A/N: Hello, hello! I have been on a writing streak lately. These two, you guys. They've captured my heart and my full attention. I am swimming in the world of Life and Death, even when I'm not writing. My musical tastes, my thoughts—it's all revolving around Edythe and Beau, Edythe's thought processes, how she would respond to certain situations… Gah. Somebody help me xD. I'm trapped. Ah, the life of a writer…
Song of inspiration: "Parachute (Acoustic Version)" by Ingrid Michaelson
…
I watched Beau through the thoughts of the students around him all through my morning classes. Mostly I tried to avoid McKayla's thoughts, because her darkly inappropriate fantasies infuriated me. I steered around the Stanley boy when I could as well, as his friendship toward the boy was not completely genuine.
I preferred Allen Weber's thoughts when I got the opportunity—his head was a nice place to be. But when I couldn't access him, I used others, and the teachers if they had the best view.
I was surprised that I was able to add another thing to my tallying list of qualities I admired in Beau and/or found great amusement in. Beau was clumsy. It shocked me that I hadn't noticed his severe lack of ability to keep himself upright until now.
I remembered the way he'd staggered back from my horrendous glare in Biology class that first day, having to catch himself on the edge of Hanna Gall's table; the way his boots had slid around on the ice just before the accident in the lot; the way he'd stumbled over the doorway on his way out of class yesterday… Yes. Beau was rather clumsy. Endearingly so, and I found myself giggling under my breath on my way to English class from American History. Several people shot me suspicious looks, but I ignored them.
I wondered how I could have missed such an important, charming fact such as this one before. Possibly because, in stillness, Beau held this sort of poise about himself, the set of his jaw, the way he fixed his shoulders… There was nothing graceful about him now, as I watched, through Mrs. Varner's eyes, as he literally fell over nothing\ and into his seat. I laughed out loud again, garnering another few glances.
Some of the students had suspected I'd gone crazy. They weren't far off the mark, I supposed.
…
I was the first to the cafeteria after the bell, and so I had the advantage of being able to pick whichever table I pleased.
When my siblings came in and saw that I wasn't sitting at our usual place, their thoughts were filled with various reactions.
Lunatic.
Good luck…
You've lost your mind, girl…
And from Archie, only partially joking, Can I talk to him yet?
I rolled my eyes as he passed.
Don't forget about today's bio lab, he added.
"As if," I muttered under my breath. I had not forgotten.
I watched Beau's arrival through the eyes of the freshman girl walking behind him. She had her eyes trained on the back of his plaid flannel shirt, a gaggle of petty thoughts drifting through her head. I didn't pay them any mind.
I was pleased when, upon stepping inside, Beau's eyes immediately flickered to the table where my siblings sat. I thought, for just a split second, when his eyes dropped, that he looked disappointed not to find me there.
The familiar self-doubt rose inside me again. No. That couldn't be it. He had to have looked so sad over something else. Maybe he was regretting declining McKayla's invitation to the dance, or… Or something. I highly doubted that was the reason, but I just couldn't bring myself to think that I was the cause of his discouragement.
He only picked up a bottle of lemonade from the lunch line. I didn't know much about human diets or nutrition, but I did have the common sense to realize he needed more than that for a sustainable lunch. Was he feeling unwell?
I found myself unnecessarily distracted by the thought, concerned over Beau's condition, and his frustrating fragility. There were so many things that could go wrong with a human's body. They were so infuriatingly delicate! From their physicality to their immune systems to their emotions…
"Edythe Cullen is staring at you again," Jeremy Stanley said to Beau, "I wonder why she's sitting alone today."
I was grateful to the boy—choosing to ignore his surly attitude—when Beau picked his head up and grazed the tables before his eyes finally locked on mine.
There was absolutely no sign of disappointment on his face any longer. In fact, he looked delighted to see me, and his expression filled me with joy. Joy so potent, I couldn't help but grin.
I lifted a hand and motioned with my pointer finger for him to join me. He looked so adorably puppy-doggish that I just had to continue to tease him. So I winked.
"Does she mean you?"
"Um…" Beau swallowed hard, still staring, "Maybe she needs help with her Biology homework. I guess I should go see what she wants."
It took him a minute, as he fumbled for his knapsack strap, and then to get his footing—honestly, how had I not noticed how uncoordinated he was, before?—and then he was making his way over to me, winding around tables and between other students. He knocked into a couple.
When he stopped behind the chair directly across from me, I reminded myself to keep it casual.
Don't scare the poor thing off, now.
Purposefully, I drew a deep breath in through my nose, and the familiar firestorm swirled down my throat.
"Why don't you sit with me today?"
He didn't say anything, only yanked the plastic chair out with unsure motions, and practically fell into the seat again. I suppressed my laughter. He was just too darling.
His eyes stayed on my face, that baffled expression still very present, and so, as a result, was my smile.
I waited for him to speak.
"This is, uh, different…" He stammered after a long moment.
"Well—" I paused, and then the next words came in a rush, "I decided as long as I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly."
