Diary of an Ugly Girl

by Anton M

Complete. Follow Bella as she grows from a bullied little girl into a sassy young woman. After all, it's not about what you're looking at, it's about what you see. An unorthodox story about best friends and their journey. Humor/Angst/Friendship/Romance. AH.

19. Where the Cookies Are

"Look, look, I just can't take the pressure of all these omens anymore!"
"Percy..."
"No, no, really, I'm serious! Only this morning in the courtyard I saw a horse with two heads and two bodies!"
"Two horses standing next to each other?"
"Yes, I suppose it could have been."

— The Black Adder, Witchsmeller Pursuivant, Episode 5

: :

On Monday, my doctor and a few nurses help me stand. I listen to my shaky breathing as I hold on to them and cringe. If I had to describe the pain, I'd say standing feels like multiple blisters bursting in the middle of my back, coming in contact with water and running to my legs as I attempt to walk. My legs tingle. It's hard to tell if my left one is touching the floor because it's somewhat numb. I can't explain it. It's as if my leg couldn't decide if it's trying to take the stairs up or down, and doesn't want to tell me which one it is. For a half a minute, I stand, gripping their shoulders with my eyes closed. I want to cry. From happiness or sadness, I do not know. It fucking hurts to stand, but I am standing.

"Well?" the ginger-haired nurse asks.

"Knock me out with morphine. Please."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Back. Legs. It's like tingling blisters or something."

"Tingling?"

"Pins and needles. Tingling. All over my legs."

I open my eyes to see them making eye contact, and it seems so full of hidden meaning I shut my eyes again. "Don't tell me you were wrong and I'm never going to walk again."

"No," Dr. Heilbronner replies. "But it will take time. Time and patience and a lot of hard work. Can you take a step?"

I take a breath so deep my lungs hurt (which doesn't take much) and focus all my attention on raising my right leg. I can. Through pain, I take a tiny step, maybe five inches, and as my foot lands, I grin at them.

"Did you see that?"

My doctor smiles. "Very good. Now try with your left."

I do, and while I can raise it, my idiot leg thinks it's taking a step upstairs. It's hard to tell when it touches the ground, and I face-plant into Dr. Heilbronner's chest before nurses get hold of me.

"Easy there." My doctor chuckles. "Good. Very good. You can lie down again."

"Wait. Let me try again."

I feel like a glove puppet or a stick figure. I'm painfully aware (yes) of my leg as I lift it off the ground, and will my leg to understand when it lands. I can see it touch down. My leg knows all the necessary muscles to move, but my body doesn't know how to react, and the nurses catch me.

"Wait! I can do it. I can."

But I can't. After my sixth attempt, it becomes clear that while I can move my legs, my left one doesn't like letting me know when it hits the ground. As I sit, pant and stare at my knees, Dr. Heilbronner assures me I'm doing incredibly well under the circumstances. I'm barely listening. They help me lie down. The moment they've left, I grimace and curse, trying to be the better (wo)man and the stronger girl and ignore the sting of tears in my eyes. But I can't. Despite Carlisle and Edward and everyone, including my doctor, assuring me that I'll be on my feet in no time and running laps and climbing trees, it is clear that learning to walk again might just be the hardest thing I'll ever do, and not just physically.

I keep my voice down and let the tears fall as I cringe against my palm and take deep, shaky breaths. It's not the physical pain, though that's brutal, too. Maybe I'm finally taking it all in, or maybe I realize the faith that I so adamantly willed dad to understand will be crucial to my recovery. I have to have faith, and I shouldn't let my first attempt at walking get to me, but fuck it, I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted from being exhausted, and that makes me exhausted.

At around eight PM, I do what I shouldn't do. I sit, holding my back rigid not to harm it and slip my feet on the ground. Gripping the edge of my bed, I slip entirely to the ground and stand. It's odd. I feel almost no pain, but that could be because Dr. Heilbronner changed the narcotics I'm on. Narcotic pain pills, whatever. Leaning against my hospital bed, I watch my feet and take a step. A tiny one. I raise my left foot on my heel, observing it, and start swinging it back and forth. It seems fine. I let it touch down and repeat the motion. After a while, I take a tiny step with my left foot, and while I'm a bit off-balance, I don't fall.

I take a look at the doorway: nobody's watching me.

Continuing with my snail-paced (and snail-sized) footsteps, I work my way to the other side of the other bed. I hunch as I hyperventilate and lean on it. After a few minutes, I walk back, snail-style. I've never been more aware of my back muscles. I sit. Minutes pass. I try to get used to how tight my back feels, and carefully, I lean against my pillow and lie down. I feel encouraged.

I can do this. I know I can.

True to his word, Dr. Jon Heilbronner lets me go home on Tuesday at one PM. He provides written discharge instructions and prescriptions for anti-inflammatory medications and narcotic pain pills and physical therapy. He warns me against constipation and nausea. He tells me I need to get a back brace—a simple elastic corset and not a custom molded body jacket, whatever that means; and tells me that since my surgeries didn't involve a fusion, whatever that is, re-establishing my normal range of motion will accelerate my recovery. Basically, yabba-dabba-doo, I should do what my physical therapist tells me and stay home for at least a week.

Nurses help me get into the clothes Carlisle brought me in the morning (he had a long surgery scheduled for this afternoon) and Al Stephens rolls me in a wheelchair to the first floor. He stops in the foyer. A few people stand in front of the building, looking idle as they chat and hold cameras. I wince.

"They've been here the entire week," Mr. Stephens says, doing a one eighty. "My car is at the back."

I'm holding on to the arm Mr. Stephens holds out to me as we pace to the car, but luckily, he's patient. The sky is overcast, and if my life were symbolic, I'd say the weather reflects my dreary mood and all that. It doesn't. I'm happy. Well, as happy as you'd expect under the circumstances. I'm going home.

"Mr. Stephens? Thank you for coming to get me. I could've taken a cab, too, but I'm glad you were available."

"I could use some fresh air," he replies, smiling. "It's no problem. Do you need to go to the drug store?"

"Yes, I need some Tylenol and prescription drugs. And a walker."

He nods. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes.

"Are you under a lot of pain?"

"Not a whole lot. Manageable."

"Which means you are, you just don't want to admit it."

"When did you get to know me?"

He smiles. It's warm.

"Did you get results for the fingerprints yesterday?"

"We did." He sighs and looks at me behind a red light. "Nothing. Yours, Emmett's, Edward's. Charlie's. Nothing suspicious. Whoever it was must've used gloves."

"Damn."

"But I could use your help."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"I'm not officially on this case. But I want to run background checks, and if you could tell me who Michael Newton usually hangs out with at school, or who you've seen him with other than Mr. Holstein and Bronn, could you write down their names? As many as you know."

"Do you have a pen?"

He hands me his iPad, and I don't know more than seven or eight, sometimes only first or last names.

"I don't know if or how this could help. He could be doing this all on his own."

"Maybe," he replies. "But maybe not."

We pull up in front of Shoppers Drug Mart, and snail-style, I step into it, holding on to (occasionally leaning on) Mr. Stephens' forearm. I buy drugs and the tallest walker (they are apparently accustomed to shorter elderly people and not giants like me.) It's covered by insurance. When it's bought, Mr. Stephens takes my bags as we adjust the walker at least three times so that I could lean on it as I walk. Just to try it out. Hands on each handles, I take a step. And another. Slowly, I start to walk with teeny-tiny steps as Mr. Stephens patiently stands by me. Bear in mind that I am using the term 'walk' loosely because my lack of speed and rate of dragging my feet disqualify me from walking. It's still uncomfortable and painful, more so than last evening, but I offer Mr. Stephens a smile.

"I'm gonna make walkers so hip in a month even the school jocks are going to have one."

For a second or so, he stares at me, but then he lets out a laugh so carefree I halt. I'm taken off guard by how similar his laugh is to Edward's. I've never heard him laugh before. I take in his lithe and tall frame, a few inches taller than I am, and if I weren't already panting from exertion, I'd start to hyperventilate.

It can't be.

"Mr. Stephens, what's your middle name?"

The corners of his eyes are still creased from smiling. We continue walking.

"Ronald Masen, why?"

It can't be. It can't. It just can't. Can it? Seattle is not too far from Vancouver.

"You wouldn't happen to have any illegitimate children, would you?"

He frowns, and it's a funny kind of frown, like he didn't know whether to take my question seriously or not. "Why?"

"I noticed you have an uncanny similarity to a guy I know who's adopted and looking for his father."

"I'm sorry," he says, still smiling. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I only have a daughter with the only woman I've ever loved."

"I didn't mean to—imply anything. I'm sorry. I just thought honesty was the best policy, and I noticed a similarity."

"No harm, no foul."

As we start driving to Kirkland, I observe him a bit, and notice the differences. Al Stephens is fair-haired and blue-eyed and slightly freckled. He looks like he'd burn in the sun. Dark-haired and green-eyed, Edward has a few tan lines. He must tan easily. I'm aware of this. But I still feel like they are similar. I can't help it. Cruel fate? Biggest coincidence ever? I'm starting to lose my mind.

"Have you ever been to Vancouver?"

"Not once. Which is strange considering I've visited countries in all continents. Except Antarctica, of course." He looks at me. "I'm sorry my answers are disappointing you. I apologize."

"Nothing to apologize for," I reply. "I'm just—I'm so exhausted I'm seeing things. Wishful thinking, I guess."

"Wishful thinking?"

"Yeah. It would be so cool to find out he's got a genuinely good human being as a father as opposed to, I don't know, a drug-addict pedophile dwarf."

He laughs.

"Was it just my appearance that convinced you?"

"And your laughter and the fact that your middle name is Masen. That's his real last name."

"Interesting," he says. "That is an uncanny coincidence. What's his name again? I could look into this."

"He's—I'm not sure it's my place to tell. If you mean it, and he'd agree, could I let him call you?"

"Sure."

"Are you sure you have time for trivial matters like this? Why are you so nice to me?"

He frowns, again, not quite sure whether to take my question seriously or not. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because you're this big important Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal and yet you came to see me at the hospital and listen to my weepy story about middle school, and now you're doing what the police should be doing—or is, simultaneously. And then you're also driving me home. Either you're a really, really nice guy or you really, really want dad to be assured that I'm taken care of so he'd stay in Georgia."

The edge of his mouth rises. "Which one do you think it is?"

"Well, while I don't think you'd mind if my dad knew how much you're helping me, you'd survive without it, so maybe you're just a super nice guy."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Isabella. I do think your dad should finish his training. He's got it in him. It's what he wants to do. And, like you said, if he were here for you, that would make no difference because you're the one who will have to learn to walk and run again. He couldn't be here for you 24/7. That's all true. But I also thought it would be a good idea to have the chance to talk to you, and you needed help."

"Now you're just trying to cover up the fact that you're a really amiable dude, Mr. Stephens."

"If you insist on calling me a dude, perhaps you should call me Al."

"How old are you, Al?"

"Sixty one."

"Continue what you're doing 'cause you don't look a day over fifty nine."

He laughs. I watch the grey Lake Washington as we cross the floating bridge, and it starts to rain. Windshield wipers push the raindrops to the side, and they make their little pathways until they unite and melt.

"Can I really call you Al?"

He nods.

"That's brilliant. I have more questions, if that's okay. You can just not answer me if you don't want to. I'm pretty blunt though, so I apologize in advance for that."

"Not a problem at all. What do you want to know?"

"How long have you known dad?"

"Just shy of two years, if I'm not mistaken."

"Is Sarah your daughter?"

"I see Charlie isn't as inconspicuous as he thinks." He smiles. It's a bit surprised but a lot amused. "Yes. She is my only daughter."

