A/N: This one's for Monica, with hugs.

Thanks, as always, for reading. xo

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March 15, 2013 – Word Prompt: Staircase. Plot Generator—Phrase Catch: Secrets and lies.

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Dear Edward,

Here's the thing nobody tells you about losing your virginity: that in some cases, it's possible that not giving it up will be the thing you will come to regret. They – and by the vague "they," I mean teachers, parents, "family-values" touters, health educators – tell you to cherish it, to hold on to it, to protect it like a precious jewel that an army of randy boys will constantly be trying to pluck from your shaky fingers. But what they don't tell you is this: that there might come a day when you'll regret not giving it up to the boy you loved. That there's a window where it will be special and meaningful and everything your first time should be, and that it's entirely possible to miss that window and end up giving it up to someone who will ultimately wind up being an otherwise unexceptional extra in your life's main cast of characters.

That's my dirty little secret, my pebble of guilt that I carry when I think about what happened with us: I wish I'd said yes. Homecoming night, the night of Ben's party, a million other nights when I was in your arms and loved, I wish I'd said yes. I wish I'd been braver. I wish I'd been ready. I wish I'd known then what I know now: that there are some things in this life that you just don't get to be ready for, but for which you have to put on your big-girl shoes and take a leap of faith.

You were worth that leap of faith, Edward. Even knowing what I know now, even with all of the ugly stuff that happened with us, I still know that to be true: you were worth the leap. I regret that I was too cowardly to take it. With all of the times I trusted you to look out for me – climbing trees, diving off platforms, riding our bikes down steep hills – you always came through. I regret that I didn't trust you in this, too.

And that brings me to my other regret, a truth I was too angry, too hurt, too humiliated to openly acknowledge before now: I regret that my reticence hurt you, too. I'm sure you think I didn't notice, but I saw how much you regretted what happened with Rosalie. I know it hurt you, and at the time (and even in the years since), it was easy for me to disregard your hurt because I saw it as a result of your own actions. But with more time and distance, I can acknowledge the truth: that you were hurting, too – possibly almost as much as I was – and part of the reason we wound up in that mess was because I was afraid. I'm sorry for that. And I'm sorry for pretending all the blame was yours, because that was a lie.

That said, I think there's a tiny part of my heart that will always be seventeen, and will always be hurt by what happened between us back then. I think everyone – or, at least, every woman – carries around the most insecure version of herself, tucked away in some corner of her heart like a constant reminder of her weakest self, in part to remember not to go back to the place, and in part to remember that even in her strongest moments, there's still vulnerability at her core. I don't know if this is the same for men, or if that's one of the fundamental differences. Maybe you don't have that, or maybe you do and you just hide it better. Either way, there's a tiny part of me that will always be the Bella who had her heart broken by the boy she loved most in the world. But it's my goal to find a way to make that a source of strength instead of the bitter pill it's been for the past six years.

If you're still the boy I thought you were, I suspect there's a part of your heart that matches mine; I hope that you, too, can find the value in it. Maybe that's the meaning behind all of this; maybe we're meant to help each other find our way to that point. The point of letting go of old hurts. I'd be okay with that. Would you?

Your friend,
Bella

I tuck the letter back inside its envelope, my heart a heavy wrecking ball in my chest, swaying ominously from side to side.

Letting go.

. . .

I can hear the sound of feet on the staircase, and I bury my face into my pillow, hoping in vain to be left alone.

"Sweetheart?" My mother's single-knuckle rap on my bedroom door is as tentative as her voice, and I roll to my back, staring at my white ceiling.

"Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

I hear the door creak open, my mother's soft footfalls on the carpeted floor, the soft squeak of a mattress spring as she perches on the edge of my bed. "Do you want some lunch?"

"No, thanks."

"How about some hot chocolate?"

I turn my face away; a mistake, because the first thing my eyes fall on is the homecoming picture of me with my arms wrapped around Bella. I close them instead. "No, thanks."

"Your brothers are coming home for dinner."

It's an intervention; I know it, but I don't have the energy to protest it or even acknowledge it. "Okay."

There's a hesitant pause before my mother speaks again, and as much as I love her, her purposeful not-pushing-but-definitely-hovering is sort of driving me crazy. "I saw Bella at the store."

I jolt upright, propping myself on my elbows, and my mother looks mildly startled. "What did she…did she…did you say hello?"

"I did." My mother's eyes are sad, and I can read the words she doesn't say aloud. Bella didn't say anything about me. Finally, it's as if my mother has had all she can take, and she leans forward, clasping my hand in hers. Ironically, I'm reminded of Bella's hand: fine-boned wrist, small palm, cool fingers. "Edward, what happened?"

She has a combination of eyes – my green and Jasper's blue – and I've always liked the way the colors swirl together like the ocean, but in this moment, shame a hot poker through my chest, I can't meet them. "I hurt her."

"Why?"

Not how, but why. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking." I try to find a way to explain without explaining, because what guy wants to tell his mother he got a hand job from and then lost his virginity to a girl he barely even likes, all because his girlfriend was at home having a sleepover? "I hurt her because I wasn't thinking, and she can't forgive me."

Tightness in my eyes, my chest, my throat, and I look away again; one episode of an eighteen-year-old guy crying in his mother's lap is one too many. "That doesn't sound like Bella."

I don't admit the truth: that in the span of a week, both Bella and I have become strangers to each other, and – if she's feeling anything like I am – to ourselves.

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