AN: Wow, everyone's reviews on the last chapter BLEW my mind. I am so honored you love this story so much. It means more than you can really know. I wish I had the time to reply to everyone's reviews, but it's hard enough with work to have a chapter ready to update each week. So if I don't reply, that doesn't mean I don't absolutely adore you and really appreciate what you say.

A lot of you found some factual errors with Edward's "real" last name. I'm obviously not a Gaelic expert. Sorry about that.

Playlist updated. Thanks also to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, and to Izzzzy, who is my kickass pre-reader.

Chapter 22: The Tenacity of Hope

Rosalie

For so long, I'd felt like while my life was nearly universally envied by everyone who knew me—or everyone who thought they knew me—the reality was that a life devoid of hope wasn't worth one living at all. And I'd been without a single shred of hope for what felt like a very, very long time.

Edward and I had been locked in a mutually destructive relationship that not only had no hope of a future, but had never been any good for either of us. I'd told myself for weeks (months) leading up to Boston that we needed to go our separate ways, but he'd sucked me back in every time with his charm- and with my own belief that if I was alone, I was worthless.

Overall, it had been a pretty fucking bad year.

And then it had taken an abrupt turn for the worse when Edward and Bella had been taken by the Red Hands of Ulster—but just briefly, for the merest sliver of a moment, it had improved vastly and the reason for that improvement was standing in front of me now, renewing my belief that hope wasn't something that ignorant people believed because they weren't satisfied with their own mediocre lives.

Hope was real; hope was a living, breathing man named Emmett McCarty, who despite all the odds and the cruel vagaries of fate, loved me.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and it broke my heart that he couldn't even meet my eyes when he said it. Shame and guilt forced his head down, and I hated seeing him brought so low. Yes, what he'd done was a terrible thing, but he'd also done it for a good reason and then he'd set out to make it right.

"Don't be sorry," I told him fiercely from my perch on the bed. "Don't be sorry to me. I just wish you had told me about this before, that night you made me promise that I wouldn't get involved. I could have . . ."

"You could have what, Rose?" Emmett interrupted wryly. "The whole point of that promise was that I wouldn't have to tell you—that you wouldn't be mixed up in all this." He walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge. I'd have to be blind to notice that he wasn't making any attempt to touch me again, not since the embrace we'd shared when he'd arrived.

I wondered briefly if he'd changed his mind; if I was wrong and he wasn't in love with me after all. But I had been unbelievably certain this morning when he'd looked at me in Esme's office.

"Too late," I told him insistently. "It was too late the moment you kissed me."

"Don't you remember? You kissed me." He tried to make his voice light, but somewhere in the execution, the effort just failed, and I felt a twinge of apprehension.

"Right," I said uneasily. "That's right."

Silence fell between us in the early dusk. All afternoon I'd wanted nothing but to be alone with him, to drink in the sight of him—healthy and unhurt and fine—but now with him in front of me, I didn't know what to say. Or what to do.

"Regardless," I said, forging on almost recklessly now, unable to prevent the panic that made the dinner we'd shared feel too heavy in my stomach, "that's just semantics. It would have happened one way or the other."

Emmett didn't say a word. "Right?" I finally asked, hating the doubt in my own voice. There'd been a time—before Edward—that I'd been unbelievably certain in my ability to make men fall to their knees and into love with me. I'd lost the swagger and the confidence that was Rosalie Hale, and though I faked it in public, I couldn't pretend in front of Emmett.

"I don't think you understand," he said, getting to his feet again. I wanted to reach out and snatch him back, hold him to me, before he could run any further away. And he'd just come back. Why was he running already?

"What don't I understand?" Calm, I told myself, you're going to stay calm. Don't cry; don't yell; don't tell him that he's smashing your heart and your ego to smithereens.

He sat again, heavily this time, his shoulders bowed over, head in his hands, as if the weight of the world was holding him down physically. "You have to understand; I didn't know what they wanted with Edward. It was stupid and naïve probably, not to understand what a man like Aro would do, even to his nephew, but I've always wanted to believe in the best of people. And the further I got, the deeper I sank, the more I had to come to terms with the fact that to save Edward and Bella, I was going to have give up something that I wanted—something I'd dreamed about for a very long time."

