"I want to look my best for those fabulous French birds!"
"Sir, the women currently favoured in France are toothless crones who just cackle insanely."
"Oh, ignore that, they're just playing hard to get!"
"By removing all their teeth, going mad and aging forty years?"
"Like I said! The little teasers!"

— Blackadder the Third, Nob and Nobility

: :

Wednesday, the 9th of June
6:10 PM. Listening to Where We Belong by Thriving Ivory. It's been a strange couple of weeks.

I changed my mind. Christopher Nolan, given empirical evidence, would kill me off in his vision. Spoiler alert, Emmett, how many movies has Mr. Nolan directed that have a solid female character who does not immediately die as an excuse for the male protagonist to take revenge? Oh, yeah? Name some.

I don't even think it's a misogynistic thing, it's probably just a plot device used one too many times. By him, anyway.

I know you care, Emmett. Deep, deep inside.

Deeper.

Wait, let me find a cheesy, corny corner of my mind to make you go away. Soon, I will be writing about the depth of Edward's emerald pools.

You are a curious fucker, Emmett. Go away. I mean it.

In the late Saturday morning, as I wander in the kitchen, I watch Edward lean against the kitchen island (in yesterday's clothes), holding a cup of coffee with both hands, and dad, sitting in front of him, observing a piece of paper. Upon noticing me, Edward puts down his cup and hugs me. His hair is damp. He kisses my nose, barely smiling, rests his forehead against mine and whispers, "Thank you."

He tucks me by his side and sips coffee.

Dad offers a pursed-lips smile. If he heard Edward's meltdown, he shows no signs of it. Not an ironic remark, not a line about toughening up, nothing. I love him for it.

He lifts the piece of paper that I now recognize as Edward's birth certificate.

"Is this real?"

"As far as I know," Edward replies. "Sir," he adds.

"Are you absolutely positive this is real?"

"No, sir. But look at me. Do I look like a seventeen year old to you?"

Dad's eyes linger on Edward's hand on my waist, but Edward is holding his head high. He pulls me closer.

"I guess not," dad says, resting his forehead on his palm as he inspects the certificate. "Do your parents know about this?"

"Do they know I'm adopted?" he asks, clenching his jaw. "My dad made that very evident last night."

Dad and I lock eyes but simultaneously look away.

"No," dad says. "Do they know you're older? You must be, what…"

"Twenty one, sir."

Dad's eyes snap to his. "Twenty one?"

"Yes, sir."

Again, dad looks between us.

Shifting, Edward suddenly finds his coffee mug incredibly fascinating. "The age of consent is sixteen in Washington State," he says, and the tips of his ears redden. "I checked."

He avoids looking at dad who is eyeing him like he's never seen Edward before.

"I respect that," dad says, and Edward dares to raise his eyes.

"You do, sir?"

"What's with the sudden yessirring? It's Charlie," he says, amused. "I'm afraid Bella is old enough to make up her own mind. If you're who she wants—" He flails with his hands like he's scaring flies away. "Then it's your funeral."

"Dad!"

And he looks at me, my dad, with all the love in the world, but continues to eye Edward. "But that's not the real problem here, is it?"

Edward lets out a breath. "Not entirely."

"So they don't know you're of age?"

"No."

"Where did you get this?"

"My sister."

"You have a sister? Where?"

"Currently in New York."

"How old is she?"

"Eighteen."

Dad focuses his eyes on Edward's birth certificate, runs a hand over his face, and looks up at us. "This is—it's unbelievable." Looking at me, he asks, "Did you know about this?"

I nod.

"Since when?"

"Christmas, I think."

"I see." Dad flicks the edge of Edward's certificate. "Have you tried finding your real parents?"

"My sister, she—my biological mother is dead. I know nothing of my father."

"Are you interested in finding him?"

"I—" Edward starts, observing but not really reading the letters on his mug. "I don't know. After yesterday, I—maybe. If dad—if he—"

Dad flails. "It's none of my business."

He stands to pour himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, opposite us. "You do realize what this means, don't you? In case that piece of paper is real, if it comes down to it, you can walk. I'm not saying you would, or should, but nobody could stop you if you wanted to."

Again, Edward's mug receives more attention than a regular-sized cup of no remarkable features is used to. But it's true, what dad said. Unusual circumstances or not, Edward is not obliged to stay in high school. Yes, he's adopted, but I'm fairly sure he'd have the right to walk away from Carlisle and Esme if he wished to, and they could do nothing to stop him. He's old enough to decide for himself. Imagine the responsibility. Imagine the freedom.

Edward clears his throat. "Can I stay here for a few days?"

"Stay as long as you need."

"It's only temporary. Just until I figure out how to approach dad."

"As long as you need," dad repeats.

Edward takes a breath and stops observing his mug.

"I can help you out with renovating or in the garage. I'm a quick learner, I can—"

"Son," dad interrupts. "You took care of my daughter for four months in situations I couldn't dream of knowing how to help her. I owe you."

He pours the entire cup's content in his throat and smacks his mug against the counter.

"I'll be in the garage if you need me." Unsentimental and practical to a fault, dad stops on the doorway. "But I'm not going to stop you if you do want to help out."

His smile is brief yet warm, and then he's gone. I take the mug from Edward's hands and hug him.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," he whispers, squeezing me. "I'm sorry about, you know."

I don't have to see his face to know he's embarrassed to have shown himself to me at his weakest. I don't like it. Not because I always thought there's nothing in this world that could make Edward embarrassed, but because I don't want him to apologize for coming to me. I don't want men to have to feel they always need to be tough and women to learn hiding their strength. We're all bound to human emotion. What is or isn't an acceptable reaction (to show) according to society, I don't care.

I hop on the counter, take Edward's hand, and make him stand between my legs. Puzzled but amused, he looks up at me. And by up, I mean down.

"You take care of me." I take his hand in both of mine. "And I take care of you. Okay?"

Funny how the moments you realize how much you've changed sometimes creep up on you, and in and of themselves, they're not important at all. I'm sure I've sat on the counter like this in front of Edward before. Yet I feel taller now, not physically but perspective-wise, and I feel like I have the potential to be okay with myself and be okay being myself. I feel tall. Because maybe love doesn't conquer all. I am so in love with the person in front of me I could easily learn how to fly (with a plane, you moron), and I don't doubt Edward loves me. Yet he can't fix my problems, just like I can't fix his. And maybe that's okay. We can be there for each other. Maybe that's what matters.

Edward eyes me. "Okay."

"And if you want to talk, just find me. If you don't, we won't. There's time."

His shoulders sag in relief. "When did you get so wise?"

"Don't you know? I am beautiful and strong and amazing."

He kisses my nose, and, in earnest, replies, "Indeed."

"Again with the pornography." Emmett pretends to gag as he sits and starts making himself a sandwich. He picks up Edward's birth certificate and observes it. "Nineteen ninety two," he says, eyes Edward from the top of his head to his toes, and puts down his birth certificate. He shrugs.

"You don't sound surprised," Edward says.

"Oh, please. You could sport a beard if you wanted to."

"Meanwhile your cheeks are as smooth as a baby's butt," I say, patting my brother's face.

"Shut up." Emmett turns away, munching his sandwich. "Most eighteen-year olds don't sport beards."

No, Emmett, you don't sport a beard. But I don't tell him because, you know, that might actually hurt him. And apparently I'm all tactful now and shit.

Edward observes the casualness with which my brother dismisses his birth certificate, and frowns at me. "Did you tell him?"

"Nope," Emmett says. "I learned it from her dia—"

I smack my palm against Emmett's mouth. It's a bit grose, but desperate times call for desperate measures. "Please make yourself at home while I go murder my brother."

In the afternoon, when I'm knuckle-deep in soil in front of our home, trying to be soul mates with earthworms as I cover the soil with cosmos seeds, I watch Carlisle's car pull up on the driveway. I stand to see my dad, Emmett and Edward engrossed in their work. They're helping builders measure, mark, cut and lift pieces of wood. Seeing as Carlisle continues to sit in his car, eyeing them, I walk up to him. He scrolls down the window.

"Hi Carlisle."

I watch as he lifts a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He doesn't seem to have slept. "Hello, Bella." His voice is low and tired. "Do you think I could go and—talk to him?"

"It's too raw."

He averts his eyes. "Esme isn't speaking to me."

I stretch my fingers and stand in front of him without an answer.

"Did he tell you what I did?"

"No."

His shoulders sag. "Not my finest moment."

Finger by finger, I pull off my gloves and discard them on the grass. I lean against the car because crouching all morning hasn't done me any good, but I also hold my head high. I voice the question Edward's asked me more than once.

"Why did you adopt him?"

"So he told you."

"He told me the night we spent in one oh six. He's known for a couple of years."

His eyes widen, just a bit. "How?"

"Doesn't matter."

"I thought that's why he ran."

"No," I repeat. "Why did you adopt him?"

"You'd better get in the car if you want to hear this."

I glance at dad and Emmett and Edward, laughing as they fool around. Carlisle averts his eyes and grimaces.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say.

Carlisle sighs like an old man with a dozen lifetimes behind him.

"Will you speak with him? Convince him to talk to me? To come back?"

"I'm afraid it's up to him."

"But you know him. He trusts you."

"Which is exactly why I can't," I explain, picking up my gloves. Carlisle waves at the construction site, and I turn to see Edward staring at us in the distance, but he turns away and jumps in the basement. Carlisle drops his hand and runs it over his face. He looks pained.

"You need to listen to him. Really listen. Because your son would move the stars for you if you so much as implied that you trust him with his choices. So when he comes back, listen to what he has to say."

He pauses, and it's a long one.

"What if he doesn't?"

"Nobody could be in that kind of pain unless they cared."

"Was it bad?"

"Worse."

"What do I have to do?"

"Give him time, and when he does come around, listen to him. Just swallow whatever the bullshit you want him to realize about his future, and listen."

"But you agreed with me. You understand that he's capable—"

"It doesn't matter. We're all capable of remarkable things. Don't guilt-trip him into choosing a future you want for him. He's a phenomenal guy. You might want to open your eyes to that fact before he chooses to walk away."

"He's still seventeen. Legally—"

"Fuck the legal system, Carlisle. You're already not listening."

I let out a breath and crouch. I'm about to lose it, and I haven't lost it for weeks.

"Bella? You okay?"

"Yeah," I mutter, press my lips together and stand. I lean against the car. "Look. Here's the thing, or how I see it. Edward wants to belong. Whether that means physical proximity or taking up every hobby he can, it doesn't matter. He wants to belong because you won't let him. And if he can't belong with you, he'll find other ways to belong elsewhere. Maybe he wants to explore what he can or cannot do and what he is or isn't capable of, and he can't do that with your arrows on the way. Let him have his own arrows, even if you feel they're not as strong as yours."

"Arrows?"

"Doesn't matter," I say. "If you keep telling him about the choices you think are suitable for him, he will do exactly the opposite just to get a rise out of you. I know I would. You can't suffocate him if you want him to be successful in anything."

"I don't mean to suffocate him."

"What you mean makes no difference. In his reality, you are, and that makes all the difference for him."

He looks at me, lips pressed together, but I don't waver. I don't blink.

"You should go."

"When do you think he'll be ready to talk to me?"

"I don't know."

He starts the engine.

"Carlisle?"

He looks at me.

