AN: Thanks for all your lovely reviews (and also to everyone who read or favorited or alerted). I'm really enjoying your reactions to this--and looking forward to the moment when what you're expecting is flipped head over heels :)

Playlist of the Athair concert is up on my profile. Check it out if you want to hear the songs that Edward "sings." I've also added songs for chapters 3 & 4 to the story playlist.

As always, thanks to my awesomesauce beta, JosieSwan. This would not be the same story without her endless encouragement or her stories about alpacas that always make me laugh.

Bella

"Please, please tell me that you're not still sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself," Alice said from the doorway. I looked up to see her standing, with her hands on her hips, her forehead puckered in concern.

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I corrected, casually shutting my laptop so she couldn't see what I'd been working—or not working—on while she'd been at the fabric store. "I'm writing. You know, preventing us from working street corners."

"Okay, so not feeling sorry for yourself. How about pouting? Are you done with that too?"

"I'm not pouting either," I ground out. "Again—trying to prevent the homeless situation."

"And how's that going?" Alice asked, boosting her small body onto the bed next to me. I was glad I'd closed the laptop before she'd come in here because I knew she wanted to sneak a peak at what I was working on, and I had no intention of telling her I hadn't been writing—or how bad my writer's block really was.

"Not well, obviously," Alice said when I didn't reply, smiling way too brightly for someone who's future could very possibly include foraging for cans in dumpsters.

"It's going okay," I insisted, trying not to get defensive and failing. "I have a few ideas." That was a total lie, but I didn't want to tell Alice that I had no idea what to do with Sound & the Cityto make it magically better and therefore more attractive to advertisers.

"Did you find the buttons you needed?" I asked, changing the subject and refocusing on the one project we had going that could potentially make us some money. I'd been trying to push Alice to work faster in the hopes that we could maybe get some of the clothes done before we no longer had an apartment to manufacture them in, but so far, I hadn't been successful. Alice had insisted, every time I'd tried to communicate the need for speed, that she couldn't be rushed. Quality, she'd say like a mantra, should never be compromised.

I wanted to tell her that there wasn't exactly much of a choice here, because the chance that I'd manage to come up with a big advertiser for my blog was slim to none. I'd stayed up late, studying my stats, and searching for an online advertiser that wouldn't mind such a tiny, niche audience. The problem, I'd discovered, wasn't so much the nichepart, as the tinypart.

"I did," Alice said, her whole face lighting up in excitement. "These jackets are going to be brilliant." I nodded absentmindedly, thinking the whole while that we were both frauds.

I played at being a blogger, but nobody gave a shit about what I wrote or what I thought. Alice wanted to design for a living, but instead all she did was copy other designers' clothes. Who'd have ever thought, I mused dejectedly, that we'd both be such fucking failures? I remembered a time, not so far in the past, when we'd been envied and admired by our fellow university students for having so much ambition and potential. If only they could see us now, I thought wryly, there wouldn't be a single damn thing to be jealous of.

Alice rambled on about her buttons, and I slid off the bed, setting my laptop on the bedside table. "You need any help?" I asked, deciding that maybe she hadn't been half wrong. I had been pouting, a little. All this introspection had dredged up a lot of feelings that I hadn't really dealt with all that well the first go around—and it appeared that the second rotation was going to send me into yet another funk.

Fuck this. I needed to snap out of it.

She stopped, slid me a sideways glance, and then smiled especially brightly. "You are going to stop pouting then."

I wanted to glare at her, but I didn't have the heart. After all, she'd been right. "Yes," I conceded. "I'm going to. As long as you can keep my hands and mind busy. I need some serious distraction."

I hoped for half a second that Alice wouldn't ask what I needed the distraction from, but as usual, she was too eager to get some help that she slid right over that part and clutched onto my offer with both hands.

"And I've got lots of mind and hand numbing work to be done," Alice said, way too cheerfully.