"Seeing as my dad has never mentioned this, are they dating?"

He's trying to suppress a smile. "I've long ago backed out of trying to label them. In a way, yes. Would they say they're dating? I doubt. Who knows nowadays."

"Did she meet dad through you or did you meet dad through your daughter?"

"I met him through Sarah," he replies. "I can honestly say I did not like your father at all at first. A man with two teenaged children who is twelve years older than my daughter? He appeared rather—crude at first, for a lack of a better word. Not impolite, just a sort of raw honesty that I've grown to appreciate over time. He knew of my antipathy, of course, but we never talked about it."

"What made you change your mind?"

"A—tight situation. Work-related. He saved my life, red tape style, and never mentioned it again. A disarming attitude. I'd always thought he was using my daughter, but I found myself talking to him, and he cares. He's just not used to showing it. I'm not eager to marry my daughter off—it's her decision—but no father likes to see his daughter in a questionable relationship with a man who doesn't seem to want to or might not be able to return what she's offering him. I've since decided it's none of my concern."

"Good decision. I approve."

"You are a spitting image of him, you do know that?"

"That sounds like comparing an elephant and a chicken and coming to the conclusion that they are both pink and furry."

He laughs. "Nevertheless, you are very similar to your father."

"That's a compliment."

"It is."

"Thank you. How much time do you have on your hands?"

"Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

"Home," I reply. "Or the remnants of it. If you have time."

"I think we can squeeze that in," he says, and turns on the radio.

We haven't even made it to our subdivision when we see slight smoke rising from the distance. As we drive closer to home, I'm struck by nausea. In a surreal sort of way, I feel the car come to a stop as I stare at the dust and smoke rising up to the sky and fighting the rain that insist on the opposite direction. Quarter of a wall, coal black, is up on the right, but mostly it's all rubble covered in wet ash. It is, as Emmett said, like a war had taken place, but nothing could've prepared me for the shock of seeing it. I mean, it was just a few walls and a ceiling. A house that looked almost identical to the one on the right. Nothing special.

I gulp. "Will you help me—go there?"

"Are you sure you have the energy?"

"Yes," I reply. "I want to."

Al helps me out of the car and holds out his arm. I grip it. He waits as I walk, tiny step after tiny step, toward the rubble. It's like I'm being introduced to a surreal scene of a movie where they made a replica of my subdivision and my burnt house and wanted my opinion on whether or not it seemed believable and authentic to the original. It did, scarily so. Sadly. When we'd made it to the remnants of porch and doorway, I could see that a pathway had been made to move in the middle of rubble. I inch closer to it. As I can't step over a log, Al puts his hands under my armpits and lifts me over it. He resumes to my side as I, through increasing pain, step around the rubble, holding on to his forearm.

The remnants of furniture and the start of our staircase are covered in grey goo. I inch around pieces of furniture some of which I can recognize but most of which I can't, and imagine the doorway for our living room in which Edward asked to kiss me not so long ago. I catch sight of my table, without legs, upside down under the beginning of our staircase.

"Could you try to get the drawer out? Please?"

I can't crouch. Al does, and wipes my table before pushing it sideways and opening the drawer. Rubble and ash fall on the ground, followed by a metal box.

"Please."

He hands it to me and I take off the lid. Gripping my stack of photos and pieces of poetry and articles with their burnt edges, I put down the metal box. I put a few poems under the stack before I reach a photograph of Emmett, mom and I, taken about ten years ago. I brush the grey goo (ash) off the third step of our staircase.

"Do you think—it will hold me?" I ask, but sit without waiting for an answer. Breathing hurts. My back aches. So does my heart. I look at the rubble covered by wet ash and feel rain wet my face. I scrunch my face to avoid crying, but I can't. I take off my gloves and clutch the photograph, brushing my finger against the fragile corner. The ash makes my palms dirty. I press my teeth together as I don't want to start sobbing.

Al crouches in front of me. "Do you need a moment?"

I nod and watch as he starts walking in the middle of rubble, moving some pieces of furniture or wiping them. I rub my thumbs against mom's face on the picture, the petite figure, blonde hair and a smile with two dimples. I'm sitting on her leg and Emmett is standing next to me, holding our neighbors' hamster on his palm. Both of us are observing the little creature. I take a glove and start rubbing mom's face, cleaning it as if it made mom return or visit us, as if it gave me more pictures of her than this one, as if the house didn't matter. It does. I want mom to be here. Most of my memories of her took place in this house and I'm terrified that now that it's gone, she'll be, too.

I breathe in, crudely wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve, and continue flipping through the papers. There are a few other pictures, of me and Emmett and dad, but none of mom. I stop as I reach a picture of me and Eric that Angela took on our ninth grade trip to North Cascades National Park, and we're sitting next to the fire, playing cards together. It must've been the only class trip we took together. I had this picture on my wall to remind me of the first time I truly wanted to change myself and told Eric about it, and in his awkward, taciturn manner, he told me to go for it. And as neither of us knew our new classmates, we decided to play cards together. Just the two of us.

In a creepy sort of way—with its edges intact—it's the only picture unharmed by fire.

I wipe my nose, put on my gloves and attempt to get up. I can't.

"Al? Could you help me?"

He pretends not to notice my runny nose as he pulls me to my feet, offers his arm, turns to look at the street, and after a few seconds, he mutters, "We've got company."

I turn my head to look at a man in his early thirties, perhaps, snapping away pictures in our direction. I look at my feet as we continue to walk. "Journalist?"

"Probably."

When we've made it to the car, Al calls out, "Young man in a black coat, what do you have there?"

Not the slightest bit intimidated, the man steps closer. "Dereck Norman, reporting for The Seattle Times," he says, and then turns to me. "Are you Isabella Swan? I would like to ask some questions, if that's okay."

"She's arrived straight from the hospital. She needs to rest."

Dereck Norman, with his light brown hair and a striped scarf, steps closer. "I see that you're on your feet. I heard you were going to be paralyzed."

I clench my fingers around Al's forearm and grimace. My back aches. My eyes are red. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Norman, but I have a dog waiting for my return and he's going to pee on the carpet if he waits any longer."

He tilts his head on the side, as if he isn't sure if he heard me correctly. "Perhaps we could work out a time for an interview, Miss Swan? Maybe later this week?"

"I'm afraid my dog is going to pee on my carpet every day." Al opens the car door for me and I lean on it. I hesitate. I can drive this journalist away with my rudeness, but if this is what Eric wanted me to do—tell them our story, should I take this chance? I sigh. "No offense, Mr. Norman, but I really do need rest. I haven't decided if or when I'm going to sit down with a journalist , but if I do, I promise to remember your offer. Deal?"

I offer my right hand, and he gives me a firm handshake. "Deal. Here, take my business card."

I take it. No journalists are waiting for us in front of Edward's house and I'm thankful. Al thinks it's because they simply don't know I'm staying at Edward's, but either way, it's lovely. In a surreal sort of way. I lean on Al's arm as we inch closer to the door. He unlocks it. Ping Pong jumps on me, waggling his little tail like I'm the tastiest thing since the bone. I sit, scratching Ping Pong's neck as I wait for Al. He brings my badass walker, dirty metal box and medications from the car. Ping Pong growls at him, but I tell him to stop, and miraculously, he does.

"Esme should be home within an hour," Al says, setting down my stuff. "I can stay until she arrives."

"Don't. You have more important business to tend to than babysitting a seventeen year-old. Go save lives or something."

He smiles. "Where's your room?"

Supporting my weight, he half-lifts me downstairs. Ping Pong follows, sniffing him. Again, I hold on to Al's arm as we walk to my room. My (text)books and papers have been organized into stacks on my desk, and Esme probably put my clothes away, but it's obvious someone has gone through my stuff. A larger, new mattress is covering my bed, and there are necessities on my bedside table: bottles of water, tissues, a few books, peanuts, Tylenol. I sit on the new mattress.

"Can you see my laptop?"

He observes my table, walks into the parlor and into Edward's room. "Macintosh?" he asks.

"That's Edward's. I have a Dell."

He comes back.

"I think whoever broke in must've taken it," I say. Charlie isn't used to me owning a laptop, of course he wouldn't have noticed.

Al walks around my bed, observes my table and goes through my drawers one by one. All are empty. He sits. "Could there have been anything at all on it that could be considered evidence against Newton?"

"I told you, Eric never—well, shit."

"What is it?"

"If—if Eric sent me an email or an attachment in an email—they'll have it now. I haven't been to my inbox since last Sunday."

"Does your computer automatically go to your inbox?"

"It does."

"Is your computer password-protected?"

"Yes."

"Don't tell me your password is Edward's name."

"I am Charlie's daughter, you know."

"Could it be easily hacked by someone who knows what you like?"

"Well, my computer's password is hulaFrog03-1975. If you think that's easy to guess, then yes."

Al lets out a laugh, but he's relieved. "Let me go get my iPad." He leaves and returns with Ping Pong sniffing his feet, and hands me his technology. "Go see your email."

I do. I log in, and while my inbox is overflowing with Facebook messages, ridiculous stuff that Emmett has shared and a couple of emails from work, Ctrl F proves that not a single email is from Eric.

"Can I?" Al asks, and as I hold his iPad, he scrolls down. "Last account activity: 28th of February," he reads. "Good. No-one's probably hacked into your computer. Not yet. Change your passwords. This one, Skype, Facebook, all of them."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

I do as he says. When I'm done, I give back his iPod. "I'll wait until Esme is home."

"Don't. It's fine. Ping Pong is so scary he'll scare Frankenstein away. Right, Ping Pong?" Wally, faithful as ever, waggles his little tail and licks my knees. "Ferocious dog," I add.

"Where was he when someone broke in?"

"He's upstairs during the day."

He nods and stands. "Thank you for calling me before Eric had done anything. If it weren't for your call, the police and ambulance would've never made it in time. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," I reply, smiling. "For helping me, for everything."

"My pleasure," he says. "How do I leave and lock after myself without taking your key?"

"Push the thingy in an upright position. It'll stay locked."

The house echoes when the door locks and I lie on my back. I didn't realize how much it ached. My feet continue to tingle. The house is silent except for the sound of Ping Pong's breathing as he looks at me, tongue out of his mouth. He rests his head on the side of the mattress and whimpers. It's a heartbreaking sound.

"Did you miss me?"

Wally looks at me with his big, sad eyes and licks my face. It's wonderful. I scratch his ears. He wants to hop in my lap, but I don't let him. I would love to snuggle and hug him, but until my back is stronger, I don't want to risk anything. I send dad a text message to let him know I'm home, drink a bottle of water and take three pills.

I wake up to the sound of Esme whispering my name and caressing my hair. She's sitting on the edge of my bed, with a smoothie-looking drink in her one hand and three pills in the other. When she sees I'm awake, she offers a gentle smile.

"It's time to take your antibiotics," she says. I attempt to get up, but she puts down my drink to be able to help me. I let her. I lean on the pillow-covered headboard and drink her smoothie.

"It's so good I'll eat the glass after I'm done," I tell her. "Thank you."

She smiles as I gulp down her drink. "It's just berries, yoghurt and some bran for your stomach. I made a lot. Do you want more?"

"Yes. Yes, but—" I pant. "I think my stomach has shrunk with this week. Can you leave some for later?"

"Of course, honey." She takes my empty glass and gives me my pills. "Don't you like lasagna? I left you some for heating, but noticed you didn't touch it."

"You made lunch?" I swallow pills and drink water. "I—I didn't know. I forgot. I'm sorry."