"Make a list of all the reasons you love your son. If the occupation you expect for him makes it even the top five, you might want to spend more time finding the answers in the mirror."

I put on my gloves, sit by the bed of flowers with no flowers in it and rest elbows on my knees, watching the guys. Edward climbs up from the basement, eyes on the road, but when he finds it empty, he locks eyes with me. I give him a meager smile. He doesn't come by to ask what his dad wanted and I don't rush to tell him. He just nods.

You've got my back, Edward.

But I've got yours.

Carlisle sits in his car in the parking lot by our school every following evening for a week. I'm positive he's asked for someone for Edward's schedule because Edward tells me Carlisle is there even if he leaves at eight PM. Edward pretends not to notice, but I see him hesitate just a fraction more each day.

He talks to his mom on the phone and makes sure she's okay. He's conflicted to feel loyal to them (I think), but he doesn't share his thoughts or feelings about what happened and I don't ask.

It's an odd week. Dad, while totally casual about Edward staying with us, makes sure that I sleep in my own bed. (Like it's possible for any kind of action to happen on that shitty couch.)

It's Thursday, I'm back from Drama but Edward has yet to return from his WWF voluntary work, so I find myself sitting around the kitchen table, trying to make sense of Spanish (indirect object pronoun precedes direct object pronoun or something equally confusing) while dad eats supper and reads a document. Annoyed with my lack of linguistic skill, I drift off and observe dad, his posture and frown and the casualness with which he offers a smile when he catches me looking at him.

"You okay, kiddo?"

"How old were you when you first had sex?"

His eyes widen. If he'd been drinking, he would've definitely burst it on the table. Dad shuts his laptop.

"Is Edward pressuring you?" His face colors, and his words are sharp. "Because I swear I will personally castrate—"

"Dad!"

He lets his documents slip on the table. Eyes deathly serious, he says, "If he is pressuring you, you need to tell me."

"Oh, for god's sake. It's like you've never met the guy," I reply. "Be real."

His face clears, if only a bit. "He's not pressuring you?"

"Christ, no."

"You swear?"

"Pinky promise and shit. I swear."

I watch his face express a lot of emotions before he gets uncomfortable enough not to look me in the eye. I think he's about to excuse himself, but instead, he rubs his chin and clears throat. "Good." And yet, it seems he's about to bolt.

"So, how old were you?"

The chair creaks as he stands and finds some excuse to open the refrigerator. "Sixteen. I was, uh, sixteen." He comes back with a carton of juice, and raises his eyes as a warning. "Don't start getting any ideas, young lady. You have to understand those were different times and—"

"Will you stop it? I'm not about to judge you. I just wanted to know." Embarrassed, I wring arms together and avoid his eyes, but when I raise them again, I see that dad is ready to bolt.

"I just want to…" I wish I had Edward's ease where awkward stuff was concerned. "Remember how you said I should always feel comfortable talking to you? I know this is not like the bullying stuff, but I—I kind of want to talk and, I don't know who else to talk to. Please?"

Dad's face softens. "It's just that you are still so young," he replies quietly. "I don't want you to rush into anything."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Different times, young lady," dad repeats, voice firm.

"Dad—I can either be upfront about what's on my mind or I can go about it behind your back. Which do you prefer? Would it be so horrible if I came to you and asked about things that worry me?"

Dad stands, and for a second I'm sure he'll leave the room and pretend this conversation never happened, but instead, he leans on the counter beside me, and with a voice that's almost vulnerable, he says, "I'm sorry. It's just… you're my little girl, you know? Maybe it's the double standard every dad has."

I bend my knee, hug it and give him a shy smile. "Who was your first?"

Dad, upon understanding that I really do want to discuss this, pulls out a chair next to me and straddles it so that he can cross his arms above the backrest. "Your mom," he answers quietly.

"How did you know you were ready?"

"I, uh—I'm not sure we were. We thought we were, but… we could've waited."

"Do you only say that because you're talking to your daughter?"

He reddens slightly, looks down, and then smiles at me. "We were mad for each other."

I let out a snicker-snort, but I'm grateful he's being honest with me.

"Where did it happen?"

This time, dad blushes stark red, and clears his throat.

"Dad?"

"In a car," he replies quietly, so red he might spontaneously combust. "Now, don't go getting any ideas—"

"Don't worry, we're too tall for that to be anything but uncomfortable," I say, sighing. "Did it change things between you?"

Dad rests his chin on his knuckles. It's familiar and odd and I appreciate the effort he's putting into treating me like the near grown-up I am.

"Are you worried that going all the way will change your relationship with Edward?"

"A little."

"How?"

"I don't know. What if that's all he wants? Or what if he decides I don't live up to, you know, expectations? What if because of what I've experienced I'll never feel okay with that kind of proximity? Or, like, I freak out? And if I'm ready, how do I let him know? How do I know if I'm ready in the first place?"

I don't know if I've ever seen a man look as uncomfortable as dad does. His attention is drawn by my papers and textbook. Quietly, he says, "You could start by telling him all of this."

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

"Okay," I reply. "Thanks."

He presses his lips in a tight smile and nods. "Do you trust Edward?"

"Yes," I answer. "Do you?"

He nods and opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again. He shifts, sighs, and avoids my eyes.

"You are totally fighting against telling me not to have sex until I'm thirty five, aren't you."

An amused yet embarrassed smile lights up his eyes. "That's not true."

"Uh-oh."

"Fifty."

I burst out laughing and dad smiles, a bit protective-looking but not nearly as uncomfortable as he first seemed.

"Listen. I know Emmett told you about—what happened, and I just don't want you to feel like mom betrayed us and she is to blame. We both were. I took her for granted and didn't work as hard at our relationship, and she—she needed more attention than I was paying her. Maybe she made the wrong choices, but I did too, Bella. I did, too. And she always put you first, you have to know that. We both did."

"I know," I reply, gathering my papers to ask Emmett for help later. "I don't blame either of you. Your life is none of mine to judge."

Dad tilts his head on the side, sharply, almost like he respects my answer. I kiss his cheek. "Thanks for listening."

Embarrassed, he shrugs. When I'm at the doorway, he says, "Bella."

"Yeah?"

He envelops me in a warm hug. "Be careful." He shifts, uncomfortable-looking, and wraps fingers around my wrist. I find myself holding something small and sharp-edged, and when I look up, dad is just about as red-faced as I am.

"I'm not saying I approve, or you should. But if you're absolutely sure, I'd rather you were—"

"Dad."

"—protected. But if you're only interested because you're afraid Edward might—"

"Dad."

"—leave if you didn't give him that part of—"

"Dad!"

He shuts up. I'm not sure whether to more disturbed (or relieved) by the fact that dad carries condoms in his pocket or that he actually just gave me one. I start to correct him, but the front door shuts. Edward and Emmett stop talking the moment they see us standing on the kitchen doorway, red-faced.

"What's wrong?" Emmett asks.

"Nothing," dad and I say simultaneously. They take off their shoes and eye us as I hide a condom in my pocket, reddening further. Edward frowns when he kisses me.

"I'd like to have a word with you, son," dad says, sounding all business.

"Dad! Please." I step between them. "Please. That was for your ears only. Please don't do this."

"What?" Edward asks, amused.

"You don't have to. Please. Dad's just being—"

"Five minutes," dad says. As soon as they've left, I bang my head against the wall.

"I've seen that before," Emmett says, heating pasta for himself. "So what's the occasion?"

"I just made sure I died a virgin."

"How come?"

"I spoke to dad about sex."

He leans over the counter when he bursts out laughing. "Oh, man. You're never getting laid."

I force Emmett to help me with Spanish. It takes alarmingly long for Edward and dad to reappear, but when they do, dad looks so embarrassed I actually feel sorry for him. Edward, in turn, appears remarkably unaffected and says nothing as he heats dinner and sits by me. I think he's amused by my blushing, but when I ask what dad told him, he shrugs, saying nothing.

He's been at our place for a week, and I can't believe I never noticed, but, he's used to good life.

It's not that he throws temper tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants. No, no. It's just small things he's never had to think about—saving warm water for others when he's having a shower, buying and preparing his own lunch, cooking for himself. It's not that he can't, he's just never had to. If I lived with mom, maybe the same would apply to me. But I don't, and it doesn't, and when I discover Edward in the bathroom at one AM on Friday night (okay, Saturday), cursing at the washing machine as he pushes all his clothes into it, I learn a few things about my boyfriend.

He's reading the labels of three bottles (two detergents and a fabric softener) like his life depended on it before he decides, to hell with it, grabs a fabric softener and starts pouring it on all his clothes. Black, white and colored.

He jumps a little when I wrap arms around him. I take the bottle, cork it, and sneak around him. The tips of his ears redden when I explain that you have to separate clothes, that temperature matters and that detergent is kind of necessary. I patiently teach him to set the temperature and use the washing machine, and when I'm done, I hop (okay, crawl and climb) on the old piece of metal and eye him.

He's so upset his neck is red. "I had it under control."

"I wish I hadn't been here so I could see your face in the morning when all your white clothes were pink."

"Pink?"

"New, dark red towels with white shirts? Brilliant washing technique."

He hangs his head, groans, and wipes his face.

"Edward?" I ask, quietly. "Why didn't you ask for my help?"

"I could handle it."

"Clearly."

He huffs, avoiding my eyes. "You must think I'm such an idiot."

"For not asking for my help? A little."

Groaning, he rubs his face. I pull him closer, kiss his knuckles and wait for him to speak. He struggles. "I'm sorry," he says. I offer a smile when I finally catch his eyes.

"I never took you for someone too proud to come for my help."

He nuzzles my neck. "'cause it's embarrassing."

"Talking about masturbating and walking in on your parents having sex is totally normal, but asking your girlfriend to explain how the washing machine works? I can see how that would be mortifying in comparison."

He snickers, slides hands around my waist, and leans in for a kiss, but immediately stops and leans his forehead against mine.

"Do you think I'm spoiled?" He pulls away to look in my eyes. Grimacing, he fiddles with the edge of my elastic corset. "Your dad had to show me how to use the stove the other day."

"It's a tricky stove."

"Come on," Edward says, giving me the stink eye. I press my nose against his chest as I laugh, and Edward, ever the gentleman, grunts at my amusement.

"Am I spoiled?"

"A little." I observe the red tips of his ears as he continues to cringe, but brush my fingers over his forehead. He closes his eyes and sighs. I can't help but smile at how frustrated something silly like this can make him. "In your defense, you never assumed me to do all these things for you, and that speaks volumes about your upbringing. Especially since your mom is kind of a typical housewife."

Edward hesitates. "She's got a degree, you know."

"Don't you dare tell me she went to Harvard, too."

"No." He smiles. "Boston University."

"What did she study?"

"Administrative Studies. Financial economics, I think. Master's."

"No offense, but I would've never, ever guessed something like that."

"That's because she didn't like it," Edward says, and his eyes reveal his exhaustion. "She's actually on my side, I think, because she forced herself to go through college studying something she didn't enjoy. But she'd never say it, she'd never confront dad about it, and it—it sucks. It fucking sucks because I know she's on my side, but she'd never tell dad to back up. I don't know if she doesn't want to tell him he's wrong about something in his life, or if it's because he's the one earning money. But—I don't know, Bella." He lets out a heavy breath. "I just don't know."