He only stared a moment more, possibly waiting for an explanation, but I had already said too much. I hadn't known what on earth had possessed me to say that, but I had, and maybe the subtle warning in my words would finally make sense to him.
He continued to stare.
And then, "You know I don't understand what you mean, right?"
"I'm counting on it."
McKayla Newton's insidious thoughts acted as a perfect segue into lighter topics—something I was grasping for, now.
"I think your friends are upset that I've stolen you."
"They'll survive," he grumbled.
I felt myself grin again. "I may not give you back, though."
Oops. Another slip… Hm. It proved difficult to keep my careful filter intact when I was around Beau. He was… Distracting.
Now, I heard him gulp loudly, and his nervousness made me laugh out loud.
"You look worried."
"No." His voice almost broke, and he swallowed again, betraying that very obvious worry… Which was very well placed. He should be worried, and this shouldn't have been funny to me… Except that it was. "But surprised, yes. What's this all about?" He waved his hand vaguely toward me and the empty table between us.
"I told you—I'm tired of trying to stay away from you. So I'm giving up." I somehow managed to keep my lips turned up at the corners, though the balance between staying casual and serious simultaneously was grievously close to collapsing.
"Giving up?"
"Yes—giving up trying to be good. I'm just going to do what I want now, and let the chips fall where they may." Again, I'd said too much. But I supposed the words were warning enough, warning of my selfishness, warning of my danger… Would he intercept it?
"You lost me again."
"I always say too much when I'm talking to you—that's one of the problems."
"Don't worry—I don't understand anything you say," he tried to assure me.
"Like I said—I'm counting on that," I repeated. I noted that it was disgustingly self-serving of me to be pleased with that fact. It meant he'd stay.
There was another moment of pause, and after a long moment, his pulse quickened and heat began to rise beneath his skin… What was that about?
"So," he said, tearing his gaze away, "In plain English, are we friends now?"
"Friends…" I rolled the word around in my mouth, but it was… Unpalatable.
"Or not," he muttered.
"Well, we can try, I suppose. But I'm warning you again that I'm not a good friend for you to have."
I was torn between two sides—wishing he'd understand and flee to safety; and yet, terrified of his conception of the danger I possessed. I wanted so badly for him to stay, but it was so much safer for him to go…
"You say that a lot," he noted. I noted that his pulse picked up another couple of notches.
"I do," I explained, "because you're not listening. I'm still waiting for you to hear me. If you're smart, you'll avoid me." Please don't go.
I watched his lips part into a smile so endearing it lit up the entire room. In response, I felt my own lips curl. Adorable. Delicious—thirst aside.
"I thought we'd already come to the conclusion that I'm an idiot. Or absurd, or whatever," he said.
"I did apologize," I reminded him, "—for the second one, at least. Will you forgive me for the first? I spoke without thinking."
"Yeah, of course," he assented immediately, which somehow made the guilt worse. I shouldn't have told him he was an idiot. It wasn't true in the slightest. He was brighter than most humans I'd met. "You don't have to apologize to me."
I sighed, suddenly heavy with shame. "Don't I?" There was so much to be sorry for.
He didn't answer, gaze fixed on his hands, which were wrapped around the lemonade bottle on the table. Those eyes, filled with so many thoughts, so many questions… The old curiosity tormented me.
"What are you thinking?" I begged.
His face rose, eyes locking on mine, which I was sure were beseeching. His breathing rate picked up, just a tad, and that familiar heat rose behind his skin. I took a mouthful of air in, tasting his fragrance.
"I'm wondering what you are."
I froze, but I thought I managed to keep my casual smile in place. "Are you having much luck with that?" Of course he would wonder. Of course he would have his own theories and suspicions. He was an intelligent person—I had already come to that conclusion. But still, panic writhed inside me like a snake.
I had to find out what these theories were.
I tilted my head to the side, staring with searing intensity into his eyes, scrambling to force my way into his head, past the galaxy of unanswered possibilities… When that failed, I used my persuasive tone, the one that seemed to put the humans most at ease.
"Won't you tell me?"
He shook his head. "Too embarrassing."
"That's really frustrating," I complained. The not knowing was driving me mad, and why on earth would his suspicions embarrass him? Ugh! Being blind—or deaf, rather—was so annoying!
"Really?" Beau cocked an eyebrow at me. Ostensibly, I'd hit a nerve. "Like… someone refusing to tell you what she's thinking, even if all the while she's making cryptic little comments designed to keep you up at night wondering what she could possibly mean… Frustrating like that?"
I pouted. He was right, of course. I was not being reasonable.
But he wasn't finished, apparently. Beau continued: "Or is it frustrating like, say, she's done a bunch of other strange things—for example, saving your life under impossible circumstances one day, then treating you like a pariah the next—and she never explained any of that, either, even after she promised? Frustrating like that?" He was breathing just a little heavier by the end of his tirade.
"You're really not over that yet?"
"Not quite yet."
"Would another apology help?" I would apologize a thousand times over for the things that I'd done, if it would help anything. But I suspected that it wouldn't.
"An explanation would be better," he said.
