We found our footing along the narrow roads. The sun slowly passing overhead, guiding us to where we would consume the afternoon, basking in the rays of each other. I'm quite convinced if it weren't for advanced technology, we would never find our way home. Then again, taking a glance at my company, I wouldn't mind so much. We find ourselves almost an hour north-west of Forks, parking at the end of a dead street to walk over the bramble of Washington wild. We bare into an opening, a circle cast over by pines with no business at the ground. A breeze is lifting my hair away from my face and the blanket from Edward's hands. He laughs as it folds in on him, but with my help we control it's rambunctious adventures of wind-surfing, situating it over a pillowy bed of flowers and soft grass.

He unlocks the secrets of the cooler he's holding onto. Chicken salad, grapes, croissants, and cookies. When I lay eyes on the drink I want to hold him. A Pepsi. "I love Pepsi," I say looking at him. He, of course, knows this, but I want him to know the thought isn't without recognition. I want him to know how much the smallest acts mean to me. He is wanted in more ways than one. "Thank you," I add.

"You're most welcome." He smiles. "I hope you like the chicken salad and cookies. They're from the diner. Usually pretty good."

"Emmett's mom works at the diner. She's sweet. If she makes the cookies, then they are good."

"What's the story between you and Emmett?"

I enjoy a swig of Pepsi. As it bubbles down my throat I shrug. "I'm helping him study."

Edward places the paper plates down. He opens the box of croissants and I pluck one from its safety net of pastry pillows.

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days? Studying?"

"Jealous?" I give him the best glare I can give. I'm trying to be humorous. I think he gets it, but he stares at the container of chicken salad for a moment too long. The humor is gone, scared away by the seriousness in his eyes.

"Maybe I am."

"You don't have to be jealous of Emmett. He doesn't see me that way."

"Do you see him that way?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" He divides the chicken between us, giving me a little more than he gives himself. The smile on his face returns. "You either like someone or you don't."

"I like him as a friend."

"So if he were to ask you to prom?"

"Have you heard something?"

"There may have been some talk in the locker room a couple of days ago. After practice. I started thinking about it, too. I began to wonder what conspired between the two of you which may have triggered it."

I think back to our small time together. At first it was my intention to cause a stir, create a rise out of Edward. Now that it's here, I don't like it. There's an uncertainty between us, a pile of bricks forming into a wall. I feel it inside my chest, across the blanket. It divides. I want to tear it down, but I shrug again. "I ate one of his mom's cookies?"

The humor spreads over him as sunlight over the meadow of flowers. He whispers my name and the breeze carries it away. I begin to eat and nod with appraisal. The chicken salad is good. Creamy yet chunky. Slightly sweet. The cookies were made by Emmett's mother. The texture is melty and crumbly. We sit in curious silence but never removing our eyes from each other or the food on our plates. Once we finish, we pack away the things we've set out but roll upon the blanket as children. The clouds pass in various shapes. Sunlight plays around us, through us, warming our forms as we admire the air of one another.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, just placing my head on his shoulder. His fingertips gently touch my shoulder. Our fingers mesh and tumble on his chest. I notice then his ring finger is without sparkle. I'm taken aback, yet pleased he's chosen to leave it off. To see it tortures me so.

"You may ask anything."

"And...if you don't want to answer then you don't have to."

"Go ahead, Bella."

"How were you able to get out of your house today?"

He smiles. "Generally, I use the door."

I grin and his chest vibrates with wonderful happiness. "That's not what I mean." Our hands untangle by my doing, and I'm tracing invisible patterns on his t-shirt. "How did you get out without...your wife knowing where you're going?"

He pauses, dismissing the smile. "Every other weekend Rose visits her family in Seattle. Her dad isn't doing so well. He's been sick for a long time. She makes it a point to spend as much time with him as she can since her mom can only do so much. The doctors don't think he'll last through the fall."

"Why don't you go with her?" Why did I ask that? I'll give him ideas.

"To give her space."

"If I were her I'd want you with me all the time. I wouldn't let you out of my sight." I touch his arm.

He looks down at my placement and gives a half-smile. "You wouldn't have to." Our eyes catch. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

He pulls my hand into his, running his smooth fingers along mine."They say it's a reaction, a force which happens in your head. Turns it over, clicks in some way. A scent, maybe. There is initial attraction. We're animals, after all, hardwired to breed, to continue our species from a biological standpoint. If it's not there then, we won't." I'm not sure why he's asked, or where he's going. "Maybe it's not love so much as it's lust. The need to procreate with a strong suitor. Intelligence. Equality."

I take a breath. It's hardened yet wavers. A delicate confirmation. "I agree."

"Therefore it's natural to assume we both find each other attractive, but...Bella, you make me feel different. I want you to know that. I don't know how you feel, or where you want this to go, but I don't want to hurt you. I'm afraid I will."

These words cause my stomach to turn. "Why do you think you're going to hurt me? Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because I'm afraid it's going to happen, and it's the last thing I want. From the moment I saw you, I knew there was something different about you, something maybe I only saw. True beauty. The missing piece of a puzzle I'd been trying to solve."

"You say these things, but you're scared of hurting me?"

Pause. Intakes of thoughts and breathes scrambling in the air and hanging out of balance. He can say anything in the world. Anything at all. "I just...don't want to see you upset when I have to go home every day, knowing that I won't be there alone."

And, yes...he's right. This truth is painful. It hurts knowing he's already attached, but I further torture myself. I must, because the truth, while painful, must be dealt with. With his words I nod. "I know." I ready myself for the final blow. "But, do you love her?"

As the sun dismisses us behind the clouds, and the breeze steals our breath, the answer lingers on his tongue. I see it forming on his jaw, feel the rattle in his chest, and when he says it I know I'm not prepared for the truth of it. It stings more than drowning, more than the lungful of water one may swallow when barely alive. It's a hammer hitting the nail in a coffin.

Does he love his wife?

"Yes," he says. "I do."