A/N: YIKES. So I went away for four days with my family. To a place with no WiFi and no cell service. I don't remember 1987, but I imagine it was probably a lot like this weekend. Anyway, my deepest apologies for the delay in updates...I'm posting this with a tiny human trying to grab my keyboard, but I'm hoping to post again later today. Happy belated Mother's Day to all the moms out there - traditional, non-traditional, single, adoptive, step, surrogate...all of them. You are all superheroes. xo

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March 22, 2013 – Word Prompt: Wine. Dialogue flex: "Do you remember this song?"

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"I'm sorry," she says for the third time, and I shake my head. To be honest, I'm faintly relieved that the Thai restaurant was closed due to illness; something tells me that had it been open, I likely would have spent the rest of the night feeling ill.

"Bella, stop. This is perfect." And it is. A small Italian bistro a block from the barricaded Thai restaurant, the candle between us lighting her features lovely. A tiny table, small enough to reach her hand across. A dinner for lovers. Even if she is still making noise about picking up the check.

The white linen tablecloth is pristine, and it feels like a blank canvas.

A brief silence, and then a waiter appears to take our drink orders. "Do you…" She pauses, but in her hand is the leather-bound wine list.

"Sure," I say, wondering if our shared shorthand means something still.

"White or red?"

"Either."

She orders a bottle of pinot noir, and it occurs to me that I've never seen her drink before.

She likes red wine. It's the first revelation into adult Bella, and I realize I'm hoarding details like diamonds, seeking insight by way of breadcrumbs. When the server returns with a carafe, pouring a taster into her glass, I watch as she lifts it to her lips and takes a small sip before nodding in approval.

And it's that small, simple thing that hits the truth home: the girl I loved became a woman, and I missed it.

Our glasses filled, the server launches into a spiel about specials. She watches him; I watch her. So the same, and so very different. So old Bella, and so new Bella. The girl and the woman, and what I'd give to be allowed to love them both.

"Thank you," she's saying, and the waiter retreats.

"The salmon sounded really good," she says, and because I couldn't recite a single special under threat of death, I simply nod.

She chews her lip – old Bella – and runs the chain of her necklace through her fingers – new Bella – and she's just opening her mouth to speak when a voice cuts through our bubble.

"Bella?"

She half-turns, and a warm smile splits her face. "Alex! Hi!" Rising from the table, she drops her linen napkin at her place and takes a step away, leaving me with her napkin and her lip gloss-smeared wineglass, and I try not to feel the symbolism of being left behind, if only momentarily. "What are you doing here?"

"Business dinner," he says, eyeing me with a little too much curiosity to be indifferent. "And you?"

"Having dinner with a friend," she says easily, and she didn't even hesitate with the word. Long, beautiful hand held out in my direction. "Alex Lydell, this is Edward Cullen, a friend of mine from home. Edward, this is Alex."

I rise. Shake hands. Act like her friend, even if it feels like a lie. I don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly and flicker back to her before resettling on me when she says my name. It was a flicker of surprised recognition, and I know without asking that he's heard it before. It isn't lost on me that she didn't qualify who Alex was in our introduction, and there's only one reason for that that I can imagine: they've dated.

"Good to meet you," he's saying, hand out for a handshake, and I accept it.

"Likewise." He's tall and dark-haired and well-dressed and I can't help wondering if she ever told him she loved him.

Polite goodbyes, and we're back at our table. "An ex?" I ask, and she doesn't blush, doesn't look embarrassed. New Bella.

"An ex," she confirms. Her response is light, easy, uncomplicated. There's no drama there. No bitterness. No complicated back story. Absently, I wonder if he's the guy from her freshman year, but I push the thought away, choosing instead to focus on the bigger question swirling around my mind.

"What do you think it would have been like?"

A small crease between her fine brows. "What?"

"If we had stayed friends?"

A measured sip of her wine, fingers playing with the stem. "Friends who never dated, or friends who broke up amicably?"