I cinched my lips together, and then glanced past him toward the table he'd abandoned—grappling for another topic changer.
…Like, what did he ever do to her? I ought to go over there and give her a piece of my mind…
I laughed once. Right. Like that would ever happen… And if she somehow garnered enough courage, like she'd ever, in a million years, stand a chance… I giggled again.
"What?" Beau demanded.
"Your girlfriend"—I used the word on purpose, because I knew it might rile him up again—that, and I could finally gain an understanding on where he stood in regards to their relationship—"thinks I'm being mean to you—she's debating whether or not to come break up our fight."
"I don't have a girlfriend, and you're trying to change the subject." Ah. Sweet relief. And something else, too… Triumph?
"You might not think of her that way, but it's how she thinks of you."
"There's no way that's true," he argued.
"It is," I assured him, "I told you, most people are very easy to read." Make of that what he would.
"Except me."
Ah. Very intelligent… "Yes, except for you…" In spite of every failure before now, I tried again, pinning my gaze to his, trying to focus, but ultimately finding myself lost in the depths of his eyes… They were as deep as mortal sleep, deep as the sea… "I wonder why that is…?"
He broke my trance by tearing his eyes from mine. I watched as he twisted the lid off his juice bottle and took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. I remembered that he hadn't selected any food, and the concern rose again, unbidden—ah, but yes, this was what happened, I supposed, when you loved someone. You would be concerned for their health…
"Aren't you hungry?"
"No. You?"
I had to bite back my inappropriate humor. "No, I'm not hungry."
He stared at me for a minute, and then something in his eyes shifted. "Can you do me a favor?"
Instantly I was cautious. "That depends on what you want."
"It's not much," he guaranteed me.
I didn't say anything, only waited for him to continue, wary. But also, mind-detonatingly curious.
"Could you—warn me… Beforehand? The next time you decide to ignore me? For my own good, or whatever. Just so I'm prepared."
He wasn't looking at me as he spoke these words, but it suddenly occurred to me that he'd been hurt by my avoidance, and compassion—along with something else, something like pleasure, excitement—flooded my throat. I smiled, realizing that if he had been hurt by my rejection, that meant that… well, he had seen it as a bad thing.
"That sounds fair," I acquiesced, trying to hide my blooming delight.
He glanced up at me. "Thanks."
"Can I have a favor in return?"
"Sure," he immediately assented.
"Tell me one of your theories."
He flushed. "No way."
"You promised me a favor," I reminded him.
"And you've broken promises before."
Well… Yes… But still. This wasn't the same.
"Just one theory—I won't laugh," I promised.
"Yes, you will." He seemed sure of that.
I gave gentle influence another try. I arranged my features into the correct expression and stared deep into his eyes. "Please?" I breathed softly.
I was surprised when the upper half of his body seemed to unconsciously lean toward me, across the table, and his face went completely expressionless, lips parting slightly, eyes widening marginally.
Well… That hadn't worked very well… Now he wasn't saying anything at all… Or doing anything at all… Except staring.
He shook his head sharply, as if to orient himself. "Um… what?"
I found myself perplexed. Why was he acting this way? Was he alright?
"One little theory… Please?" I used my gentle voice again, and this time, to my immense pleasure and surprise, it worked.
"Well, er, bitten by a radioactive spider?"
Oh, please! Marvel? That was the best he could come up with? Comic books? And along with the humored exasperation, relief. He was completely off the mark.
I rolled my eyes. "That's not very creative," I chided.
"Sorry," he apologized, "That's all I've got."
"You're not even close," I told him, feeling relaxed enough to tease again.
"No spiders?" he clarified.
"No spiders," I repeated.
"No radioactivity?"
"None at all," I assured him.
He humphed, obviously disappointed.
And then I had to laugh, because the joke was this: He thought I was a superhero…. "Kryptonite doesn't bother me, either," I had to tease.
"You're not supposed to laugh, remember?" he muttered.
I mashed my lips together, trying to compose myself, but his sullen disappointment was so entirely beguiling.
"I'll figure it out eventually."
The humor vanished. "I wish you wouldn't try." Because then, surely, you'll run.
"How can I not wonder?" he complained, "I mean… you're impossible."
This was all impossible… And how to make him see?
"But what if I'm not the superhero? What if I'm… the villain?" I smiled as I spoke, hoping to make the words sound playful, teasing, but in all honesty, they were all true, and all too real. I was not the hero. I was not… Good.
"Oh… Oh, okay." Understanding dawned in his eyes, lighting them up from the inside out, and sudden anxiety gripped me in its black clutches.
"What exactly does 'okay' mean?" I worked to hide my inner torment. He'd seen. He understood… And it was agonizing.
"You're dangerous?" he blurted. I could hear it when both his pulse and breathing hiked. And then after a long moment, during which I stared at the tabletop, unable to meet his eyes—terrified by the disgust and the horror I might see there—he murmured again, "Dangerous…" Here it came. The kicker. The punch line… "But not the villain," he disagreed, almost as if in conversation with only himself. "No, I don't believe that…" He was shaking his head slowly, and if I'd had the ability, I would have cried.
