Thanks to my wonderful beta, Tiffanyanne3.

Chapter 6

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If there is one thing I learned that night, watching Edward with Lauren, it's that Edward Cullen is way out of my league. These girls he brings around are his field, he's the star player, and something tells me he's quite good at this game. If I venture to find a place for myself in this twisted analogy, I guess I'm the fumbling bat girl. Except that I've never touched a bat, and I've never even stepped foot on the field.

I make a great effort to avoid Edward in the week that follows the Movie Night From Hell. The longer I avoid him, the stronger my infatuation with him becomes. I'm equal parts intrigued and terrified of everything he does. He's alarmingly confident, and it rolls off of him in waves. I catch myself fantasizing about his lazy smirk or the way he sits low in his chair with his legs spread wide. His cocky swagger when he walks or the way he pulls his hat up and down to scratch his head. Everything about him seems to tug at something deep and low in my belly. I'm well aware that he gained his confidence and sex appeal somewhere, from someone, and the little voice inside my head reminds me often that it certainly wasn't with me.

When I force myself to admit it, I'm actually quite irritated that I find him so appealing. He's none of the things I'd find attractive on paper. He's not especially respectful of girls, and he's so brutally honest it's often offensive. I've never even seen him touch a book, much less do anything the least bit intellectual (unless you count rating girls on a scale from one to ten with Emmett).

On an errand for my mother, I walk to the grocery store near our house to pick up a few things she needs. I'm standing too close to the drink cooler, pretending to look at labels so I can cool down and dry my sweat, when I hear the slow, heavy footsteps of someone rounding the corner. I know it's him before I even turn around; I can smell his smell and feel his heat. My body hums in contentment when I turn and prove myself right. He stands behind me, fists tucked deep in the pockets of his khaki shorts, lazy grin pulling at the corners of his lips. My stomach pulls harshly at the realization that he's wearing my favorite ratty baseball hat. Backwards.

"Whatcha doin' there?" He rubs his hand across his mouth like he's hiding a bigger smile.

I flush, embarrassed to be caught. "Just cooling off a bit."

Stepping back from the cooler, I force myself to fully turn and face him. He's tall, even in his cocky, slouched position. My head hits just below his chin, and when I lift my eyes, I notice that I can see the underside of his thick lashes perfectly. They're dark at the roots and blond on the tips, and they're so long they curl and tangle together whenever he smiles.

Which he's doing now.

Shrugging self-consciously, I stare at the laces on my worn shoes. "What?"

He chuckles lowly and takes a half step forward to nudge my shoulder with his. "Why so shy, Birdie?"

The impact jars me from my shyness, and I look up briefly to catch his smirk. Sighing in exasperation, I square my shoulders and lift my chin. "I'm not shy," I snap, my attempt at confidence making me sound sharper than I'd intended.

"No?"

Mustering up more pretend courage, I manage to look him straight in the eye. "No."

He stares at me curiously for a few seconds, like he's trying hard to figure out what I'm all about. What am I all about? I have no fucking clue. I feel like a baby, playing house in a grown–up world, yet I'm the first to take offense when adults handle me with kid gloves. I'm a mess.

"Walk you home?" He nods his head towards the door. The entire list of things I came to purchase no longer seems important, and I wipe my sweaty hands on my jean cutoffs and shrug in a desperate attempt at nonchalance.

"Sure."

We head outside the store together, him in the lead. He pushes the door open for me and holds it there with his arm out straight, forcing me to duck my head beneath him and brush against his chest as I pass through.

Fine by me.

Once we're outside he pulls his baseball cap around and low over his sun-squinted eyes. "Did you ride your bike?"

I'm quick to take offense. He must think I'm a fucking toddler…

"I can't drive yet," I remind him. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Right," he chuckles and nudges my elbow with his. "But there's this thing called walking…in case you hadn't noticed."

Okay, fine. Point to him.

We continue on in awkward silence for a bit, but I feel his gaze burning hot on the side of my face.

"What'd you come to the store for?" I ask him when I can't stand the silence—or the staring—any longer. His hands are empty, save for the package of gum he flips idly between two fingers.

"My sister dropped me off on her way to work. I'm meeting Em at your place, but Leah didn't want to drive all the way out there."

"Can't you drive?" I blurt rudely. Immediately, I kick myself for my lack of filter. It's becoming more and more obvious that I have no idea how this—this task of interacting with members of the opposite sex—is done.

"I can, yes." He pauses. "I just don't."

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. Why wouldn't he drive if he could? It's hot as hell here, and getting around on foot—or bike—sucks. Trust me, I know.