I followed her into the living room, and waited as she sorted through her purchases on the table. I hadn't been able to sew a stitch before meeting Alice in college, but I'd picked up a few rudimentary sewing skills out of necessity. We hadn't been able to hire anyone to help Alice, because we couldn't afford to, and so I'd had to help out with some of the more basic sewing. Now I could sew a halfway decent hem and also could attach buttons like a master.

And today it was buttons, I saw with a halfhearted grimace, as Alice pulled card after card of them out of a plastic bag. Well, I thought as I settled down on the couch with a pincushion, a pile of half-finished jackets, and the many, many buttons, I hadasked for something mind-numbing to do. And maybe these jackets would sell fast and we could eat for the next two weeks.

I was halfway through the third jacket when Alice shrieked. I glanced up, worried, and saw her standing in front of the iPod dock we had bought to listen to music while we worked.

Shit. I'd erased every single bit of evidence except for the most obvious. . .

"What the hell is this?" Alice demanded, turning to me, her face turning an unnatural shade of puce. "What the fucking hell?"

Alice rarely swore, and I didn't think I had ever heard her use the word fuck before now, but I suddenly too caught up in why she was so angry to really appreciate hearing my best friend say one of my favorite words for the first time. I knew what she was angry about and well, I couldn't say I blamed her.

"Sorry," I said, stumbling over my feet and my words, the coat I'd been working on sliding to the floor in my haste to make it over to the dock. "I'll change it. I . . .I. .."

"I cannot believe," Alice ranted, ignoring everything I'd just tried to say, "that you would even dream of listening to that shit ever again. Not after the last time."

I blushed, and fumbled with the dial. "I'll turn it off," I said apologetically. "I just. . .I thought maybe it would help inspire me." That was mostly a lie; I was sure that there was a positive correlation between Athair and my own ability to write great blogs, but that hadn't been the only reason I'd given in and turned it on.

"Bella, you swore to me that you'd gotten rid of it. I watched you smash the CD myself."

I looked at the ground and wished it would swallow me up. Alice was my best friend, and she knew almost every single thing about me—how could she not? We lived together, worked together, played together. We spent nearly 24 hours a day together. And yet, I'd managed to hold this one measly, silly secret tight to my chest.

"There's a digital copy on my iPod," I said lamely, stating the obvious. "I couldn't quite. . .not exactly. . .get rid of it completely." I felt as if Alice had discovered my secret drug stash, but instead, she'd only discovered a spare copy of the worst album in the entire universe. I'd kept it, for reasons that I didn't like to examine too closely, because I hadn't been able to bear tossing it, no matter how godawful it was.

Instead, I'd kept it and continued to glory in the badness. Today I'd limited myself to only half of the songs and then had gone back to my laptop, determined to write the second, and even more successful, version of Entry #457.

That hadn't exactly happened. Actually, the number of words I'd written had totaled a whopping 0.

"Why the hell not?" Alice asked archly. "I can't believe you could actually force yourself to listen to this toxic waste a second time. Oh wait," she added, a saccharine sarcasm creeping into her tone, "you already did. And not just twice. You listened to it for three fucking days straight."

I winced.

"I swear to god, Bella. I have a lot of patience—truckloads, in fact. But I do not want to listen to Athair's disastrous fifth album ever again. This is a deal breaker."

"You don't have to," I protested, snatching my iPod out of the dock before it could go the way of the CD copy. "I only listened to it once, for inspiration." Lie. "I won't ever do it again." Another lie. Alice would have my head if she knew how much I really listened to it.

Alice raised her eyes skyward, clearly searching for divine inspiration. "I don't care if I have to listen to it. I do care that you are fucking crazyenough to keep listening to it even after declaring to the entire universe that you thought it was the worst thing you'd ever heard. You really need help, and not just because Renee's fucked you up."

That was now four fucks. A new record for Alice. I almost said so, but the murderous expression on her face stopped me.

"That's it. You need an Athair intervention."

"What?" I stammered.

"An Athair intervention," Alice said, with more finality. "I wouldn't be so worried if you'd gone off to be one of his whores, but this, Bella, is reallyworrisome."