He's putting himself under an unbelievable amount of pressure, and it shows in his actions and affection and in the pain in his eyes. I slide off the washing machine and press myself against his bare chest. He kisses the top of my head, slides his hands up and down my back and nuzzles my neck. It's like he's suppressing the pain of a dozen people and it's just dying to get out. So I hold him and let him hold me in the middle of the night in the bathroom.

"What if I leave them?"

"For good?"

"Yeah."

"You'd be stubborn enough for sure, but—is it what you want?" I lift my chin to look him in the eye.

"I don't know."

"What do you want?"

He hesitates. "I… don't know."

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

He breaks eye contact, and sounding frustrated, retorts, "I don't know."

"Ten years?"

"Jesus, what's with the Spanish Inquisition?" He huffs. "I don't know, alright? I don't fucking know!"

When Edward feels me pull away, he strengthens his grip and doesn't let go. "I'm sorry," he whispers, presses his lips in a line and brushes them against my forehead. "Jesus, what's gotten into me? I'm just… it's such a strange time in my life. I'm sorry."

How hypocritical would I be if I judged him for snapping at me under pressure?

"It's okay."

He tilts my face up to look in my eyes, and tenderly peppers my cheeks with kisses until he pulls back, just slightly, and catches my gaze. Neither of us blinks, but then he tickles me, and I finally see him laugh when I attempt to give him a hickey. Sliding both of his hands through my hair, he wets his lips and says, "I miss you."

"Sucks for you."

Edward squints, an amused kind of warning in his eyes. "You don't miss me?"

"Nope."

He grins, kisses me like I'm the air he wants to breathe as his hands stroke and squeeze my back, pulling me closer. I'm red-faced and panting when he pulls away, and he grins before breathing in my ear. "What about now?"

"Maybe a little," I whisper, but Edward tickles me until I'm out of breath and laughing, and when he pulls me back in his arms, I press my cheek against his chest. "Fine," I admit quietly. "I miss you, too."

He grins, all twinkly-eyed and happy.

"Sleep with me tonight."

"I—"

"Not like that," Edward rushes to explain. "Just, you know, actual sleeping."

I smile at his antics. "Relax. I just thought dad told you he'd lock me in a tower if you ever attempt to touch me," I reply. "On that note, what did he tell you?"

Amused, he replies, "Nothing I wouldn't expect my girlfriend's dad to tell me."

"Which is?"

"Stuff."

"Smug bastard."

He grins and grazes my ear with his lips. "Will you come? I just want to hold you."

"You're not afraid my dad will shoot you in the morning?"

"Not really," he replies. "I told him some things myself."

"Is that why he was so flustered?" I ask. "And what? What did you tell him?"

Refusing to answer, Edward continues to nuzzle my neck. "It's okay if you don't want to join me, but I miss you," he mutters. "I just want to sleep with you in my arms."

You don't say no to the smooth bastard my boyfriend is, and so I find myself lying on top of Edward on our five star couch (surely, his feet dangling over the edge is not comfortable), but he bends his knees and wraps his limbs around me. He's a huge cuddler and I love him for it. True to his word, we kiss and make out like the teenagers we are but don't go any further. I lay my head against his bicep when I get sleepy, and I can feel his thumb stroke my hair. He's watching me, I can feel it.

"Edward?" I mutter, half-asleep.

"Yeah?"

"The next time you wash up, don't pour half a bottle of dishwashing liquid on the sponge, okay?"

"Okay." Snickering, he steals a kiss. "Sweet dreams, love."

I wake up several times during the night to feel him still stroking my hair. One of those times, when I open my eyes, he's so deep in thought he doesn't realize I'm awake until I graze his jaw with my fingertips. He kisses them.

"Did I wake you?"

"No," I whisper, listening to the sounds of a quiet house. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," he replies, smile in his voice. "That's not why I'm awake. I just have a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk?" I ask, wiping my face to be more alert.

"Not now," he replies. "Go back to sleep." He kisses me. Quietly and tenderly, he adds, "I love you, Bella."

I wake up other times, too, and even though I'm aware he's awake, I only turn in his arms. He squeezes me, kisses my hair, and I kiss his skin. It's an odd, wordless world of emotional intimacy I'm learning to explore, one that offers trust and support and affection in return for mine.

I wake up in my own bed, a blanket around me as much as it's under me, and it feels like I've imagined everything until I arrive in the kitchen and Edward greets me with a kiss and a tired, secret smile. Emmett observes us for a long time. In the alternate universe I've entered, even as it's clear my brother knows I wasn't in my bed all night, he doesn't comment. It's odd.

It appears he and Edward were discussing me because their conversation stops the moment I arrive, but neither looks guilty. Neither explains. In fact, both look more mature than I've ever seen, and the atmosphere is so serious I don't feel right offering my usual comic relief. So I watch my brother watch us in silence and watch him back in silence.

Told you, odd.

On the first day of June, a Tuesday, Carlisle isn't in the parking lot anymore, and Edward actually stops to eye our surroundings. I do, too. He's not here. Edward gets a funny look in his eye, sad and sort of desperate. He turns on the engine and intertwines our fingers.

"Why don't we go and see how mom is doing, what do you say?"

"Do you want to drop me off first?"

"Can you come with me?"

"Of course."

"You're sure?"

I kiss him. "Let's go."

Twenty minutes later, he's unlocking their front door and I nearly expect Ping Pong to start barking because I associate this place with him, but the house remains quiet and I come to my senses. Nobody's home. It's strange, coming back here to see that nothing has changed.

Edward doesn't let go of my hand as he looks at the pictures of him and his family on the living room mantelpiece. He picks up one where he's a pre-teen in Carlisle's hospital gown, pretending to listen to Esme's lungs. Both are grinning.

"Someone, somewhere is very proud to follow their father's footsteps," Edward says, carefully placing the picture back on the wall.

"But you're not them."

"How much would it fix if I were."

"You can't beat yourself up for not being someone else. You're you, and you're wonderful."

It's a funny sort of laughter that escapes him when he runs his fingers through my hair. He looks at me, squints, and then smacks a wet, exaggerated kiss on my temple.

"So my boyfriend thinks I'm a dog, and you think you have issues."

Edward laughs but continues to browse the pictures. He picks up the one where I'm holding a bucket between my teeth, struggling to open a door. It's bittersweet to be treated like part of their family in a way yet know how many problems they have under the surface.

"I didn't know there's a picture of it," Edward says, bashful when he turns to me. "How could you do that and not realize how romantic the gesture was?"

"It was hardly romantic."

"Oh, it was romantic, all right," he says, smiling.

"Shush." I take the picture and place it back on the fireplace. "Do you want to wait for them to get here?"

Trails of laughter fade from his eyes when he contemplates my question, and so we happen to be sitting on the couch, talking nonsense and taking his mind off things when the front door shuts.

As seconds pass and we hear two voices, not talking but kissing, probably, I stop worrying if Edward's ready to talk. Because as Carlisle and Esme enter the room, not noticing us, wrapped around each other and giggling, Edward stands like he's a string bended much too far who needs to shift back to his original state. Slowly and deliberately, Edward closes his mouth and stares. It is not the fact that his parents are making out, or that he's witnessing it. Both of those things, I'm sure, have happened before.

It's seeing them happy.

It's them happy without him here, and if I could pick one memory and the emotion tied to it and scrub it off, it would be seeing Edward's face, ashen with hurt, as he shrinks like someone beat him to the gut, and that look, desperate and in pain, when he locks eyes with me. My knuckles hurt because his grip is strong, but I don't pull back. I stand.

And you can't even blame them because maybe today, Carlisle and Esme find comfort in each other. Maybe they haven't laughed since Edward left, and maybe this is the only thing that diverts their attention from all their worry.

But I doubt maybe is running through Edward's mind, and just when I think I can't take it anymore, Esme whispers something sweet in Carlisle's ear and he laughs. He fucking laughs. And maybe all my maybes are true, but Edward clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth might break, and clears his throat. His parents jump apart, and their smiles fade.

"Edward," Esme whispers and takes a step forward.

"You were right, dad," Edward says, but his voice doesn't really sound like him, and with all his shrinking, he seems to have grown a foot or two. "You don't really need me anymore."

"Edward—" Esme repeats, but with all that ominous calm demeanor, Edward walks to her and kisses her forehead.

"Will you give me a moment with dad? I don't want to upset you."

Esme runs her hands over Edward's forearms and face, as if checking he's real, and says, "We've been so worried, you have no idea… are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I just need a moment with dad. Please?"

Esme hesitates, and I'm positive she would stay if it weren't for her little bump. I wish I could go with her, but I feel like Edward might've reached his limit, and I think, I hope, that even if he says what he needs to say to Carlisle, I'll be able to bring him back to me. Because the way he's standing, hands gripping his hair and breathing so deliberately, he might need me.

Esme leaves, but Edward continues to stand like that, not looking at either of us, before he reaches for a drawer and pulls out stacks of papers. He finds a piece of paper and takes out his birth certificate from his bag (I didn't even know he's been carrying it with him) and smacks both papers on the table.

"Explain."

Carlisle startles, just enough to be noticed, and I don't blame him. I've never heard Edward so intimidating. So desperate.

Carlisle picks up both pieces of paper and observes them. "What is this?"

"My birth certificate."

Slowly, his mouth falls agape. "Is this real?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Where did you get this?"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're not—"

"I have never, ever acted my age. You've repeatedly emphasized that." Edward inhales through his nose, like he's trying to calm himself. "Why did you adopt me?"

"Edward—"

"Why did you adopt me!"

Carlisle puts down both birth certificates. "We couldn't have a child, you were on paper and that made us reconsider adopting. We went to the orphanage, and… there you were."

"Promising," Edward scoffs. "In all my promising fucking glory, there I was."

"You can't blame us for wanting a healthy kid."

"Future written in fucking stone, you thought. There's that kid from a prostitute who can save lives, let's take that and give him a promising fucking future."

"You cannot blame us for wanting what's best for you!"

"Best for me." Edward huffs. "Sure, Edward, you'll have no choice what you want to do with your future, because you're so fucking promising we will make that choice for you. But don't worry, we'll do what's best for you. Fucking nightmare."

"It's not like that," Carlisle says in a small voice.

"What's it like then, huh? Do I owe it to you to make that choice because you've taken care of me for fourteen years? Do I? Do I owe my future to you because without you I would've grown up god knows where?"

"Of course you don't."

"Then why do you act like I do?"

"I never meant to—"

"Bullshit. You do. I've known I was adopted for two fucking years, and not once did I throw it back at you! Not once! Because I don't blame you for adopting me. But for you to do it? Fuck."

"I'm sorry," Carlisle mutters, taking a shaky breath of his own. "I never meant what I said. I am sorry."

"Do you know what a boy from an orphanage is happier to do than follow the future that's written in stone? To hear the guy who raised you say that you're not worth fucking shit because you're adopted! That I will never live up to your expectations because I'm not your real fucking son. Thanks, dad. Always wanted to get that thrown in my face."

Carlisle swallows, pale, and runs a hand over his face. He makes eye contact with Edward. "Son, I am sorry. Truly."

"That's okay. Because you don't need me anymore."

"Edward—"

"No," Edward manages a smile, a twisted smile filled with so much pain it hurts to look at it, but he manages it. "You got me when you thought you couldn't have any kids of your own. Well, circumstances changed, and you have your own little family now. And I—I'm happy for you. I am."

