Chapter summary: She loves me; she loves me not. Oh! She loves me not. Oh, well. Who cares? But then: red steak, red wine, red ... blood? Good thing she already had lunch. My day couldn't get any better! ... I hated always being right.

Rosalie returned around lunch time. At least that was what my stomach was telling me. I had begun to think about exploring the box of food below the sink, but I knew what the combination of food, curiosity and boredom would do to me. I was a prisoner, in this cell of a cabin, forced into an idle state by my lack of clothes and the weather outside. It would be just my luck to chow down, stuffing myself, and have Rosalie come and fix me a huge lunch of whatever. And I knew what I would do: I would guilt myself into chowing down all of that, too.

Being a lard butt would not help me in my escape plans. And then there was the whole Hänsel und Gretel thing. I wasn't going to be fattened up for any succulent suppertime snack, nosiree! I'd be on the lookout for when she was talking again: I wouldn't fall for a "here, look in the stove for me, willya?" Especially if she added "my pretty" and an evil cackle at the end of it.

Did she like her food cooked? I figured she was more of a steak tartar lady, given the preference she had shown with Dolly.

I did volunteer myself before, but she seemed more distant now. Would I volunteer myself again if she asked me? Hm. She'd have to ask me very nicely, none of this cold shoulder mixed-signals stuff.

Cold shoulder, mixed-signals, saving my life three times a day stuff. I sighed.

Where was I? Oh, yes: not overeating, and staying in shape. Remember the plan? Escape? Live?

Right. I would have to start getting some kind of exercise: I had never been so forced into a little area for so long. I could almost feel the muscles in my body starting to atrophy into blah.

Yeah, 'blah' is a medical term, okay? Back off.

I would also have to quit dying, that kind of put a damper on me doing anything else, and it also took its toll on my body. Me dying all the time was not the best way to stay healthy and keep in shape.

So I was very pleased when Rosalie returned that I was still alive and kicking. I could start a new tally. Gambling was popular in Butte. It could be like a new sport: Schrödinger's Bella.* Is she alive? Is she dead? You don't know until the cabin door's open. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!

"Look, I did it! I'm still alive!" I reported brightly.

She didn't even look at me. She had her arms full of clothes, and on top of that she had four bags of stuff dangling from each hand. She quickly arranged everything, and then went to the stove with two more logs. She filled the cups with water from the stove top and then was outside and back in before I could blink, placing the cups on the table and finally turning to me, pointing at the cups. Then she was out the front door again.

You'd think I'd be annoyed, her not even acknowledging my little feat of staying alive, but I was prepared for this reaction from my think from earlier.

I had reviewed everything that happened between us from when we first met at the Hale household and had come up with a clear, dispassionate conclusion.

She didn't love me.

I had thought I had realized this before, but that was just my emotions talking. Now I knew for sure.

I mean, come on; really! What happened in every situation that happened between us? First she was just scornful, but then she started saving my life, time and again. But what was she like while she was saving my life? Irritated, frustrated, angry. And then whenever I talked, I made things go from bad to worse. When she was saving my life, at least she wasn't screaming at me ... which she did whenever I talked with her.

I had been operating under an illusion that I had made up all by myself. I could see that clearly now. She didn't love me.

But how did I feel about her?

Well, I did owe her my life. Time and again. No, not even just that. Where did all my food come from? Where did the wood for the stove come from? Where did all my clothes come from? And the pads. And a new set of clothes just added, too. Although I still didn't see any jacket and boots. Or hat, or ...

See, she had done all this for me, even though she doesn't love me, and I was still screwing up, I was still hurting her, this time with my criticism, even if it was just in my mind.

She doesn't love me. But I don't care. I love her.

I love her, no matter what she feels about me. Had she done all those good things for me? Yes. For me. Is she good? Yes. Is she good despite even her very nature?

Yes. She a vampire who refuses to drink human blood, for crying out loud!

Is she lovable?

Yes.

Yes, she is lovable: I love her.

I could be silly and say I don't care what she thinks. I know there are people like that, who don't give a fig what anybody else thinks. One of them is Pa. But not me. I do care; I care very much. I want her to like me ... I want her to be happy.