"Listening to an album?" I asked incredulously.

"It's more than that and you know it. This is the worst fucking music in the whole goddamn universe, and you are listening to it out of personal choice."

Five fucks. I decided that if we hit double digits, I should be really worried that she'd call up A&E.

"It was just a weak moment. I've been thinking about #457 more frequently and well. . .trying to fight the writer's block and I just. . .I wanted to know if it was really as bad as I remembered it, or maybe I'd just had a rage blackout." Another lie. I remembered just how bad it was, because I never let myself forget.

Alice rolled her eyes. "That's why you listened to it for seventy two hours straight before."

I shook my head. "That's just what I told you. I actually. . ." I wondered if I could actually admit to Alice that I'd only listened to it for three days because I couldn't bear the thought that Edward Cullen had made the album. "I. . .um. . ." My voice trailed off.

Nope. Still couldn't tell her, and that had more to do with her black belt in tae kwon do than the threat of an intervention.

"Tell me, Bella," Alice growled.

"Well. Uh. I just wantedit to magically change," I confessed. "I can't explain why. I just kept thinking that maybe if I listened to it one more time, it would be different. Better."

"And it wasn't," Alice said flatly. "I think we can even hypothesize that it got worseupon repeated listening."

I wanted so badly to disagree with her. I wanted to argue that the awfulness was almost unique, but I knew that I'd be lying to her and to myself. The album was still bad. Edward Cullen had still failed me.

So I nodded, deciding instead that Edward hadn't failed me—he'd failed himself.

I'd spent my whole life refusing to give up on people, and I couldn't give up on Edward, especially now. There had to be redemption for him. The same way that I wanted to believe that I could write something even more popular than #457 without being either insulting or demeaning.

"They're playing at the House of Blues tonight. Athair is." The words, buoyed by all my everlasting hope in Edward's ability to turn his career around, tumbled out before I could stop them. "I bought a ticket."

"You're going?" she exclaimed. "To the Athair concert?"

I nodded sharply, decisively. "I need to do this." Alice just didn't need to know why, I decided. She'd made her mind up about Athair with the fifth album. Despite #457, I hadn't quite yet. I needed to go tonight and let the power of Edward and his music wash over me and remind me why he'd spent so many years keeping me in one piece.

She looked rather skeptical, so I continued, each word convincing me I was doing the right thing. "When I wrote #457, I thought I was dumping Edward Cullen. But dumping wasn't good enough. He was still in me, no matter what I tried to do to get him out. I couldn't move on with the blog or with anything really, because he was inside, holding me back. So I've got to go get rid of him completely." Ha, like that was ever going to happen. But then, I didn't need to believe it, only Alice.

Alice still looked skeptical. "And going to the concert is going to help you get rid of him?"

"I dumped him, but I need more. What I really need to do is divorce his ass, and to do that, I have to say goodbye. Once and for all."

A frown appeared between Alice's eyebrows, and she stared critically at me for a long second. Then, abruptly, she giggled. "Too bad he doesn't know he's getting divorced. I'd pay good money for that egotistical ass to know it."

"Believe me, I wish there was a way." Lie.

I also knew if I was ever faced with Edward Cullen in the flesh, we probably wouldn't be talking. He wasn't exactly renowned for his conversational skills. The douchebag, hell-on-wheels side of Edward wasn't something I admired, but I was willing to put up with it as long as he was able to create music that had got me through all kinds of shit.

"So does that mean that you'll be deleting 'Aiming to Misbehave' from your iPod?" Alice asked with a smirk as I went back to the couch and picked up the coat I'd dropped in my haste.

Hell no. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good." Satisfied, Alice turned back to her sewing and I threaded another needle, sure that I'd managed to deflect every question I didn't want to deal with. I didn't want to explain to Alice that no matter how many #457's I wrote, I'd never be able to quit Athair.

I hadn't dumped Edward Cullen at all; in fact, it was becoming rather obvious that the opposite was true. I was going to be stuck with him for life.