The twisted smile continues, and Carlisle looks beaten and on the verge of tears, if such a thing is possible. Edward puts back the stack of papers and picks up his birth certificates. He holds out a hand to me. I don't know how to help him. He loves them, or he wouldn't be as broken as he is, but he's in too much pain to admit it to himself that he needs them, too, just like they need him.

Carlisle stands on the doorway. "Please don't." And then Esme is behind him, too, clearly too agitated by Edward's arrival to sit still.

"It's okay, mom. I'll just get out of your way."

"Out of our way? But you live here. This is your home."

"No—I think… Maybe it's best for all parties involved if I just—leave. To find my own way. A poorer way for sure, but mine. My own."

"Let's talk about this."

"No, dad. All we do is talk. You're all talk. All that talk about integrity, talk, talk, talk. If I stay, maybe you'll try to give me room for a few days, weeks if I'm lucky, but then you'll fall in the same pattern because you always do, dad. You always do. You say you understand my perspective, but then you act like you don't, and what am I supposed to think? I will hate myself and you if I stay."

"Son—" Carlisle starts, but one quiet look from Edward, and he stops his thought. "Tell us what you need."

"You have your family to think about, and I don't belong in it. So it's okay, really."

"You are our family," Esme says.

"You don't have to say that."

"But you are."

"You don't have to pretend."

"Edward," Esme says, standing in the middle of the corridor, hands on her sides with no intention of letting him through. Eyes burning and head held high, she looks him straight in the eye. "You chose us, that day we came to the orphanage. You hadn't said a word to anyone for the four months you'd spent there, and you came to us. You talked to us. So you see, you cannot leave. You have to give us another chance to get things right. Because we love you."

Edward runs a hand through his hair. "Mom, I—"

"Please."

It's Carlisle, pursed lips and low voice, and he looks so beaten I don't know what to think anymore. Apparently, neither does Edward, because he looks at them, back and forth, and sighs. Maybe he didn't expect them to resist him leaving, but I'm glad they are. He needs to see them fight for him.

"Give me time."

"How much?"

"Until the end of the school year—at least."

Carlisle and Esme look at each other, and Esme lifts a hand to caress Edward's cheek. "Alright."

"Yeah?"

"Alright," she repeats. "We love you."

"I know," Edward mutters. "Just give me time."

"Okay," Esme whispers, and Edward walks to the end of the corridor and leaves the house. I'm frozen in my spot.

"That parking lot thing—I think he needs to see you won't give up on him, so if you could continue that… it might give him hope."

Carlisle nods.

"I'd better go."

I turn to leave, but Carlisle calls after me. "Bella?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of him."

"I will," I reply. "I hope things work out, but I can't fix this for you."

"We know, honey," Esme says. "Thank you."

Two subdivision entrances later, Edward pulls the car to a stop, turns off the engine and rolls his chair backwards. Staring at me in silence, he holds out his hand. Instead of taking it, I sit in his lap. He slides his hands under my cardigan and blouse, warm hands stroking my skin, and rests his head against my neck. I squeeze him back.

"I was too hard on them."

"No."

"I was."

"Don't start guilt-tripping. They needed to see they can't take you for granted, and they have to be able to change their attitude to have you back."

"What if they realize they don't need me?"

"They won't."

"What if they do?"

"They won't."

"But what if they do? I have nobody."

"Come on, now. See that girl squirming in your lap? I hear she's in love with that dude under her. And she doesn't like being called nobody."

Edward pulls back, smiles, and leans forward, pressing his chest against mine to hold on to my back. "Squirming?"

I press down, and Edward shakes, huff-chuckling against my neck. His hands roam under my blouse as he nips and sucks my skin. "Do you have any idea how much I have to hold myself back not to scare you away?"

"Do you constantly want to be having sex with me?"

"Yes," he replies without hesitating. Only two seconds have passed when he sucks his lips from my skin and looks at me, horrified. "Shit, I'm sorry. You were being sarcastic."

"It's okay."

"No, I… Jesus. I don't want to pressure you. No pressure, okay? Forget I said anything."

"Stop freaking out." I brush a thumb over his eyebrow. "Do you, really?"

"Yes," he admits in an exhale. His breath tickles my ear. "I can't pretend I don't want you when most of the time you're driving me mad with need."

"Is there anything I can do to encourage such madness?" I ask and press my hips down against his. He jerks, sucks in a breath, and squeezes my hips. I hum because he feels so good but I don't actually know what the hell I'm doing.

"Bella," he mutters, panting. "I will come in two seconds flat if you don't stop."

"Are you opposed?"

He presses me down against him. "Definitely not," he whispers. "But I only have one pair of spare jeans in your place."

"Sounds like a challenge."

His head falls back when he laughs, but it's breathless, too. So is mine. He holds me steady, and for once, I don't do the cruel thing. Even though I want to.

"I think I—I think we could explore us," I mutter shyly. "Physically."

He pulls back to look in my eyes. "Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I just thought…"

"What?"

"That you're not quite… there yet," he replies. "And that's okay. I'm not complaining."

"I'm just—can we talk about this before we go the entire way?"

He kisses my neck and rests his forehead on my shoulder. "Do you want to talk now?"

"I don't think the timing is quite appropriate."

"I disagree," he says. "I need the distraction." He runs his hands up and down my waist, slowly, kisses the side of my jaw and pulls the back of his seat upright. I fall against him so that my stomach and chest are pressed against his. His hair brushes against the top of the car, but he continues to tickle my skin as he looks at me. "Tell me what you're worried about."

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"I won't."

"It's just that—I'm scared."

His eyes soften. "Of what?"

"You're—you are so open about these things. Affection and love and desire and, you know, things that make me embarrassed."

"I can tone it down if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Don't. I like it." I touch his Adam's apple, just to have something draw my attention away from his eyes. I'm not used to my own shyness in situations like this. "I like it a lot. It's just that—you know what you're doing. It's so clear. You know how to kiss me to make me feel like I want to crawl into you, or how to touch me, even casual affection. And me? I don't know any of that. I have no idea how to make you feel as, I dunno, cherished, I think. Like how you make me feel."

"Bullshit."

"I'm sorry?"

"That's bullshit. Experience has nothing to do with how I make you feel. Because you make me feel that way, too."

"But, but, are you just amusing me when you say something I do makes you feel good?"

"Am I amusing you with my hard-on right now?"

"I, ah, no."

He lifts my chin to look into my eyes. "Don't let your insecurities dumb yourself down. You're intelligent. I'm not about to hide the fact that you turn me on. Because you do."

"But what if I do something wrong?"

"There's nothing you can do wrong."

"That's a bold statement," I reply. "I could, for example, kick you in the groin in the middle of making out."

He chuckles. "It would hurt, but I think I'd survive."

"Will it hurt?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

Edward licks his lips and kisses me, chaste and warm. "I can't speak from personal experience because I don't own the necessary equipment, but I think it will hurt at first for you."

"Have you been with a virgin before?"

"Once, but she didn't tell me and it was a—a bit of a mess, really." He caresses my hair and holds on to the nape of my neck, eyes never leaving mine. "Are you worried that I'll hurt you?"

"Heart more than body," I admit quietly.

He gets the goofiest, most tender expression on his face. "Really?"

"Really," I confirm. "Will you be patient with me?"

"Contrary to what the guys would have you believe, we don't actually die of blue balls," he answers, smiling. "I will. Of course I will."

Shyly, I ask, "Will you show me how to make you feel good, too?"

My blush only darkens when Edward grins at me. He tilts my head up. "Hey, there's no shame in being a sexual creature."

"Maybe not in your world."

He huffs, shaking his head, and I just know he doesn't think I should be embarrassed talking about this. I wish I weren't, but just like I can't change the core person that I am to please him, I don't want to lie to do it, either.

"Can we just take it, you know, one hand-job at a time?"

He bursts out laughing, and I can feel his chest vibrate as he hugs me. "Bella, Bella, Bella," he whispers, but doesn't add anything else as I feel his lips on my neck.

"This is silly but… Right now, I'm taking all this poison for my back, but when I'm back on pills, I just want you to know—I still want to use a condom. I'm too young to get pregnant and I don't want to risk anything."

Maybe his toothy smile is supposed to reveal a secret, but when he remains quiet, I nudge him. "What?"

His eyes glint. "I like you."

"You like me?" I repeat. "You like me?"

"I do," he replies with that wicked smile. "I've known it for a while now."

"Gee."

"H?"

"No, gee," I correct him. "I'm not reciting the alphabet. Now, what's that secret smile supposed to mean?"

"Do you know why we are so amazing together?"

"We're amazing together?"

"Yes," he replies, grinning. "And do you know why?"

"We both like cheese."

"No. Yes." He laughs. "Maybe. What I mean is, you know what you want. Even more so, you're not afraid to tell me what you want. I like that."

"And you deduced all of that from me asking us to use a condom?"

"You were hardly asking."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says, all confident smile and twinkling eyes. "Don't be sorry. That's what I'm saying. Do you know how many relationships fail because people are afraid to say what they want and what they don't? Let's not be one of them. Always tell me what you want. If it's not what I want, I'll tell you, and vice versa."

"So you're okay using a condom?"

"Very." He smiles. "You know I haven't gone without one. I would've agreed had you asked us to go bareback, but you're right. We're too young to risk anything."

I have no clue what going bareback means, but I think I grasp the context.

Edward tilts my chin up and smiles. "No shame, okay?"

I smile through my embarrassment. "What if I mess up and I disappoint you when we're, you know. Having sex?"

"Oh, fuck that," Edward says with unexpected passion. "Fuck that thought, seriously. You will not disappoint me. I fucking love you. I'll show you what works for me and I can't wait to discover what works for you." He brushes hair from my forehead and kisses me. "Fuck expectations."

I observe him, and he frowns. "What?"

"You used to be so pure and now you go all fuck this and fuck that."

He hesitates. "I shouldn't."

"Raised to express yourself otherwise, huh?"

For a while, we eye each other. I'm really starting to like how easy it is to talk about embarrassing things with Edward.

"Can we do it in the summer in the field?" I ask after a moment of silence.

He grins, and it's adorable and bright and very, very teasing. "Isabella Swan is a closet romantic."

"Shut up."

"A romantic," he repeats, grinning.

"Oh, shut up or I will feed your ego to the homeless."

"My ego? I have no ego. I am Jesus."

"So I've noticed."

He laughs, and I do, too, because not only has he taken over my habit to overuse curse words but a piece of my sense of humor as well, and to show him how much I like it when he makes me laugh, I lean in for a kiss. He responds, smiling, and the windows fog a bit as things get heated, but then I bump my head, he bumps his, and suddenly, we're a laughing heap of long limbs and affection.

"Not to cock-block you, but we're too tall to be making out in the car."

He puffs against my neck.

I jump at a tap on the window. Red-faced and rubbing my back, I sit next to Edward and watch him scroll down his window.

"Sir, I have a complaint from the neighborhood—"

Officer Thomas Kell stops talking as he makes eye contact with Edward. "You're Cullen's boy, aren't you?"

"Hi, Tom." I wave, mortified.

"Ah," he says, having seen me beside Edward. "Hi, Isabella. The people in this subdivision are concerned about your presence, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"No worries. We already figured we're too tall to have sex in the car."

