes his glasses back, completely unfazed by the fact that I had noticed what he was doing when nobody else had. Did he feel like he was invisible in our high school? What had Michael Newton done to him?

He gives me a slow, detached smile. There is no humor in it.

"Oh, but I think he is," he replies, apathetic as ever. "That's just it, Bella. This isn't painful enough for the likes of him."

"Don't do this, Eric. Don't do this," I quietly insist, assessing my chances of just—kicking the damn thing from his hands, but just when I bounce, so does he, and now he's standing, straight in front of me, the gun pointed right at me.

"Everyone get down!" I scream.

Hell breaks loose. There's screaming and rustling and crying. Everyone in line behind me has frozen on their spots because Eric gives them a warning glance before pointing the gun at them for a second. And then, he points it back at me.

It's loaded.

Deathly silence has fallen on the cafeteria, and everyone—except for the ones in line—is on the floor.

"I'm not like you, Bella. I'm not like you. I can't deal with his shit as well as you can," he spits, now pointing the gun straight at Michael. Eric takes a step closer to him.

Michael Newton is pale, very pale.

"I want everyone to know that this faggot—" he tilts the gun a little towards Michael, "—is gay."

He pulls the trigger, and Jared falls to the ground. People scream.

Holy fuck.

He's really doing this.

Eric locks eyes with me, but only points at Michael now. They're a few feet behind me.

"I was wondering, Michael, do people know what shit you've pulled on me? On little Bella here?" he motions at me. Everyone stays silent.

"But I'm not like her. She's fucking strong, you know? She's too nice to want revenge. But I'm not. So this one's for you, Bella."

For a fraction of a second, I can see the muscles on his forearm tense as he looks straight at Michael, who is half-hiding behind Edward.

Fuuuuck.

Another fraction of a second, and I throw myself in the way, kicking his gun down, but it goes off, and I'm coughing blood. I feel pain sharper than anything I've experienced. Excruciating pain. I fall. There's warm liquid all over my hand, and someone's hands encase my face. I focus on his clear green eyes. He's got tears in his eyes.

"Fuck, Bella—" Eric lets out a cry. "Not you—Bella—fuck. Why would you do that?!"

Four consecutive shots later it's quiet. I can feel the distant sound of a siren, and my eyes struggle to focus on Edward. He's holding the back of my head in his hands, rocking above me and pouring my face with wet kisses.

"Why would you do that, Bella?" he whispers, and I've never heard his voice so pained. "Why would you take a bullet for me?"

A strong hand presses on the side of my stomach, and I'm too weak to keep myself conscious.

A/N: And then she died. The end.