AN: I hope everyone had a lovely holiday-I know I did, it just wasn't long enough :) I have to beg everyone's patience for a little while longer. December/January is the busiest time at work and my hope is that in a month, I'll be able to update this faster.

Playlist is updated. And thank you to the fabulous, lovely Izzzyysprinkles, who is wise enough to threaten to thrash me for my many trespasses against the English language.

Chapter 32: Breakdown

Esme

An hour before the party was scheduled to start, I stood in front of my mirror, Alice's leaf-colored dress bringing out the green in my eyes and the platinum wedding ring I'd been wearing in public since returning to New York so many years ago. Fingering the diamond solitaire and the simple matching band, I wondered if the ring had represented something real, then maybe my love with Eoghan would have lasted. Instead, I'd had a fake husband to go along with my fake ring.

When I'd met Eoghan, I'd been doing everything I could to break the mold, and falling in love with him had helped me escape, for good I'd thought, the prison of my parents' unapologetically demanding world. But all that rebellion had faded away with his death and for the last twenty-four years, I'd been doing everything I could to color within the lines—ring and all. And for what? To protect Edward?

He clearly didn't need any protection; at least any that I was able to give

Staring at my reflection, the outer wrapping that so flawlessly showcased my slavish obedience to the society I lead, I wondered how living so strictly had even benefited me. Edward might not loathe my presence but I'd done nearly everything I could to push him away for good. If our relationship could be salvaged, it would be a not-so-minor miracle. I had a large circle of acquaintances that I couldn't stand to spend more than thirty seconds with at a time. Worst of all, I'd been deeply, secretly miserable for years, but stuck in too rigid a rut to ever attempt to extricate myself.

My fingers traced the smooth platinum of the ring and I hesitated. It would be so easy to just slip it off, to slip my arms around Carlisle's broad shoulders, to let whoever wanted to talk, talk. Their words were just words. It wasn't as if I even truly cared what they thought, but the pretense was a habit practiced over too many years to break easily.

There was a knock on the door and I walked over to it, my heels sinking slightly in the luxurious carpeting, and turned the handle, half-expecting to see Carlisle on the other side, but it was Alice and Bella in the hallway. Alice was nearly bubbling over with excitement, her cheeks flushed, her gray eyes sparkling and alive. Bella was dressed exquisitely in a slate blue dress fluttering with chiffon accents. It was the perfect shade for her, but she looked ill and exhausted, the makeup on her face unable to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

I thought of the list of music editors on my desk, each individual duly invited and coming to this afternoon's party, and my heart ached for Edward. He didn't know now that his gesture was going to be pointless. Bella looked like a woman who knew the truth, but couldn't quite face it, and knowing my son like I did, I understood it was only a matter of time before he pushed her off the cliff. The moment was going to be heartbreaking when it happened, and so though I gave Alice my usual polite smile, I reserved something rather more genuine for Bella, squeezing her hand gently as she brushed past me.

Alice was all nervous excitement and overflowing optimism for the future, but the air around us nearly ached with the dead hopelessness seeping out of Bella.

"You look even better than I thought you would," Alice squealed and I glanced over to Bella, only to see her jerk her facial muscles into something resembling a smile, like a puppet on a string. It was almost too much to bear, and I admitted to myself that I couldn't wait for the inevitable to happen. It was almost too painful to watch her like this. "The dress looks amazing on you."

I forced my attention back to Alice. "I think it's more the dress than me."

"That's exactly what Bella said!" Alice exclaimed.

Privately, I thought she was probably right. In ideal circumstances, without a rain cloud hovering above her head, Bella would have been radiant in the dress, but these weren't exactly ideal circumstances.

"Just one final touch," Alice continued, "and then you'll be perfect." She reached up and hooked two silver strands of leaves into my earlobes. "Now you're ready!"

I thought that regardless of the party being a coming-out party for her fashion designs, Alice was acting a trifle oblivious to Bella's pain, but as she rearranged a strand of my hair, I saw her glance back at her friend and the solicitous sympathy in her eyes changed my mind. Alice looked back up at me, and there was the briefest moment where we understood each other perfectly. Bella could not be allowed to drift away, drift away from us.

I straightened, taking one last glance into the mirror. I hadn't seen Bella look in it once, even though I didn't know a single girl who wouldn't primp in the mirror before a party.