Uncomfortable, he clears his throat. "Well, nice seeing you. Have a good night."

"Sufficiently awkward, indeed," I reply. "You, too."

"Thank you, Officer," Edward says, starts the engine and drives off. I facepalm and he laughs, but we both sober when Edward pulls up next to dad's work car. Hand on the door handle, he hesitates.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he asks. "By not giving in?"

Unused to seeing him seek assurance, I wait until we're out of the car and he locks it. I squeeze his hand. "I do." He rests his forehead against mine, but stays quiet. He smiles when I do, and kisses my forehead. It feels like a thank you.

On Wednesday, rumors about Jacob's leaving hover in the hallways, and I find him walking towards the cafeteria before lunch. I jog to catch up with him, and when I do, Jacob sends me a friendly if tired smile. His hair is a bit shorter, pace a bit bolder yet eyes more guarded.

"Is it true?" I ask. "Is it true you're really leaving?"

"Good morning, Isabella," he says, aloof and friendly. "Making progress, I see. Not that I ever had any doubts."

"You can't leave, Mr. Black. Please don't leave. You've done such a great job with our football and basketball teams. Everything they've achieved is thanks to you. The Principal must know that."

His pace slows down as he eyes me, and then he motions for us to stand next to the windows. Students and teachers pass, some let their eyes linger but most ignore us.

"Thank you, Isabella," Jacob says with a friendly smile. "I appreciate that you think so. I've loved teaching here—"

"Then why are you leaving? You've done nothing wrong! Don't give those parents the satisfaction of resigning. Please. Most of them support you. You must know that."

He sighs. I've never seen him look so defeated. "Assuming that the Principal doesn't want to let me go, assuming that most parents are okay with me—it's more complicated than that. Because those who are not will find an excuse to pressure me into leaving, and I'm not going sit around waiting." He eyes me, smiling. "Don't look so sad. You're a tough cookie, Isabella."

"What will you do after you leave?"

"Maybe I'll go to Cleveland with Peter, start fresh. Maybe I'll stay here and become a personal trainer. I have options."

"Is there anything that would change your mind?"

"I gave my resignation letter to the Principal this morning."

Sighing, I lean against the wall. "But who will help me get into shape for next year's marathon?"

He smiles as he appraises me. "I suggest you talk to Mrs. Haldane. Or would you like me to do it?"

"No, it's fine," I say, falling silent as I watch Peter walk toward us. His cast is gone, and he limps slightly, but all his piercings are in and he looks almost as good as new. It's depressing because he, too, will be gone in a few weeks.

"Morning, Bella. Why so gloomy?" Peter asks, smiling.

"School will suck without you guys."

"Aw," he says, drawing out the sound and exaggerating it. "You'll be fine."

"Can't you stay? Please?"

Peter pulls me into a brief hug. "You'll be fine," he repeats, pulling back. "You'll teach Drama and go to Juilliard and make us all proud with your talent and work ethics."

"Wish I had your confidence."

"Don't you, though?"

I observe students in the cafeteria as they say hi to me in passing, the seniors who cannot wait to be done with school and juniors who cannot wait to replace them. Peter and Jacob talking, waving at me, Emmett and the rest of our table laughing at something Edward said. I catch Edward's gaze.

There's such a presence to him, not just because of how tall he is but how his attitude impacts their reactions to him. He doesn't need to act any different for people to take him seriously. He doesn't ask for the authority he has among students, he doesn't need to. Maybe he's not even aware that he has it. But he does.

I take a seat beside him, and he intertwines our fingers under the table. "You alright?"

"Everything's changing."

"Like what?"

"Peter and Jacob resigning. Emmett going off to college. Half of my group of friends graduating. Dad. You. Me. The way I see you."

He squeezes my hand. "Is that bad?"

"I don't know," I reply, observing my brother. "I don't know. But it makes me sad."

Edward kisses my temple. "Would you rather everything stayed the same?"

"Sometimes," I reply. "Sometimes I do. But at the same time, I want to change. How can I expect to achieve the things I want to if I'm not ready to do things I haven't done before? I have to change, and I'm ready." We watch our friends argue and laugh and throw M&Ms at each other before I turn to watch Edward eating. "It's bittersweet, I guess."

On Friday, I arrive home to find Edward sitting cross-legged in the middle of our driveway, spinning a basketball on his finger. His sweatshirt is covered in little drops of water from drizzle. He doesn't turn away his gaze when I take off my back bag and sit next to him. Not even when I kiss his cold cheek.

"Girls shouldn't sit on cold stone," he says, not looking at me. "You'll get cystitis."

I sit on my bag. "Better?"

"You could've told me," he whispers. "Hey, how were your SATs? By the way, you know that Marshal Stephens dude Charlie hangs out with? He thinks he's your father."

"Al's back from Philadelphia?"

He continues to spin the basketball on his index finger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I think he wanted to be sure his suspicions were right before rushing to talk to you. He asked me to help him get your DNA, but I didn't want to do it behind your back, so I told him he'll have to ask you himself."

His eyes are glued to the basketball. (Metaphorically, you idiot.)

"How long have you known?"

"That time he took me to your place from the hospital, I noticed his laughter is so similar to yours it's uncanny. He rebuffed me, though. He said it couldn't be. But last month, when he came to talk to me, he said he'd lied and had been to Vancouver, but then he had to take off to Pennsylvania. I'm sorry. I should've told you. I just thought it'd be better if you heard it from him."

Edward says nothing for a while, and it's getting cold, sitting outside in drizzle.

"Can we continue this inside, please?"

He puts down his basketball when he finally looks at me, stands and pulls me up and in his arms. "Come here. You're cold."

"I am sorry. I thought I was doing what was best for you."

"I wish everyone would just stop making that decision for me."

I nod against his chest. "Can we continue this inside?"

"No," Edward says. "They're still going at it and I don't want to listen. Let's sit in the car."

"They? Who's they?"

He huffs when he sees I intend to sit beside him and pulls me to sit in his lap. He rolls the chair backwards as I turn up the heater. I kiss his neck and he pulls me against him.

"Who's they?"

"Your dad's girlfriend. Marshal Stephens. Your dad."

"So what happened?"

He sighs. "Nothing, really. I came home, Marshal Stephens knocked on the door and asked to talk. So we did. It was, I mean, Jesus. I never suspected—I never thought—so, anyway, at one point, Sarah and your dad walk in, and apparently, Mr. Stephen's wife filed for divorce after he'd told her what happened during their break. I mean, they were officially married. I understand why she'd react that way. But Sarah heard us talking on that subject, put the two and two together and started spewing shit at me."

"What did she say?"

"It's my fault, why would I want to tear her family apart, that kind of thing."

"Are you serious?"

Edward gives me the stink eye, and I cringe. "Right. Pink glasses, I get it. Continue."

"You dad was really cool, though, he kept trying to calm her down and telling her she couldn't hold me responsible. You're really lucky to have your dad, you know? His heart is in the right place. But they started shouting at each other so I got out of there. Mr. Stephens came to see if I was alright, but I told him to give me time to think, and then you appeared."

He rests his head against the headrest and closes his eyes. "So now I've broken up two relationships just by existing."

"That's not true," I say, brushing my fingers over his eyebrows. "You're not to blame for Al's straying. We don't know what led him to do it, we don't know if at the time they were considering divorce. We don't know any of that."

A small smile plays on his lips. "You and your dad are so alike. So sensible and good-hearted."

"Thank you."

"I almost wish it were true. But if I didn't exist, Mr. Stephens would've never been forced to admit he did what he did, Sarah wouldn't blame me for trying to break up her family, and your dad wouldn't be forced to pick sides."

"Edward," I whisper, and press my lips against his. He responds eagerly. "If you didn't exist, I would've never known it's possible to find a guy as sweet and charming and brave as—what's so funny?"

"No, no, keep going." His chest shakes. "My ego enjoys your stroking."

"Asshole," I say, and Edward opens his eyes and snickers. He encases my jaw and breathes on my mouth.

"I love you."

"I know, I can feel it."

The tips of his ears redden. "I can't help it."

"Do you want me to move?"

"No."

Edward turns up the radio, wraps arms around me and shuts his eyes. We stay like that, sitting and thinking and stealing kisses in silence.

"Are you mad at me for not giving you a heads up?"

"A little." He runs a hand through my hair. "Next time, share this kind of information sooner rather than later, and we'll be fine."

"Deal."

They're still going at it when we go into the house and stop at the kitchen doorway.

"—married, dad. How could you have done that?"

"It's more complicated than that," Al Stephens says, sitting at the end of the table, fingers intertwined and eyes calm.

"I think I can keep up," his olive-skinned daughter replies, and I watch dad lean against the refrigerator, watching them. He looks sort of disappointed as he nods at us.

"I was flying around the country, working non-stop. I was just never home, and when I was, our bickering was endless. She filed for divorce back then, and I hadn't signed the papers but I was sure it was over when I met her—I'm not justifying anything. But it happened, and you can't expect me to ignore the fact that I have a son never knew about."

"You're sure?" I ask. "But I never gave you—"

Marshal Stephens sighs, not saying anything.

Sarah throws a skeptical look at Edward. "So he's expecting money and daddy-bonding make-up time and—"

"I came here for him. I initiated this. You must accept that."

"If he didn't exist—"

"I know," Edward interrupts. "So do you want me to jump off a bridge or slit my wrists? Which one do you think will fix your family? Or should I crawl back in Mr. Stephens testicles?"

I snort a laugh, and Al huffs under his breath, embarrassed-looking but amused.

"And I'm not asking for anything," Edward continues. "Money, time, nothing. Not even a DNA test. I didn't search out Mr. Stephens, and I have enough issues with my own family to get another with just as many if not more. I don't need to find out the truth."

Marshal Stephens stares at Edward for just a fraction of a second before he sighs and runs hands over his face. "Do you mean that?"

Edward hesitates.

"See, dad?" Sarah says. "He might not even be your son, and he doesn't want to know."

"Not like this," Edward answers quietly. "Not if it breaks apart a family."

"I fear that will happen regardless," Marshal Stephens answers with equal volume.

"You don't mean that," Sarah says. "You don't mean that. You should go home to mom. Maybe Edward's not even yours, anyway."

"I met his mother on the first days of July, 1991. Edward is born on the 25th of March, 1992. You do the math."

"She was a hooker. She must've had hundreds of others."

"I spent an entire week with her. She thought my name was Masen."

"How likely do you think that is, dad? It's so unlikely. Maybe she just liked the name—"

"Look at him! He's got my face. Her coloring, but my face, my voice, my height. My father was six ten. My grandfather was six seven. I'm six five."

"This might all be a coincidence."

"For Christ's sake, Sarah. I know you feel threatened, and I know I've hurt your mother, but you cannot expect me to ignore the fact that I have a son. You can ask me for anything but that. I'm not choosing between you and him. I'm choosing between right and wrong."

"Dad…"

"I cannot rewrite history, Sarah. I thought your mother and I were over when I met Lizzie. Do you want me to tell Edward I wish he didn't exist? I can't. I can't regret that he exists."

"You don't know he's your son, dad."

Al looks exhausted when he leans just a bit forward, sighs, and rubs his neck. "The DNA test confirmed it."

