A/N: Just to reiterate, the dates at the top of the chapters are the dates of the writing prompts; they have nothing to do with the chronology of the story. Thanks, as always, for reading! xo

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March 3, 2013 (Reflection Day)

March 4, 2013 – Word Prompt: Disgust. Dialogue Flex: "Better get a move on!"

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"Merry Christmas, bro!" Emmett booms, swinging the front door of his home wide open and grabbing me by the shoulders in a hug that suggests he could easily crush my ribs, given the urge.

"Merry Christmas, Em." Rosalie appears behind him, watching me with those cool blue eyes. "Merry Christmas, Rosalie."

"You too," she replies, stepping toward me hesitantly. Give her credit, Rose tends to give me a wide berth, but evidently on Christmas, a hug is a requirement.

Here's the thing about Rosalie: she's not a terrible person. In hindsight, of course, she wasn't the nicest high schooler. But in the years since, she's mellowed into a pretty decent girl, and she makes my brother ridiculously happy, which counts for something in my book. I feel mildly guilty for the fact that I can't let bygones be, and that I avoid her presence as completely as possible, but guilt is hardly a new emotion for me.

I step inside their townhouse and am immediately enveloped by Jasper, whose hug is slightly less crushing than Emmett's. Then comes Alice, who hugs me gently.

Alice's presence: another subtle form of torture. Where Rosalie is content to play the same game I am and pretend it never happened, Alice as a constant is like the spotlight that can't stop swinging toward the elephant in the corner. "Merry Christmas, Edward," she says now, giving me a polite hug.

"You too, Alice," I say, hugging her back, trying not to let my body go rigid with unease, trying to inject as much friendliness into it as possible despite my discomfort. It's as if, after all this time, I'm hoping she'll go running back to Bella and go to bat for me: tell her I'm not awful, that I'm worth knowing, that she wasn't wrong to love me once upon a time. The subtle distance she keeps from Rosalie as we make our way inside suggests that, unlike Rosalie and me, she is less willing to pretend.

We melt into the warmth of the house, the Christmas carols coming from the living room speakers, the fire burning in the hearth, the small but tasteful Christmas tree in the corner of the room with the respectable mound of gifts beneath it. The majority are wrapped in elegant red-and-green-plaid paper, and I know without looking at tags that they're from our parents.

Just as Rosalie and Emmett are arranging platters of appetizers on their tiny coffee table, Alice's phone rings, and I don't think anything of it until her eyes flick once from Jasper to me before she stands and excuses herself from the room, and I know. I know it's Bella. I let her disappear for a good five minutes before following under the guise of getting more eggnog. When I step into the small kitchen that smells of turkey and stuffing and gravy, I hear only the tail end of Alice's last comment.

"I'm so glad you called," she says, and it never occurred to me until now that in hurting Bella, I hurt Alice, too. Because Alice fell in love with Jasper, and Jasper's my brother, and Alice is going to be my sister, and Bella doesn't want anything to do with me or my family, and is there no end to the ways in which I can hurt the same girl? Is there no limit to the collateral damage a stupid, reckless eighteen-year-old kid can cause?

I'm lost in my silent but not unfamiliar self-disgust when Alice turns, spying me hovering on the threshold like an eavesdropper. I feel faintly ashamed: again, not a new emotion where Alice is concerned. But there's something new in her eyes, something softer, and when she speaks again, I feel something in my heart flicker. "Do you want to say hello to Edward?" She's watching me intently, and I place my empty glass on the counter, rubbing my hands nervously over the thighs of my slacks. "Yeah, he's right here."

God, please, don't let her say no. I realize, if she does, that this will be it. Confirmation that what I broke can never be fixed, despite our talk at Thanksgiving. If she can't bring herself to talk to me at Christmas, there's no friendship left to save.

Just as I'm managing to slide down the familiar slope of depression, Alice holds her phone out to me, a tentative smile on her lips. "Bella," she says, as if I didn't know.

I lift the phone to my ear. "Bella?"

"Hi, Edward." And I don't care what's wrapped beneath that Christmas tree; in this moment, I don't need anything more.

"Hi," I say softly, leaning against the countertop, all too aware of the fact that the voices in the next room have dropped. "Merry Christmas."

"Thanks," she replies. "You too."

"Are you in Forks?"

"Yeah. Just making dinner."

"Just you and Charlie?"

"No, a couple of my dad's friends from the res are here, too."

"Nice," I say, even as I remember the swell of jealousy that crashed over me when I would hear about Bella's life after I left Forks: going to the homecoming dance with Jacob Black; being brought home from a party on the reservation by one of Charlie's deputies. All of the things I missed; all of the things I likely caused, even if only indirectly. I realize that for all the unspoken words that still lie between us, I have no idea what to say to Bella in this moment. Just as I'm opening my mouth to say something else innocuous, Alice's voice rings out from the living room.

"Better get a move on! Your brothers are eating all of the mini quiches!" Ever the bodyguard, even from a different room, even from a distance of miles.

"I'm sorry," Bella says quickly, and I try not to read relief in her tone. "I'm intruding on your holiday with your family. I'll let you go."

"Wait!" I very nearly yelp, instantly desperate at the thought that she might hang up and sever the tie once again. "Wait," I say again, softer this time. "Can I…this was really great. Talking, I mean. Can I call you again? To catch up? Maybe when there isn't a bunch of my crazy family around?"

There's a pause, and I plead silently as I stare at the cream-colored wallpaper in my brother's kitchen. Please. Say yes. It doesn't escape me that I spent years as a teenager making the same plea for something else entirely, and that in the end, it ruined everything.

"Okay," she says finally. "That would be okay, I guess."

I blow out a breath. "Great."

"I, um…should I give you my number?"

Busted. "I, uh, actually already have it. Jasper gave it to me."

"Oh." I can hear the frown in her voice, the dangling possibility of regret that she's letting me in and I've already overstepped. But then, after a minute: "Okay then."

It's small. Insignificant. A tiny, microscopic, miniscule seed of trust. But in the grand scheme of things, it feels a whole lot like a Christmas miracle.

. . .

"Any cute boys in your class?" I hear my mother ask as I make my way across the living room, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"No." It's Bella's voice, and I stop in my tracks.

"I remember," my mother continues. "There's always a period where the girls are all beautiful young women and the boys are all…well. Boys."

Beautiful young women. So my mother has already noticed what I'm slowly realizing: that the girl with the knobby knees and wild hair is someone altogether different these days. I school my features, force myself to be the Edward of always as I step into the kitchen. When I finally look at Bella, she has a smear of whipped cream on the end of her nose, and before I realize it, I'm swiping the pad of my thumb across her nose. I wait for her to wrinkle her nose in disgust; when she blushes, I feel something in me spark. I've never seen her do that before.

In the shower, the hot water cascades around me, warming me from the outside, steam swirling around me in the shower stall, soap suds sliding down over my chest. Bella is here, in my house, chatting with my mother, and there's nothing unusual about any of it except what it does to me. Because never, not once in all my years of knowing her, have I cared whether she was here or not beyond the fact that it meant I had someone to hang out with.

But now, suddenly, inexplicably, I care. And in the steamy seclusion of my shower, I make a decision. Bella's been following my lead for years: I've always been the first to climb to the higher branch, tightrope-walk along the narrow beam, jump off the higher diving board. I've always been the one testing the waters, making sure they're safe for her to follow me in.

An hour later, I coax her to follow me once again; when I press my lips to hers, I'm flying higher, falling faster than I ever did off any diving board.

"Why did you do that?" she whispers, and I tell her the truth, always.

"Because I've wanted to for ages."

. . .