I thought I knew what it was, and his confession bolstered my resolve that he wasn't going to be able to push me away. I just wasn't going to let him do it. I didn't need protecting. If anything, he was the one who needed the protection now, and I was in a position to give him whatever he needed.

He turned and looked me in the eye for the first time since we'd entered the bedroom. "You, Rose. I knew I'd have to give you up."

"But why?" I burst out, angry that he was such a stupid, self-sacrificing jerk. "I'm not mad at you, even. You said you were sorry, and I believe it. Even Esme isn't mad; she's only relieved that Edward's going to be safe."

"It isn't about that, and you know it."

"Then what is it about, then? Emmett, I know we haven't exactly had that much time together, and I'm just beginning to realize what you've obviously known for a long time," I said, unable to hide the trace of bitterness in my voice at all those months he'd longed for me—had stood by and watched me miserable with Edward, "but I'm not going to give up on the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're not going to be able to give me up; I won't let you."

"What if I don't want you?"

"Don't be daft," I said, and to my shock, the confident statement didn't feel like a hollow lie, but something I truly believed. I was so sure that Emmett loved me that I could nearly taste the ashes as he burned himself, the stupid fucking martyr.

Gianna had told me sometimes confidence and self-assurance came back so slowly you didn't even realize it was growing inside of you, and sometimes it came back in a flash, in a moment where you really needed it. This was definitely the latter, and even though I was sitting down on the bed, I straightened my back and looked right into his eyes. "You love me," I told him, "and I won't let you leave until I love you too, you moron."

Emmett laughed then, a shaky sound that broke the tension in the room. "Only you, Rosie. Only you."

"I'm not wrong," I countered. "I know I'm not."

"You're not," he replied wryly. "And I have to add, welcome back. How does it feel, finally realizing that you're fucking amazing?"

I would have to be an even bigger idiot than Emmett not to know what he meant. After all, he'd been witness to my whole downward spiral, and he'd known the Rosalie that had existed before Edward Cullen. "Thank you," I said with a giggle, "and it feels pretty fucking good." Our eyes met, and this time there wasn't any coldness or withdrawal in his gaze, only the heat and the affection that I remembered from our brief time before he'd left.

"Come here," he said roughly. I didn't need to be told twice; I scooted over the bed and fell into him, loving the way that his big arms encircled me and protected me, even as my hands stroked his back reassuringly.

"I meant what I said," Emmett murmured into my hair, "I should give you up. It isn't safe. Not for me anymore, and it's selfish of me to expose you to the consequences of my actions, but god, I missed you."

"I don't care," I told him fiercely, pulling back so he could see the resolve and the determination in my gaze. "I'm Rosalie fucking Hale—if I can't make it safe for you to be with me, I can't make it safe for anyone."

"I don't want to be your bitch that you're forced to protect," he said, and I knew his pride was at stake, but I couldn't let him walk away. Not now. Not like this.

"What? Being Rosalie Hale's bitch isn't something you've always wanted?" I asked him in a teasing voice, trying to pull some of that horrible burden off his shoulders and onto mine. His might be broader, but I was more than capable of handling what he could dish out. He just needed to stop treating me like I was breakable. When it came to him, I would be strong—anything else was unacceptable.

"Rose, I'm serious."

"So am I," I told him, pulling him tighter against me. "I have all this. . .power, I guess. And I don't ever use it for anything. I want to use it for you. Please."

Emmett sighed then, and I knew I had him. He'd never been very good at telling anyone no, but he was apparently especially bad when it came to me. "Fine," he said, "I'll consider it, but just so you know, this is going to be an ongoing discussion. I'm just not going to sit here and take whatever you tell me. We're a team—you don't need to take care of me."

It wasn't quite a total acceptance of what was going to happen, but it was close enough. We could work out the particulars later. Meanwhile, I was in the arms of an incredibly handsome, incredibly virile, very sweet man that I could possibly love, and I didn't want to talk any more about doom and gloom.

