Thank you so much for all of the reviews and enthusiasm this story has received already. I love this place. And all of you. xo
A/N: Just to clarify, the dates at the top of these chapters are simply the dates of the WitFit prompts; they hold no bearing on the chronology of the story. The italics are for flashbacks, and normal font is for events taking place in the present. (Thanks, goldseadragon!)
. . .
(February 3, 2013 – Reflection Day)
February 4, 2013 – Word Prompt: Pebble. Dialogue Flex: "I'm not sure my bank account can cover it."
My bare toes curl against the hardwood floor, and I curse myself for forgetting how drafty Charlie's house gets in the winter. Of course, the fact that I'm standing in front of the open door doesn't help matters. My skin pebbles into gooseflesh and I cross my arms over my chest, part warmth and part armor.
Edward is standing on my doorstep in jeans and sneakers and a hoodie beneath a quilted vest, looking so much like the boy I loved that it makes me want to punch him. In one hand is a cardboard tray with two cups; in the other, a paper bag with two dots of grease along the bottom of it. "I know this is an insufficient peace offering, but I hope you'll let it be a start."
When I don't invite him in, he holds the bag and the tray out to me. When I make no move to take either, everything falls: his hands, his shoulders, his eyes. I cling tightly to my anger with both hands so that I don't have a free one with which to reach for him. That his obvious sadness can still infiltrate my heart makes me angry all over again. "What can I do to make it up to you?" he asks finally, all earnestness and hope.
My armor doesn't dent. "I've always wanted a pony."
A small smile, and I curse my immediate response; I don't want him thinking I'm still the Bella who banters. At least, not the Bella who banters with him. "I'm not sure my bank account can cover it," he says, and once again his attempt at flippancy only irritates me further.
"Well, your balance is zero with me. In the red, even." I slam the door on him and his breakfast peace offering and his easy smiles. It doesn't feel as vindicating as I had hoped it would. He leaves one cup and the bag on the welcome mat. When I'm sure he's gone, I reach out and snag them both. When I take a sip of the coffee that turns out to be hot chocolate, the unexpected sweetness makes my throat burn.
. . .
"Where's the Swiss Miss?"
"That's not hot chocolate," Edward scoffs, nose wrinkled as if I've suggested he drink swamp swill. He retrieves a canister of Ghirardelli powder from the cabinet beside the fridge and bends to pull a small saucepan from the cupboard next to the oven.
"Rich-people hot chocolate," I say, only half-kidding.
Eye-roll. "Good hot chocolate," he amends. "Grab the milk for me." I do so and he pours it into the pan, turning on the burner and letting it heat for a few moments before scooping two spoonfuls of the powder into it. I watch as he gently stirs it with a small whisk, mildly embarrassed by my inability to look away from the subtle shift of muscles beneath the skin of his forearm. I don't know why I'm suddenly noticing all of these foreign things about this familiar boy, noticing that he is less boy than man these days, and I'm grateful that his back is turned.
When the mugs of cocoa are ready and he's squirted a generous dollop of whipped cream on the surface of each, I grab the mug nearest to me.
"Nope," he says quickly. "That one's mine." Confused, I hand him the mug and he holds out the other one to me. Glancing at the message printed on the side, my fifteen-year-old heart skips. Someone in Forks, WA loves me.
. . .