I sewed all afternoon and then ate a Cup of Noodles for dinner, hating that after all this time I was back to eating college food. Alice informed me that tomorrow perhaps we could splurge on a box of macaroni and cheese. I wanted to laugh at this, but it was too damn sad.

Alice didn't really look up from her pattern when I told her I was leaving. She just grunted, and I assumed this was because 1) she was still pissed about the whole Athair thing 2) she was so lost in concentration she didn't even realize I'd spoken.

I zipped up my gray hoody against the unseasonably chilly April air as I got off the T at Kenmore, walking to Lansdowne street. The area around Fenway was quiet, as the Sox were away this week. There was quite a crowd around the House of Blues, though, and I remembered a time when Athair could have sold out the Orpheum—that had been before "Aiming to Misbehave," though, and now it appeared there were still tickets available even at the smaller venue, as I saw quite a line at the box office.

I sat at the bar throughout the opening band, sipping on a Harp. Every other Athair concert—really, everyconcert I'd gone to for the last ten years—had always been about the blog. I'd held myself aloof, forcing myself to glean every single objective detail I could from the performances. Tonight, I decided, was just going to be about me and Athair, and our love affair. I didn't want to listen to some crappy, half-assed opening band; I wanted to listen to Athair.

So I waited until the lights went on between sets and then made my way to the venue itself. The wood of the floor had soaked in sweat and blood and alcohol and smelled so wonderful I wanted to bathe in it. I'd always stayed towards the back, imagining that keeping myself apart from the seething mass of dancing fans made this more of a job and less of an experience I enjoyed. Except, I realized now, pushing my way towards the front of the stage, almost glorifying in the sweaty claustrophobic feeling of way too many people packed closely together, I'd forgotten whyI'd chosen this as my career. I'd initially started writing about music because I loved it, so there was no fucking reason why I shouldn't enjoy myself.

A shot of adrenaline pumped into my system when the lights dimmed, and I pushed people right back as they jostled me, jockeying for a better position in the pit.

As I got shoved rather roughly, I remembered why I always stood in the back, and for half a second, I almost considered giving up this hard-won spot. It wasn't worth the bruises, I thought briefly, but then before I could move, screams erupted around me and I heard the first hypnotic strums of the guitar that had helped to block so much of the shit from my childhood.

I didn't recognize the chords, but I would still know Edward Cullen's distinctive guitar anywhere. I'd spent hundreds of hours listening to his music, and as the tempo grew, I felt pretty safe in saying that this wasn't one of Athair's songs that I'd ever heard. Still, I was temporarily frozen, mesmerized by the grind of his guitar. I hadn't' realized there was new music since the 5th album—nobody had heard anything new, but maybe it was a cover.

A single spotlight shone down on a bowed head, the light reflecting off Edward Cullen's copper hair. His fingers gracefully and perfectly picked out the riffs, flawlessly segueing from one to the next. The moment he started to sing, I laughed out loud, my hands reaching up, almost as if I could touch the notes as they cascaded out of his mouth.

I'd know this song anywhere, though I'd never heard him perform it before, or even mention that this particular band was an influence of his. But since this was Edward Cullen, singing a song by Boston in Boston made perfect, logical sense.

Someone elbowed me hard in the stomach, and if I wasn't so caught up in the music the pain probably would have forced me to the fetal position, but I sang the words through my grimacing mouth. I was close enough that I could pick out the hairs on his arm as he strummed, the red tones catching the flashing lights above the stage. I'd always thought Edward Cullen was handsome, but I had never really thought about how beautiful he really was. My focus had been on his music, on the beauty he could coax out of a guitar with those long, elegant tapered fingers. But tonight, my mouth went dry at the sight of him, arm muscles clenched as he fluidly transitioned into a complicated solo, his hands moving so quickly that they seemed to blur in front of me.