But she doesn't love me, and I don't think she even likes me. It's not that I'm a hateful person, it's just that there's nothing for her to love or to like. I'm just a nothing person, that's all. When I talked with her after she held me by the fire yesterday, saving me for the umpteenth time, I had thought: "why go through all this trouble for me?" I didn't know then, and I still don't know now. Actually, I do know why I don't know: because it just doesn't make sense. I'm just plain old Bella Swan. That's all: just nothing, just a nobody. Apparently, according to Rosalie, I'm so nothing I don't even deserve a name.

Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

So, she doesn't love me, and that's okay, ... I mean, I guess that's okay. But she's not happy, and that's not okay. She angry and annoyed ... all the time, obviously. But I also think she sad. Very sad. I can see that, oddly enough, when she smiles. She may have smiled when I was happy about getting the food, but at the very end of her smile there was that wistful look, that sad look. Her laughter in the forest when she was talking about me wasn't happy: it was the saddest sound I ever heard.

She has reason to be sad: a wedding gone bad, a husband gone bad, a life gone bad. But I think its something more than that, or it's something different than that.

And I don't know why. She's not talking about it with me.

Well, she's not really talking about anything right now, but you know what I mean.

So, I guess I could add that to my "to-do" list. Give Rosalie a reason to be happy about something for in her forever. See her smile once. But a real smile; a happy smile.

And, maybe, with time ... who knows? Maybe she'll come to ...

No. Don't even go there. All I do is irritate her, so I should just change that and find something about her to make her happy ... and that'll be enough. Escape or no, I can die happy with that: that I made Rosalie happy.

And, judging from her brusque entrance and exit just now, I had to play it cool. She was playing it cool now, and it irritates her when I cry all over the place or go charging off into the woods screaming, so I just have to really bear down and keep the emotions in check. And not die so much. And not have my period.

Well, that last one is her own damn fault. Kidnap me just before my period. She could have waited a few days, couldn't she? What was I going to do? "Pa, Lillian Hale's a vampire, 'cause she's actually Rosalie Hale? Remember in the papers about that girl in Rochester who died a year ago ... ?" Pa was tolerant, but, really: who would buy that? He'd search my room for narcotics. For starters.

Well, she couldn't wait, and my period didn't wait. I guess we'd just have to work around each other's schedules, now, wouldn't we?

Rosalie came in again, this time loaded down with more clothes and linens and towels and such. She put the pile down, grabbed the bed linens from the pile, and made the bed, tossing the towels and the patchwork quilt that had been the linen last night by the stove.

Let me guess, more rending of cloth, followed by more burning. Yup, that's exactly what followed. Well, Mrs. Hale kept a really neat house, I recalled. I guess it's like a vampire rule, or something. I sat down at the table and started sipping the water, staying out of the way of Miss Busy-Bee.

"Um, thanks!" I called out to her back retreating out the front door. I tried to sound nonchalant and grateful. I hope it sounded right: cool, but not too cool. I looked at the new neatly folded piles on the floor. There were, besides all the clothes, more than a few sets of bed linens. Maybe I could tell her that she didn't need to go overboard there?

Nah. It wasn't a big deal, and she was calling the shots. And more care from her was much better than less care. As she banged back into the cabin, I took another gulp of water.

She had in her hand a blob of something that I couldn't identify. She put whatever it was into the sink and then removed the large iron pot of water from the stove — with her bare hands — and poured hot water over it. She then placed the pot beside the stove and then grabbed the can of olive oil from the big box under the sink, and poured copious amounts of oil directly on the stove top. She put the can back and then spread the oil over the stove top with her hands.

Her hands glistened from the oil, and smoke rose from them as well. I would just have to remember not to go near the stove and pull a stunt like that, because my hands wouldn't be hands anymore if I did what she did.

She grabbed a hand towel from one of the clothes piles, wiped her hands and started pulling meal things out of the bags: a plate, which she set in front of me, along with a knife and a fork as well. Then she pulled out seasonings: salt, pepper, and some other spices that I didn't know what they were, but they started to fill the room with a delicious, herb-y, meat-y, smell. I breathed it in deeply and sighed. Rosalie was cooking me a feast for lunch.