I wondered if Alice wanted us to simply continue down to the garden, to the final preparations rather than cornering Bella and ask her why she looked so sad. I almost acquiesced to her, let her guide Bella downstairs, but the desperation rife in Edward's eyes only a few days before stopped me. I could let her go—I would have let her go any time before this moment—but today I couldn't. I couldn't do it to Edward, and I couldn't do it to her.

"Bella, wait," I said softly, catching her arm as she walked behind Alice. "Is everything alright?"

Her brown eyes turned toward mine, and I wasn't surprised to see she was near tears.

"No," Bella whispered. "You . . ." she stuttered, then cleared her throat. "You don't have to do this. Be nice. It won't change anything."

"Maybe not, but if it helps you to know that I care about you, and I care about Edward, then you should know."

She hesitated, and Alice hovered behind her, as if she was desperate to grab Bella away and save her from the pain, but as I felt the prongs of my "wedding" ring dig into my palm, I wanted to tell Alice that it was impossible. Pain and love were intertwined, and though she was blissfully happy with Jasper today, that didn't guarantee that she'd never feel the inevitable throb of disappointed hopes or the cruel sting of betrayal.

Or, in Bella's case, the hopeless, aching realization that the man you love isn't capable of loving you back.

"Okay," Bella said quietly. "Thank you." She walked out the door, to where I didn't know. Maybe to compose herself before she had to go downstairs and pretend to exist in a world she no longer believed in.

"Esme," Alice said as we walked down the stairs together. "Please don't. She . . .I'm not sure how long she can last. I'm honestly not sure she can make it through the day."

"I know you're protective. I know you worry about her. But I can, too. I just want her to know that I'm thinking of her today, and for the record, I'm sorry. Sorrier than I can say."

"I'm sure Edward will be, too," Alice muttered bitterly, and I couldn't blame her for the sentiment. Though he tried to hide it, I knew he would be devastated by Bella's departure, but maybe he needed to feel that way—he sure as hell needed something to jerk him out of this emotional moratorium.

We were just about to enter the gardens, but I hesitated, and Alice turned to look at me. "Wait," I said, the sudden, rather abrupt decision washing over me in a rush. "I need to . . ." I glanced down at my ring and yanked it off, setting it down on the side table. An insidious freedom snaked its way through me, and I glanced back at the ring, shining so innocently in the afternoon sun. "There. It's done."

Eoghan was dead and buried, so many years ago, but I swore I felt the brush of him on my skin, the approval of my decision in the swirl of emotions I felt as I opened the French doors and faced the rest of my life.

The party was in full swing when Carlisle found me standing with a group of socialites that I'd known since before I'd ever gone to Ireland. I'd seen several of them note the lack of ring on an important finger, but no one had said a word—and no one would, at least to my face. All the words would be whispered behind flawlessly manicured hands gripping flutes of champagne.

"Ladies," I introduced, "this is Carlisle Masen. He is Edward's manager."

The group murmured their greetings, and I knew I had just fed them more ammunition for their pernicious gossip, but I found a strange freedom in not caring for the first time in my life.

Lily gave a cultured snicker behind her fingers, and I glanced up at her. "Is something amusing?" I asked her, my gaze demanding she tell the truth in front of the whole group—not spread lies and assumptions behind closed doors.

"I just never thought I would see you, Esme, consorting with the help on your lawn."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood," I corrected sweetly. "Carlisle isn't here in his capacity as Edward's manager. He's with me." I leaned over and brushed a kiss on his cheek as my fingers found his and gripped them reassuringly.

I didn't have to look at him to see how shocked he was; I merely had to stand next to him to feel the surprise radiating from him.

I seemed to have scared Lily speechless, but Miranda spoke next. "With you, Esme? I confess to some confusion."

"I have no idea why. I was perfectly clear. Carlisle and I are together." This time I dared to glance over at him, and he appeared to have recovered enough to give me a triumphant smirk, his hand tightening over mine.

"I have to admit to some confusion myself," Carlisle smoothly added. "I have no idea why such a lovely woman would deign to look at me, but you can see for yourself-I am hers, to direct at will."

Someone—it would have had to be Eleanor—hissed about mixing business with pleasure, but before I could direct a rejoinder, Carlisle was tugging me away and I barely had time to call out my leave.

Carlisle pulled me all the way to the side of the house, which was currently devoid of guests. "Just what are you playing at?" he demanded, while the smile from earlier still played at the corners of his lips. "Couldn't you have given me a bit of warning?"