Oh, dear Beau… No.
"You're wrong," I insisted, hearing the way I'd shrunk into myself in light of the humiliation and the shame. To distract myself, I reached out for the cap of his lemonade bottle, spinning it between my fingers. There was an odd dry lump in my throat, and a burning behind my eyes.
Run, Beau. You have to run.
The legs of his chair scraped against the linoleum when he suddenly shoved back from the table, and the sound was like a bullet to the chest, or a brutal infarction in the gut. This was goodbye. He was leaving, now, and I forced myself to look up. It might have been selfish of me, but I wanted to see his face just one more time, commit it to my perfect, un-forgetting memory.
"We're going to be late," he said instead.
Surprise, first, was what came over me. It hadn't been what I'd been expecting to hear. And then… Pleasure. Pleasure that he was still in the dark, as self-gratifying as that was… And then, finally, humor. Because, of course. Beau was good, and he would not take pleasure in being late for class.
"I'm not going to class today," I told him, twirling the lid once more.
"Why not?"
Because I would rather not kill you. "It's healthy to ditch class now and then."
To be clear, it was better for the humans if the vampires played hooky on days when human blood would be spilt. Mrs. Banner was blood typing today. Archie had already ditched his morning class.
"Oh. Well, I guess… I should go…" The statement sounded more like a question, and he hesitated, half-turned toward the doors, the strap of his bag fisted in his left hand. His eyes stayed on me for a long, indeterminable moment.
I didn't take the time to think much of his hesitation. "I'll see you later, then." Oh, and I love you… In startling and perilous ways.
He didn't even hesitate as he turned and rushed from the room.
I stood once he was gone, tucking the bottle cap into the pocket of my leather jacket, and headed to my car to wait out the hour.
…
The slow progression of an emerging symphony, one that only I could hear inside my mind, notes that were sweet and subtle and tender, was interrupted by the mêlée in McKayla Newton's thoughts.
I opened my eyes, the new composition breaking off, my hands falling from where they'd been unconsciously raised, fingers flowing over invisible piano keys.
Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod, what am I gonna do? Is he gonna pass out? Ugh—he's heavy! Panic seized her mind, and I jerked my face in the direction of that inner voice. A hundred yards away, McKayla huffed an exerted sigh of relief as she helped Beau settle onto the concrete. He slumped over to one side, totally limp, cheek pressed to the wetness of the sidewalk. He was absolutely white—paler than a blood-drained corpse.
I almost took the door off the car.
"Beau?" My voice was loud and clear, almost metallic with alarm.
He didn't respond to the call of his name, and I strode toward them, searching McKayla's thoughts feverishly for answers.
Oh, of course. She groaned internally. Edythe freaking Cullen. Why can't she just disappear like she did three months ago?
"What's wrong? Is he hurt?" I demanded, desperate to sift past her petulant anger toward me, so I could find out what was wrong with him. I was going to go insane, being forced to walk this slowly. I shouldn't have called attention to myself so soon, but the concern had overtaken me.
Then, I could hear him breathing—slowly and evenly, and his heartbeat. He was fine. I saw the flicker of memories in McKayla's head—the sleek tops of the biology tables, Beau's head resting against it, fair skin a worrying shade of green… Drops of blood on white cards… Blood typing.
I stopped where I was and cut off my breathing. His scent was one thing; his flowing blood, however, entirely another.
"I think he fainted. I don't know what happened, he didn't even stick his finger."
Relief washed over me, and I allowed myself to breathe again. I noticed, then, the swirl of McKayla's fresh blood in the air. Strange how it did not appeal to me in this moment.
"Beau, can you hear me?" I knelt down by his head, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a stray hair from his perspiration-slicked forehead.
McKayla's thoughts were infuriated as she hovered next to me, unsure and indignant.
"No," he groaned.
I couldn't help but laugh. Ah, he was perfectly fine.
"I was trying to help him to the nurse," McKayla explained, every bit as defensive and irate as her thoughts alluded to, "But he wouldn't go any farther."
"I'll take him. You can go back to class." I knew how much this would further irritate her, and the thought amused me.
"What?" she squeaked, "No! I'm supposed to…"
But I didn't let her finish. I wasn't going to stand around and argue with the contrivable little blonde.
Simultaneous amounts of thrilled and nervous electric energy sparked through me at the prospect of touching Beau. But how to do this without giving my total strength away to McKayla…? I wouldn't have minded showing off, just a bit, but then… I was trying to keep a low profile…
I slid an arm under both of his and hoisted him upright. I held him tight against the side of my body. He was much taller than I was, but that wasn't an issue. The bigger issue was making it seem like I was at least struggling a little bit… To McKayla.
I strode forward, aware that I was mostly dragging his feet along the sidewalk, hoping McKayla wouldn't notice. But she wasn't even looking at Beau now. She was glaring daggers at the back of my head.
I was dangerously close to the boy, most of his frame draped over me, my head pressed against his chest, and his heartbeat was strong. The warmth of his skin, even through his three layers of clothing—t-shirt, undone flannel button-down, rain jacket—was surprisingly pleasant.