She, however, made no reaction to the smell. I had thought the smell would overpower any scent that I had, but her chest remained still, corpse-like, as she whirled about the cabin.

It really was just amazing to watch: her skill and precision, of course, but also the very image of it. Here was like a princess — that would be Rosalie — cooking for the pauper — that would be me — a wonderful something for lunch. It just seemed so upside-down and backwards. I should be cooking her lunch, ... but that didn't make any sense either: cooking lunch for a vampire.

The something turned out to be a steak. Like, a 16-ounce steak, for crying out loud! She unrolled the mass of meat from the sink and laid it on the stove top, and the cabin instantly filled with smoke and the mouth-watering smell of venison, as Rosalie fanned the smoke away from her and applied the spices to the meat, making a good steak a masterpiece.

My mouth, obligingly, watered. I had to swallow a few times as she cooked.

She flipped the steak once and then served it — plop! — onto my plate without ceremony.

"Wow! Thank you for lunch!" I exclaimed. So much for 'cool', but 'cool' went out the window with her display of culinary skills. I was now so glad I hadn't dug into the jar of peanut butter earlier. As she washed her hands ...

... Okay, I just said that so casually. I bet you didn't get it — did you? — so I'll say it again: as she washed her hands by picking up the hot iron pot and pouring scalding water over her hands, ...

Got it?

There was just no way to think "normal" or "person" or "normal person" around Rosalie.

... as she washed her hands (got it this time?), I cut into the steak. It was cooked rare, and there was some clear liquid, but not one drop of redness to it at all. Not one. I didn't have any steak in my mouth, but I swallowed again. I could guess were she got this cut of meat from.

I took a bite of it, and I thought I had just died and went to heaven. I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the chair and chewed for as long as I could chew that first piece, savoring the flavor of the meat on my tongue. I sighed and opened my eyes to another surprise: beside my plate was a wine glass, and Rosalie was pouring a red wine from a bottle into the glass. She picked up the glass, swirled the wine in it and handed it to me.

I had never been on a dinner date before. And I was glad for that, because if I had, there would probably be no comparison to this ... she was treating me like ... like I don't know what she was treating me like.

She didn't like me, and then this: the full royal treatment. I just stared at her, confused, confused, confused, trying to make sense out of something I couldn't make sense out of.

She helped me out of my stupor by lifting the glass to my lips. I was going to say something about my age, but then the liquid hit my lips, and I tasted it on my tongue, and all thoughts left my head as that taste washed over my mouth. It was a little peppery and had the slightest taste of smokiness. It complimented the meat so perfectly that it demanded I take another bite right away. I put the glass down and cut myself another piece, chewing it slowly. The meat demanded another sip from the glass.

As I was sipping the wine, Rosalie pulled the canned baby corn out of the box and poured me a serving of that in my bowl, putting it beside my plate. She took another jar from one of the bags and opened it up, extracting a green tomato from the jar. She cut it up into slices on the stove and flash fried them there, flipping them a couple of times and then throwing them effortlessly onto my plate. Then she sat down across from me, assumed a casual position, and watched me eat.

That's when I realized something. Red meat and red wine ... I hear they're good for the blood.

I swallowed, and worked very hard not to repeat the oatmeal incident. She had, just like this morning, put all this work into a perfect meal, and she said she didn't drink human blood, so I'd better show my appreciation by finishing what was in front of me. She was watching me, apparently enjoying watching me enjoying my meal; the least I could do was to enjoy the meal. And thank her.

"Rosalie," I said sincerely, clearing my throat, "this is so good! Thank you for making it." She smiled warmly ... and wanly. "Can I, um, I mean, do you want, um ..."

Common courtesy, you know: when you are eating, you offer the other people at the table something to eat. Well, common courtesy just had to take a flying leap out the window, I realized, because offering the vampire something to eat ... well, I guess she had had some steak earlier today ... well, not steak but ...

Anyway.

She waved me on, so I ate one of the fried green tomatoes. It was crisp, crunchy, even, and had a slight taste of pickle and a slight taste of oil that went with its almost natural watermellon-like taste. Delicious. I then tried one of the baby corns, chewing thoughtfully as she watched me, interested but not intensely so. The baby corn was canned, so it was good, but the steak and the fried green tomato slices ... Ah!

