Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot

Now let's find out what's on Rosalie's bed...

Chapter 19: Contact

Rosalie's POV

I have perfect eyesight.

Perfect, otherworldly eyesight even in the dark.

So I know it is impossible to be "seeing things" as the expression goes. If I think I see something, it must be there.

But as I near the bed and sit down upon it, I am struck by the thought that what I see here cannot be real.

I lean closer, reaching out to poke the object. Surely if it is a mirage, my finger will pass through it to the downy covering on my bed.

Logic aside, this is what I expect.

But my finger does not pass through.

Instead it makes contact with something I now know to be real.

An envelope.

A heavily stamped envelope bearing my father's handwriting.

I slip a hand beneath it, cradling it as if fearing disintegration. Though I could read the words from across the room, I want them as close to my eyes as inhumanly possible. I want to drink in the firm, straight lines of my father's penmanship.

A sight I never thought I'd see again.

After reading my name, I turn the envelope over, carefully breaking the seal. I fish out the letter, my slack mouth going dry at the sight of the ivory parchment. His best stationery, used only for his most significant notes.

In a hope chest beneath my bed in Rochester, I have several.

I clamp my lips shut, willing my trembling fingers to cooperate, and gingerly unfold the paper, steeling myself for his opening words.

"My precious Rosie…"

I clutch the paper to my breast as dry sobs rack my body. I can almost hear his voice, see the smile beneath his mustache as he speaks, and I am overcome with raucous joy.

A few minutes pass before I am able to read on, and I try to do so silently.

Words cannot express our relief at being able to speak to you at last. You cannot imagine how we have despaired these past months, pleading nightly for your safety. Praise be to God for answering our prayers and in such decided fashion!

I lay the letter face-down on the bed and clench my hands, struggling for control. There are another half-dozen lines, and if I am to read them without tearing the page, I must calm myself.

There is much to say, but in the interest of expedience, I shall be brief, telling you what is utmost in all our hearts to hopefully bring much-needed comfort to yours.

We love you, Rosie. Dearly and eternally. And nothing—not distance, absence, or circumstance—could ever change that. So do what you must and live as you will. You are forever our golden treasure and we hold you in our hearts today as securely as we ever did before.

All our love,

Father, Mother, Robert, and Liam.

I lay the sacred scroll aside as my heart shatters in my chest. Were I able to cry, I would be a heaving, weepy mess and not care in the least. I repeat the words in my head several dozen times, my soul ablaze with joy.

My family loves me!

I bow my head and thank the Father, Son, and Spirit for blessing me thus, unable to believe my great fortune.

My family—my father, my Liam!—they still love me!

They still love me and wish to comfort my heart!

To comfort my heart…

What could they know of my heart?

I suppose it would be safe to assume my sadness at our separation, but Father's words seem more pointed than that. As if he knows something for certain.

He would not have heard from Royce or his associates prior to their demise. And any report rendered would have been unfavorable to say the least. Certainly nothing to inspire compassion. I avoided other humans since my change, and my journal is locked in the drawer to my right. But Father definitely knows something.

Which means something else is amiss.

Though my recall lacks nothing, I read the page again, pouring over each word. But for the first time, I notice what lies beneath the final paragraph and before the benediction, words I must have missed in my initial excited haste.

Thank you for writing, dear Rosie. We await your next letter with bated breath.

Thank you for writing... We await your next letter…

When did I write?

What did I write?

Did I write? Could I have done so in a mindless moment and forgotten? Could the emotional stakes of an attempt to connect with my fractured past have resulted in situational amnesia?

I know the answer without having to think about it.

I have not written my family, have not once considered the possibility.

Yet…

Thank you for writing… We await your next letter…

Folding the letter in delicate fourths, I tuck it away and find myself in front of the Cullens before my mind registers the intent to see them. "What do you know?"

Esme regards me with mild interest. "About what, dear?"

"Do not trifle with me." My voice shakes despite my rigid stance. "You must have delivered it to my room, so you well know to what I refer."