I couldn't help it; I giggled at his annoyance. Years seemed to have lifted away when I'd removed the ring. I hadn't had so much fun at a party of my own, or with baiting those annoying, elitist, snobbish bitches, in as long as I could remember. I also couldn't remember staring at a man that I had ever desired more. Even Eoghan.

I'd loved Eoghan with the fierce determination of a girl who had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Carlisle was different; he reminded me that instead of the bleak, empty years of the future, that I had a life. He reminded me that I had everything to gain, and absolutely nothing to lose.

And I loved him.

Instead of answering him, I pulled him towards me, tugging at his arms until he was so close I could feel heat of him and the sandalwood of his cologne. "I love you," I whispered a breath away from his mouth. "I couldn't give you any warning because I didn't know either, not until this moment."

He twisted his fingers up with mine. "You're not wearing your ring anymore," he murmured. "You can't know how happy I was to see that I didn't have to attempt to claim you while you were wearing another man's ring."

"It was time to take it off," I admitted. "Perhaps past time."

"It was." He still sounded a little shell-shocked, but that didn't excuse that he still hadn't responded to my confession. He loved me, I knew he did—hadn't he told me in as many words before?

"Carlisle," I reprimanded gently, the effectiveness significantly reduced by the smile I couldn't hold back, "are you going to tell me you love me or not?"

"I thought we were only waiting for you?" he asked smugly, and I was forced to remember that at one time, I'd loathed his sarcastic, overly-charming remarks.

I raised an eyebrow, my fingers gripping the sleeves of his pale blue suit jacket. "Do I have to bring the Ice Queen back for a repeat performance?"

"I'm sure you'll still need her," Carlisle confided. "I don't doubt I'll be out of line more often than you'll like."

"I don't doubt it," I ground out. "Just like now."

He paused, and gave a deep gusting sigh. "You know how I feel, Esme," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "You've known for a long time—long before this afternoon."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wasn't very nice to you," I admitted, leaning my head down on his chest. "But I'm being very nice now."

"You are," he murmured into my hair. "And I love you for it. Actually, I love you."

"Damn straight you do," I whispered as I pulled him down to my mouth and kissed him fiercely. "Don't you dare forget it."

Bella

I didn't exactly hide, but ignoring Alice's explicit instructions (and her surprising tenacity at cheering me up), I avoided the majority of the crowds. I wanted to wish Rose and Emmett congratulations but all the forced, stiff merriment only seemed to exacerbate the loneliness I felt. Nevermind that their quiet glow of happiness made me feel like a sick, pathetic loser stuck in a skin two sizes too small.

And, I told myself with an internal quiver of abject misery, it wasn't as if Edward would come looking for me anyway. His attitude of late had been similar to my own: when together, we were pleasant, but distant. There were no more long, lingering kisses, only polite brushes across his cheek or on the top of my head. Perfectly acceptable but not exactly brimming with passion. I spent a lot of time during the night trying to convince myself that his absence in my bed was a blessing in disguise, but truthfully, I hated the distant affection we seemed to have resorted to. I had never really expected that he would fight for me, and I tried very hard not to let it bother me when he didn't.

The longer our little apathetic rut continued, which was nearly a week at this point, the more I knew I should pack my things and go—but I felt stuck to the ground with a combination of crazy glue, regret, and an all-consuming need to be with him for just a little while longer, no matter how bad it got between us.

Sometimes I thought he'd pulled back so that he didn't do any more damage to the fragile, cracked thing that lay between us. Nothing had been right after the night he'd yelled at me for talking to Esme, and he had to realize that they were never going to be right again. At least not with him so emotionally fucked up.

So I hid. I ran away. I stared at him from across the room and tried to memorize the curved angle of his jaw. The way he smiled, really smiled, when he talked about his new music. The beat of his fingers against Esme's white breakfast table. When he lingered, so agonizingly briefly, as he'd kiss me goodnight—hesitating as if he wanted to deepen the kiss, to resume his original place beside me in my bed, but he never quite lingered long enough and, I told myself bitterly those minuscule moments should have been all I needed to know.

"You're hiding."

I looked up to see him walking towards me, and despite my better judgment, my heart fluttered, literally feeling as if it was skipping a beat. I tried to sneer but inside, I was ridiculously hopeful that he'd changed his mind.

That he had changed his heart.