I ate about half the steak before I was just so full ... and a little happy from the wine. I glowed my thanks to her, apologizing for not eating it all. She didn't seem offended. She cleaned the table in front of me. I felt bad for not helping, but I didn't quite trust my legs, either, so I remained seated.

"So, what now?" I asked as she turned from the sink.

She patted her hip, pointed at me, and pointed toward the door, raising her eyebrow.

I actually did need to go, I realized. Pretty badly.

"Um, yeah, that soundz good, jes let me finish this wah-ter." I realized my words slurred a little bit, so I was careful at the end to pronounce the word 'wah-ter' with two distinct sounds.

Her majesty the chef nodded to me and disappeared out the door, as I reached, carefully, for my cup of wah-ter.

Good thing she wasn't trying to take advantage of me. It only took a glass of wine for me to feel tipsy. I remember the term 'cheap date' from somewhere and giggled.

Cheap date. That was funny.

Yeah, good thing she wasn't, like, trying to take advantage of me ...

Bummer. A tear trickled down my cheek.

No crying, remember? I wiped away the thing and drank the wah-ter.

Rosalie came back in with the pail, grabbing another log by the door, and filled the pail with embers, then stoked the stove with the new log.

After doing that she hoisted me up — whee! — and we were out the door, flying through the woods, the sun that held me shining so much more beautifully than the sun above. God! She is just too beautiful! My own personal angel bringing me to the crapper.

I burped and tasted wine and steak.

"'Schuz me," I murmured and laughed easily. She looked down at me with a little smirk — a ruby smirk in a white flame face with eyes blazing of molten gold — and I smiled at her and wrapped my arms around Miss Smirky-Glowy's neck, resting my head against her cold, hard, comforting marble shoulder.

I sighed contentedly: it was her fault she was just too easy to love. After that lunch? C'mon! So it was her problem that she didn't love me back.

So there! I thought as I mentally stuck my tongue out at her. Read my mind. I don't care. I LOVE YOU! There! Said it.

... in my mind, anyway.

I think the wine was making me feel a little ... well, I felt kind of warm, you know, toward her, you know? Like, a little, um, sexy? My body felt tingly-funny, and I wanted to squeeze her or squeeze me or squeeze something. I blushed and smiled.

And she hadn't changed me out of my tee and panties. I mean, really! C'mon!

Like I said: all her fault.

We reached the outhouse, I had another surprise waiting for me: my pad was nearly empty. My pad was nearly empty! Just a bit of blood there. While I did follow the instructions behind me, I hummed a little happy tune, just glowing inside, as she had glowed outside. When she washed me, I felt so connected to her.

Yes, I know. I wasn't really connected to her. She didn't love me. I realize I was deep into my own illusion. So let me just enjoy the moment, please? These moments were so rare, and the day couldn't get any better than this.

Sometimes, I hated always being right. I also hated not knowing how right I was, and not knowing that right away. Having an early warning radar system didn't help at all if I so blithely ignored it, as I did now.

'Day couldn't get any better.' Jeez! Understatement alert!

But I did glow now, because she had new panties for me, and a new pad, which I only just needed. I felt like a new me! With tingly cheeks. And, as she changed me — she changed me this time! — her hand never left my arm. I knew it was to steady me, but still ... it still felt nice.

My sun brought me back to the cabin, and as we went back I wrapped my arms around her neck again, and kept humming my happy tune. It didn't go away as we floated back.

She sat me down at the table on the chair facing away from the door, and then sat herself across from me at the chair near the sink.

Wow. She's spending time with me! "So, what now?" I ask happily ... happily but coolly.

She pushed another cup of water toward me across the table, and I took a sip and waited for a response.

And waited. She was staring at me, and it got a little scary again, in the way that, you know, she can make it scary with her looks.

"Nohwh," she announced through an unmoving mouth, "youh git to wherk." Her look was penetrating and significant.

I'm glad I had the cup of water. My mouth was suddenly cotton dry, and it took a large gulp of water for me to be able to swallow past my constricted throat.

* A/N: I am aware of the anachronism, as Schrödinger's thought experiment comes a year later, in 1935. Thank you very much. I didn't know how to work around this one gracefully.