I feel Edward flinch. "You never said—"

"I know." Marshal Stephens makes eye contact with Edward. "I wanted to see how you felt about the possibility first, and I was about to tell you when—when this happened." He motions around the room. Edward grips my hand so hard it almost hurts, and goes to sit.

"You're serious," Edward whispers, and sounds nothing like himself. "Are you serious?"

Al nods.

"But—but I never gave you any DNA, nothing."

Neither did I, for that matter.

"You gave it yourself when someone broke into Isabella's room when she was at the hospital. I pulled some strings."

"And, you—you mean, it's not your brother and you're just saying that so that I wouldn't—"

"No," Al says simply. "No. The moment I saw your real birth certificate, I would've known even without a DNA test."

"Dad," Sarah says, looking between the two of them. "You cannot choose between mom and a guy that carries your DNA and choose the latter."

"I'm not making your mother choose. She's making herself do it."

"But still, cheating on—"

"For the last time, Sarah, your mother and I were not officially together. The only thing that separated us from divorce was my signature. I didn't expect us to work things out the way we did, and I didn't hold myself accountable enough to tell her because we were not together at the time being. It was wrong of me, but I can't change what happened."

"I can't believe you," Sarah says, and I think she's about to cry. "How could you be so reckless and get a hooker pregnant?"

Al winces, and Edward runs his hands over his face and leaves them there. I think he's holding himself from a snappy remark.

"And you?" Sarah asks, looking at my dad. "You're on his side, aren't you?"

My dad, looking increasingly uncomfortable, eyes Al and Edward, and locks eyes with me. He nods.

"I can't believe this," Sarah says. "I'm getting out of here."

"I'm not choosing him over you," Al says gently. "But it happened, and he's mine as much as you are, and I can't change that. I hope you'll grow to understand. He's your brother after all."

"He is not my brother," Sarah insists before she grabs her handbag and hurries out of the house. Even though dad goes after Sarah, he comes back looking more disappointed than alarmed.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Al says quietly. "She'll get around."

Dad nods absent-mindedly, asking, "Would you care to stay for dinner?"

Marshal Stephens, although tired-looking, smiles. "If that's okay with you."

"Do you mind if I stay to make it or do you need privacy?"

I look at Edward, and his face expresses something between shock, excitement and nausea. "Stay, if that's okay with Mr. Stephens."

"Al," he corrects Edward. "And that's fine."

"Can I help you, dad?" I ask.

I'm chopping and frying onions in no time, and observe the gentle way Edward and Al beat around the bush, all awkward-looking and incredulous but enthusiastic.

"I didn't expect…" Edward trails off, intertwining his fingers behind his neck as he eyes Al Stephens. "I don't expect anything from you. This is—I mean, wow."

"I know," he replies. "But you must know, I would've never let you end up in an orphanage if I'd known you existed."

Edward tilts his head forward. "Can you… I mean you met my biological mother, obviously. Can you—tell me about her?"

"She was… I didn't know she was a prostitute until the last day we spent together. She worked as a waitress, I asked her out. She was broke. She spoke very little English. She was a French-Canadian."

Edward says something in French, and it sounds fluent, Marshal Stephens replies in French, and suddenly, their entire conversation is in a language I can't speak.

"Guys, how can I eavesdrop if you don't speak English?"

Edward starts laughing and pulls me over for a kiss. His smile is bright and happy.

"I apologize. For your eaves-dropping conveniences, we shall return to your mother tongue."

"Thank you," I reply.

Edward's still smiling when he asks, "Do you know anything about her family?"

"Not much. She might've had a sister or a mother in Ottawa, I can't remember. I do remember she didn't want to discuss it."

"What did she look like?"

"Beautiful," Al Stephens replies. "Your hair and your eyes. She was about five foot five, I think. Fragile-looking little thing. And I—I never paid to have sex with her because I didn't know—things just got very intense very quickly."

The tips of his ears redden, and, oh, man, I want to jump up and down.

"Edward, I want to have sex with you," I say. Sure enough, he shakes his head in disbelief, chuckles, and looks over to my very uncomfortable-looking dad as the tips of his ears redden.

Dad clears his throat, but I walk up to him and whisper, "Look at their ears, dad. All we ever had to do was make them sit in the same room, make them embarrassed, and we would've known."

"Ah," dad says, more in tune with what I was trying to achieve. Most of what Edward and Al proceed to discuss is in French, and I get the feeling they're talking about me, but Edward just pulls me over to look in my eyes as he tells me something in French, and I'm lost in how sexy it sounds.

"What did he say, Al?"

He shakes his head and smiles.

"What did he say?"

Edward smiles and kisses me and as Emmett arrives and we start to eat, Edward proceeds to take in every piece of Marshal Stephens' life, his family and work and strengths and weaknesses. Al tells Edward he and Lizzie grew quite attached to each other before he had to leave Chicago. When he flew back a month later, asking around for her, he was told she'd taken off to Vancouver. (Probably pregnant.) He was also told Lizzie had a drug problem she'd managed to hide from him.

I don't think Edward looks all that surprised, to be honest, but he's soaking it all in and we stay quiet because it's such a wonder to witness their first steps together. Even Emmett doesn't look all that surprised. (Reading my diary still, are we, dear brother?)

When we're done with dinner, Edward sends Al to the front door and I trail behind him because I'm curious like that. I mean, polite.

Al hesitates.

"I don't know why or how you ended up living with Charlie, but if you should need a place to stay, I'd be happy to help you out. I don't expect you to want to, you have parents who raised you and I respect that, but I feel you need to know I will help out should you need it."

"Thank you. Right now, things are… a bit messy at home, and I don't… I don't know anything at the moment."

"That's fine."

"I am sorry about… your family. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's not your fault, son," Al says, and I swear Edward brightens as they pull each other in a hug. No words of affection are shared, but I almost die from the sheer cuteness of their blushing.

When the front door has closed, Edward's smile stretches until I'm sure his brains might fall out through his mouth. He encases my face, pushes me back against the door and rests his forehead against mine, still grinning like a maniac.

"Did you see that? I have a father, and he doesn't hate me, and he'd like to be a part of my life and he's actually a decent person. I have a father, Bella. Someone actually gives a shit about my existence."

I slide my hands behind his neck as I grin. "I'm happy you're happy."

"Happy? I'll show you happy!" He wraps his arms around me, and I expect a hug but he twirls me around until I'm starting to get sick. He puts me down, still grinning like a maniac on drugs, and kisses me so thoroughly I get light headed. And still, when I pull back, Edward is observing me with that grin, but his eyes are gentle.

Emmett and I convince dad to play cards with us on the living room floor, and even though the day didn't start out very promising, Edward's good mood is contagious and even dad is considerably brighter when we finally go to bed. Edward doesn't want to let go of me, and for a second time, we disobey dad's orders and I sleep by Edward's side on the couch. This time, though, after I've wrapped Edward in my arms and I'm wrapped in his, he falls asleep the moment he's kissed me goodnight. I observe him for a while before I, too, succumb to sleep.

: :

Friday, the 2nd of July
10:02 AM. Edward's with his mom and dad at the hospital, but I hurt my back, so I have to stay in bed for a couple of days. I think Emmett partied all night because he smells like booze and he's drooling all over his pillow. Pleasant. But it's summer vacation, filled with sunshine (er, sometimes) and pink unicorns and building a house.

I know I always make sarcastic remarks about you here, Emmett, but I'm just too shy to tell you I love you to death and you've taught me a lot and I get kind of teary-eyed thinking that I won't see you at school next year. Or at home, creeping over my shoulder while I write my diary. You're kind of dear to me, you know. I'm sorry I'm not good at expressing it.

But I still can't believe you were voted Prom King. I mean, dude, who did you seduce for that kind of blasphemy to happen?

I'm kidding! I'm kidding!

(No, I'm not.)

But still. Your graduation made me feel nostalgic and sad because half of my group of friends is leaving me behind, you and Tyler and Lauren and Laurent and Ben and Jessica and, oh, fuck, what if Alice starts ruling the school next year? I'll light myself on fire if she's given that kind of power. Or maybe her purse. It's a tie.

I can't believe you chose New York.

Nope, that's a lie. I totally can. But I, I mean, you make me sad. I might even pretend to cry as you leave (and proceed to jump on your bed because, dude, I have the entire bedroom to myself now!) But I'll chop onions and pretend to be devastated, because that's how much I love you.

Edward and I go to see Esme at least twice a week. Her belly is growing and other than Edward's absence, she seems happy. If at first she brings up Carlisle and/or moving back home on a regular basis, Edward makes it very clear he's not ready. But we often have dinner and keep her company, and Edward is very protective of her and her health.

He's talked to Al, too, a few times since that night, but Al sounds very busy. Dad is, too. It makes sense, because Supervisory Deputy Marshal Al Stephens is now dad's boss, and dad sometimes arrives home at eleven PM. He sounds exhausted, and when I ask him what his job description is, he says something vague about witness protection. He's carrying a gun and a silver badge shaped like a star, a blue polo shirt and khaki pants, and even though he should look like an employee from Best Buy, there's something in his stance that prevents that. Well, his attitude and the fact that his vest reads U.S. MARSHAL.

One morning, I nearly crap my pants seeing dad wear a bullet-proof vest on his polo shirt. He smiles and eats breakfast and I just hug the living applesauce out of him before he leaves. He wears that vest every day for a week, and I proceed to hug the mad raccoons out of him every morning. He's embarrassed if amused for a few mornings, but after that, he even comes to me to offer a good bye hug.

I've trained dad to hug me every morning! Go me!

Special note just for you, Emmett—I promise you will want to skip these next few sections. Just trust me on this one, okay?

I'm embarrassed to bring up sex talk with Edward, but I know dad will be in Dallas from the 24th to the 26th, and the weather report says it'll be clear and summery for those days, so I carefully approach the subject of, you know, doing a little field trip together. Edward is surprised and a lot slower to say yes than I thought he would be, and I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended. But seeing I want this, he eventually agrees. He does insist on taking care of food. I don't argue.

In the early evening of the 25th of June, a beautiful if windy Friday, I wrap arms around my legs as I sit next to Edward, nervous out of my mind. I watch the unlit city lamp posts turn into beautiful green forests. I hold my hands together so that they wouldn't shake from nerves, but that plan fails when Edward seeks out one of them and intertwines his fingers with mine. Mine are damp.

He looks over to me, contemplating my silence, and says, "We don't have to do this."

"I want to."

"Why?"

"I just want to."

"Why?"

"Because I love you and you've been ready for so long and—"

"If that's the best I could do, I'd be sweating too," Edward says, and he doesn't look at all amused. "Bella. The fact that I'm ready is not a reason. I want you to want to. Or do you intend to dump me tomorrow?"

"What? No!"

His smile is sad. "Then where's the rush? We have all summer, and fall, and winter, and you're not yourself right now. If you were yourself, you would've cracked a joke or worn the ugliest pair of pajamas just because you felt like it. But you look petrified."

"I'm not petrified."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Come on," Edward says. He squeezes my hand but huffs. "I love you. I'm not going anywhere. I won't let you pressure yourself to give me that part of you."

"Are you going to cock-block me?"

"If you keep behaving like this, yes."

He pulls the car to a stop. We're here, on the edge of the field, but Edward pulls my legs in his lap and doesn't get out. He strokes them, and when he makes eye contact, he brushes my eyebrow with his thumb, looking sober and serious and a bit sad. "Why do you really want to do this? Walk me through your thoughts."