"I'll leave some for later. You should take it easy when you haven't eaten properly for so long." She smiles, and it's a heart-warming sight. "We bought you a toilet riser and this mattress—it's really good for your back. We're going to get you an elastic corset, and already ordered one of those blue exercising mattresses for your physical therapy. We'll bring the microwave downstairs as well. And a tiny fridge. Is there anything else you think you need?"

"I—I, I mean, wow. Thank you."

"It's the least we could do," she says, intertwines her fingers together and stares at her lap. She starts to scratch and observe the edges of her fingernails as if she'd never realized how incessantly fascinating they were. "Bella," she starts and licks her lips, rubbing her bony fingers. She's so fragile. She's very different from me, how prim and proper she looks, how much she takes care of her appearance, how tactful she is and how much she expresses love with concern. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did. For Edward. When Carlisle and I saw the footage—I can't describe how much it meant to me, to us. You don't know what an angel you are. If you hadn't—maybe Eric would've—but you saved him, and I—" She swallows. "We'll never be able to repay you for what you did."

"Sure you will. Just make me smoothies as long as I live."

She wipes away her tears. "Oh, God. I promised I wouldn't cry, but I—please tell us when you need anything. Anything at all."

"Like a lifetime supply of peanut-butter? Sure thing."

She laughs.

"It's nothing. You don't owe me anything. I've said it before, but it was my decision. No matter how things end up with me and Edward, I don't want you to feel like you owe me. Because you don't."

"What do you mean how things end up with Edward? Do you plan on…"

"I don't plan," I reply. "That's the thing. But we're in high school. We're young, and I don't think either of us truly knows what we want out of life. We're not really anything yet, and life's messy and unexpected, and it's just too early to say anything. Right now, I'm just grateful someone like Edward is a part of my journey, and I hope he feels the same."

She leans in to hug me, like a proper, both arms around my back kind of hug. I return it. "I understand. Take things slow, have fun. But don't write him off just because you're young. Sometimes happy endings are worth fighting for."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

She laughs and holds me tight against her. "I know I didn't see it coming, but I couldn't be happier that you found each other. Take care of him, alright?"

"I will," I reply. She pulls back, caresses my hair and smiles at me through tears. I slide lower because I can't sit for longer than twenty or thirty minutes, but Esme stays by my side and keeps caressing my hair. I close my eyes and sigh. "I'd like to think my mom would've taken care of me just as well as you are."

"Honey," Esme says, and kisses my forehead. "Of course she would have."

I nod. She wouldn't have, of course. Not because she didn't care, but because she showed her love differently. She wouldn't have fussed so much. She would've read fairy tales and fallen asleep and watched a movie with me. Tucking me in and kissing me just weren't a part of her she shared with me. But maybe I wanted that, just a little bit. I wanted a taste of what Edward had. Not only someone to care, but someone to be unafraid to show how much they do.

"Will you play cards with me?"

Her hands stop, but she doesn't remove them.

"It's okay if you don't want to, or don't have the time. I just thought—we've never really spent much time together. It's fine, though. Don't feel bad for saying no."

But she stands, slides her hands over her knee-length skirt, and says, "I'll be right back."

When she returns, she's wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, with her hair in a bun and no make-up. None. I've never seen her so casual.

"You look like a poker player's dream," I say as she sits on my mattress, cross-legged. I notice her gaze on my hair. "I thought you could die my hair again if you wanted. I'm turning grey."

"What color?"

"I was thinking green. Bright green. And then some purple streaks."

She stares at me for a second. "Alright."

"You'd do that?"

"Sure."

"I was kidding, though. Maybe just dark blonde underneath and light at the tips. Would that work?"

Esme laughs, and I see the girl in her, perhaps a teenager ready to let her hair down and talk about silly girly things and paint nails and draw a fake tattoo on my back. I shuffle my deck of cards, explain the rules of bullshit to her and we play. She laughs a lot, I laugh a lot, and after a few rounds, we don't even pay attention to the game. She's lying beside me, cards on her stomach.

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"What was Edward like when he was a kid?"

"A bit lost. Desperate to please Carlisle and always ahead of the others kids. He grew up fast, something I always associated with the fact that Carlisle took him to the hospital all the time and he saw the rough side of life from early on. I'm sorry that I couldn't see you two—together, but my surprise had nothing to do with how much you deserve him and a lot—you were with Laurent and I had no reason to believe—I'm so sorry if my reaction wounded you or—"

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"No, I want to. You see, I always wanted a daughter." Her lips tug into a sad smile as looks at me. "I wanted Edward to have a sister. So much."

"You're stuck with me now, though. I am totally worth the fuss of five daughters."

She looks at me, really looks at me, staring at my face and hair, the fragility of my position, and her eyes brim over. She lets out a teary-eyed huff of a laugh, turns to her side so that cards fall on the blanket and rests her jaw on her palm. She opens and closes her mouth, but finally squeezes my hand and smiles, not saying anything. I return her smile.

"Carlisle has always been—if not Edward's best friend, then his trustee. I've always known that. They have a close relationship. Truly close. I'm proud of how much Edward shares with him because he's his dad and of course there are things you feel awkward bringing up with your mother. But I admit, I was hurt when it became clear that Edward told Carlisle months ago, and yet they let me make a fool out of myself thinking he treated you like a sister. If I'd known, I would've never said that. I would've helped you—"

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"You think too much."

She lets out a broken laugh. She worries a lot and she's tactful, but truly, she's so genuinely warm-hearted it's making my heart burst. "If you want to get back at them, I'm ready to share girl-matters so embarrassing my dog will blush. I will make you buy tampons and tell you all about how unworthy of Edward I think I am."

"You're not. Truly. He'll be desperate to make you see that."

"That's what I'm worried about."

She observes my face, but instead of answering, she sighs. "There's not much I could tell you that you'll believe without the words coming from his mouth, is there?"

"True."

When Carlisle discovers us a few hours later, he's leaning on the doorway, hands crossed, with a scowl on his face. Esme has just called me out on my bullshitting when Carlisle clears his throat.

"Isabella Swan, you've ruined my wife."

I don't move. Esme looks up, and I'm afraid Carlisle is mad at me for keeping Esme from making dinner (whichever spouse is home always seems to make dinner for the other), but he gets a glint in his eye and chuckles, walks over to Esme to kiss her, and stands, hands akimbo.

"So do I get to join?"

"I don't know. It really depends on how much ass-kicking your manhood can take."

He brings three plates of warmed-up lasagna before sitting by my feet, holding a stack of cards and eating. It's a rather peculiar experience yet totally fun, and I wonder what Edward will make of this scene now that neither his dad nor mom made dinner. Neither insisted on eating around the dinner table. I have, in fact, ruined them.

I don't get to find out. Once again, I fall asleep. I faintly recall Edward lying next to my bed with a lamp and a textbook, chewing on the end of his ball-point pen as he rolls a ball for Ping Pong to chase, and I think of opening my mouth: asking for time, bullshitting, getting a hug. I'm tired, so I simply look at him before falling asleep again.

The next time I awake, it's light outside. My bladder is at the brink of exploding, and I hate my back all the way to the bathroom. There's a molded piece of plastic, about eight inches high, above the toilet. Toilet riser? Weird. But I've never been more grateful for something so embarrassing. When I inch back to my room with my badass walker, I notice the furniture in the parlor has been moved to make room for a blue exercising mat. It takes up nearly half of the room.

"Very impressive," Carlisle says as he walks downstairs. He stops to observe me. "Any pain?"

"Strangely enough, no. I just feel very drowsy. I could sleep all day."

"Did you sleep through the night?"

"Like a monkey on drugs."

He gives a call to my doctor and together they decide that if my drowsiness doesn't retreat by Thursday evening, the amount (or sort) of my drugs needs changing. When I'm lying on my bed again, Carlisle brings me breakfast and a newspaper. He opens the fifth page and places it in my lap.

"I think you should see this."

In bold letters, the headline reads, Misfortune in Swan Family. Half of the page is covered by a black and white photograph of (the remnants of) my house as I sit on a staircase that leads nowhere, clutching a piece of paper. My head is lowered as I cry, and the overcast sky is looming above me. It's a heartbreaking fragment.

"Kudos to Mr. Norman for an artistic photograph."

Carlisle watches me closely. "I don't mean to scold you, Bella, but what were you doing there alone?"

I observe the photograph, and sure enough, Al is nowhere to be seen. "Al Stephens was with me. He must be crouching in the rubble or behind the single wall that's still up. I wasn't alone."

He lets out a breath. "You had me worried."

"Should I read the article?" I ask. "Is it something bad?"

He shakes his head. "It talks about you going home, the fact you're on your feet, your home and the suspected arson. It's concise."

It is. Mr. Norman hasn't made anything up, and I like that. If I do, indeed, decide to call the media attention upon myself, I think he wouldn't be a bad choice. Maybe I should be upset, but honestly, I don't really care right now.

I would be way more upset if the piece wrote about the incredible Michael Newton and his journey to Yale.

Carlisle spends the morning with me. Together with Esme, they'll try to arrange their shifts so that I wouldn't have to be home alone. It's incredibly considerate. I try to convince him otherwise because I don't need babysitting, but he insists that if I should fall or something should happen, I'll need someone to help me. I can't argue with that. Well, I can, but I don't. Still, he insists today is an exception because he leaves before noon, and Esme will arrive home after six.

A whole myriad of people visit me on Wednesday.

Two policemen who are actually working on this case, Thomas Kell and Richard Parker, come to talk to me. Dad used to be their boss and I've seen them around. They know of Michael Newton's assault against me, and my opinion about Eric's motives, but they only ask specific questions. A dog walker, a woman named Gianna Evans, arrives just after the policemen have left to take Ping Pong on a walk. A few hours later, when she has brought Ping Pong back, happy and panting, my physical therapist arrives. She introduces herself as Christine Bartlett, "Chris." She could be twenty or forty, I can't tell. One of those lucky ageless women.

She walks downstairs, pulls my walker about three feet away from me, and arches an eyebrow. I waver, because I need that walker, but instead of breaking the silence, I take a step. And another. I fall, too, but catch the side of our couch before a concussion could occur. She doesn't say anything. Seriously. Her name is one of the two times she says anything during the hour and a half that we spend together. I bullshit and say all sorts of crazy stuff to make her talk, but no. She makes it clear I am to repeat what she does even if it's painful—and it is. Overall an arrogant-looking woman. The second time she opens her mouth, she tells me that if I don't lose my walker by Friday, I'm weak. Well, ouch. I have that walker for a reason, you know.

When she has left, I lie on my exercising mat and stare at the ceiling. I'm pissed. I'm pissed that my physical therapist looks at me as if my problems are trivial and that all I want is pity. That all that lies between me and recovery is my fear of pain. Most of all, I'm pissed if she's right. I'll be equally pissed if she isn't. Minutes pass as I, with Ping Pong's help, sit, get hold of the couch, and stand. Tingle, tingle. If Chris is right, and it's all in my head, I'll have no problem climbing upstairs, right?

I inch closer to them. It's brutal. The pace, my back. Out of spite, I kick over my walker and curse. Once I'm at the beginning of stairs, I lean on the wall and count steps. Ten plus five. There's no handrail, so I awkwardly lean on the wall as I lift my right leg. Take a step, lift my body, raise both legs on the step. Repeat. On my fourth step, I decide to go left leg first, but my idiot leg doesn't realize it's supposed to land properly. I slip, fly through the air like a broken superman and land upside-down on the steps. Blistering pain shoots from my back to legs.