"Why didn't you have Emmett drive you to the store?" he asks me curiously.

"And put up with his bullshit for an entire ten minutes?" I cluck my tongue in disgust. "No, thanks."

My answer makes him snort, and I'm alarmed at the level of adorable he's reached with that one, singular action.

"He's not so bad." Edward says this as though his defense of Emmett is going to erase the nearly sixteen years of teasing I've endured at the hands of my idiot brother.

"Yeah, to you. His entire purpose in life is to harass me."

"You let him."

I guffaw loudly. "I do not let him. He's just surprisingly...clever. For such a giant dumbass."

"It's cute," he says with a smirk. "You're cute." He glances at me briefly and chuckles when he notices the blush climbing up my neck and onto my cheeks. Lifting his hand, he rubs his knuckles softly on the side of my neck. "See what I mean?"

I shrug. "Whatever you say."

I'm a nervous wreck in the days leading up to my coffee meeting with Edward. I've completely put a stop to all thoughts along the lines of I really need a haircut or I should buy a new shirt. I'm determined not to let myself try to impress Edward Cullen. Been there, done that. I'm not a little girl anymore, and I refuse to think—to care—what Edward thinks of me.

I agreed to this meeting for one reason only, I remind myself time and time again: to hear whatever it is that Edward seems so insistent on talking to me about. Okay, yeah, maybe there's a small part of me that is proud of how much I've accomplished—no thanks to him—and wants him to see first-hand that I didn't need his help to achieve one bit of it along the way (minus the whole sperm thing).

Friday is especially difficult. I'm completely disgusted with myself and how long I've taken to get ready for this impending coffee meet up. I spent an additional thirty minutes on my hair this morning, only to berate myself for my stupidity, and eventually pull it back in a ponytail in a futile attempt at "being myself."

My indecisiveness made for a rushed morning, and I'm almost late getting Ava to school. We're never late. I loathe tardiness and find it completely inexcusable, and I blame Edward Cullen entirely for my flustered behavior this morning. Damn him for completely upending my week with a few stupid emails and one phone call. Two weeks ago, I would have laughed at the girl who let herself get this worked up over some pretty boy. Or man. Whatever.

When I kiss Ava good-bye at her classroom door, I notice that I've completely failed to wipe her face off, and she's still wearing the remains of her breakfast. What the hell is wrong with me today? I give her a spit bath and she whines and moans her way into her room.

I'm thankful to have the day free of classes, and instead spend my morning running as many errands as I possibly can before I'm due to meet Edward at 10:30. My phone rings just as I'm pulling out of the post-office parking lot, headed towards my date with doom.

"Hi, Rosie."

"Hey, babe. You ready?"

"I think so...I hope so...Yes."

She laughs sweetly and tells me to be strong, stay confident, be me.

"That's what I'm afraid of," I tell her.

"Just hear him out. That's all you owe him, Birdie." She's right, and I tell her so.

"I'll call you when it's over."

"Love you."

"Love you more."

I spend the remainder of my drive and a few additional minutes outside the coffee shop wishing ill on Edward Cullen. I hope he's fat and bald and pot faced. I hope his appearance has zero effect on me, and that time has killed his confidence and his swagger. I remind myself that I'm only here to listen and I don't owe him anything. I think of Ava, Emmett, and Rosalie, and I'm filled anew with peace and conviction. I can do this. I can do this.

Checking my appearance in the review mirror, I'm met with wide, scared eyes, and an overly pale face. Shit.

Ten deep breaths and here goes nothing.

-0-0-0-

I haven't even had a chance to pull my sunglasses off yet when I spot him. Truth be told, I actually sense him first, just like I used to. I allow myself a few seconds behind the security of my shades to gather my composure. He's standing just to the inside right of the door, leaning slightly against a high top table. His slightly unsure posture completely contradicts his attire: hands stuffed in the pockets of a dark suit, perfectly tailored to fit his—if I'm being honest—perfect frame. He's still tall, obviously, but even under his suit it's apparent his body is lean and hard.

Slowly pulling my sunglasses from my eyes, I tuck them in the outside pocket of the bag draped across my hip and turn to make my way towards him. My feet feel like lead weights, and I'm pretty sure my armpits haven't sweated this much since the last time Rosalie made me attend her yoga class.

Edward stands up straight and grins hugely when our eyes meet. I feel like I've just been hit in the fucking chest and all the breath has been sucked from my lungs. He's still beautiful, impossibly so, but it's the shock of how much his smile resembles Ava's that stuns me into stillness. It takes a physical effort on my part to coax my feet into moving forward so that I'm standing in front of him.