I shrug. Edward takes my hands in his. "Hey, now. Be honest. Let's see how our realities work together and proceed from there. There's no right or wrong answer except for what's on your mind, right now."

"I want you to be my first."

Edward smiles, with the tiniest glint in his eye. "I had the audacity to presume I would be by default, being your boyfriend and all, but it's still encouraging to hear you say it. Why now, though? Where's the rush? Do you intend to lose your virginity to someone else? Forgive my presumptions, but I thought we were exclusive."

"Jesus, Edward. Of course we are."

He smiles. "I believe we covered that. What confuses me is the now part of your thoughts."

"You won't like my answer."

"Given the choice between giving me an answer that pleases me and one that is truthful, I would hope you always choose the latter."

I observe his eyes, earnest and curious, and start playing with the ends of his sweatshirt strings. "So would I."

"And?"

I take a breath. "Realistically, how many high school sweethearts ever work out?"

"Does this have anything to do with us? Don't tell me statistics have turned you into a cynic."

"No, I mean, we have limited time together. I don't expect to hold your attention forever. So, I thought… I trust you and I want to make sure it's you before, you know, life interrupts our little bubble."

"Jesus Christ, not this again."

"That's not fair. You can't ask me to be truthful and then punish me for saying what you asked to hear."

"Fair enough," he replies, grimacing. "You're right. But I can't help but be annoyed. Is this what every single one of our fights will ever come down to? Your self-esteem? Because if you continue to presume we won't work out, you'll eventually create a self-fulfilling prophecy because of the mere fact you won't fight for us as hard if you believe we won't work out anyway."

"Do you believe we'll work out?"

He lifts my chin to look at me. "I've never wanted anything more," he replies. "You know, sometimes… sometimes I think we met each other too early. I've been in and out of relationships for four years. I don't like being alone, but sometimes I think, maybe I should learn to be. Maybe I should've been alone for longer before you so you wouldn't feel so pressured. And I'm sorry that I've made you feel that way. It hasn't been intentional."

"You're not pressuring me, I promise. Pinky promise. I'm pressuring myself because… because maybe I think that's what you want."

"It's not. I want you to want to be with me."

"I get that now."

He sighs. "If you'd been in a few relationships before me, maybe you'd see how rare a connection like ours is. Maybe you'd want us to work out as much as I do. Because this—" He motions between us. "—this doesn't just happen every day with just anyone. And maybe you'd know that if we'd been older when we met."

I pull back a bit to see his eyes. "Is this one of those times when you're desperately beating around the bush because you don't want to say you actually want to break up with me?"

A snort-like huffing laughter escapes Edward. He pulls me in his lap and squeezes my waist and touches my nose with the tip of his. "Christ, no."

"Good." I smile. "Because I do want us to work out."

"Do you?"

"I do," I reply, hiding my face in his neck. "So much. You have no idea. But what we have, it kind of scares me, too."

Softly, he asks, "Why?"

"Because, I don't know. I feel so intensely about you I'm afraid I won't ever find anyone who's so okay with me the way you are."

Edward nuzzles my ear. "I'm hoping you won't have to," he whispers, and he puts so much meaning behind it but then he pulls back, grins, and takes my neck in his hands. "Anything else? Other than the fact you love me so much you want to burst into song at any given moment?"

I smack his shoulder. "I didn't say that!"

"So you deny it?" he asks, pretending to be offended. "Pity."

"You are just so, so—"

"Amazing? Incredible? Best boyfriend ever?"

"Ass!"

He grins. "I've always liked donkeys."

It's a beautiful, clear summer night, and we're already here, so we agree to have a picnic. We take a mattress and a pile of blankets to spend the night. I'm quite tense about it all, still, until Edward makes me a peanut butter jelly sandwich, sits behind me with his legs apart, and pulls me against him. The sun is about to set, and Edward wraps a blanket around us. He tells me about volunteering in Seattle Children's Hospital (he switched hospitals to make sure Carlisle didn't know about it), I tell him about maybe-possibly joining Mrs. Haldane's track and field team if my back is okay enough. He tells me about going to see how firemen work, about following Al for a day, and you know what? For a guy who doesn't know what he wants, Edward sure is determined to exclude the things he doesn't.

It's incredible to spend the evening just hanging out, acting silly and telling each other what we hope the summer will bring. I think we both need a bit of a break because spring has been insane.

"You know something, Edward?"

"What?" he asks, and presses his lips against my neck.

"You've changed since you found out Al was your father."

"How come?"

"You're calmer, I think. More determined. You don't look like you're carrying the world on your shoulders anymore."

"I was carrying the world on my shoulders?"

"You were."

"Huh."

He rests his chin on my shoulder, picks up the last strawberry, and asks, "You want this?"

I nod. He starts to bring it to my mouth but changes course and pops it in his. He raises eyebrows, feigning innocence while I turn around and straddle him. Holding it between his teeth, he teases me, and I attack him so violently we both end up on the ground, my mouth attached to his. We're laughing our heads off when I finally get back half of my strawberry, but then his face sobers, he rolls me on my back and kisses me like he means it.

Damp grass tickles my neck, and I think I have an ant down my pants because it itches.

"Wait," I tell Edward, and he pulls back, dazed-looking and leaning on his elbows as I slide a hand in my pants. Edward follows it, and his eyes are crazy intense when he looks at me. He swallows.

"Fuck," he whispers. He leans in for a hungry kiss. "Are you going to, uh. Get yourself off in front of me? I am so okay with that."

"Just a second," I mutter, amused but turned on by Edward's reaction as I catch the poor bastard down my pants and proudly present it to Edward. "Sucker thought he'd get it on with me without my permission."

I crush the ant. Edward stares.

"What?"

The tips of his ears redden as he laughs, and he breathes on my mouth. "I love you," he mutters, eyes glinting and amused, but then I can't see it anymore because I'm busy kissing him. He's squeezing and stroking and placing tender kisses that make me want to fly, but it's also too intense too soon and it scares me. It's not even that I have bugs in my hair and down my pants and hair damp from evening dew and fingers falling off because it's getting cold, it's that Edward knows me too well. I'm nervous and I'm scared and I'm either about to vomit or burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" Edward asks, pulling back when he realizes I'm not kissing him back, but when he sees my face he's off of me in a fraction of a second. He avoids my eyes.

"Christ," he mutters, panting. "Never look at me like that. You look terrified."

"I'm sorry." I sit up. "I'm so sorry. I thought I could do this."

"Do what?"

"You know. Have sex."

"Jesus, Bella. You thought we were about to—? Bella," he whispers, and pulls me against him. "I thought we just discussed this. You're not ready. I know you're not ready, you know you're not ready. Why would you think—?"

"I want to give you that part of myself."

"I'm not questioning that. But you're not ready."

"I'm not," I repeat.

"Even if you were, mentally, we'd have to get you a hell of a lot more ready physically than what we just did."

I hide my face in his shoulder because I freaked out for no reason. "I'm so sorry," I squeak. "I'm an idiot."

"Inexperience isn't idiocy," Edward replies, and pulls me on my feet. "But failing to tell me you're not comfortable with what I'm doing—that certainly qualifies." Together, we put food away and make up a bed that has more layers of blankets than the width of our one-person mattress, and I watch Edward try to play it cool as he changes into pajama bottoms, but I curse my way through the cold and press my feet flat against Edward's thighs as I snuggle up beside him. He shivers but laughs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, after we've both listened to birds chip in the distance for a while. Stars are starting to show. "I'm not scared of you. Just the pressure of overthinking. But if—if that's okay with you, we could, you know, make out some more. If you'd like."

It's light enough to see Edward blink at me.

"Or not. We don't have to."

His chest shakes as he laughs silently, and he covers my body with his. Warm thumbs graze my forehead as he leans on his elbows, observing my face, and then he places a feather-light kiss on each of my eyes. I think I might burst into a butterfly and fly away.

He takes off his shirt, but pulls the blanket back over his shoulders and leans on both elbows.

"If we do this," he mutters against my mouth. "You need to tell me, okay? If anything I do makes you uncomfortable, confused, anxious. Anything."

I pinch him.

"Ow," he says, frowning when he pulls back.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Just making sure you were real. Please proceed."

He starts laughing against my neck. "I'm trying to be romantic and you just ruin it for me," Edward says, placing long, warm kisses against my jaw.

"I'll show you ruining it." I take off my pajama pants and shirt, and struggle with my bra before it lands on my bag. I redden and shiver when Edward stares at my breasts, letting cold air under our blanket.

"Bella," he whispers, covering my body with his as he breathes against my ear. "You can't just do that."

"I think I just did." I smile, and I think he can see it because bright white teeth smile back at me. "Can I—can I touch you, too?"

Sharp breath leaves his mouth as he nods. His hands are tender for such large hands, and he presses one against my heart before sliding to my hip and upwards, grazing my belly-button and scar, gripping my waist like I'm fragile and feminine and his. His kisses are slow and wet and trailing a line from my neck to my boobs, and I dare to press my hand against his love trail and grip his hip. I slide one behind him, touching his muscles and squeezing his own waist, bringing him closer. He jerks and lets out a sharp, warm breath against my neck.

I kiss him back, trying to imitate his actions to make him just as crazy as he's making me, and I think it works because he groans and shivers and lets out silly little laughs. I guide his hand to the edge of my panties, and place his thumb underneath. I kiss his neck.

"Bella," he says. "You don't have to. We don't have to."

"I know. Not the whole way," I whisper. "But I'd like to learn being comfortable naked around you, if that's, I mean, if that's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop questioning and get my damn pants off."

"Yes, mam."

His head pops up behind me a second later, and he's about to throw them away before he looks at me, at my panties, and puts his hands inside his back bag.

"What're you doing?"

"Looking for my phone," he says, grinning, and a moment later, he's looking at my underwear with a flashlight. I can't react before he throws away his phone and starts laughing against my neck.

"Oh, my God, Bella," he mutters, a grin in his voice. "You were serious."

I blush and I'm sure he can feel it because in his muffled voice, he groans.

"You have Mickey Mouse G-strings."

"Of course I do," I reply like I'm not mortified. He grins.

He takes off his own pants after double-checking if I'm sure, and suddenly, we're making out in a cool, windy summer night, stark naked and eager to learn about each other's bodies. I fumble and I blush, and I think Edward can tell, but he assures me by stroking and kissing and teaching me what he likes. He's tender, never putting any pressure on my stomach, always making sure I'm okay with his actions. It could be past midnight when I'm about to fall asleep on top of Edward, feeling his fingers trail patterns on my back and warm breath on my neck. His heart is getting steady, and I smile before pressing a kiss on his chest.

"What are you so happy about?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

"You."

He turns on his side and wraps all limbs around me, as he does, and kisses my ear. I wake up at dawn, I think, with the edge of the sky a pastel pink that would be ugly on anything but the sky, and a breeze that's colder than ever. I hide my ears under the blanket, and look at Edward. He's on his back, staring at the sky.

"Have you slept at all?" I ask, and when Edward sees I'm awake, he takes my cold hands in his and starts rubbing them.

"A little," he replies. "I've been thinking." Sliding an arm around me, he brushes fingers over the scars on my back, and pulls me closer. He rests his forehead against mine, but his eyes are far away. "Remember when you asked me what I wanted from life?"