"I'm good, I swear," he protested weakly in embarrassment.
"Hey!" McKayla called after us, but I didn't pay her any mind.
"You look simply awful," I told Beau, the amusement of the entire situation causing me to smile. That, and the intense relief that all that was wrong with him was a little bit of dizziness and an uneasy stomach.
"Just put me back on the sidewalk," he wheedled, "I'll be fine in a few minutes."
I pulled us forward, in a rush to get him to safety now, and away from me.
"So you faint at the sight of blood?" Could the irony of this situation be anymore hilarious? "And not even your own blood!" I giggled.
"I have a weak vasovagal system. It's just a neurally mediated syncope."
I laughed again. His use of large terminology in an effort to impress me was surprisingly charming.
We were to the office door now, and I reached out with one hand to twist the knob and push the door open. Mr. Cope jumped when we stepped inside and he saw the ashy-looking boy leaning heavily against me.
"Oh my."
"He's having a neurally mediated syncope," I explained, teasing just a bit in my mockery of Beau's large words.
"Should I call nine-one-one?" Mr. Cope inquired, panicked. He didn't know what a neurally mediated syncope was. I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
"It's just a fainting spell," Beau insisted.
I dragged him toward the infirmary. Mr. Cope held the door for us, and I stepped inside, helping him up onto the slim cot. The paper underneath crinkled loudly as I pushed against his chest with one hand, swinging his legs up onto the mattress with the other.
And then I put the width of the room between us. My body was too excited, too keen, my muscles coiled and the venom flowing. He was so warm and sweet-smelling…
"They're blood typing in Biology," I explained to the male nurse, Mr. Hammond, who had looked up from the novel he was reading. He understood now.
He nodded sagely. "There's always one."
I tried to disguise my laughter as a cough behind my hand. Of course Beau would be that one.
"Just lie down for a minute, son. It'll pass."
"I know." Beau's eyes were still closed, but there was color returning to his face now. His lips weren't quite so white anymore.
"Does this happen a lot?" Mr. Hammond inquired.
Beau exhaled. "I have a weak vasovagal system. Sometimes."
I couldn't hide my laughter this time.
Mr. Hammond seemed to notice that I was still standing there, then, and he turned toward me. "You can go back to class now."
"I'm supposed to stay with him." I said the lie with enough confidence that I knew he wouldn't bother me about it again.
Hmm… I wonder… oh, well. Mr. Hammond let it go, and then reported that he was going to get some ice for Beau's head. Once he was out of the room, Beau's eyelids fell shut again.
"You were right," he barely whispered.
What? What did that mean? Had he finally caught on to my warnings?
"I usually am—but about what in particular this time?" I tried to keep my tone casual, but didn't think I quite succeeded.
"Ditching is healthy."
That hadn't been quite what I'd been expecting to hear—obviously—and so it took me a minute to answer, the relief was so potent. He focused on breathing evenly for a few moments, and I found my eyes trained on the pinkness of his lips. They were beautifully crafted, perfectly shaped—to human eyes, at least. I could see the slight inconsistency of his bottom lip with his top. But, somehow, that made him all the more perfect. It did strange things to me, staring at that mouth… It made me want to shift closer to him, which was not a good idea.
"You scared me for a minute there," I said, more to distract myself than anything, "I thought that Newton girl had poisoned you."
"Hilarious," he deadpanned. He still had his eyes shut, but most of the color had returned to his face now.
"Honestly," I insisted, shameful of the vulnerability I felt in admitting the words, "I've seen corpses with better color." Totally true. "I was concerned that I might have to avenge your death." Also totally true.
"I bet McKayla's annoyed," he guessed.
"She absolutely loathes me," I reported, cheered by the idea.
"You don't know that," he argued.
"You should have seen her face. It was obvious."
"How did you even see us?" he asked, "I thought you were ditching."
"I was in my car, listening to a CD." Which I actually had been, at least to start off with. But then the music had started up in my head, and I'd turned down Debussy to listen to that instead.
Mr. Hammond returned then, with a cold compress in his hand.
"Here you go, son," he said as he laid it across Beau's forehead. "You're looking better."
"I think I'm okay," Beau insisted, pulling his long body up into a seated position. One of my hands twitched at my side, ready to reach out and catch him if he warbled. I resisted the urge to step to his side.
Mr. Hammond considered making him lie back down again, but the door popped open and Mr. Cope leaned his head in. With it, I caught just the slightest hint of blood.
"We've got another one."
Beau swung himself off the cot, in a rush to be free of the scrutiny, I thought. "Here, I don't need this." He pressed the ice pack back into Mr. Hammond's hand.
McKayla staggered through the door then, supporting Leann Stephens, another girl from fifth period Biology. Her face was green, but that wasn't what concerned me. Blood was still trickling down the side of the hand that Leann held to her face, curving around the knob of her wrist.
And this was where I took my leave… And Beau, too.
"Oh no. Get out to the office, Beau."