That he had grown a heart.

But I knew better than that, and I steeled myself against his friendly tone—much friendlier than he'd been the last few days.

"It was loud," I answered somewhat truthfully. There had been too much laughter. Too much fucking celebration. "I wanted some quiet."

"You've been quiet a lot lately," he noted, the jovial smile melting to reveal what seemed to be genuine concern. He also inched closer than he'd been since the morning after the fight. The morning when I'd made up my mind to give up, leave him, and go back home.

I shrugged, my heart in my throat as he deliberately wrapped the hand not holding a beer bottle around my waist and looked intently into my eyes. "It's a lot to take in," I finally admitted. "So many changes." I kept my phrasing deliberately vague, but one of the most significant changes in my life was him. He could be obtuse, but he wasn't stupid. He understood.

"Things haven't been . . .right. . .between us," he stated hesitantly, as if he were trying to navigate around a minefield. "I don't like it."

I could lie . . .or I could tell the truth. I debated for a moment before the words just tumbled out my mouth without a single consideration for how what I said could help me pull away from him for good. "I don't either."

He paused, carefully considering his words, I thought. "I apologized, but that didn't help. I thought it might, but then, I don't really know what I'm doing. So I finally decided that maybe it's not the words, but actions. A gesture?" Edward slipped his hand around my shoulders and started to lead me back into the party before I could even fully comprehend what he was saying. He wanted to fix things? Didn't he get that things were too far gone to fix? That maybe he was the one who needed all the fixing?

Edward steered us through the growing crowd, glasses of champagne clinking around us, until a knot of people dissolved and he stopped in front of a man in a beige summer suit, white shirt open at the throat.

"Bella," Edward said formally, deferentially (which was a tone of voice I'd never thought he even possessed), "this is Seth Clearwater."

"Bella Swan," I added, reaching my out to shake his. He was maybe in his 30s, with close-cropped dark hair and even darker, nearly impenetrable eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Edward here," Seth said, gesturing with his glass, "has told me so much about that I admit I couldn't turn down the invitation to finally meet you."

I glanced up at Edward, questions in my eyes. "Ah," Seth added, observing my confusion, "our mysterious musician hasn't told you why I'm here. I'm the online content editor at Rolling Stone."

"Wow," I stammered, astonished at the way the vista was opening up before my eyes, "I'm honestly . . .shocked that you're here. But very happy," I added, feeling hope bloom inside me for the first time in a week. And God, it felt good. Almost better, even, than standing in front of Seth Clearwater.

Edward smiled down at me, and there was a hint of something in his face that I didn't like. Was it the exultation in his eyes? Or the way his lip curled almost indulgently? As if I was a rent-a-pet and he'd just bought another few hours on the meter.

The hope dimmed a bit, but I kept smiling. Not really for me, but for the possibilities of the future.

"Edward has told me great things about you. I'd love to read some of your work."

"I had a blog. . .before," I explained, "but it wasn't very good. I felt like I was heading the wrong direction, but meeting Edward has really given me a new insight on music and musicians. I have a few new entries written from a different perspective."

"I'd love to read them," Seth said warmly, and the hope blossomed. I didn't need Edward or Esme or my mother to tell me the blogs were good—I knew they were. I wasn't ashamed to know, deep down, that Seth would think they were good too, and this might be the first step in finally heading the right direction.

"Of course," I said, as if it had ever truly been up in the air. I'd send the blogs to the Pope if I thought it would help.

"Spending more time with a real musician always helps, I find. You were lucky to be able to find such a music devotee in Edward," Seth said with a twinkle in his eye, "though I think he may have been luckier to find you."

I wanted to shut my eyes and throw up as the party roiled around us, the eye of the hurricane. I wanted to run more than I'd wanted to run all week. But I forced myself to stand there, and face the inevitable breakdown of what I had been so sure was love.

"Excuse me?" Edward asked, and all I could hear was the edge of uneasiness in his voice.

"Bella's lovely, and really, it's high time you managed to commit to a great girl. Rose here seems to have escaped your clutches and settled for someone who could," Seth said, with a jovial smile, as if he had no idea what he was doing. Which he didn't.

There was a quaking in the air; a literal moment of absolute, hushed silence before the storm broke.

"I think you've misunderstood. Bella's not with me." Edward looked panicked, and any other moment I would have felt sorry for him, but I was trying to steel myself for the inevitable humiliation still to come.