"I have given you nothing in three days." Her face falls. "An oversight I must soon correct. And Carlisle would not enter your room without permission, no matter the reason."

I demure, scanning her eyes for lies. "You didn't do this?"

"We did not."

Her pronoun use does not escape me, and I turn to her husband. "Tell me."

"It is not my place."

Though his words displease me, they are not unkind.

"Please, Carlisle." He starts at this inaugural use of his name. "This is important."

"I agree."

My mouth pulls into a tight line. "Then why are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Obtuse? Hardly. I am trying to be respectful."

"Respectful?" I shut my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "This is not to be borne! You know what I'm asking, and I want answers. Now!"

"And you shall have them."

I do not open my eyes right away, needing a moment to collect myself at the sound of his voice. Its melody is like honey in perfect cup of tea, soothing me from the inside out.

I feel his stare though the veil of my lids, its intensity pressing against my resistance, and I brace myself for the sight of him as I open my eyes.

He is perfect as always, his riotous hair an apt counterpart to the frenzy in my heart. But for all of his beauty, I detect a flaw, an errant brushstroke on the masterpiece, and I am startled when I catch its cause.

He is afraid.

Of me.

"If you will excuse us." Carlisle pulls Esme to her feet. "We wish to enjoy the night."

Neither of his so-called children replies as he takes eager leave with his wife, but I do not miss the glance he spares his eldest son as he passes him in the foyer.

I glare at the doctor until he shuts the door behind them, fixing my eyes on the far window to avoid Edward's gaze.

One look would shatter me for sure.

So we stand without speaking, the perplexing boy and I, each waiting for the other to jump into the fracas. The furnishings and comfort around us fade into nothing, and only he and I remain.

My mind is intentionally blank, and from the furrow of his brow, I know the deprivation is more than he can bear. And despite my considerable agitation, I cannot bear the sight of his pain.

"You have been gone a long time," I say.

"Yes." He cannot hide his relief at my benign beginning. "The day's activities were more extensive than expected."

"Did you find your cougar?"

"I did, thank you." His eyes drop to my clenched hands. "How was your afternoon?"

I do not reply, choosing instead to unfold my hands. He watches as I lift them to the collar of my blouse, his eyes widening as I reach inside to retrieve the folded note.

To his credit, he lingers on my bosom only as long as the letter does, following its path from one hand to the other.

"I have a question." I step toward him, noting his flinch. "And I expect the truth."

"I never give you any less."

The words are laced with velvet, and I shudder against them. "What did you do?"

Confusion mars his face. "I do not know how to answer that."

My eyes flash, and he holds up his hands to pause my responding rant. "Your query is vague enough to produce several honest responses," he explains. "I only wish to satisfy you, to give you what you want."

That familiar tingle snakes up my spine, and I reply without thinking. "You know what I want."

"Do I?" Gold warms to amber in his eyes. "You have not yet said."

"But you occupy my mind," I say softly. "All the time."

He reaches for my empty hand, lacing our fingers together. "As you occupy mine."

I swallow hard, fighting the need to lick my lips. "I do not have your gift."

There is a sigh of heat and longing as his knuckles brush my cheek. "I am not speaking of telepathy."

"Did you write my father?"

The words flee my lips before I realize they are gone, and he withdraws his hand, stricken.

"Edward, I'm sorry. I did not mean..."

"You have nothing for which to apologize," he murmurs. "It is I who has taken liberties with your life."

The dull cavern where my heart once lived begins to throb. "So you admit it then?"

"Yes."

"You wrote my father?"

"I did."

I turn away, a flurry of emotions causing my chest to heave. I press my palm against my breast, willing myself to relax. There are so many questions I can hardly catch my needless breath. But only one escapes me, the only one that matters. "Why?"

"I told you. I want to satisfy you."

The words take on a different meaning in my heightened confusion, and I whirl around to face him. "So this is your plan? To secure my physical acquiescence by writing my father?"