"Birdie," he whispers through his smile. Up close, I see that his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and his face is neither fat nor pot marked.

Dammit.

Unable to force a greeting out, I simply stare at him. I'm certain my scrutiny is past the point of socially acceptable, but it can't be helped. I'm in complete awe of how much more his daughter resembles him than I ever gave my recollections permission to allow.

Without the baseball cap that stars in my memories, I'm somewhat surprised to see that his hair is a most unusual shade of auburn, just like Ava's. As if he knows my thoughts, he runs his hand through it uncomfortably.

It's obvious he doesn't really know how to greet me, and I'm certainly not making things easier with my arms-crossed-over-chest stance. Let him squirm, I decide.

I smile tightly and nod my head briefly. "Edward."

He visibly relaxes once I've acknowledged him verbally, and he tilts his head toward the back of the shop. "You wanna sit?"

I say nothing but turn softly and walk toward an empty booth in the back. He follows silently behind me and pauses outside the booth to undo the remaining buttons on his suit jacket and shrug it off. While I drop my bag into the seat and slide in, he folds his jacket neatly and places it on the bench as if it were a delicate child.

I almost snicker at the irony.

Once he's settled in his seat, he rests his elbows on the table and leans his body towards me like we're old friends. Which we certainly are not, I remind myself.

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head, almost as if in disbelief. "It's so, so good to see you," he says.

I smile politely.

I hate that I notice the way his sharp jaw meets the soft base of his ear, and how his eyelashes still tangle at the corners. I hate that he's still beautiful, maybe even more than when he was younger. I hate that I see so much of my Ava in him. How can I not find beauty in that?

He shifts uncomfortably at my silence and nods his head in the direction of the counter. "You want a coffee?"

"Yes, please," I say. "Cream, no sugar."

Nodding quickly, he stands and makes his way to the ordering station. I watch him go, unable to breathe, much less tear my eyes away from him.

Yep. Still with the fucking swagger.

I've just finished the last leg of my mental pep talk when he returns, coffee in hand. I thank him politely as he resumes his position across from me.

It's comforting for me to hide my face behind the large rim of my coffee cup, so I gulp it down vigorously, eying Edward all the while. I'm still somewhat unable to wrap my head around the fact that he's actually sitting here across from me after all this time, looking an incredible amount like my daughter. Our daughter.

"How've you been?" His question is genuine, I can tell by the way his eyebrows scrunch together in the middle, but I can't help but snort quietly. What a ridiculously blasé question.

How've I been?

Rather than unload on him, I simply answer in yet another one-word monosyllable. "Good."

He looks me over closely as he thinks my answer through. "Yeah?"

"Yep."

"Emmett said you two live together." He pauses to chuckle quietly. "He still torturing you?"

I debate halting the niceties to correct him that our two is actually three but decide to let it slide. "Not so much anymore." I smirk. "I can hold my own now."

His head snaps up at my comment and he eyes me curiously, like my words had a double meaning, one of which was meant for him.

"Right," he says, somewhat flustered. "Of course."

I feel slightly bad about how little I'm contributing to the conversation, but everything I have to say seems heavy and loaded, and I just can't find it in me to make trite small talk with this boy—this man—who changed my life so immensely all those years ago.

"Your mom and dad," he continues. "How're they?"

"Oh, they're fine. Still traveling quite a bit."

"That's nice."

That's nice? Dear Lord, this is the most painful conversation ever. Why did he want to see me? So he could get an update on my mom and dad? I shake my head in an attempt to clear it and take a deep breath. I mentally build myself up with the conviction needed to tell him that this has been...interesting, and to thank him for the coffee. "Edward. Look, I—"

"And Ava?" he whispers. "How's she?"

In an instant, every ounce of confidence I've managed to muster up leaves my body in the form of a whoosh as I lose my breath. My sweaty hands claw at the booth seat under my thighs, and my posture turns rigid and stiff.

Squaring my shoulders, I inhale sharply and raise my eyes slowly to meet his. But when I look his direction, I notice he's sitting slouched on his side of the booth, eyes downcast, his fingers frantically fingering an abused sugar packet. He doesn't raise his head to look at me, even though he must know by my stillness that I sit stunned, staring. His downcast eyes blink in inconsistent intervals, and his hands shake slightly as they continue turning the sugar packets over and over.

In that instant, I pity Edward Cullen. He chose poorly, and in doing so he missed out on the greatest thing I've ever known: our daughter.

Relaxing my body, I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes to consider his question. Finally, when I'm certain I'll be able to talk without crumbling, I meet his question head on. "She's great," I whisper back. "Perfect."

Thanks for reading.