"She's not?" Seth glanced over at me, wondering how I was taking this. I tried to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I think I must have failed, because he looked concerned. "I thought you said she was staying with you at your mother's house. That you'd been spending a lot of time together. That she was in the recording studio with you."

"She's just a friend." Edward's voice cracked. "Only a friend."

Seth's face hardened, whether towards me or towards Edward, I wasn't sure, but I had finally heard and seen enough. The hope withered—Seth Clearwater would never call one of Edward Cullen's groupies and ask to read their blogs. And suddenly, that was what I was reduced to. A groupie.

Edward looked dazed, as if he didn't get what had just happened, and as he drank out of his beer bottle, I fled, my straw wedges making thwacking sounds on my feet as I flew across the grass. The pounding noise as I raced up the stairs to my room matched the thrumming of my heart. I didn't feel like crying—at least not yet—I only felt the hot, hard ball of embarrassment and rage that threatened to choke the life out of me.

I opened the door with so much force it slammed into the opposing wall. I ignored it in favor of pulling out a shopping bag from my closet and throwing everything from the set of dresser drawers into it. Brightly colored shirts and jeans and shorts spilled out of the top like a volcano, but I didn't take a second to breathe—I careened into the bathroom and added the toiletries that had been sitting on the azure blue marble counter.

All week I hadn't expected him to follow me, and he hadn't, but this time he must have recovered from his insulting stupor, because I heard his heavy footfalls as he entered the bedroom. I paused, breath coming in hard, rasping gasps.

"Bella, what the fuck is going on?" He appeared in the doorway, with the nerve to look not only confused, but upset. Upset, I wanted to laugh hysterically, he was upset.

If he was upset, I was fucking murderous.

But I stayed silent, adding shoes to a second bag, and a sweatshirt he'd bought me in one of the tiny souvenir shops lining the charming, picturesque streets. We'd walked to town for what he proclaimed was the best gelato on the east coast, and I'd gotten cold. He'd insisted on buying the brightest one he could find—neon pink—laughing as I'd donned it, saying he'd never be able to lose sight of me.

At the time, I'd believed him. Believed that he didn't want to lose sight of me. But my eyes were wide open now, and I knew the truth.

"Bella, talk to me." The pleading didn't lessen my anger; it only reminded me of when we'd been locked up, at the mercy of Jane and Niall and the Red Hands.

When I'd cried.

When he'd cried.

When we'd fled together into the night and he'd looked at me so solemnly, telling me he wasn't ready for this to be over. For us to be over.

I snapped, or maybe I shattered. The pain and the anger and the surging devastation for everything we could have been but wouldn't ever be hit me all at once and the words just exploded out of my mouth.

"Just friends?" I shrieked, dumping the bag at my feet. It ripped and a half-dozen pairs of shoes tumbled out—designer sandals and dollar store flip-flops fell in a pile at my feet, but I didn't even notice. Didn't even care. I was too busy yelling at Edward for all his crimes against me. "I'm not your fucking friend."

"Bella," he said, his voice patient but inching upwards in volume. In another time, another place, I would have appreciated the attempt to not lose his temper, but I was too far gone to care.

"Shut the fuck up," I growled. "I'm done talking."

"I apologized," Edward spat out.

"I don't care!" I shrieked, whirling around, my hair whipping around my face. "Are you going to apologize for what you just said? It's not an apology if you keep doing it. And you will. It's only a matter of time. One day, I'll come home and you'll be in the middle of a drunken orgy, and you'll look at me and say you're sorry, like you truly think that I'll just forgive you. But I can't. I can't. Not anymore."

I thought he would continue to beg me to forgive him, to try to get me to stay, but he didn't say a word—just stood and stared at me. My anger dissipated almost instantly at the resigned expression on his face. He'd known this was coming, just as I did, and there really wasn't a reason to be mad at him. He couldn't help what he wasn't capable of, or what he was capable of.

"I wish this could be different," Edward said quietly, his eyes latching onto my feet. "I wish I could be different."

"But you're not," I said as calmly as I could, hoping my voice wouldn't break as the delayed tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. I didn't want him to see me cry, to see how completely this was going to destroy me, but I didn't think I could help it anymore. In about ten seconds, he was going to see everything, naked and bare across my face: how much I loved him, how much I was going to miss him, how much I hated to leave.

I knew the moment he realized it. It took every ounce of pride I had, but I looked him straight in the eyes.