My tears are immediate. Ping Pong snuggles his head on my chest and whines, and I just lie there, tears streaming on my temples because I'm upside-down and everything hurts and I'm so fucking angry that it does. I growl. I weep.

"Is this a message, God? Am I supposed to never take anything for granted ever again? 'cause if you exist and you're trying to make a point, you're being kind of an asshole right now."

I lift my head, just a fraction, but it hurts too fucking much.

"Fucking useless motherfucking back! Fuck."

Ping Pong lies next to me and looks at me with his big, sad eyes. I close mine, hyperventilating, and no longer attempt to get up. I just lie there. It's too much. Too much everything. Too much pain, too much pressure, too much expectation and too much hurt. Too much.

I don't know how long I've laid there, upside-down, when I hear the door close. I open my eyes to see Edward's jean-clad legs, white sweatshirt covered torso, and finally, his pale, worried face.

"What happened?!"

"I'm meditating," I reply, motioning at myself. "Duh." I crack a broken smile.

He leans over me, assessing damage. "How long have you been like this? Where does it hurt? Can you move?"

"Not if I can help it. Just leave me here. I'm fine."

"The fuck you are. C'mon, I'll help you up. Can you bend your neck?"

"I don't need your help."

A flash of hurt crosses his eyes, but he cradles my neck. "You do."

"Fine. But I don't want it."

"And I'm supposed to leave you here."

"Yes. I'm throwing one heck of a pity party. You're not invited."

He hesitates before he throws his back bag next to the wall, crouches behind me and takes hold of my underarms.

"Don't!"

"Does this hurt?"

"Please," I beg, voice wavering. "Leave me be. Don't be so nice to me. Shout. Yell. Scream at me. Please."

With one swift move, Edward lifts me, places me on the ground, and sits behind me so that my legs are stretched out between his. He presses my back against his chest and wraps his arms around my waist in a way so tender and safe that immediately I'm sobbing. Edward rocks me back and forth as I weep, ugly face grimaces and snot noise and all. Tears drop on his forearms. He presses his jaw to the crook of my neck.

"Shh."

"Don't shush me!"

I can barely feel his kiss on the nape of my neck. He whispers, "Why do you want me to yell at you?"

"Because—'cause then it'll be okay for me to do it."

"You can yell at me if you want."

"You don't—I don't—don't be nice to me!"

He slides his palm back and forth on my waist and I wipe my nose against the back of my sleeve. I feel Edward's heartbeat against my back and take shaky breaths. He breathes on my neck and my hair bristles. Goosebumps.

"What happened?" Edward mutters against my ear.

"I want to be perfect."

"Nobody is."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not assuring me I am."

"I figured you'd castrate me if I said that."

I let out a shaky, teary laugh. "You figured correctly."

I feel his chuckle, but he stops soon and breathes on my ear. "You can't expect to be climbing stairs the second day you're back from the hospital. You're not a superwoman, Bella."

"Yes, I am."

"You are not."

"I am."

"Are not."

"I want to be. This is so unfair. I don't want to be this crippled fucking nuisance in your life who needs babysitting and can't even walk five feet without a fucking walker. I don't want to be weak. And I don't want to cry. Or for you to see me cry. It's embarrassing."

Edward's hold on me tightens, but he's so careful it's almost as if he's expecting me to break. "You're the bravest, strongest girl I've ever known," he whispers, letting his lips touch my ear. "But you're only human. You took a bullet, you're learning to walk again, that fucker burnt your home down and is now free because we have no evidence against him. It's more than enough to give a marble statue a nervous breakdown. Of course you're overwhelmed."

"You're talking like you were expecting for me to perform some unappealing snot-covered weeping in front of you."

"No. Not expecting," he replies. "But I'm not surprised, either. Sometimes we process life in different speeds. Eventually, you will have to process some things to make moving on possible. Or easier. Being slower or faster makes you no better or worse person than the one next door."

"Deep."

"I'm not expecting you to be Bella the Strong all the time. You were so brave and took everything in stride last week. Let yourself be human. It's only natural."

"I still hate it."

"It's okay to feel however you feel," he mutters. "You're not a robot."

"I want to be," I admit, voice faint and not sounding like me. "I don't want to feel anything. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I didn't miss my mom so much. I wish I didn't remember her so that I wouldn't know what I'm missing. I wish Eric and I had never felt how it feels to be an outcast." I take a breath. My voice trembles. "I just wish—I don't want this. I don't want to be weak. I hate it. I wish I didn't understand Eric as well as I do so that I could hate him like the rest of the world. I wish—I just wish… I wish I'd never known what it feels like to be put down, day by day, so that I wouldn't try to reason why or how long you're with me. I wish I could offer you the kind of affection you deserve without having to—having to think about it."

My throat gets hot and tight, and I stop speaking. Edward rocks me, back and forth, as I weep silently in his arms. He presses his jaw against my neck and breathes on it.

"I wish I knew how you came to survive an experience like this and still love the world and the people in it as much as you do. I wish I knew how to make you see—you've got so much affection in you when you allow yourself show it. I wish I knew how to make you believe me when I tell you." He snuggles closer, places a kiss just in front of my ear and whispers, "I love you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you love me?"

"Because you are… something else."

I snicker. "I can't believe you remember that."

The front door closes, and there's rustling in the kitchen as Edward and I listen to each other's breathing. Steps come downstairs, and as Esme appears, worry etched on her face, I hide my tear-stained face in my hands. Edward squeezes my waist ever so slightly. "Mom, can you give us a moment?"

"Is Bella alright?"

"She's fine," Edward replies. "Can you give us a moment?"

"Of course." I hear her leave.

Edward draws me close, his embrace strong and safe, nuzzles my neck and hums. "You're extraordinary."

"You're delusional." I feel his lips against my neck and clear my throat. "Will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"How to love."

He stands, sits in front of me, cross-legged, and pulls my legs to rest on either side of him. Wrapping his arms around me just enough for me to be comfortable and rest my back on his hands, he looks at me like I'm the brightest thing since the sun. It's unnerving and exhilarating. He brushes his lips against mine. "I don't need to teach you anything. You already know."

"No, I don't. Not like you do," I reply, resting my forehead against his cheek. "I want to—learn how to make you feel a fraction of what I feel for you. I don't know how to keep your interest. Or how to not feel daunted by your experience with girls. I don't know anything."

He huffs, but it's almost like a growl. "If anyone should be afraid of not keeping the other one's interest, it should be me," he says, and pulls me into a careful hug. He blows air out of his nose, and it's sharp, as if he intended to snort but it didn't come out right. "And a fraction of what you feel for me? You think you're going a hundred miles per hour when, really, you're going in reverse." He breathes on my neck and whispers, "Does it hurt for you to lie on the carpet?"

I'm not sure but I shake my head, and together we find a way for me to lie on it so that it wouldn't hurt. It doesn't, really. But just to make sure, as Edward kneels above me, legs on either side of my hips, he places his palm behind my back, supporting it. "Don't let me hurt you."

Hair falls on his forehead as he lowers his torso. His eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth, and it's giving me goose bumps.

"What're you doing?" I whisper.

"Switching your gears."

He holds on to me, palm flat against my back, and leans close enough for our noses to touch. His eyes fix on my lips before he presses his open mouth against mine, sucking and running his tongue over my teeth. I laugh and nibble his lower lip. I hear a guttural groan from his chest as he cradles my neck and dives for my mouth, frantic. He runs his hands through my hair, breathing on my mouth. "I've imagined undressing you. Kissing each of your birthmarks." He breathes a kiss on my ear. "Nuzzling your neck, holding on and letting go when we take the next step. Have you?"

I shiver and shake my head, just slightly, because it's the truth. Unsurprised, he nods and leans on his elbow as he hovers above my face, his face red and lips swollen. He's accepting my answer yet looking at me with so much longing and awe and affection it's almost like I'm in someone else's body. Someone amazing and beautiful.

When Edward starts nuzzling my ear, his hand clenches on my side, stroking it. He taps the center of my chest with his index and middle finger, makes a path to my neck, like a tiny man made of his fingers. He rubs his nose back and forth against my collar bone. I let out a giggle.

"I hope you're available on Amazon because once you're gone, I'm ordering a new you."

I lift my hands to hold on to his shoulder and neck, but he pulls back. There's hurt in his voice. "I'm not going anywhere."

I rub a thumb against his jaw. "I'm not asking for a life-time commitment. Let's just take it one day at a time, alright?"

Edward nods. He's still red-faced and panting from kissing, and as he lowers himself to press a kiss my neck, I'm panting, too. His touch tingles. He whispers, "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Your foreplay is top notch?"

He snorts a laugh. The tips of his ears redden. "Thank you. I'm thrilled you think so but that wasn't my point."

"You're saying you're holding back."

"I am. You're not ready for me. Even if you weren't hurt. I'm too far gone for you. I would be ready for the next step, and you're not. Not physically, not mentally. And that's okay."

"What if it takes a while for me to be ready?"

"It will. And we'll go with your pace. Always tell me when you feel pressured. Everything we do needs to be your decision. Everything."

"So, you, uh. Ready, huh? What if I—can I—we can do, uh, other stuff. If you, you know, want to go faster."

"Fuck no," Edward whispers, horror-stricken. "No. I just told you. Your pace, not mine."

"But what if—what if I take so long you grow bored? I don't—I don't want to lose you before we even had a chance."

I feel a lump in my throat. Edward curses under his breath and sits behind me again, pulling my torso against his. "Shh." He wraps his arms around me. "I shouldn't have been this honest with you."

"I'm glad you were."

A warm kiss is pressed on the nape of my neck. "We just got together two days ago. It's too early for this conversation. All I can say is that I find it highly unlikely that the most intriguing girl I've ever met would bore me."

"You're a man. And as I understand, you're used to—you know. Having sex. I'm not."

"It's too early for this conversation, Bella," he mutters against my ear. "You're worth waiting for. At this point, I couldn't care less how long it takes. I mean, Jesus. I have a collection of poems written for you, and I've never—Just don't talk about a fraction of a feeling when I'm so in love with you I'm climbing up the walls with my fingernails. Of course I want to show you. But it needs to be when you're ready, and we have all the time in the world."

He squeezes me, and I turn my head, press my lips against his and lean back against him.

"I don't want you to try and please me," he says. "Please yourself first."

"Are we speaking metaphorically or are you referring to masturbating?"

He laughs and rubs his nose against my jaw. "Never change, Bella."

"I love you," I say, and feel Edward's smile against my ear. "I just wish I understood why you're being so kind to me."

"You know all those things we said we wished were true? I wish you didn't think being kind to you needs a reason."

"Kind of like how the secret to happy life is low expectations, you know? Maybe my middle school experience has given me such low expectations about people that I can't not notice and be grateful when someone's nice to me."

"I'm not nice to you because I love you. I'm nice because you deserve kindness in your life."

"How magnanimous."

"You've watched Shawshank Redemption one too many times."

"Maybe."

He helps me stand. I hold on to his waist, and Edward stares at my grip before he makes eye contact and straightens himself in front of me, legs slightly apart. He carefully encases my head in his hands and looks at me with a smile that holds so much affection I'm all mush and butterfly-y even without a kiss.

"Teach me," he says, running his hands through my hair. "Teach me how to love the world as much as you do."

"Well, first of all, you'll need to run around the house, butt-naked, holding a poof in one hand and a tomato in the other, singing the theme song for The Flintstones. When that's done, you'll peel one potato, cover yourself in mud and sit on an oak tree, throwing Skittles at the by-passers. If you succeed in doing that, I'll consider you qualified for my life-loving lessons."

He throws his head back in laughter before pressing his lips against mine. "Jesus, I've missed you."