"Is there a difference?" It's not a rhetorical question; I'm genuinely curious.

"I don't know."

I don't either. Having loved her, I can't remember what it felt like not to. I can't picture being a guy who could watch her have a boyfriend or kiss someone else or love someone else and not be jealous. As I pick through my memories, I wonder if I loved her long before I ever admitted it; I wonder if I loved her all along.

"I'm sure it would have been complicated eventually," she says at last.

"Why?"

"Because even if you'd never kissed me, I always would have wondered what it might have been like if you had."

I remember that moment, that blanket fort, the exhilarating rush when I finally pressed my lips to hers. Remember how disoriented I felt, feeling like the Bella I'd always known had become someone completely different. And now, she's done it again.

"Do you remember this song?"

So busy dissecting the nuances of our failed relationship, it takes me a minute to pick out the faint strains of a piano melody spilling from near the back corner of the restaurant. After a few more bars, I place it as one of the many songs we danced to at that homecoming dance long ago.

"Yeah." And I do. I remember everything. And for the first time in years, it feels something other than painful.

. . .

Next year, I'm going to Cancun. Or Key West. Or wherever it is the guys who don't go home opt to spend the holidays. Nothing good ever comes from returning to Forks. Two years ago, after seeing Bella for a matter of moments in the Forks Diner, the rest of the break was a maudlin mix of hoping to see her again and dreading the look on her face. Top it off with a healthy dose of self-loathing, and it was a real hoot. Last year, I spent the entire break wondering about her but too chickenshit to ask about her or to attempt to see her, so I went back to school agitated and anxious. And, of course, depressed.

This year, Rosalie Hale makes a reappearance two days before Christmas. On Emmett's arm, no less. She watches me warily, and I try not to look at her at all. On Christmas Eve, Emmett corners me in the kitchen.

"Rosie told me." I don't look up from the dishes I'm washing, but tension coils in my spine. When I say nothing, he opts to clarify. "About high school." I still don't look up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

At this, I do look up. I owe a lot of apologies for that particular mistake, but I don't owe any of them to Emmett. "Why would I?" I ask, my voice sharp. "I didn't realize you were going to date her."

There's a flash of irritation before Emmett reverts to his typically easygoing good nature. "I meant as your brother. Not as Rosalie's potential future boyfriend." He must register my confusion. "When you and Bella broke up, I know you were messed up about it. I didn't realize…what had happened."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't my finest moment. Not something I wanted to relive too many times." I rinse suds off the dinner plate in my hands. "I'm surprised she told you."

"I like her a lot," he says, even as the something-new in his eyes hints that his words aren't quite the whole truth. "I think she feels the same way, so I guess she figured honesty was called for." When I say nothing, he sighs, and I feel so much like the disappointing little brother that I want to throw the glass I'm soaping up. "I just…didn't know if it was going to be a problem."

Me fucking your girlfriend? I want to ask, but even in the moment, I know Emmett's not the one I'm angry with. "Not a problem," I say as smoothly as I can manage, water rinsing the glass clean.

"Really?" he asks, dark gaze penetrating, and I've never been able to bullshit Emmett, even when we were kids, and I was trying to hide my Halloween candy stash by telling him it was all gone. I don't reply, and he sighs. "Edward, talk to me."

"I screwed up, okay? Big-time. And it cost me Bella. Rose was the other player, but she was incidental. I fucked up, and I hurt Bella. And I paid for it." Still paying for it, I say silently, but don't want to admit aloud. Still being so screwed up over someone who hates me is depressingly pathetic. "But I don't have any weird feelings for Rosalie, so if she's what gets your motor revving, have at it."

"Hey. A little respect," he says, voice gentle despite the censure of the words.

I sigh, suddenly exhausted. "It's fine, Em. We're good. You and me, you and Rosalie…it's all good. Bygones, or whatever."

So fitting, really, that part of that word is "gone."

It has never felt more true. Or more like a lie.

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