"Enough talk," I murmured as I reached up and pulled his head down to mine. "Shut up and let me kiss you again."

He laughed then, and I was relieved to hear that the melancholy edge had disappeared. "I'll have to remember that you have a thing for being the kisser instead of the kissee."

"Not usually," I admitted, leaning closer, brushing my lips over his once, then twice. "But with you? Definitely."

"I love you," he whispered. "I've loved you for so long."

"I know," I told him more than a little smugly. "But that doesn't make me any less glad that you do."

And then neither of us could talk at all, as Emmett threaded his fingers through my hair, cradling my skull and deepening the kiss. It was as good as I remembered—or better, maybe, because this time, I'd had time to reassess who I was and what I wanted, and I was pretty damn sure that it was Emmett McCarty.

Esme

I woke up in Carlisle's bed-in Carlisle's arms.

It was the dawn of a new day, and the dawn of a new Esme, except that I didn't feel new. I felt like the same old Esme, just with new mistakes.

The arms wrapped around me didn't feel like comfort. Instead, they felt like ropes, like a prison, holding me in, tying me to a destiny that I wasn't sure I wanted.

I was Esme Platt and nobody held me-metaphorically or otherwise. My throat was tight and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I tried to disentangle myself from his limbs, but the edges of my vision grew blurry first.

Carlisle must have woken with my struggle, because I felt his arms loosen, and I gasped out my relief as air rushed back into my throat.

"Esme, are you alright?" he asked, clearly concerned. "Did you have a bad dream?"

I wanted to tell him that it hadn't been a nightmare, but instead a vision of myself, battened down and trapped by what I'd just done, but affection for me shone out of his eyes and I found I couldn't disappoint him.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just anxious about Edward. I'm going to go take a shower. See you at breakfast?" I slipped out from under the covers, chattering as I mechanically found my clothes and slipped them back on. I deliberately stayed out of the reach of his arm, so that he wouldn't touch me again, and with a final fake smile, I exited his bedroom and practically ran to my own.

The door shut behind me, and I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath. I hadn't had a panic attack like that in ages-not since I'd returned from Ireland with Edward and all the burdens I'd brought with me.

I told myself it was Edward's rescue that had me so on edge this morning, but I knew I was lying to myself. Yes, it was a contributing factor, but the real reason was the vulnerability I'd allowed Carlisle to witness the night before. I'd dropped almost all my walls and let him see deeper inside of me than any man since Eoghan had.

Eoghan had been a massive error of judgment-so huge that it had nearly ruined my life and my son's life. Carlisle wasn't quite on par with that yet, but I refused to let him even get close to the possibility.

I would just have to tell him it was over. It didn't matter that I didn't want to; this was bigger than me, bigger than Carlisle.

Bigger than mere emotions.

I couldn't eat. Instead, I sat at the breakfast table, my heart in my throat, and tried to swallow it back down where it belonged with another sip of hot, dark coffee that I couldn't taste.

"You look pale," Carlisle said solicitously. He'd been hovering since we got up—asking me over and over if I was alright, reassuring me half a dozen times that he would call me every hour to give me updates, watching me like a hawk as I ate (or didn't eat). "You should try to eat something," he added.

"I'm fine," I said stiffly. In the hazy, dim light of twilight, drawing a line in the sand where Carlisle was concerned had seemed like a smart decision, but in the harsh daylight of the morning, I felt nervous and uneasy, like I'd done something that I couldn't go back from.

And maybe, I thought, glancing covertly over at the man next to me under the guise of spooning some fruit onto my empty plate, I was more than a little scared of what permanently decamping to the other side of the line might mean.

"You're lying, Esme. You forget, I can always tell when your eyes do that thing where they don't match your mouth." He said it matter-of-factly, as if accusing me of lying wasn't a serious offense and people did it all the time—which they most certainly did not.

He had to know that I was already crawling back to the safety behind the line—that I was looking for it, and what was left of my dignity. Women my age didn't have affairs. It was ludicrous and I refused to be a punchline for the gossip columnists.

