A/N: Sorry I missed yesterday. Life, man. Here's yesterday's chapter, and I'll post today's as well.

Just a heads-up: tomorrow's chapter is where EPOV picks up with the betrayal. I've had a few readers request a warning in case they'd like to avoid reading it, so here it is: chapter 32 is the start of Edward's side of that particular story.

Thanks, as always, for reading. xo

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March 8, 2013 – Word Prompt: Swirl. Dialogue Flex: "I'm proud of you."

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"Okay, got an announcement," Emmett says, and I stop swirling my beer in my hand as I meet his eyes. He's already getting married, for crying out loud. "We're doing a destination wedding. Next month. Book your ticket to Costa Rica."

"What?"

"You, Jasper, Alice, Mom, Dad, me, Rose, and her parents." He pauses. "Unless…you want to bring a date. Of course, you can bring a date." He's looking at me intently, the probing stare that he must have learned from our mother, and I deflect his curiosity with a shake of my head.

"Thanks, Em, but the only regular dates I've had lately have been with textbooks. I'll be flying solo. Literally."

He studies me for a minute. "I know I bust your balls about the incessant studying, but I'm proud of you, little brother. You've always had your shit figured out. That's a good thing."

I bite my tongue against the first retort that comes to mind: that I was the only one of my three brothers with a steady, exclusive girlfriend when we were younger, and I'm the only one who goes to bed every night alone, still reminiscing about the love I lost when I was a teenager. It seems to me that I'm the second runner-up in the Cullen family "life on track" horse race, but I keep the thought to myself. I'd be too embarrassed to ever admit to either of my brothers just how much Bella still factors into my mind, all these years later.

He sighs. "Okay, bro. Well, I'm sure we can find you some hot Costa Rican girl to keep you company." He claps me on the shoulder just as Rosalie wafts into the house in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume and cold winter air, bending to press her lips to Emmett's. "Hey, baby."

Em's enormous hands come up to bracket her waist. "Hey, babe. I was just telling Edward about Costa Rica."

"Oh, yeah?" Rosalie's ice-blue eyes flick to me only briefly.

It's not something I could ever really explain to anyone, but when I look at Rosalie, I don't see the girl I lost my virginity to. Thanks to the gods of low tolerance and low endurance, there's really not much to flash back to: I was drunk out of my mind and inexperienced as hell, which didn't amount to much of an interlude. I have flashes: seeing bare breasts in person for the first time, being touched for the second time, kissing her and tasting tequila. But that's it. The memories are hazy and indistinct, and could easily be memories of a porn flick I might have watched once upon a time – they're that vague. I can't actually picture her naked, because thankfully, I was so plastered I don't even really remember what she looked like naked. In fact, I'm not entirely sure all of her clothes even came off that night – and I don't picture our bodies moving awkwardly against each other on the rough fabric of an upholstered couch. The only thing that I remember with complete clarity is lying on the sofa afterward, watching the ceiling spin, and wishing with a sharp stab of pain that it was Bella beside me, that it was the girl I wanted to curl around and cuddle and love, and not one I just wanted to get up and walk away from. I was ashamed, and embarrassed, and when she realized it, I'm pretty sure Rosalie was, too. It's likely one of the reasons we've never talked about it since the week after it happened, when I admitted I didn't want to date her and she recovered rather nicely by going out with someone else.

These days, when I'm not seeing my brother's fiancée, all I see is the girl who cost me Bella. And yet, despite everything, I can't hate Rose…but her presence reminds me to hate myself.

. . .

"Oh my God," I breathe, feeling the soft curves of Bella's breasts beneath her sweater, only the second time she's let me touch them, and it's driving me out of my mind. She's on top of me on her couch, and I know she has to be able to feel my hard-on pressing into her, but for the first time, she doesn't pull away, and it only makes me harder. Her small, cool hands are touching the bare skin of my stomach, and I try to hold back all of the sounds that want to spill from my lips, terrified that the smallest noise could break the spell. Then I feel her hands at the buckle of my belt, and I can't see anything through the haze of heat and want clouding my head. I feel her small fingers tugging gently, and I so desperately want to feel them on me, really on me, that it's as if I could explode. When her hands leave my belt and find the skin just above the waistband, I gasp.

"Please," I pant, forgetting for a moment my promise to myself not to ask her for anything, running my hands all over her clothes. I kiss her hard, deep, desperate.

"Edward," she gasps, and that breathless voice sends another wave of sparks shooting through my blood. I roll us and once again take the lead, take the reins out of her hands. Picking up the pace she started, I slide the button of her jeans free, and I feel her hand wrap around my wrist.

"Please don't stop," I plead into her hair, pressing myself shamelessly into her hip, and when she gasps, I slide my hand into her jeans. But before I can even begin to really touch her, she goes rigid, turning to stone beneath my touch.

I still my hand, even as everything else in my body surges and races: my blood, my heart, my mind, my breathing. My cock. Finally, I make myself pull away from her, sitting up and forcing my gaze to focus on Will Ferrell, muted on the television screen.

"Edward?" Her voice, small and uncertain, and I need another minute. I'm hard, breathless, confused, and still so fucking turned on, and I need a minute.

"Just…give me a sec." When I feel like I can keep my composure, I look at her. When she admits the truth – that she's still not ready, that she was doing this for me – I feel my heart split: she's right, but she's so, so wrong. I want her. So much that it's driving me crazy. But I love her even more than I want her.

That's what makes dealing with the bullshit I get from the guys – for being a virgin, for dating a virgin, for barely having made it past second base – somewhat easier to swallow. Because it's Bella.

I pull her into the circle of my arms, and I remind myself of that simple truth, over and over.

It's Bella.

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