"Not only did you just change orientation, you're also two millenniums late."

He snorts and snuggles against my neck. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"Just my ego."

"Are you sure? I can get you an ice pack."

"For my ego? Thanks."

He laughs.

"Get ice-cream instead. Tubs of it."

"Yes, mam." He grins. "I have basketball in a few hours, but if you want me to cancel, I can. The coach will understand."

"No. Don't. Don't start rearranging your life just because I look like a breeze could knock me over."

"That's not funny." Edward squeezes my waist. "I thought you were getting an elastic corset?"

"Carlisle will bring me one in the evening."

If Edward is taken aback by my lack of speed and pathetic-looking steps, he shows no signs of it. With saintly patience, he walks beside me so that I could hold on to his forearm as he helps me to my room. I sit. He brings my dinner downstairs, and we eat together. I don't know if he told Esme we wanted to be left alone, but his mom doesn't join us. I wouldn't mind if she did, but I don't mind leaning on my headboard, talking about trivial nonsense with Edward. When I'm done eating, I let my eyes linger on my unused sports clothes. If clothes could feel, my sports jacket would definitely be weeping right now. My buff looks worn out.

I pale and choke on my rice. Edward crawls closer, helping me cough as I pant.

"You okay?"

"Edward," I reply, eyes wide with horror. "It's my fault. All of it."

"What is? No. What're you talking about?"

"Before Christmas. When Newton came to pick on me, I—I told him I had his assault on tape. But I—I bluffed. I have nothing. But he must've thought I had something so he came to find it and didn't so he burnt our house down. It's my fault." My voice sounds hollow and horrified even in my own ears.

"Bella? Look at me." I do. Edward draws a pattern against my cheek. "Nobody blames you. What's done is done. Call your dad, or Marshal Stephens, or both of them. Tonight. You'll never rid yourself of guilt unless you've heard them tell you it could've happened anyway."

"You don't understand."

"You did whatever you had to do to elicit a reaction from him that would benefit you. Self-preservation is a powerful thing. You did the best under the circumstances you were in."

"But I lied. I lied, Edward. And now our home is gone because of it."

"Call your dad. Right now. Tell him. Trust me, he'll understand."

"How do you know?"

"Bella, your dad might not be the most affluent person, but he invested in you. He insured your house so that you'd always have a home and he got you one of the most expensive health insurances so that if anything happened, you'd be covered. So maybe you haven't had as many material goods as the other kids, but your dad knew what he cared about, and that's you. His life insurance is set so that if anything should happen to him, Emmett and you should comfortably be able to live a few years before figuring out what you want to do."

I blink at him. "How do you know all of this?"

"We spoke a lot last week. He told me."

"But—I mean, it sort of makes sense, but he's preparing for his own death? That's creepy."

"You're all he has, and he's all you have. He knows it and has acted accordingly. You can't undermine the importance of that."

"I'm, I mean, wow."

"Call him," he says, and leans in for a kiss. He lingers, breathing on my mouth. "Do you want me to stay now?"

"No," I reply and offer a faint smile. "I've got this."

When Edward is at the doorway (I mean, my arch-y gap), I call out, "Edward?"

He turns. "Do you need anything?"

"Sometimes I forget you're almost four years older than me, but then you know exactly what to say, and I just want to tell you—I think you're amazing."

A brilliant, adorable smile covers his lips. He walks over to me and cups the back of my neck. "Sometimes I forget you're seventeen, but then you tell me to sit butt-naked on an oak tree, throwing Skittles at people, and I remember."

I blow on his face. He throws his head back in laughter.

"Although, come to think of it, that's just you and not your age."

"Why don't you rip my heart out."

My lips twitch, and he grins. He wets his lips and mutters, "I'd rather you give it to me voluntarily."

I place a kiss on my fingers and press it against his mouth. "There. Now go before you're late."

He nuzzles my neck, pressing his own kiss on my skin. His eyes are alight with humor. "See you later." He walks to my arch-y gap thing and stops. "Anything from the store?"

"Greek yoghurt, please. I'll pay you. Strip for you or be your slave for a week. Please."

He laughs and disappears before appearing again. "Any flavors?"

"Strawberry. Vanilla. Sunshine and butterflies and flying unicorns. Whatever you find."

He salutes and disappears.

I pick up my phone and let my finger hover over dad's name. He's three hours ahead of me, so it must be quarter to eleven in Georgia. Before I can change my mind, I dial his number.

"Bella? Hold on." A muffled noise. Half a minute later, with the distant sound of banging in the background, he greets me again. "Hi, honey. Five minutes. Are you alright?"

"You're not still working out, are you?"

"I have a few private sessions to make up for the time I lost," he explains. "You alright?"

"I'm walking. Slowly and with a walker, but I am."

"Really?" I hear a smile in his voice. "That's incredible."

"Yeah, thanks, dad," I reply. "I called because, well. I think I know why Newton burnt our house to the ground."

"I'm listening."

"Before Christmas, we were in the cafeteria and he started picking on me, so I—I bluffed, dad. I wanted to make him shut up. I told him I had his assault on camera and if he continued to bully anyone, I'd release it or something. He must've believed me because why else did he search my room and burn the house to the ground when he didn't find anything? So it's my fault. I'm so sorry, dad. I only wanted him to stop. I didn't mean for my words to count for anything."

I can hear his breathing before he says, "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright," he repeats and sighs. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're not mad or anything?"

"I'm—what's done is done, okay? The insurance will cover it. Don't beat yourself up. Focus on getting well."

"Are you sure you're not angry with me? Dad, please tell me if you are. Because I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I'm fine. Listen. I appreciate that you told me, and I trust you to do so in the future, but neither of us can change what happened. And maybe he had other reasons for doing it. We can't be sure. Just try to get well and don't start wandering anywhere trying to play the hero. I need you to be safe. I'll talk to you on Saturday."

"Okay. Be safe, dad. Love you."

He lets out a breath. "Love you too, honey. Talk to you soon."

: :

I awake to feel a cold hand behind my neck, a finger stoking my hair and wet lips against mine. I respond, smiling, and hear Edward's chest grumble when he hides his face in my neck. He smells of his mint shampoo.

"Someone's shaved."

He chuckles and rubs his jaw against mine. "I got you some yoghurt," he mutters as I feel his cold nose against my ear. "Flying unicorn flavor."

I laugh. "What time is it?"

"Quarter after nine." He runs both of his hands through my hair. "How do you feel?"

"A bit dizzy. All I ever do is sleep."

He pulls back. A large, palm-sized bruise covers the side of his jaw. It's dark. I lift my hand to his face and stroke his cheek, just above the bruise. He closes his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Newton and I had a disagreement."

"You what? Edward, don't start fighting with him. He's not worth it. Please."

"It wasn't like that. The coach made me the main quarterback because Newton's out. Because of his shoulder. Obviously, he can't train right now. But he's walking around right now like some fucking untouchable, the guy who lived or some shit. Others treat him like that, too, because two of his best friends died and it's so tragic. So he was in the gym and came to thank me for replacing him—for a month, he said—but the thing is, the coach told me this is permanent. He'd meant to do it for a while. So Newton and I—had a bit of an argument. He struck me, I punched him back, and we ended up in Mr. Kramer's office."

"You curse like a true gentleman, Edward. I've taught you well."

Edward huffs a chuckle and runs his fingers through my hair. I gently touch the skin above his bruise, and he offers a tight-lipped smile.

"Why would Mr. Kramer even be at school at this hour?"

"I don't know. He was."

"So then what happened?"

"I got detention. Newton got nothing, because he's going through a trauma and he's vulnerable because of what happened to his friends and fuck, Bella. You should see him walk around the school like he's some war hero. It's so subtle, nobody thinks he's arrogant. I wouldn't—if you hadn't told me what he's really like. A few people question Eric's reason for shooting him and what he said, but mostly, it gets brushed off because they think Eric was somewhat of a loner. Newton is still here to defend himself and Eric is not. So, basically, everyone's waiting for what you have to say about Eric's motives."

"Ah, shit."

"What?"

"I can't—not without evidence. I can't blame him without being able to back myself up."

He sits next to me. I put my hand in his and he intertwines our fingers.

"Please don't get into fights, with Newton or anyone else. I hate to see you get hurt."

He nods and kisses my fingers. "School is boring without you."

"I would imagine your seven hundred and one extra-curriculars would keep you occupied."

"Not the same," he answers and leans closer. "I brought you some homework earlier."

"Damn. I was hoping to get a kiss but you want to tell me about homework instead."

He chuckles, brushes hair off my forehead and presses his lips against mine, just slightly. "Someone named Zachary North called. He said he'd call you next week and talk to you personally, but neither of us got the modeling job."

"There goes my lifelong dream of being a model."

"You're not disappointed?"

"I'll be sobbing my eyes out because how could they not see I'm the prettiest bitch on this side of the States? Blind assholes."

Edward laughs. "I'll just ignore the sarcasm and pretend you meant it."

"I totally did. Besides, I'm more surprised by the fact that you weren't chosen. But I guess fitting a six foot five giant on a picture is kind of hard work. Either they're afraid of wrapping up your limbs or their cameras exploding from your hotness."

He smiles. "Eight."

"What?"

"Six foot eight."

"You're kidding me. Can you help me stand?"

He does. I clutch his sweatshirt, fisting my hands on his waist as he looks down at me with twinkling eyes. He lifts his chin ever so slightly to rub the top of my head with his jaw. Failing to suppress a smile, he pulls back and presses a kiss against my ear. "You never noticed?"

"No, I mean, yes. But you must have, like, ten inches on me. Can you raise your arms?"

Snickering, he places his palms flat against the ceiling. He's got the most adorable, amused grin on his face as I grip his sweatshirt and look up at him with awe.

"I hope you're not proportional, 'cause if you are, we are never having sex. Ever. I'll go and be a nun and you go and scare some innocent ladies to death."

Edward laughs, wraps his arms around me and squeezes me in the most gentle, cherishing way. "Jesus, I love you."

"I hope you don't masturbate to Jesus, because if you do, we're breaking up."

He's choking with laughter as he places me back on the bed. "I can't wait to bring my textbooks here and not get any studying done."

"Brilliant plan. Get yourself an ice pack as well. I want to dote on you."

: :

Eric's funeral is on Friday.

I take a cab. Once we're in front of the Episcopal Church, the driver helps me out of the car and hands me my walker. I squint at the sun. It's the second funeral I've been to, and honestly, I understand the symbolism of movies and books and all, but it's not raining. Not even cloudy. In fact, it seems extra bright.

The clang of the church's giant door echoes behind me. The church is empty. No coffin, nothing. I clutch my two dandelions and the walker, make it to the altar, and still nothing.

"Hello?"

My greeting echoes. I hear a rustle from the back, and Angela's dad, Priest Ian Weber, turns the corner. He brightens at the sight of me, or as much as his calm nature and the circumstances allow.

"Isabella. Good to see you on your feet. We waited for you. They're at the burial. Do you need any help?"

"Father Weber," I reply. "Could I leave the walker here and lean on your arm? I'm a bit faster that way."

"Of course."

They're at the edge of a forest past the chapel and behind the cemetery, just Ralph Yorkie and his wife. Both are wearing sunglasses and look considerably thinner than how I remember them. They greet me, and Eric's dad even attempts a smile, but it twists his features. Angela's dad says something or other about heaven and eternal peace and ashes and dust, and we simply stand there, squinting at the blinding sun, staring into the distance even if it's at our feet.