He just stared at me a minute, perplexed.
"Trust me—go."
He spun and caught the door before it closed, escaping the tiny, warm room just in time. I was right on his heels.
He turned to gaze at me, still bemused.
"You actually listened to me." A first.
"I smelled the blood," he said.
"People can't smell blood."
"I can," he insisted, "That's what makes me sick. It smells like rust… and salt."
I could only stare at him for a minute. Who was this boy?
"What?"
"It's nothing."
McKayla's presence interrupted us, her thoughts a swirling vortex of envious insults. She glanced between the two of us for a moment.
"Thanks so much for your help, Edythe," she told me, curdling her words into sickly sweetness on purpose. She didn't mean a word of it. "I don't know what Beau here would have done without you."
"Don't mention it." Oh, sweetheart… You don't stand a chance.
"You look better," she said to him in the same tone—which sounded much ruder now that it was directed toward Beau, "I'm so glad."
My hand twitched. I would have liked to beat some manners into that little blonde head of hers. Nevertheless, I resisted.
"Just keep your hand in your pocket," Beau cautioned her.
"It's not bleeding anymore," she insisted, her tone more normal now, "Are you coming to class?"
"No thanks. I'd just have to turn around and come back."
I was surprised at the jolt of pleasure that brought on. Here I'd thought I would have to miss out on his company for another entire hour. Instead, I was getting extra time.
"Yeah, I guess," she agreed reluctantly. "So are you going this weekend? To the beach?"
Ah, right. They had plans. It was a group endeavor at any rate, but the envy rose up in me anyway, fresh and green.
"Sure, I said I was in."
His acquiescence burned like acid. He'd said yes to her, too, and suddenly I was feeling very inadequate.
"We're meeting at my parents' store at ten." McKayla glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, hoping I wasn't catching on to any of this. She wasn't particularly partial to my presence at the outing.
"I'll be there," he promised her.
"I'll see you in Gym, then," she told him, moving toward the door.
"Yeah, see you."
It brightened my mood just a bit to hear McKayla's own thoughts of dejection and inadequacy as she left the two of us alone in the office.
"Ugh, Gym," Beau moaned.
"I can take care of that," I murmured in his ear. He jumped at my sudden proximity. "Go sit down and look pale."
I focused on the way the heat of his skin radiated against my lips and my face, and then he did as I asked, moving away from me to take a seat in the bank of chairs by the wall. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes.
Mr. Cope had returned to his desk, and I turned toward him now.
"Mr. Cope?" I used my non-threatening voice.
"Yes?"
"Beau has Gym next hour, and I don't think he feels well enough. Actually, I was thinking I should drive him home. Do you mind excusing him from class?"
Get ahold of yourself, Sheldon. Sure, she's pretty… Real pretty, but she's too young! Too young! I noted the acceleration of his heartbeat and his breath, the strange lack of expression on his face… Hm. It hadn't occurred to me before that these same responses in Beau could have been because he found me physically attractive… Instead of frightening… Interesting.
"Do you need to be excused, too, Edythe?"
"No, I have Mr. Goff. He won't mind."
I wasn't paying any mind to Mr. Cope's inappropriate reactions now—I was busy entertaining the possibility. Yes, I supposed it was possible that Beau found me attractive, like many other humans did. But then… When were Beau's reactions anything close to what I'd been suspecting? I quashed my hopes quickly.
Mr. Cope typed the excuse note into his computer. "Okay, it's all taken care of. You feel better, Beau," he called past me.
Beau nodded weakly, not quite convincing. I thought acting might be out of his range of career possibilities…
I strode back over to him, taking advantage of his unawareness for just a moment, looking down at him, at the smooth planes of his face, the thickness of his lashes, the soft plushness of his lips. And, of course, as always, beguiled by his unassuming awkwardness.
"Can you walk, or do you want me to help you again?" I teased. I knew what his answer would be, of course.
"I'll walk."
Ah. Self-gratification. I was getting to know him better.
He stood slowly, as if checking himself, and then once deciding he had his balance, we headed for the door. I held it open for him, and he walked past me into the finely misting rain. He paused on the office steps for a minute, tilting his face skyward, letting the rain wash over his skin, and I watched him, fascinated, wondering what was going through his mind.
"Thanks for that," he said, "It's almost worth getting sick to miss Gym."
Ah, because he was such a klutz. Right.
"Anytime." I wondered how I could stretch this time with him out…
"So are you going?" he asked as we turned left on the sidewalk, heading toward the parking lot, "This Saturday—the beach trip?" Did I hear the wary hope in his voice? Or was I imagining it?
I entertained the notion that he was hopeful, that he wanted me to come along, that he preferred my presence over the Newton girl's. But then, there were things to consider. The sun would be shining this Saturday, and McKayla had mentioned beach.
"Where are you all going?" I told myself not to get too excited over the prospect, but I could feel it—could picture myself somewhere, with Beau, talking like a normal teenage girl, an endless opportunity of time to stare at his face, to find out all that I could about him…
"Down to La Push, to First Beach."