"I can see what you're trying to do," he continued, reaching for my hand, "and you should know right now, it's not going to work."

"We're not talking about this right now," I hissed, as Renee entered the room, followed close behind by Rosalie and Alice. "And don't hold my hand," I ordered, disentangling my fingers from his.

Breakfast was a strained affair, and I could tell even Renee was apprehensive about the coming rescue because even her expertly applied makeup couldn't cover the dark circles under her eyes or the drawn, pale skin around her mouth. She looked older than I'd ever remembered seeing her, and I felt a twinge of something that might have been empathy, but I pushed it aside. Carlisle's refusal to even glance my direction set me even more on edge, and by the time Marcus and Emmett entered the breakfast nook to grab a quick cup of coffee before leaving, my nerves were completely frayed.

We women followed the men out to the circular driveway to wish them luck, but at the very last second, I nearly got cold feet because I wasn't sure I could look Carlisle in the eye as he drove away, but Renee had looked at me oddly as I'd attempted to make an excuse, so in the end, I didn't have any choice.

As we walked into the foyer, Carlisle grabbed my arm and forcibly dragged me into the doorway of the lounge as the rest of the group opened the front door and walked outside.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as loud as I dared, glaring at him as I pulled my arm away from his grip. "That's . . ." I spluttered, not sure how to respond to Carlisle's suddenly serious, equally cold stare. "That's unacceptable," I finally told him, drawing myself up as tall as I could. I was Esme Platt. Nobody pushed—or pulled—me around like I was a limp doll.

"I'd like to ask the same question," Carlisle said, making absolutely no effort to keep his voice down. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he didn't care if everyone found out about us.

"This," I gestured between us, "is not public knowledge."

"Yet," Carlisle added in a tone that brokered no argument, but I wasn't used to taking orders. Besides, this was one order that was just plain unacceptable.

"No. You don't get it. We can't do . . .this. Whatever this is." I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look tough, but those blue eyes melted my armor away as if it didn't even exist.

"Esme," he laughed, a little bitterly I thought with a touch of wounded pride, "you don't have any idea how much I wish that I felt differently. That you were anyone else. Someone easier, perhaps, less prickly. Less conflicted. But it seems that I feel the way I do and not much is going to change that... even you being a bitch about it."

My mouth fell open. "You just called me a bitch."

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he'd done something totally commonplace. "Sometimes I tell it like it is."

I wanted to argue that he was wrong, that I was right, and that not only was pursuing this a terrible idea; it was an even worse plan to announce it to the world, but I couldn't deny the ring of the truth his words had. I was being a bitch.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, suddenly feeling the anger deflate out of my sails. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"I'm going to need a little time."

"A little?"

I smiled now, at his crooked smirk. "Alright, a lot of time. Is that better?"

"Yes. Now kiss me goodbye." And after the final order, he just stood there, waiting. Like I was actually going to do as he said.

"What?" he asked, a faintly exasperated tone in his voice. "Nobody's looking; they're all outside."

I checked for myself—taking a step backwards so I could crane my neck around and make sure that everyone in the house was in the driveway. Once I'd confirmed what Carlisle had said, I knew I couldn't prevaricate any longer, but I still couldn't bring myself to do it. The courage of the night before seemed to have disappeared with the morning light.

Finally, Carlisle sighed, the exasperation clearly evident now. "Fine," he said, "I give up. I'll kiss you. If that's alright."

I nodded stiffly, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine. My hands lifted up and gripped his olive green jacket. "Be safe," I whispered as he pulled away.

He smiled bigger then, the happiness in his expression melting the glacier freeze in his eyes. "I'll try my best."

"Good," I said self-consciously, attempting to slip out of his arms before we were discovered. "I'd expect nothing less."

"Wait," Carlisle said. "One more." And he was leaning in, attempting to take the second by force, when I heard a voice that sent the fear of devil shooting through me.

"Esme?" It was Renee, and when I looked up, I realized she was standing in the foyer, looking right at us with the strangest expression on her face. I thought it might be something like triumph—or maybe I was wrong, because it was gone almost the instant it appeared. "It's time to go. Marcus says you're already behind schedule."