When it's time, I drop my two dandelions on his urn. I wish they flew, my dandelions. I wish they gained wings and speed and distance and never looked back. I wish they did what Eric never got to do. But they don't. They don't even have the decency to fall in slow motion. They just lie there, next to soil, waiting to turn into soil.

When the Priest has stopped talking, Ralph Yorkie turns to me.

"Would you like to come to our place for tea?"

I waver because now that I take a smaller dosage of narcotic pain pills, my back is killing me.

He shifts, expression carefully composed. "You were his closest friend."

I nod. Because you can't turn down an offer made in good faith after a shock of this kind, even if I'd never exaggerated his son's importance in my life. Because how do you make up for the fact that, while his closest friend, for me, he was someone I knew so little yet understood so well? You don't. You can't. What's done is done and no matter how hard I wish that Eric had confided in me to ease his burden, it won't happen anymore.

I catch sight of Eric's ex-girlfriend through the car window as we leave, and she recognizes me. I'm in a moving car and she's at the entrance of the cemetery, and we stare at each other before I offer the briefest of nods that she returns. She disappears as we turn the corner.

As we drive closer to the Yorkies' house, a whole spectrum of journalist-looking people waits for us on the lawn. Despite appearing unsurprised, Ralph Yorkie shakes his head and curses under his breath. He offers me a pair of sunglasses.

"Can you move better with a walker or without it?"

"Without."

"Hold on."

He's impatient, but I don't take it personally because we've got journalists on our faces, taking pictures of my pathetic gait and throwing questions at us. I don't know where they came from or if they find my presence particularly intriguing, but they scare me. Their buzz is muffled as the front door closes, and I'm facing towers of boxes and bare walls.

"We're moving," Ralph Yorkie explains and helps me sit around the round kitchen table. Unlike the walls that surround us, it's solid and clean.

"Green? Black? Herbal?"

"Fruit?"

"Black currant. Sugar or honey?"

"Either."

Eric's mother puts the kettle on. They both sit across from me, with Eric's mom placing the tea boxes in a line for no other reason than to give her something to do, and Ralph Yorkie staring at me so intensely he probably doesn't even realize he is. I shift. I can't say anything meaningful unless they bring it up themselves for fear of pushing, but I don't want to fill the silence with nondescript, trite words.

"I want to give you my number," Ralph Yorkie says suddenly, coming out of his trance. "So that if you need help with whatever you need to do to put the fucker in jail, I'll help you. Even if your means are unconventional."

He draws out the word unconventional as if he meant illegal, and I think he does. Regardless, I nod and let him save his number on my phone.

"Mr. Yorkie, I don't mean to assume anything, but did Eric—leave something to me? A letter? Anything?"

"Linda?"

Eric's mom shakes her head, and so does Mr. Yorkie.

"But—did anyone happen to break in last week?"

Both of their eyes snap on me.

"How did you know?"

"My room got broken in, too."

Mr. Yorkie's shoulders sag. "Do you want to see it? His room?"

"If you don't mind."

Eric's mom's eyes glaze over and she excuses herself. Tea is forgotten as Eric's dad and I walk to Eric's room at the back of the house, a room with no wallpaper, a few posters of rock bands, a single bed, and shelves thrashed on the floor. I step inside.

"Where're you moving?"

"I'm heading to Arizona."

"Oh, yeah? My mom's from there."

"How is she?"

"Dead."

His face twists, and he wants to apologize, but I avert my eyes and mutter, "I'm sorry. My bluntness gets away from me."

"No, it's—it's okay. I guess you—you're the kind of tough girl who goes through anything with a straight back. Eric always thought that about you."

I hum, pressing my lips together in a tight line as I take my tiny steps around the room.

"Did they take anything?"

"Just his camera. Maybe something else, too, but we're not—I'm not—Linda can't even think of Eric's room."

"It's not my place to pry, but is she—not coming with you?"

He steps closer to the window, hands in his pockets. With a distant, unseeing gaze, he says, "We've had it coming."

"I'm so sorry."

He doesn't hear me as he keeps staring into the distance. "Anywhere but here," he whispers and stares at his feet before raising his eyes. "Oh. Did you say anything?"

"No." I pace in the room and my eyes linger on a picture of Eric, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, as he lies under a truck, holding a camera and taking a picture of a sparrow. He's smiling. It brings an unexpected lump to my throat, and I press my lips together.

"For what it's worth, Mr. Yorkie, your son helped me through a lot in middle school."

"Thank you, Isabella." He makes eye contact but immediately averts his gaze. "Thank you."

: :

Ralph Yorkie takes me back to Edward's. He's given me a lot to think about, and as soon as I get home, I call both dad and Al to let them know Eric could have caught something on camera and it could be in Newton's possession. The good news is—if Eric had enough sense to hide the evidence so that it wouldn't be on the memory card, we're likelier than ever to actually hold solid, tangible evidence, like the very same memory card or a DVD or a hard drive. The bad news is, if he had it inside the camera, Newton could have destroyed the evidence by now, and that makes me want to get a search warrant or beat him to death.

On Saturday morning, I skim over the article (less than quarter of a page) that speaks about Eric's funeral and my presence but mostly gun control. I look at the photo taken behind the cemetery as we stand in line. I close the paper. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

A few minutes later, as Esme places a smoothie on my bedside table, she also places a large box on my bed. I offer to do her dishes for a year as a gesture of gratitude, but she laughs me off, caresses my hair and leaves me and Angela's package alone. They had it in the storage room so they forgot about it.

I slide it closer and turn it to tear off the duct tape, but the handwriting catches my attention. It's not Angela's.

It's Eric's.

Heart pounding rapidly in my chest, I tear off the duct tape and open the box. Two laptops slide out with their adapters. There's a letter.

Bella—

They're empty. Nothing on them. You can check. You can judge me for having them & tell everyone it was me who stole them. If you want to give them back with no sign of (me or) you, I think you should do it on Monday between five & six PM. Nobody's there. Seriously. They're all in the staff room.

I used them for the greater good.

I hope you've showed the world where the cookies are.

—Eric.

PS: Apologize for Angela for me if she gets in trouble for this. And for doing it twice. It's the only way to not cause suspicion.

Oh, Eric. What did you do?

: :

Sweat is falling in my eyes. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. With a pillow under my back, I lift my legs off the ground. My back is tight and my legs tingle like crazy, but I can't run, so I'm doing these exercises to clear my head. I've been at this since I opened Eric's package. It's lying under my bed.

I've made sense of several things. First, Eric stole the laptops "for the greater good." Meaning, he must've done something with them that could be or would have been considered evidence against Michael Newton. Secondly, evidence is not with the laptops. It could be "where the cookies are." His dad's workplace? Why would he do that? Thirdly, and most importantly, he claims to have used Angela's name twice and I've only seen this one. Where did he use it the second time, and does that coincide with where the evidence is?

Did he mean to tell me more than he did in Spanish? Or did he mean for me to find a letter or a message or a memory card or a hard drive before this package, so that I'd understand this message?

I do realize I'm dealing with stolen property. But I desperately want to defend him, in my own eyes as well as in the world's. Everyone already hates him. And I know, maybe he shouldn't have stolen these laptops, but it pains me how much I understand him. There are moments in life when you do whatever you need to do to gain insight and reveal the truth. I don't want him to be labeled a thief on top of being a murderer. I know it doesn't matter anymore to him (or the world), but it matters to me, and I'm desperate to see how he made sense of the world.

I don't call Marshal Stephens. I don't call dad. I know I should. Maybe I'm digging myself into a hole. If Eric used illegal means to uncover what Michael Newton was doing, do I want to risk my integrity to see what Eric meant by evidence, and if it actually exists?

Yes.

I'll return the laptops, free of fingerprints, to the schoolhouse.

: :

Despite my setbacks, I grow stronger, physically and mentally. Day by day, I do my absolute best to exercise as much as I can. Sometimes I get angry at myself and cry, sometimes Edward or Carlisle or Esme makes me stop exercising so much so that I wouldn't hurt myself. I Skype dad twice a week to let him know how I'm improving.

When I weigh myself on Tuesday (115 pounds), I let out a growl so angry and sad and loud that Esme comes to check on me. I apologize and explain, and she makes me pasta with some nut sauce to increase my calorie intake. It's delicious, and she's so kind, but I can't eat much of it. My shrunk stomach needs to be adjusted to amounts appropriate to humans and not mice.

By Wednesday, I can walk short distances without a walker. It's incredible. I don't drag my left foot (much) because I've given it special attention. Half of my exercises are focused on it, and they pay off.

It's not always smooth sailing, but I'm starting to be able to do the little things: bend over, sleep on my stomach, scratch my knees. Crouch. Nothing drastic. I can't run. I can't lift moose or sumo wrestlers.

But.

Veni, vidi, vici. I can do this. I know I can. So maybe my recovery is slower than I hoped it would be, and I won't be able to run for at least a few months, maybe even until September, but I'm improving. I walk slowly, and I only feel pins and needles in my legs in the mornings.

On Thursday afternoon, I pack the laptops and their adapters in a plastic bag, put them in my back bag, add my little metal box to put it in my locker and call myself a cab. Ralph Yorkie has agreed to see me at his workplace, so I do just that, but after searching and observing under and around each bowl of cookies, we find nothing.

What did you mean, Eric? Couldn't you have made this a little easier?

Next, my cab pulls up in front of North Cedar High. I pay the driver and step out. Through puddles, I take my small steps toward the schoolhouse. As the students who notice me come to say hi, I realize I've never spoken to a single one of them. Fortunately, the classes have ended so the schoolhouse is nearly empty. I take off my shoes in the wardrobe, sit to rest my back, and slowly climb upstairs. I already know what I'm going to do if I get caught. Depending on who it is, I'll show them Eric's letter or take the blame. I'm prepared to do either.

The secretary's room is lit, and a printer is working. Very carefully, I take off my back bag, take out the plastic bag and place it on the bench that's closest to the door. I hear voices on the inside and listen to my increasing heartbeat before zipping up my bag. I throw it on my shoulder and walk away.

I stop before entering 106.

A white tablecloth covers two tables that are pushed together. There's a candle and pictures of Shawn Holstein and Jared Bronn surrounded by letters and flowers and cards. I lean against the wall. I stare. I unzip my bag, take out my metal box, flip through my papers and find the picture I'm looking for. I fold it several times, back and forth, and rip myself out of the picture. I'm about to disgrace the memory of Shawn and Jared and I don't care if anyone sees me do it or not.

I replace Shawn's picture with Eric's before placing the picture frame in the middle of flowers. I wrap Shawn's picture in a ball, take Jared's frame, and throw both of them in the nearest thrash can.

The auditorium's door is almost too heavy for me to pull, but I manage. I step inside. Only the stage is lit. My peers are sitting or lying in a semi-circle with their back to me as Peter sits with his leg resting on the edge of the stage. Irina, Cody and Edward are standing. Edward is talking.

"—back it up. So when you sit there, think about that. Ask him like you mean it. What do you think Bella would say about your performance?"

Peter has made everyone teach each other, he sometimes does, and I love it that Edward has enough authority for everyone to be quiet.

Irina shifts from one leg to the other as she brushes dust off the edge of her skirt. "Peter?"

"Yes, Irina?"

"Can I curse?"

"Only if you don't tell your mother I let you."

She smiles. One of her front teeth is missing. She straightens her shoulders. "She'd tell me to take that fucking stick out of my ass and think about something I really, really want. She'd also tell me to juggle with three oranges with a straw sticking out of my mouth." She looks down, embarrassed by her cursing, and shrugs. "Just 'cause."

Everyone bursts into laughter, and I smile at Peter as he discovers my presence. I put a finger on my mouth to indicate I'd rather just sit and watch. I start to do just that when Irina catches sight of me.

