February 22, 2013 – Word Prompt: Cafeteria. Dialogue Flex: "Don't say another word."

. . .

The clinking of silverware against a crystal glass interrupts my conversation with Charlie as a hush falls over the rest of the room, a sea of eyes trained on where Carlisle stands, one hand on the back of Esme's chair and the other holding a champagne flute. He clears his throat and gazes around at the people watching him expectantly, a faintly amused smile curling his lips upward.

"If you'll all permit me a moment of indulgence," he begins, and there are approving murmurs from the guests. "Thank you." He glances down at Esme, and his smile goes from amusement to adoration before he looks back up, glancing at his sons before facing their family friends. "Okay, this is really just…I'm still so crazy about this woman, and we wanted to celebrate that. We thank you all for going along with us." At that, he half-turns so that he's facing Esme, his hand moving from the back of her chair to her shoulder.

"Esme, my love. Thirty years ago, I had no idea what life had in store for us, but I knew that no matter what it was, it was navigable if I had you beside me. I anticipated tough times, and yes, we've had them, but here's the funny thing: I can't remember them. When I try to, there are vague recollections of moments, but nothing more. On the other hand, when I think back on the joyous moments of our life together, I can remember them with perfect clarity. I remember the look on your face on the three occasions you held each of our sons for the very first time. I remember the little moments that have made our life: your freezing cold feet when you slide into bed beside me at night, the way you squeal when you step into the shower and you get belted in the face with water because I adjusted the nozzle to accommodate my height and forgot to tilt it back down.

"I'm so in love with every single part of you: the way your cheeks get pink when you argue with me, the fierce way you love our sons, the way you laugh when you can't hold it back.

I knew life with you would be an adventure, but I never could have dreamed how beautiful it would be. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all of it. I love you so much."

I don't realize I'm crying until Carlisle bends to kiss Esme gently on the mouth and Charlie hands me the linen napkin I'd set down between our plates. When I look back up, Edward's eyes are on mine.

The guests return their focus to dessert, and I tear my gaze away from his, but for the first time in years, I can feel it on me without looking. Thirty minutes later, when I've finished my crème brulee and coffee, I spy him leaning against the bar, a glass in his hand as he talks to Jasper. As I draw near, his gaze finds me, and he watches my approach with wary eyes. Momentarily, I flash back to a high school cafeteria and that same sad, cautious green.
"Ask me to dance." I can see the memory of the last time he asked me flash behind his eyes before he sets his glass down on the gleaming bar top.

"Please dance with me," he says, and I'm surprised by the faint trace of pleading in his voice, given that he already knows I'm going to say yes. On the dance floor, I step into the circle of his arms, trying desperately not to feel caged. "Bella, I'm so sorry—" he starts, but I cut him off with a single finger.

"Don't," I say, wanting for just the space of a song to remember. To bask in the warmth of his nearness, the familiar-yet-foreign comfort of his embrace. "Don't say another word."

And for that entire first dance, he doesn't.

. . .

The moment I realize what a true friend Alice is is the night of the Forks junior/senior prom, when she shows up on my doorstep with the same duffel bag she always brings for sleepovers. I can see in my mind's eye the silver beaded dress she picked out for tonight, the faux-gemstone accessories, and I frown at her flannel pajama pants and her hooded sweatshirt. "Alice, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at the dance?"

"Because you're not at the dance," she replies simply. I shake my head and open my mouth to argue, but she grabs me, her tiny hands tight around my biceps. "Bella, you're my best friend in the world, and I know that you're hurting tonight. There's nothing at that dance that is more important to me than that."

I swallow the now-familiar ball of tears in the back of my throat and nod, stepping aside to permit her entry. Dumping her bag just inside the door, she turns her gaze on me. "So. What should we do?"

Four hours later, after viewings of Fight Club and The Truman Show – "Nothing with a romantic storyline," Alice had decreed – we are out of movies and out of junk food.

"Blockbuster and Ben & Jerry's," she announces, dragging me toward the door.

I'm just debating between Chunky Monkey and Phish Food, The Shawshank Redemption and The Birdcage tucked beneath my arm, when the bell over the door jingles and a flurry of noise and activity tumbles through the door. When I spy Mike Newton in a tuxedo and Lauren Mallory in a gown, I feel my heart start to pound, a one-line mantra playing on repeat loop in my mind.

Please, no.

Please, no.

But then, closely behind them, a familiar head of hair, a heartbreakingly recognizable pair of eyes. Eyes that widen when he spies me, and dim when the surprise is replaced by…what? Disappointment? Guilt? Apology? His bow tie is untied, draped around his neck, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone, and the white rose pinned to his lapel is just starting to droop.

I turn to Alice, who is already watching me with wide, knowing eyes, and shake my head. "I'm good, actually."

"Okay," she agrees, falling into step beside me. I don't realize until we're nearly at the door that she's walking to my right, a buffer between me and the crowd of post-prom partygoers, and I immediately feel so very, very lucky for her friendship.

"Hi, Bella." The voice is nearly enough to make my steps falter, but I match my pace to Alice's and don't miss a step.

"Hey," I reply without stopping, without looking, and before there's time for anything else, we're in the parking lot beneath a warm May moon. Alice loops her arm through mine, and the chill of the ice cream parlor starts to recede from my skin.

"I'd rather have a Snickers bar, anyway," Alice declares, bumping my hip with hers.

I force myself to chuckle. "Me, too."

. . .