"Bella," Edward confessed haltingly, "if I had known. . .if I had even suspected. . .I wouldn't have. I couldn't have done this to you. I . . .I. . .care about you," he finally got out, "but I can't give you what you want. What you need."

"I knew," I said, as the first tear trickled down my cheek. "I knew and I did it anyway." I reached for him—pulling him close to me, and he didn't even try to hold back as we clung to each other. "I shouldn't have," I whispered into his shoulder. "It's not your fault."

"You're mad," he murmured into my ear. "I don't want you to hate me."

"I'm not mad. I'm sad."

"I don't want you to be sad either," Edward said.

I bit my lip hard, hoping more tears wouldn't fall. "I don't think you have a choice," I whispered.

"You're going to go back home?" he asked, pulling away and brushing the pad of his thumb across the dampness on my cheek. "Alone?"

"I need to be alone." I hadn't realized it until I said it, and then I knew that it was the absolute truth. I needed to get away, to try to re-center myself and figure out what it was that I wanted. The only problem was that I already kind of had, and what I wanted was Edward—but I couldn't have him.

"You're going today?" he asked slowly.

I wanted to tell him no, but I couldn't help but nod. I think we both knew that if I didn't go home today, I wouldn't be going home at all.

Because of the party, we didn't tell anyone I was leaving. It was better this way; better that nobody would see me cry.

Better that nobody could see that it was literally killing me to leave Edward behind.

Edward had managed to unearth a duffel bag from a dusty closet somewhere, and we had silently packed my things together. Almost all my things were in the bag when he spoke up, grabbing my hand. "Bella, is there anything I could say to make you stay? Maybe if we were really just friends?"

I shook my head, hating the thought of crying more—of crying harder—in front of him. Why couldn't he just leave it alone and let me go with even a sliver of pride intact?

"What if I told you want you wanted to know? What if I told you why I made Aiming to Misbehave?"

Shocked, I could only stare at him helplessly with wet eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You came to the concert, wanting to know why I made the album. What if I told you—would you stay?"

"Here? With you?"

He nodded.

"I . . .I. . .I can't," I stammered, and then paused. "You know, I don't even know if I care anymore."

"You don't?" Now I wasn't the only person in the room that sounded surprised. "I don't get it."

I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn't cry even more. "When I first met you, I only saw the album—only saw your mistakes and the way I thought you'd ruined your potential in a series of public meltdowns. But now I know you, and that album isn't what defines you for me. Someday," I paused, trying to collect myself as more tears fell, "someday, you have to let the rest of the world see what I see. Even if it takes fifty years. Or a hundred."

Edward looked at me solemnly, taking in what I'd said, and I shifted my attention back at the duffel bag, rattled by his serious stare.

"Maybe," he said, and then turned away and I knew the conversation was over. Not that I had honestly expected much else.

And with that acknowledgment came the final blow that he wasn't going to change—willingly or unwillingly—and I was going to have to walk out of his life and for the rest of it, watch from the sidelines. Watch and know that despite Edward Cullen's outer demeanor, there was a real man inside. A honorable man, and a kind one. And I'd have to live with the fact that I'd be one of the only to ever see him that way.

When we walked to the car waiting in front, my teeth ached from the force of holding them together. I just hoped he didn't try to embrace me or kiss me or even touch me. He seemed to understand what I wanted and he kept a safe distance between the two of us until the moment I was in the car, and he was leaning inside.

"Goodbye, Bella," he said in a harsh whisper, and for a split second I saw the reality in his face, the glimmer of something that might have been tears in his eyes. "Good luck." And he leaned down and kissed me.

At that moment, I didn't care that everyone would think I was a groupie. A cheap slut, willing to trade her self-respect for a few nights alone in bed with Edward Cullen. I only wanted him, but then the moment passed, and he shut the door with a decisive slam and when I looked up again, the blank, uncaring mask was back, masking his features.

And then the car pulled out of the driveway and he was gone, fading into the afternoon sun as if he'd never been a part of me. I took a deep breath and knew I had no option, but to figure out what I was going to do with that huge, empty expanse of nothingness that was my life without him in it.

AN: One of my readers (I wish I could remember who it was, but I can't) begged me not to "New-Moon" Bella and Edward the next chapter. Unfortunately it was very necessary (they both need to grow up, though he has a significantly farther distance to go than she does), but I loved the verb.