"Look! It's Bella!"

Confused, everyone turns, and upon catching sight of me, they stand and jump off the stage, and suddenly, I'm in the middle of a swarm of students, greeting and questioning and smiling. It's wonderful. Edward steps next to me with a beaming smile, intertwines my fingers with his and kisses my temple.

"How'd you get here?"

"Cab."

I lean against him just a little bit to ease the tension of my back. Everyone is telling me their stories of what they saw and heard and assumed and saw on TV and YouTube and read on paper. I'm overwhelmed. Edward presses me tight against him and says, "C'mon guys. Let her breathe."

They step back a bit, and while I go and sit on the edge of the stage to look at what they're working on, it becomes clear that nobody's committed to doing any work. I've caused too much excitement. Peter sighs as he watches my peers have fun and throw questions at me. I offer him an apologetic smile.

"Alright, everyone. You're free for today."

They cheer, and I'm surrounded by questions about Eric, my injuries and home. I do answer as best as I can, just not entirely. It's a longer story than they think. Once we're outside of 106 and Edward locks the door before giving the keys to a crutch-bound Peter, I watch my Drama peers pass the table that's going to cause me trouble tomorrow.

As the sound of Peter's crutches grows distant, Edward takes my bag, squeezes my hips and carefully makes me back up against the wall. With his legs on either side of mine, he encases my neck and breathes on my lips. There's hunger in his eyes. He nips my lower lip, and leans in for a desperate kiss. He groans when I return it, pulls away and breathes on my neck.

"Did you come to surprise me?" Stroking the exposed skin on my hip, he rubs his nose against my neck and sucks on my skin. He slides his palm under my hoodie (but over my elastic corset) and tickles my waist with his fingers. "Best idea ever," he whispers.

You know the feeling when you make it to the top of the hill and start driving down, and your stomach forgot it was attached to your body? Yes. That. For the first time, I fully understand what Edward meant when he told me he's too far gone for me. I wish my life were a romance novel where the protagonist is always convinced (s)he's more in love with the hero(ine) than vice versa, but I don't have that. In a strange sort of epiphany, as Edward tenderly holds me against a hallway wall at our school yet kisses me like he wants to breathe the carbon dioxide leaving my body and makes me feel like I'm a girl more beautiful than any other, I actually realize he could be right.

I don't know how or why, and I can't believe it's possible, but by his hunger, I'd say that Edward has already fallen while I'm still falling. It's a sobering thought, and so flattering I don't know how to react to it, but it worries me. I don't want to hurt him. I can't tell him I didn't come here for him. He'd be hurt. He'd retreat. He'd apologize.

"I couldn't get myself off, so I thought you could help."

Edward pulls back, just slightly, eyes alight with desire, and blinks at me. I smile, a smile I hope to be wicked and wide. Edward continues to blink at me before I hear a silent chuckle as he envelops me into an all-body, all-consuming hug. He's turned on, and I'm flattered he'd be comfortable letting me know. I am, too, yes, but even I can admit I wouldn't be ready for the next step mentally, even if I were physically.

"You're joking," he whispers against my ear. I nod, and he squeezes me. "I've missed you."

"You saw me yesterday evening."

"Exactly." He pulls back, lips wet and red from kissing. As a wicked thought occurs to me, I change our places and press Edward up against the wall, slide my palm under his shirt and pull his head down so I could kiss his neck. His chest grumbles, and he starts to hyperventilate before he squirms, groans and takes hold of my wrist. "I am a man."

"Oops, sorry. I was just about to grope your breasts. My bad."

Again, he blinks at me and laughs. He shifts his jeans, places an arm on my shoulder, a kiss on my temple and pulls me against him. We start to walk.

"You don't know the power."

"Of what?"

"Your touch, your skin, your lips."

"Wait, Edward. Don't move." I stop my pace. "I think I'm having an eargasm." I let out a funny little fake moan. Edward just shakes his head as the tips of his ears redden. He lowers his gaze and avoids eye contact, and I just know I've hurt him. "Edward? I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says, like I burnt his dinner and didn't undermine the words that were said in earnest. I facepalm, taking a breath. I stop my pace.

"No. I know it sounded like sarcasm, but I—fuck. It's incredible that you are who you are, you know? It is unbelievable that you find me attractive, and that I could turn you on. You're amazing, and I love it that you're so open about feelings. I'm just—an idiot. A fucking moron. Maybe you should just—"

He waits, and as I don't say anything, he mutters, "I should just what?"

Find someone who deserves you.

I don't say it. I'm not suicidal. How can I be honest when I know he'll be hurt by my answer? But if I don't say it, it's like I'm keeping something he should definitely know. Maybe he does, though. Maybe he's expecting it.

"I should just what?" he asks, louder. His tone is clipped, like he knows what I'm thinking.

I lift my arms and wrap myself around him like my dream is to sow myself into his shirt so that I could always be with him. I squeeze. I sniff the smell of him and this soap-smelling sweatshirt, and press my ear tightly against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat. He recovers from surprise, hides his face in my neck and hugs me back.

Mr. Banner passes us, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

"I need time," I whisper. "Please."

He sounds like he's choking as I feel his Adam's apple move. "You don't want to do this?"

"No! I do. Not that."

"Jesus Christ." Edward's shoulders slump, and his body relaxes like a rubber band. "I just had a stroke."

"I'm sorry." I sigh. "I mean—I can't do this overnight, Edward. When you've spent half of your life creating coping mechanisms for how undesirable you are and assuring yourself it's okay for nobody to want you, you can't just snap out of it and jump off a cliff and be comfortable swimming when you've taught yourself you're okay on the shore. Even though the sea is mysterious and you've admired it from afar for so long. I need to take baby steps closer to the water so that I could let myself go and look back at the seashore and swim in the knowledge that what I thought I knew wasn't so on par with reality. That I could create my reality. That there's someone in whose reality I am beautiful."

My tears wet Edward's sweatshirt, and my breath comes out as shaky, but I stay silent. Edward, too, takes a shaky breath as he strokes my back with his fingers.

"You'd make one incredible poet."

I snort a laugh and sniff. "But will you help me swim?"

"Of course I will," he replies, pulls back and strokes my cheek with his thumb. "What do I need to do?"

"Tell me. Tell me when I hurt you, and why, and how, and how I can avoid it. Can you do that? I need a step by step program. I can work on myself on my own, but I'm blunt, and I deadpan. I do it at inappropriate moments, like when you're being so sweet my heart wants to pound out of my chest, and I look around because how can you say those words and mean them while looking at me? What you said before about, you know, my touch? I'm so flattered I could fly."

He brushes hair from my forehead and kisses it. "You could."

"Maybe I will," I reply, and intertwine his fingers with mine. "Tell me? Please tell me."

He nods, and I steal a kiss to make sure we're okay, and he lingers, staring into my eyes like he's willing me to believe how much he means his words. I get goose bumps, and Edward notices, lifts his eyes to meet mine, and grins. "Really?"

I lower my gaze. Edward's beam widens as his ears redden. We start to walk.

"I've never given a girl goose bumps just by looking at her," he says, voice filled with wonder, and looks at me. I return his gaze, smile, and squeeze his hand. We walk to the end of the corridor and to our lockers before Edward smiles, almost to himself.

"Eargasm, huh?"

: :

Friday, the 26th of March
6:03 PM. Starting to recover from shock. At least that's what they told me I have. Well, I'm listening to something as cheesy as Andrew Allen, so that's good, right?

Dr. Heilbronner allows me to attend school on Friday. He gives me a note (to show every teacher) which says that I can't sit for longer than thirty minutes and that I should be allowed to step out of the classroom to stretch and walk. I only have two pills left to take twice a day. And Tylenol whenever I need in reasonable amounts. I can walk (my slow walk) on my own for ten or twenty minutes before needing support, and ergo, I should take my walker with me. But it's a nuisance. I don't want to. Carlisle isn't pleased by my choice to not take it, but he yields once I mention how difficult it will be to carry my walker when I have to take the stairs.

Edward copies my schedule for himself to be able to walk me to classes. I argue, because I share almost half of my classes with Angela and some with Emmett, and there's nobody in my classes I couldn't bug about helping me, but he brushes me off. Like it's a matter of pride and not his own convenience. He's sweet, and seems to be genuinely excited about walking me to classes, so I stop arguing. I'd love to spend more time with him at school, I just hate being a nuisance. Especially to him.

Edward locks the car as I stand and squint at the morning sun. It's (relatively) warm. Students rush toward the schoolhouse, talking, laughing, wearing ear pads, revising for a test. Appearing remarkably unaffected by the events that happened three weeks ago.

Frowning, Edward slides his hand on my waist and brushes hair off my forehead. He mutters, "You don't have to do this." He presses a light kiss on my mouth and takes my hand in his.

"I do. I'm restless at home." I squeeze his hand. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I try and fail to lift myself on my tiptoes, so instead, I bring his head down and press my lips against his. He slides his hands behind my back, opens his mouth to return the kiss, and rests his forehead against mine. By his smile, it's like he's found his own secret source of delight, and it's me.

"I love it when you do that," he says, sliding his hand in mine. We start walking.

"What, kiss you? I would certainly hope so."

"No." He's all toothy smiles and affectionate eyes. "I love it when you take the initiative. It comes so naturally to you."

"You think so?"

He nods. "If you hadn't had the experience you did in middle school? You'd probably be the most confident, outgoing girl in this school. I'd probably be watching you on the sidelines, never daring to approach you to get to know you."

"What an unlikely scenario," I reply. "I suppose I'd be too stuck up to speak to you?"

"No. I doubt. You would've been incredibly sweet and led me on without knowing it. All the school boys would've been dying to get your attention."

"Why, Edward, are you saying I'm not a heart breaker in this reality? You wound me so."

He makes eye contact, looks at our joined hands, and locks eyes with me again. "No," he says in earnest. "I just hope that once they all see you like I see you, your choice has been made." The smile he gives me is almost shy, and he searches my eyes. For what, I don't know.

"You're a bit ridiculous, you know?"

"I'm glad you think so," he replies, amused. Once inside, we're facing two guards in blue suits, both women, and a metal detector. Students are peeling off their coats as their back bags move through an X-ray machine, or whatever it is. Confused, I look at Edward as he starts to help me out of my coat.

"You're kidding me."

As we're through the detector, Edward throws both of our bags on his shoulder and takes our coats. He ignores my protests and slides his hand in mine. "You didn't see it yesterday?"

"I didn't use the front door."

"They installed it last week. It's been in use since Monday."

It doesn't fit in the old schoolhouse at all, and I watch as some seniors try to get a kick out of the guards, but otherwise, everyone is silently complying with this. It's strange. How can they not see this is not the point at all? They're fighting the result, not the cause.

On our slow, leisure-looking walk to the wardrobe and our lockers, countless students greet me, call my name, ask how I'm doing. I smile and talk and laugh and greet them back while having absolutely no clue as to who they are or why they're speaking to me. Edward holds my hand all through it, with this proud, almost smug-looking grin on his face.

"What?" he asks.

I lean closer to him and wrap my fingers around his sweater to support myself. Holding hands with him is new and exciting and makes some heads turn, but it doesn't offer long-term support for my back. Understanding what I'm doing, he wraps a gentle hand around my waist, still looking at me with that smug smile.

"What's gotten into everyone?" I ask, voice lowered. "I don't know any of those people."

"But they know you now."

"Because of what happened?"

"Yes," he replies. "And because you've been the talk of the school for two weeks. I had to provide daily updates on how you were doing."

"I'm sorry. That must've been annoying."