Pain twists his face into an abnormal grimace, and I cover my accursed mouth with my hands. "Forgive me."

Though my words are muffled, I know he hears them. But that does not stop him from turning toward the front door. "Edward, please. I…"

"I cannot believe you think me so vile." His anguished whisper slices me afresh. "That after all we have shared, I could use…"

"No." I fly to the space between his body and the door, laying my finger against his mouth. "Please don't say that."

He gently captures my finger, laying it aside. "You did."

"I know. I just... I am out of my mind with curiosity and know not what to say or think." I cup his face in my hands, grateful he does not refuse. "But I have no excuse for debasing you, no cause for such censure, and I humbly ask your forgiveness."

Heated eyes hold mine for an agonizing moment, and the temptation to melt nearly overwhelms me. Tears sting my eyes, and I blink away their pain to focus on his.

Just when I fear the absolute worst, his hands rest atop mine. "Think no more on it." His cool scent envelops me like a heady fog, and he blesses me with a brief smile. "We have each said regrettable things."

I recall no such thoughtlessness from him but do not argue. He removes his hands and clasps them behind his back. I return to the living room and occupy the chair closest to his chosen position by the door. My body hums to life as he inhales, and I pray to survive the next few moments.

"I know you value your privacy," he begins without looking at me. "Taking care only to share what you wish me to know. And though frustrated and fascinated that you can block me at will, I respect your boundaries."

He falls so silent I might think I were alone were my eyes not fixed upon him.

But they are, grateful that they need not blink, and indecision cloaks him as if a heavy garment. He stares at nothing, idling in thought, as if knowing as well I as that no matter what he says next, nothing between us will be the same again.

He looks up sharply with sad eyes, and I regret not hiding my thoughts.

"Some thoughts cannot be hidden." I am unsure if he's narrating or answering me. "And those are often the most significant."

I bite my bottom lip to keep from interrupting him, and he presses on. "Before we left Rochester, I learned of your longing for Liam."

I gasp as he speaks my angel's name, and he pauses. "Please," I say. "Go on."

"The depth of your longing was so profound I was compelled to act. So I asked Dr. Cullen if he would solicit our friends to help deliver a letter to your family. The letter was rerouted several times, often unbeknownst to the US Postal Service, in order to protect our location. You may have noticed the international address to which his letter was mailed."

In fact, I had not.

"Once I decided what to write," he continues, "imitating your style posed no great obstacle, though I confess to enjoying that deception least of all. A woman's hand is the signature of her soul and should never be duplicated or…"

"What did you say?" I cannot bear his poetry. "In the letter, what did you say?"

He scans my eyes but does not answer, and the prolonged silence brings me to my feet. "Tell me at once!"

He sighs, looking at me one last time.

"Father…

There exist no words to express my sorrow at leaving so suddenly, but please know I had no choice and that I have long desired to reconnect with you. I can only imagine what the town must think—though my former fiancé clarified his opinion the night I left—but I do hope I have not squandered your love. Or the right to express mine.

I do not have long to write as my new life makes endless demands on my time. Nor will I ever return home to Rochester. There is no real place for me there, and I pray you can grow to accept that truth as I have.

But know that I am well and never cease to think of you. Of all of you. And if it please you, do give a hug to mother and Robert, a tender kiss to my Liam, and for yourself, Father, take the strongest and best of my love.

For as long as the earth remains, I am

Your Loving Daughter,

Rosie."

The room falls starkly quiet as Edward finishes his recitation. He does not move or speak, leaning heavily against the door frame. He has laid himself bare and is the weaker for it.

But his eyes reveal no such fragility, and their storminess seems to anchor me to him. I am pinned beneath his stare, though desperate to escape, and I quite literally cannot move.

So I take a deep breath, praying on the exhale, and utter the few words that will guarantee my freedom.

What do we think? Was Edward right to do this without her? And what will Rosalie say?

See you next time, friends! Edward's POV is next :)