Well, damn. Then it was impossible. Besides, El would be upset if I cancelled our plans. I looked up at him, casting a careful smile, hating to reject his invitation. "I really don't think I was invited."
"I just invited you."
I tried to ignore the thrill that rushed through me at those words.
"Let's you and I not antagonize poor McKayla any more this week. We don't want her to snap." For a moment, I entertained that mental image… Poor McKayla—snapping…
"Fine, whatever," he grumbled, and his disappointment was unavoidable. This made me happy—that he was disappointed by my rejection.
I grinned, and then he started walking away from me. Where was he going?
I reached out, gripping the material of his jacket in my fist without thinking. He staggered back half a step.
"Where are you going?" I was surprised by the stab of pain this elicited in me. I had not had enough of him yet.
He stared at me over his shoulder for a second, looking bewildered.
"Beau?"
"Uh, what?"
"I asked where you were going."
"Home…" He said haltingly, unsure, "Or am I not?"
Ah… He thought he was well enough to drive. Well. "Didn't you hear me promise to take you safely home? Do you think I'm going to let you drive in your condition?"
"What… Condition?" He was still baffled, looking just like a lost, blue-eyed puppy.
I fought to keep the tenderness out of my voice in response to his expression. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you have a weak vasovagal system."
"I think I'll survive," he said wryly. He turned and tried to take another step toward his truck, but I did not release his jacket, and he didn't go anywhere. He jerked to a stop again and glanced down at me once more.
"Okay. Why don't you tell me what you want me to do?"
Good boy. I grinned. "Very sensible. You're going to get into my car, and I am going to drive you home."
"I have two issues with that," he protested, "One, it's not necessary, and two, what about my truck?"
"One, necessary is a subjective word, and two, I'll have Archie drop it off after school." Easy.
He didn't say anything, just stared at me for another moment, some unspoken thought swirling in his eyes.
"Are you going to put up a fuss?"
"Is there any point in resisting?" he asked, already seeming resigned to the inevitable. He caught on quickly, I had to say.
"It warms my cold heart to see you learning so quickly. This way."
I dropped his jacket, pretty sure he'd follow me now, and turned toward where my siblings had parked this morning.
Once we were in the car, I turned on the heat so he'd be comfortable, and turned the music down until it was at a nice background level. As I reversed and headed toward the exit, recognition lit up his eyes.
"Is that 'Clair de Lune'?"
I glanced over at him, surprised. "You're a fan of Debussy?" He was a fan of the classics? How endearingly unexpected.
He shrugged. "My mom plays a lot of classical stuff around the house. I only know my favorites."
"It's one of my favorites, too."
Something warm settled in my chest upon the discovery of our small token of similarity.
"Well, imagine that," he joked, "We have something in common."
Ah. And suddenly I was very sober. Yes, indeed, we did have something in common in reference to our taste in music. But that was about the only thing, out of everything. I stared out the windshield, into the rain, which was steadily picking up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him relax into the seat, and I took advantage of his momentary inattention to experiment with breathing.
I drew a breath in through my nose and flinched, tightening my fingers around the steering wheel. How was it possible for him to smell even better in the rain? His fragrance was impossibly more potent, sweeter…
"What's your mother like?" I asked in order to distract myself from the path my thoughts had suddenly taken.
"She kind of looks like me—same eyes, same color hair—but she's short." Did he notice the way he smiled as he spoke of his mother; did he recognize the tender tone his voice had taken on? "She's an extrovert, and pretty brave. She's also slightly eccentric, a little irresponsible, and a very unpredictable cook. She was my best friend." Something deep in my chest panged when his voice turned sad toward the end of his short monologue.
Once more, I was struck by the maturity in his voice, in the way he saw his mother—as if he were the parent, and she the child.
I pulled up to the curb in front of his house, wondering too late if it was strange that I knew where he lived. I quickly decided against it. It was a small town, and with his father being a public figure, this wouldn't seem unusual.
"How old are you, Beau?" He seemed so mature for a junior in high school.
"I'm… Seventeen."
"You don't seem seventeen."
Unexpectedly, he laughed, and the sound of it caused the edges of my lips to turn up.
"What?" I inquired.
"My mom always says I was born thirty-five years old and that I get more middle-aged every year." He laughed again, and then sighed. "Well, someone has to be the adult." So I'd been well-placed in my assumptions. "You don't seem much like a junior in high school, either."
I made a face and changed the subject. "Why did your mother marry Phil?"
He paused a second. "My mom… she's very young for her age. I think Phil makes her feel even younger. Anyway, she's crazy about him." The adoration and love for his mother was there in his voice, but there was something underneath, something he maybe didn't quite want me to catch…
"Do you approve?"
Again, he shrugged. "I want her to be happy, and he's who she wants."
I mulled this over a moment, wondering if she'd want the same for him, if the situation were reversed. "That's very generous… I wonder…"
"What?"
"Would she extend the same courtesy to you, do you think? No matter who your choice was?"