"Bella, you took a fucking bullet for me, okay? It was—flattering, actually, for them to turn to me when asking about you."

I hide my face in his neck and hug him.

There's a whistle and a whoop before my brother yells on the other side of the corridor, "My fuckawesome sister is here! Isabella Swan, ladies and gentlemen, the bulletproof girl! Shoo, Edward, let me."

Edward retreats, just a bit, and Emmett crushes me into a sweet but painful hug.

"Ow."

He pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking me over. He looks mildly apologetic.

"Sorry," he says, grinning. "Where's your walker? I thought you'd have a walker."

"It's at home. It's not convenient for stairs."

"Right." He steps next to Jasper and an awkward-looking Laurent as Edward takes Emmett's place again. Looking at Edward, my brother continues, "Fifth and sixth lesson?"

Edward nods, and Laurent opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, but makes eye contact with Edward and closes it again. Emmett ruffles my hair before they leave. People continue to say hi to me as they pass. It's like I've been offered a day in someone else's body.

I put a few notebooks in my locker as Edward loyally stands by my side. It's surreal, walking around the school with him, holding hands. Awesome, too. Makes me feel like the girl I am.

When Mr. Newton enters the classroom and his eyes wander on us, searching, I feel a jolt go through my stomach. He makes eye contact and halts for barely a second. He tries so hard to act normal the entire lesson that he'd only act more strangely if he started to tap dance to Tina Turner. He's overly kind, absent-minded, and worn, perhaps. Tired. I wonder if he's found out about his son's extra-curricular activities.

The first time Michael Newton passes me in a corridor, Edward squeezes my hand, and I just stare at Newton, his blonde hair and blue eyes and all-American boyish smile that fades when he locks eyes with me. He hesitates, tells something to his group of friends, and strolls over to me. He's got a nasty bruise on his temple.

We get curious looks when he stops in front of me. Edward steps forward, like he wants to protect me, and grits his teeth together. Their height difference is comical.

"Can I speak to you for a second? I think there's been a misunderstanding." Newton looks at me, and I'm flabbergasted that he's talking to me the way he talks to other people. Like he's nice. Like he gives a shit.

"A misunderstanding?" I repeat, like I've never heard of the word before. "Suck my dick, Newton."

Newton blinks at me. Edward is gripping my waist like it's the only thing keeping him from bouncing on the guy, and suddenly, Emmett is there. Jasper, Laurent, Jessica, even Tyler, they're all there, in front of me, acting like a shield against his words. Newton takes a surprised step back. No-one's ever been there to protect me from him. He glances at his group of friends.

"Walk. Now. Before you find your skull in your butt."

Edward draws out his words, his voice low and meaning unambiguous. Newton returns to his group and they walk away.

"Never been able to stand the guy," Tyler says, adding an exaggerated shudder. "Just rubs me the wrong way."

As they all walk with me to my next class like nothing had happened, I wonder what Emmett told them. I don't think he said anything specific. He couldn't have. But, somehow, he's made my group of friends aware of Newton's true nature so that they watch out for me. It's incredible and it's heartwarming and I just want to buy them tickets to a monster truck show or something.

Angela hugs the bejesus out of me in Literature and sits next to me across the aisle. Just before the class, she asks, "Why did you do it?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"The photo. Everyone's talking about it."

"It's, you know, fair game."

"You replaced the victims' photos with the shooter's, Bella. Do you know how serious that is?"

"There was only one victim who died in the shooting," I reply. "The one holding the gun."

She sighs. "I know he was teased in middle school, but come on. Doing what you did? It's so dangerous. I don't want you to get in trouble."

Teasing is when you take someone's textbook and let them chase you for it. Repeatedly raping someone does not qualify.

"So what? I'm just supposed to stand back while everyone pours blind hatred at Eric like he just went nuts and shot random people? I'm not saying I approve of his methods. I'm saying it's a fucking shame nobody tries to look into his story."

The teacher arrives and hushes us, and through the entire lesson, Angela keeps glancing at me. I take my short breaks and try to clear my head. I love Angela. She understands me so well. And I know that just because she recognized a picture she took, and knows it was me, she's not going to tell on me. But I don't know how to explain myself to her without revealing the Newton incident, and I'm not ready for that.

There is, in fact, a camera in front of 106, and it's only a matter of time before someone comes to get me to take me to Principal Wallace Kramer.

I'll just face the consequences.

During the next few breaks, I see Newton a few more times, but what really makes me do a double take is not only Alice's presence in his group of friends, but how familiar Newton is with her. Just before lunch, I see them kiss. It creeps me out. When we're waiting in line for lunch, I observe their table, and tug Edward's hand.

"Edward? Can you take a plateful for me, too?"

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" He runs a hand through my hair. "I'll take you."

"No—I just need to do something. Stay here, okay?"

"What do you need to do?"

"Just—stay here." I place brief kiss on his lips. "Please."

I walk to Newton's table with my leisurely-looking pace, and the table quiets as I stop. Newton's arm is flung over Alice's chair, but he wants to get up when he seems me. I look at Alice.

"Can I speak to you?"

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Please. This will only take a minute."

"I can speak to you," Newton says, starting to get up, but I take a step back.

"Not you. Her."

"I'll speak for her." He gets up. I retreat, just a bit. I can see Emmett and Edward watching us like hawks. A few eyes are turned around nearby tables.

"You don't get to burn my fucking house down and act like I've misunderstood something."

With a quirked eyebrow, Alice observes Newton's face. Then, she looks back at me and says, "You're a liar."

Newton freezes, just for a second, and as we lock eyes, I know that he knows that I just made the connection. As little as I understand Newton, I do understand he wants Alice to shut up.

"I don't care if you think I'm a fucking Santa Claus. I need to speak to you. You can tell them everything I told you word for word."

It is Newton who ushers her to speak to me. I shake my head at my brother and Edward as we pass, and once we're out of the cafeteria, I lean against the wall.

"Look: this is the amount of shit I give about what you think about me." I raise my fist and lock eyes with her. She's so short. "None. But here's the thing. Eric didn't go crazy. He had a reason, a very good reason, to feel cornered and desperate and helpless, and that reason is sitting next to you. I don't like you, and I know you don't like me, so we're even, but nobody deserves the shit Newton is capable of, alright? Nobody. You included."

She lifts her chin. "Oh, yeah? He told me you're a bit woo-hoo in the head and that you might make shit like this up."

"So you just blindly believe the fairy tales he feeds you?"

"Why would he have a reason to lie to me?"

"Why would I have a reason to lie to you?"

"Oh, please. You're just jealous of the attention I get from guys as popular as him."

"Get your head out of your ass and use the brains that have been soaked in there for so long. I'm not here for a fucking popularity contest, and Newton wouldn't interest me if he looked like Brad Pitt. He's a lousy excuse for a human being, and the sooner you steer clear of him, the better."

She runs her finger over her painted nails. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

She walks back to the cafeteria, and seconds later, Edward is by my side, holding me as I lower my head and let out a breath. "She wouldn't listen."

"To what? What did you tell her?"

I shake my head, and we walk back to the cafeteria. My friends have made me a cake that has a picture of a bulletproof vest on it, and as we eat and joke and laugh, I look over at Alice and find myself locking eyes with Newton. He averts his eyes like nothing has happened, and I feel lost. Powerless. How can I prove the shit he did? Really prove it? How?

Just when I've lost hope, I find myself in my last lesson, Spanish, struggling to keep up and writing like crazy. When my notebook falls on the ground, I pick it up. It opens from where Eric and I did our exercise. He has scribbled a seven on the edge, with several lines going through it, and it looks like absent-minded nonsense. Next to it, he's written, where the cookies are.

Frantic, I flip through my entire notebook, searching for other clues, anything. I search through my textbook. Nothing. Think, Bella, think.

What did he mean, where the cookies are? Where? At the store? At Ralph Yorkie's workplace? Should I go back and re-check? In my locker? My locker was empty of clues, I checked. In my kitchen? No longer here to check. In my mailbox? In seventh grade, I sometimes bought cookies myself and hid them—

Holy fuck. My house is number seven. He means my mailbox. He couldn't have known I'd moved, and he must've sent me a letter. It's so easy and so obvious I laugh out loud, exhilarated. The teacher stops speaking and frowns at me. I cough, apologize, and look at my notebook. My heart beats frantically in my chest.

What if Newton got there first? What if it's not there? If Eric thought I'd be living at home, why would he need to give me clues to get there? Did he prepare and pass my house and see that there was nobody living in it, so he must clue me in as to where he put the evidence? Why couldn't he just tell me? Or give it to me?

What if he's speaking metaphorically?

Spanish couldn't end soon enough. If I could run, I'd run through my school and go straight home, but I can't, so I order myself a cab and hear myself giving Edward some flimsy excuse. I was supposed to go to his guitar lesson with him before he took me to Dr. Hunter, and I can see that he's disappointed, but I kiss him with the life in me and promise to do it the next time. I'm a girl on a mission.

My cab pulls up in front of the wreck pretending to be my home, and I wish I could say I run to my mailbox and throw it open, or something equally appropriate for a criminal novel. But no, to a casual observer, I walk my leisurely-looking walk to it. I pull it open.

It's filled with advertisements and mail, mostly to dad. I flip through them, one by one, hold them between my thighs and reach for a thick, crumpled envelope at the back. I can feel my heart in my throat as I read Eric's handwriting on the envelope.

It's a miracle Newton didn't think of looking into my mailbox. A fucking miracle.

There's no stamp. I carefully grip the DVDs as I take out Eric's letter.

Bella—

If everything went according to plan, then I am no longer here. Who knows, maybe you even went to my funeral? I wouldn't put it past you.

If everything went according to plan, then Michael Newton is no longer here, either. That was the whole point. Regardless, I want to give this responsibility to you, whatever you may choose to do with it.

In this letter, you will find seven DVDs with content that you may not want to watch. After piecing them together, neither did I. I have never picked them up after they're finished.

This will hurt you, but maybe you'll understand.

I know what happened to you—I got it on tape. Among the DVDs, I've marked the fifth one with black scribble. It looks like I've checked if the marker works—but really, it's a sign to you. That DVD has you on it. I want you to have the choice of not showing it to anyone. It's the only copy. You can destroy it.

After the first time, I started to leave a camera to see if he used the same spot for all of it. He did. I would like to think that I would've helped you had I been there, but I don't know. If I'd been there and if I did try to help you, I would've—once again—been in the receiving end of this shit. I've been there a time too many. I wouldn't have had the authority to stop them. They would've pressed me against the wall like they did to you. In fact, they have. I accidentally got the last one on tape & you can have a look at it—if you want. Fucking nightmare.

Why did I not stop him after it became clear what he was doing? I don't know. Fear, maybe. Responsibility. It didn't feel like enough evidence to lock him up for good & I'd waited for too long to justify postponing. You can judge me, you can not, I guess I won't care because I'm no longer here, am I?

I don't think you remember much of me in middle school, but you really helped a lot. Just surviving. Even then, you sort of had that assuring quality about you. As if it's possible to make it.

It's not much, but I'm glad I knew you. Even a little bit. The world would be a better place if there were more people like you in it. Maybe one day you'll understand, or maybe you won't, or maybe the DVDs will make you understand why I couldn't continue like this. Maybe you already do. I wouldn't put that past you, either.

I ask that you burn my note. Of course, you don't have to—after all, I won't be here to see if you do give those tapes to police. I'd rather you give them to journalists, but your dad is a cop and you might do just that. Or you might not do anything. The choice is yours, but really—please do something. Give them to someone. Make people see.

—Eric.