Carlisle smiled at her, and released me another quick brush of his lips over mine, as if kissing me goodbye was a totally normal thing to do.

He walked out the door, and I was still standing there, my feet frozen to the floor. "You didn't see that," I told Renee as she turned to follow Carlisle.

"See what?" she asked lightly, but I'd have to be crazy to miss the knowing edge in her voice. She'd seen enough, and If I was lucky, it would only take twenty four hours before it made the gossip rounds.

"Oh, nevermind," I said with frustration, as we exited the house.

Renee cried prettily, but not so much to smear her makeup; Alice looked worried, but hopeful; Rosalie put on a brave face, but I could see the underlying fear in her eyes. Emmett would have the most to risk in going back, and she'd only just gotten him home safely.

Rose gave him a last hug, a quick, fierce embrace that spoke louder than any words could. I found myself jealous of the obvious way that she could express how she felt about Emmett, while I was stuck in the middle of Purgatory, damned if I moved any closer, damned if I forced myself to leave him alone for good.

They were moving towards the Hummer, and Carlisle had the door open, smiling so wide it looked as if someone had just given him a house in the Hamptons and Jimi Hendrix's Strat. He was so damn happy that we'd been caught, while I felt sick that the whole world might know that I'd been weak and given into my physical desires. I saw him glace over at me once before turned to get into the Hummer, and I knew what he wanted—he wanted me to acknowledge him, acknowledge what was growing between us publically, the way that Emmett and Rose had. He didn't want me to be ashamed, of us or of him.

But I couldn't do it. I wasn't strong enough—or maybe I wasn't woman enough.

Carlisle climbed into the Hummer and as it drove away down the long driveway, I turned back to the rest of my houseguests and tried to forget Renee had just seen me do the unthinkable—tried to hope that Renee would forget that I'd done the unthinkable.

But of course, it was too juicy to forget and as I walked back up the driveway towards the house, she pounced.

"Esme," Renee trilled. "I'm so happy for you. You and Carlisle Masen . . ." She sounded about as thrilled as if Botox had suddenly been banned in the United States.

"It was nothing," I tried to reassure her, but she'd seen what she'd seen. It was too bad Dr. Phil didn't do memory reconstructions along with facial restructuring.

"You were kissing him," she insisted as she followed me into the house. I was just glad that Alice and Rose had decided to go into town for supplies and had left instead of returning. The last thing I needed was the two of them learning about my secret and spending every waking hour attempting to convince me of the romance and the rightness of the whole thing.

"A momentary aberration brought on by stress and little to no sleep," I murmured as we walked through the foyer.

But Renee was like a dog you couldn't shake; a bad smell that lingered. She forged on, following me into my office. Finally, I turned, facing her. "I would really appreciate you not mentioning what you saw to anyone," I confessed. "Honestly, I'm not even sure that there's anything between us. It's a very casual . . . ." I searched for words that would demonstrate just how meaningless it was -a random, accidental fling -but Renee interrupted me.

"It's not casual," she insisted. "He's in love with you."

For a moment, I stared at Renee Swan in shock. "Don't be ridiculous. He's not in love with me," I said when I could actually speak.

"He is," she said again, with more certainty this time. "But if you don't see it, won't see it, then that's your business."

As she walked out the door, I wondered for a split second if Renee was actually not quite the alien cyborg that I'd always thought she was, but I decided that one semi-human action didn't mean that she wasn't still a nasty piece of work who could spill my secret any time she wanted.

Carlisle sent me text messages updates every hour, telling me they were on the interstate, they had reached the Canadian border, they were nearing the house that Emmett had directed them to. I was a bundle of nerves, and stayed in my office, alone, alternatively pacing and sitting on the sofa, staring at a spot on the carpet.

I was terrified for Edward, of course, but I was suddenly sick with fear over what could happen to Carlisle. I had sent him up there, with Marcus—who was trained for this—because he was my employee and it was his job. I had never thought of the repercussions of what his presence might mean to him physically, but now I couldn't think of anything else. It had been incredibly stupid of me to insist on him going. He could be here right now, with me, distracting me from nearly tearing my hair out with anxiety.