It was a foolish question to ask, and I could not keep my tone as casual as I would have liked to while I spoke the words. Of course, it would not be the same in this particular situation. No one would ever approve of a monster for their son…
"I—I think so," he stuttered, looking a little less than composed in reaction to my stare—fear? Or attraction? "But she's the adult—on paper at least. It's a little different."
I smiled, feeling my expression soften. "No one too scary, then," I managed to tease.
He grinned, too, and the beauty of it twisted something poignant in my stomach. "What do you mean by scary?" he asked, "Tattoos and facial piercings?"
"That's one definition, I suppose."
"What's your definition?"
Of course he would want to know. I ignored that question and asked another: "Do you think I could be scary?" I raised a teasing eyebrow at him, trying to smile.
He examined my face for a long moment, his eyes searching. Finally, he said, a little unsteadily, "It's kind of hard to imagine that." I could only imagine what El's reaction would have been if she'd heard that. "But, I mean, I'm sure you could be, if you wanted to." It seemed he was making amends for me—didn't really think I was threatening… How could that be? I'd seen the fear on his face in the past, I'd seen how he'd reacted to me… Either he was not telling the entire truth or… And I found myself thinking of fear versus attraction, once more. Did I want him to be afraid of me? Was that why I felt… Discouraged? Or was I glad he wasn't, and did I hope for the latter?
"So are you going to tell me about your family?" he asked, breaking me free from my reverie. "It's got to be a much more interesting story than mine."
Doubtful. Not more interesting, no. Not more beguiling, or charming, or fascinating… Frightening, yes. "What do you want to know?" I sounded careful.
"The Cullens adopted you?" he assumed, likely having heard this from the grapevine.
"Yes."
He paused. "What happened to your parents?" He asked it in a gentle way, a hesitant way, as if he were afraid of bringing up something painful for me.
I was touched by his kindness, and I answered truthfully because I could: "They died many years ago."
"I'm sorry." The apology, I could see, was genuine. His eyes swam with sympathy and emotion.
The torment plagued me once more. What was I doing here? He was too kind, too virtuous.
"I don't really remember them clearly," I admitted, "Carine and Earnest have been my parents for a long time now."
"And you love them." This wasn't a question.
"Yes." I smiled indulgently. "I couldn't imagine two better people."
"Then you're very lucky."
"I know it."
"And your brother and sister?" he pushed.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard, realizing I'd lost track of the time. My siblings would not be happy with me if I left them abandoned. I also might have been using the timing as an excuse. If he pushed for too many more details, I would have to lie—and I didn't want to have to do that. "My brother and sister, and Jessamine and Royal for that matter, are going to be quite upset if they have to stand in the rain waiting for me."
"Oh, sorry, I guess you have to go." I recognized the note of dejection in his tone, and suddenly, I would very much have liked to reach out and touch his hand. But I couldn't do that. I didn't want to see the way he would shudder away from my cold skin. It would sting too much.
"And you probably want your truck back before Chief Swan gets home and you have to explain about the syncopal episode." The memory of his flustered embarrassment brought a smile to my face.
"I'm sure he's already heard. There are no secrets in Forks," he grumbled.
I laughed at that. Oh, he didn't know the half of it.
"Have fun at the beach." I glanced out the window at the pouring rain. It would not last, and for the first time, I found myself wishing it would… "Good weather for sunbathing." Or, at least, it would be come Saturday. And I knew he'd like that. He had mentioned missing the sun before.
"Won't I see you tomorrow?"
Again, the disappointment in his voice pleased me. "No. Eleanor and I are starting the weekend early."
"What are you going to do?" He still sounded sad.
"We'll be hiking the Goat Rock Wilderness, just south of Rainier." Eleanor was itching for a taste of her favorite animal.
"Oh, sounds fun."
I was surprised, when I turned my eyes on him again, at the anxiety that welled up inside my chest. It was almost agony to picture myself leaving, if only for a short time. He looked so vulnerable, and soft… Like anything could happen to him. For a moment, frantic worry consumed me. I was terrified to let him out of my sight, but then… Wasn't I the worst thing that could happen to him, above all else?
I smiled at him. "Will you do something for me this weekend?"
He stared back at me, bewildered by my intensity. He nodded wordlessly.
I took the single moment of his distraction to my advantage—I leaned forward, detecting the scent of his truck's metal key easily, and picked it from his jacket pocket effortlessly.
Casual, I reminded myself as I quickly—too quickly for human eyes to intercept—slipped his key into my own pocket.
"Don't be offended," I began, "but you seem to be one of those people who just attracts accidents like a magnet. Try not to fall into the ocean or get run over by anything, alright?" I grinned wider, seeing the sting in his eyes, hoping the smile would dull it some.
"I'll see what I can do."
He jumped out of the car and into the downpour, running for the eave of his house, and I found myself smiling softly as I drove away, fingers clutched around the still-warm brass of his key.
…
A/N: Edythe has always seemed slightly less serious to me, than Edward always was. And I don't know about you, but I love me a quiet, awkward, clumsy boy with bright blue eyes. Obviously Edythe feels the same way :P As always, please leave me some feedback and let me know what you thought of this chapter! xo