I'd barely caught my breath as the first song ended, before they'd flowed into the next, a rousing punk anthem that was one of my all-time favorites. I sang along with Edward, feeling more than once as if it were just the two of us in the concert venue—despite that I drenched in other people's sweat and bodily fluids and that I was sure my body would be riddled with bruises tomorrow. But I did what I'd never before imagined I'd do: I fought back, elbowing and kicking and pushing with the best of them. I'd never been at the front before, and though it was rough, it was fucking exhilarating to be so close to him.

The show moved along at a rapid pace. Edward said almost nothing in between each song, instead focusing on what he did best—playing music. There were no on-stage shenanigans, and much to my relief, they completely omitted any mention of "Aiming to Misbehave." It was as if it never existed.

Athair played several covers though, including their famous version of "Baba O'Riley" by the Who. The Who had been one of Charlie's favorite bands, and the first time I'd heard Edward's version, I'd cried. I cried tonight too, the tears mixing with the sweat and strands of my hair that fell around my face. He tackled the difficult song as if he were taking a walk in the park—with no fear and so much confidence that my heart soared. He was back, I told myself. But it was different than that. It was as if he'd never left, as if the fifth album was some utterly bizarre, random departure that meant nothing in the face of all his other brilliant accomplishments.

During the one encore, they played "Tessie," their tribute to the Red Sox. I didn't quite get the obsession with baseball that the city of Boston had, but I loved the song, so I sang along as if I was just as much a member of the Nation as the next Bostonian. I'd tried following games since I knew that Edward was an avid fan, but I hadn't ever been able to get into it. I told myself that loving "Tessie" was good enough; expecting myself to actually like baseball was probably taking it a step too far.

At one point, during the fourth or fifth song—by then I'd lost count, one melody flowing into the next, making me feel drunk—he'd even leaned down into the crowd, singing almost directly to me. But I while I might have felt the insane rush of the music flowing through me, I wasn't stupid. He might be miming at singing to me, but his eyes, that brilliant, intelligent green, were cloudy and unfocused. He hadn't even seen me. I told myself later, as I walked home, my sweaty t-shirt sticking to me in the cool evening air, that it wasn't fair of me to feel that tiny twinge of disappointment.

I was just another girl, in just another audience. There was no reason for him to look at me—or look for me. Despite that, I felt incredibly exhilarated and my faith in Edward's musical genius had never been stronger. Faith, I told myself as I let myself into the silent apartment, was stronger once it had been tested.

And that was when I knew what I had to do.

Alice stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, blurry-eyed and searching for a caffeine hit. I was sitting on her favorite perch on the counter and she jerked in surprised as she spotted me grinning at her.

"You look. . .happy. . ." Alice grumbled blearily, pushing a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "Way too happy for it to be morning, anyway."

I waited until she'd poured a huge mug of coffee, stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar but no cream, and had taken her first sip before I spoke. I knew Alice far too well to attempt to talk to her before her morning caffeine fix.

"You're finally up," I said excitedly. "I have big news."

Alice ignored me. "And you're up early. What time did you get in anyway?"

"Me?" I shrugged. "I didn't um. . . .actually go to bed."

Alice's jaw dropped a little. "You didn't go to bed?"

I shook my head as I jumped lightly down from the counter. "Nope. I was too excited to sleep. I came up with an absolutely fucking brilliant plan after the concert."

Alice looked instantly suspicious, and I couldn't say I blamed her. I didn't have a great track record with absolutely fucking brilliant plans. She tapped her fingernail against the ceramic of her mug and eyed me a bit nervously. "And what is this plan?"

I took a deep breath and pushed a piece of paper across the counter to her—I'd bought us more concert tickets. "You're going with me tonight. To Athair."

Alice's face instantly set into hard lines of anger. "Athair? Why? And I might ask you why you're wasting our precious money on more concert tickets when you already went to the show last night?"

"The hope is that it'll help generate a lot of interest for the blog. I've decided what I want to do—no, what I need to do." I took a deep breath. "I'm going to write a #457 Part 2. I just need to talk to Edward Cullen first. Tonight. And you're going to help me."