My phone buzzed again, and this time it wasn't just a text message. It was a phone call, from Carlisle. I answered with shaking fingers and a stomach that might be sick at any moment.

"Yes?" I answered, not even caring that my voice was trembling or that I sounded nothing like my normal, confident, in-control self. I wasn't my normal, confident, in-control self today—I hadn't really been since Carlisle had called and told me that Edward had been taken by the Red Hands.

Carlisle didn't say anything right away. I could hear him breathing, and I put my head between my knees and tried to take a deep breath. Something terrible had happened. I was sure of it. I would never forgive myself if something had happened to Edward because I'd been a terrible mother and pushed him away.

"The house is empty," he said finally. "They're gone."

"Gone?" I didn't understand, the words simply not computing.

"It appears as if they've only recently left. Maybe only an hour before. But there's no sign of Edward or Bella. It's likely they've taken them. Marcus is looking at leads right now. I'll call you when I know more."

Carlisle was all business, and I was falling apart. I wanted the Carlisle who'd promised me that his hope would be my hope, but he said nothing else, and I heard the dial tone as he hung up.

The phone slipped through my numb fingers to the floor and I sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the intricate, thick weft of the carpeting. So expensive, and so fucking useless.

"I heard." I looked up to see Renee standing in the doorway, and she looked something like I felt.

I could only nod helplessly. She walked in and sat down next to me, and I couldn't help but notice that most of her makeup was gone—as if it had been magically scrubbed away. Or cried off.

"I'm a terrible mother," she whispered after a long silence.

If she thought I was going to argue with her, she was crazy. I said nothing, but she kept going. "I never meant to be- I just meant . . .hell, I don't know what I meant. I just knew that Bella was nothing like what I expected, and I didn't know how to deal with her. She wanted things I didn't understand, and instead of even trying, I attempted to force what I knew on her. I tried to get her to be a model," Renee laughed a little hysterically, and to my horror, I reached out and gripped her hand with mine.

"It's okay," I said. "She understood. She knew."

"Yes. And she hates me for it."

I thought of Carlisle and his tough love. "Probably. But she'll get over it. We're their mothers. They're kind of required to love us."

Renee made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob, and I decided that as long as we'd both moved onto the final round of Worst Mother Ever, I could throw my own hat into the ring. "When Edward told me that he'd signed his band, and that he was going to be famous, going to be shouting his father's propaganda from the skies, I've never been so angry. With him, with me. With everyone. I thought this was karma for what I'd done all those years before. So I told him that if he was going to do it, he wasn't going to drag me into the mire with him."

"And he changed his name," Renee finished.

I nodded. "I know he thinks that I'm ashamed of him, that I can't even stand for people to know we're related, and I suppose I let him think that, even though of course it isn't true."

We didn't speak for awhile. I didn't know what Renee was doing, but as we held hands -held onto each other for dear life- I was thinking of all the ways that I'd failed Edward. This being the most spectacular example of course, but there were so many others. Support I should have given that I hadn't. Words I should never have spoken—words I should have, but that I'd kept hidden away inside. It was impossible to deny that I'd seriously fucked up and now there might not be a chance to make it right.

"The last things Bella and I ever said to each other were in anger," Renee said in a shaky voice, and I looked up to see tears dripping down her cheeks. "I told her she was screwing away her future by doing what she loved."

"I don't even remember the last thing I said to Edward," I confessed bleakly. "We almost never spoke anymore. It was too hard. Too many things said, too many things unsaid."

It also went unsaid that we might never be able to right the many wrongs. I gripped Renee's hand harder and wished that we'd never been forced into this situation—wished that I'd never had to stare into her teary eyes and see a mirror of myself looking back at me.

I'd been so judgmental of her behavior, but I could no longer deny that her mistakes were my own. We were one in the same.

AN: Next chapter's title is "The Joshua Tree."

Hmmmm. Could we have some U2 coming up?