I nod.

"Well, I…" He lets out a sigh and kisses the back of my hand. "I think I've figured out the answer, and I don't like it."

His gaze falls on the fading stars, and for a long time, he stares at them without saying anything. Finally, he turns his face to me and smiles, but it's sad.

"I want… I want not to want what dad wants for me."

: :

A week later, Edward and I come over to hold Esme company and cook for her. She asked for pasta with pickles (and pieces of pineapple), which is simple (weird) enough, so Edward and I cook dinner for her. His mom looks glowing, happy, tired, and she teaches us where the sieve and other utensils are while Edward throws questions at her. I can't understand most acronyms, or the meaning behind them, but Edward clearly does.

"Did you do the NT scan? Triple test? AFP blood test?"

"All of them."

"What about diagnostic? Amnio? CVS?"

She nods.

"Cardocentesis?"

Esme reaches over to squeeze Edward's hand. "Everything's fine." She smiles up at him, glowing and beautiful, and smoothes his frown with her fingertips. "Your concern is lovely but unnecessary. We're okay."

"Mom," Edward says, sitting down next to her. "You have to understand, none of the results are conclusive, and at your age—"

"I know," she replies. "I'm a risk group, and no-one can guarantee we're getting a healthy child. But the IVF treatment finally worked, Edward. It finally worked. I've wanted this for too long. We've wanted this for too long. I discussed this with your father years ago, and we'll take whoever God gives us and love him regardless. I know you are worried, but your worry makes me worried and I don't want to waste time on it. I've always wanted a child of my own, and I've been blessed with an opportunity now. Let me be happy."

"Okay," Edward says quietly, getting up. He doesn't grimace, nothing like that, but Esme still pales a little. She gets up.

"I didn't mean it like that, Edward. You know—"

"It's okay," Edward assures, smiling, makes sure she sits down, and yet, comes to seek affection from me (I mean, help me chop pickles). I've known him long enough to understand when he's using emergency lies, and I'm not sure if I should be happy or disappointed about that.

"We love you," Esme says, looking at Edward. "Nothing will ever change that."

"Love you too," Edward says, squeezing her shoulder in passing. "I know what you mean. So have you thought about names yet?"

"We like Kelly."

"Kelly?" Edward and I cry simultaneously, catching each other's eyes.

"But—I thought you were having a boy," Edward says.

"We are. Kelly could be a boy's name."

"Well, yes," I confirm. "If you want to ruin his life. I don't know much about having or raising a kid, but maybe… maybe it's wiser to choose a name that doesn't immediately set the kid up for bullying. Take it from someone who knows."

Esme frowns. "But you have a lovely name, Isabella. Isabella Swan. Very majestic."

"Yes, but my parents set me up. Imagine a girl whose name means Little Pearl, or something equally cheesy, and watch her grow into a woman carrying five hundred pounds on her back. You just shouldn't name a kid beautiful and watch her struggle to live up to it when she is anything but."

"Bella," Edward warns.

"Don't. It is a fact—a fact—that I've been bullied as much for my appearance as I've been bullied for my name. I won't grow into a stronger person denying my past. It happened, it sucked, whatever. But please, Esme, I won't ask anything, I won't even suggest any names of my own if you only don't give your kid a name that will make the first twenty years of his life a living hell."

"Aw, honey," Esme says, and her smile is sad when she motions for me to sit in front of her. She takes both of my shoulders in her hands. "You're beautiful and Edward is lucky to have you. I promise to find a bully-proof name if you promise to suggest some of your own."

"Okay."

"Yes?"

I nod and kiss her forehead, because she's just so motherly and I see why Edward is so protective of her. She helps us set a table.

"What about Bernard? Horace?" she asks as we eat. "Eugene?"

My shoulder gets wet when Edward spits out his water, grabs tissues and starts pressing them against my shoulder. He keeps apologizing, but I brush him off.

"No offense, mom, but I'm kind of glad you didn't give me a name," Edward says, pulling a face as he turns to me. "I could have been Bernard. Bernard Horace Eugene Cullen."

I grimace, and even Esme starts laughing when I can't keep a straight face.

"Okay, but if you don't like my ideas, suggest some of your own," Esme says, unshaken by our reaction.

"What about, I don't know. Jack? William? Jordan? Steven? Something solid, manly."

"William," I repeat. "I like William. Nicholas, Andrew, Liam—"

"Liam? That's not a name," Edward says.

"It so is. Liam Hemsworth from The Hunger Games? Swoony name for a swoony guy."

Amused by my remark, Edward turns to face me, eyebrows raised. "So you believe this Hemsearth-character—"

"Hemsworth."

"Whatever, you think he's swoony?"

"I do," I say, grinning as Edward squints at me, mock-aghast.

"He's swoony," Esme agrees, and I high-five her as Edward pretends to be offended.

"Mom! You're supposed to be on my side!"

She shrugs, smiling at me. "He is, though. Swoony. And I like that name. Liam."

"How do you even know who he is?"

"Not all of us hate movies as much as you do," Esme says, smiling.

"Oh, how come I never knew you liked moves? What do you like? Would you like to watch something together before your son is born?"

Her smile widens. "I'd love that, Bella."

"Brilliant."

Edward waves an arm between us.

"Aw, do you feel left out?" I pull his hand in my lap and intertwine our fingers. Esme smiles at us.

"What about Henry?" she asks.

"Henry," Edward repeats. "Good, solid name."

I squeeze his hand. "I like it."

"Would that be bully-proof?" Esme asks. "I wonder what Carlisle would think of it."

"Ask him."

"I think I will," she says, but her voice drifts off and eyes don't focus. "I feel… I feel…" Pale, she starts rubbing her stomach, and as she does so, my gaze lands on her dress. It's covered in reddish goo.

"Edward?"

It's only a nanosecond from the moment I point at Esme's dress and the moment Edward is standing by her side, holding her hand. Like in slow motion, Esme looks up at Edward, her expression torn, heart-breaking, and absolutely disbelieving.

"It's too soon," she mutters, voice eerie and distant. "I'm only 29 weeks along. It's too soon."

"Mom," Edward says. "Mom, look at me."

"It's too soon," Esme repeats, barely a whisper. "It can't be. It's too soon."

"Look at me!"

She does, and Edward cups her face in his hands to catch her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

"It's too soon," she repeats like a broken record. "It's too soon, Edward."

"Look at me! We'll take you to the hospital, and you'll be okay. Alright? You'll be okay. Can you stand? Where's your bag for the hospital?"

She keeps shaking her head. "It's too soon."

"Bella, I need you to take my wallet and phone from my room, towels from the bathroom and look for a blue sports bag in mom's bedroom. Right now."

For a brief second, our eyes lock, and when a guy like Edward is so beyond petrified he doesn't even shout in a situation like this, you don't question him. Skipping three steps, I ignore the sharp pain in my back as I land and run to find everything he asked for, I even find a blue sports back underneath Esme's bed. I lock the front door and sprint to the car. We place a couple of towels in the backseat, Edward tells me to sit in the back and off we go. There's blood, oh God. So much blood. I buckle Esme up, I let her squeeze my hand as silent tears cover her cheeks and she keeps repeating the same sentence, over and over again.

Filling Edward's instructions, I call David for him to have a wheelchair ready, I call Carlisle, he sounds terrified, and I make sure Esme is conscious and breathing.

Fifteen minutes later, Edward jumps out of the car, and I help him with Esme before a swarm of nurses and doctors whisk her away in a wheelchair, and Carlisle is there, pale like a fucking ghost, and they disappear behind a corner as Edward sighs, wipes his face, kisses my forehead in silence and starts filling out paperwork.

Having finished with it, Edward crouches in front of me.

"You okay? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I say. "What are the chances of your brother… making it?"

"He'll be okay."

"Don't give me the answer with the pink glasses."

Edward sits next to me, wipes his face, and brushes hair from my forehead. "Slim, I think. The chances are slim. Not zero, but slim."

I nod.

"Listen, I hate sitting around in situations like this and I'm gonna go and see if they let me help somehow. Will you be okay? Here, take my wallet, buy something, take a taxi and go home if it takes too long."

"I'll be here," I answer. "Guarding your wallet."

"Okay," he says, the barest of smiles on his lips before he kisses me. "I'm proud of you."

"That was all you."

"It was us," he finishes.

"Send someone if there's any news, okay?"

I wish I had his experience with volunteering, his connections, his drive, anything, because then I could be useful in a situation like this, but all I do is sit and ignore the pain in my back. I play with Edward's phone. I watch the hour hand reach new levels of slowness. When three hours have passed, I hear Edward call my name at the end of the corridor. I stand.

A man I recognize as Carlisle catches up with him. Words are being shared, and suddenly, Carlisle is in Edward's arms, rocking with sobs. My eyes fill with tears because it's surreal and heartbreaking and I don't think it's really happening. I close my eyes until Carlisle pulls me into a hug.

"Thank you," he whispers, kisses my right cheek, left cheek, and right one again. His are wet. "Thank you, Bella. Thank you. You saved him."

They're both smiling like idiots when he pulls back. I watch Carlisle pull Edward into another hug. All bypassers ignore them because what could be so serious as to cause a grown man weep by his son's side? Surely, it's serious enough to pretend it's not happening.

"Thank you," Carlisle whispers, pressing his face against Edward's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. You saved him. Please come home. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He repeats those three sentences, and I watch their interaction, feeling somewhat awkward but light-hearted. Carlisle, too, is somewhere between giggling and hysterical laughter, and he pats Edward's back when he pulls back.

"Come back home, son," Carlisle says, eyes happy as he receives smiles, handshakes and congratulations from passing nurses. "I'm sorry. Please come back. We miss you."

Edward is smiling, but his eyes remain cautious. "Dad, I… maybe we should have a talk."

"Great," he replies, sits on the nearest bench and pats the place next to him. "Of course."

Unmoving, Edward runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Not today. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for us. But me having a brother in no way automatically fixes anything. I have… things to say. You won't like most of them. Let's not ruin this day. Go to mom, see if she needs anything."

Carlisle's smile falters. "Can't you just come back?"

"No." Edward averts his eyes. "Circumstances have changed."

"Like what?"

"Not today, dad."

"Son—"

"You're good at theory. You're good at this. You're good at convincing me next time will be different, but you suck at showing you mean what you say with your actions. I know that now. So don't act like I'm making a fuss over nothing."

"I am sorry, son," Carlisle mutters, leaning forward. "I am. Tell me what to do differently, and I promise I will."

Edward huffs. "I need no promises. Show me, and I'll believe you."

"Son, I… Let's just forget this. Put it behind us. I forgive you and—"

"Fuck! This, dad, this is why I can't come back," Edward replies. "You forgive me? For what? For overreacting? If that's what you believe, I don't think we have anything to discuss."

"I didn't mean—"

"No," he replies, motioning for me to walk with him. "Call me when you start to mean anything that leaves your mouth." Before we turn the corner, I catch a glimpse of Carlisle resting elbows on his knees, palms covering his face, and I feel sorry for him, I do. But then we round the corner, and Edward lets out a breath and shrinks against me. He holds me in his arms.

"Wanna go see Joseph?"

"Joseph, huh? Are we allowed?"

He smiles, and takes my hand. "He's in the NICU, but we can see him through glass. Cutest tiny bundle you will ever meet."