When I dream of Edward Cullen, I dream of positions, situations, I shouldn't. My mind craves the dreams while I stumble through my day, fogged my nights with bloodshed and endlessness. I wander hopeless to books and numbing television. Drawing helps. Painting helps more, though I'm out of green. None of it cures a new hold he dug into me. Wounds are fresh, deep, sharp every time that simple gold band catches the light and shimmers.
It taunts and echos. A million mirrors in a house of no.
I hope to remain unsoiled at the end of the days practice is to take place. I finish homework in advance for him, so I may devote my attention and whatever he wishes of me. My task is mindless enough, though it's not. He's there. He trusts me. Needs me. And so I give him that. I watch him as he bats grounders to the infield, sunglasses on his nose, a hard line upon his lips. He smiles when they do well. I see it in his profile. He directs their mistakes. Never harsh. Dominant.
I melt in the cool air.
After practice, Emmett McCarty lugs the water off by himself. He has muscles and can do that sort of thing. I'm left with the equipment, though Edward helps. He asks what I think about the game tomorrow. It's away and asks if I can go.
I tell him yes.
He says, "good" and presents me with my official manager jersey.
I hold it close that night. The innocent gesture lost.