Chapter Summary: If I planned this to go like this, our 'first night,' it couldn't have turned out any worse! "Shut up, Rosalie Hale; just ... shut up!" Yes, I said that to her. I don't know why I dared to, nor even bothered. Because did she? Yeah: no. She doesn't just have to win an argument, but she has to just crush you, too, doesn't she? God, I hate her so much!

I don't know what to say.

I stood across from Rosalie, and Rosalie stood across from me, and all I could think was ...

... was nothing.

My heart was beating like a drum in my chest. Rosalie, ever calm, ever cool, held the bed sheet for me, inviting me in...

And I stood there, stock still, because ...

Because I was going to sleep with Rosalie Hale tonight.

It was all going so fast, from our first kiss just an instant ago, it seemed, to the culmination of the moment, right now, where I'd be getting into the little bed that Rosalie was inviting me into, in this nothing of a slip, and then Rosalie would get in the bed, too, maybe yes, and, oh, so maybe yes, and ...

And I was so excited, and so worked up, trembling with anticipation and ... yes, also with terror.

This was the moment every girl wondered about, every girl feared, and it was happening.

Right now.

I couldn't look at her.

I couldn't look away.

I couldn't ... be near her.

Do you know that feeling when you've wanted something so badly for so long, and then it's right there, and you're scared out of your mind to look at it, to go, and to take it, because what if this is just a dream, a cruel dream, and I'd wake up as soon as I reached out for it and be left in a cold, cruel empty bed and ...

And what if that would happen?

But what if ...

But what if this were really real?

I couldn't look at her.

And I couldn't stand her looking at me, waiting.

I couldn't ... stand it!

I'm ashamed of myself to say I slunk to the bed, not looking at her at all, and crawled into the bed, a scared, little girl, terrified of her own shadow.

Really alluring, Bella! I dripped a venomous critique at myself, hating myself for the coward that I am, but too scared to buck up and do anything about it.

And I had kissed her earlier. Where had my boldness gone, now that the Moment was upon me?

This was me. This is how I felt like: pond scum, crawling into the bed.

Rosalie?

She held the corner of the sheet and glided into the bed like a swan, like my namesake, like I should have done, if I were a princess with magical fairy dust sprinkled in my hair, scintillating poise, calm and beauty from my person like blessings raining down from heaven.

I kid you not, that's exactly how Rosalie slid into the bed.

Next to me.

Now I had to look at her. Or have her call me a coward and a scrub.

I dragged my eyes up to meet hers.

Rosalie bit her lip, hiding a smile, but it wasn't an amused one, no: it was maybe a little bit sweet, maybe it was a little bit sad...

Maybe it was a little bit shy.

She drew in a big breath of air, and then blew it out in a long sigh.

Her breath washed over me, and if I had died and gone to heaven, I wouldn't have known the difference. Girls don't have bad breath, they're not allowed, they don't smell bad, they don't get to fart and spit like boys. No, they have to be sweet-smelling, not overpowering or they get comments of the wrong kind, they have be polite and demur and attentive...

But Rosalie Hale was in a class all to her own.

Her breath washed over me, and I was in a bed of rose petals, floating in a cloud of honeysuckle, and I was drawn into it, Rosalie Hale's heavenly scent, and I forgot myself momentarily.

And the breath passed by me, going into me and also passed me, and I was left alone again, by myself.

With her.

She looked like she was going to say something to me, you know? One of her lectures as to why I shouldn't be afraid, or selfish, or ... something.

But instead, she reached out, gently, with her hand, pulled me into her, and then pausing for the briefest of moments, she kissed me.

And she held that kiss, holding me into her, her lips pressed to mine, until I melted into her arms and let her kiss me.

And kiss me she did.

And I marveled to myself ... thas wasn't bad at all!

And I wondered, as she kissed me, ... No. I waited. I waited for her tongue to reach out to me, to my lips, questing.

I wondered and waited and just simply floated in the utter strength of her embrace.

Just floated in it. Just ... floated in this timeless moment.

And then, gently, slowly, she pulled back.

I wanted to cry.

Her kiss was so good, that it was all I wanted, and to take this away from me felt like a crime; it felt like torture, her lips gently leaving mine, and I wanted to rail against the injustice of this parting.

But I held it in my chest – it hurt, okay? but I held it in – and I let Rosalie guide this moment, this precious moment.

This was ...

Okay, I am ... so out of my depth here, and Rosalie was so confident that I just knew that she knew what she was doing and I just gave myself to her, trusting her even as I didn't understand what she was doing or why.

I don't know a man and his wife could do this on their wedding night, both of them inexperienced with this moment.

Rosalie was 'experienced,' and that term had so many derogatory connotations that she would be shunned everywhere if anybody knew, but for me, I was grateful for her experience, her calm, confident, guiding hand, and didn't know how it would be possible for this moment to be any more perfect than it was. And it was because she knew what she was doing, even as I didn't.

Rosalie looked at me in a moment in silence as I recovered myself. Or I tried to.

Then she smiled radiantly at me.

"Hi," she said sweetly.

I blinked, surprised, always surprised by her. "Hey," I said shyly.

Rosalie's smile was undimmed, but mellowed into a warmness. Her bottom lip quivered slightly, and suddenly I wanted to cry for her for some reason I didn't understand but just felt.

She was so wonderfully sweet now that it was sad in its own way.

Her lips twitched up as she grinned at me.

She stuck her tongue out tentatively.

My heart raced, seeing her. I thought only I did that!

"Touch me," she whispered so quietly that I couldn't believe I heard that. I had to trust my eyes to confirm she said anything at all.

"What?" I asked, shocked.

The tongue again, shy-Rosalie's tongue touched her white-white lips.

"Touch me," she said more clearly, yearning in her voice.

I blinked.

"W-where?" I said.

I was scared now. What ... what was I supposed to do?

"Anywhere," she said. "Anywhere you want to."

She bit her lip, looking at me, longing written on her face, in the depths of her eyes.

I bit my tongue shyly, trying to be brave and confident for her sake.

I brought my arm up and rested my hand on her shoulder.

Rosalie looked at me and blinked once, then blinked twice, a stunned look on her face.

Then she smiled and leaned in and gave me a very sweet peck on the lips, then pulled back, looking at me, biting her lip, almost shyly, almost giddy with bubbly happiness.

I felt so pleased. I was doing something right!

I smiled sweetly back at her, glowing.

"Can I ..." Rosalie began hopefully, "Can I touch you ...?"

"Yes," I said, wanting her so badly to touch me.

"Anywh-..." Rosalie began, then looked away, shyly.

She looked back at me. "Anywhere I want to?" she confirmed.

"Yes," I said.

I knew she was asking a big question.

But I trusted her.

And I wanted her to. So badly.

Rosalie bit her lip, then her hand reached out to me, a feather-touch on my hip.

My eyes widened, and Rosalie was looking right back into my eyes.

And her hand went under my slip.

"Ah!" I gasped. "Ahh! Ahhh?" I panted, terrified now.

"Shh!" she hushed soothingly. "Shh! 'Sokay. 'Sokay, Bella," she whispered reassuring words as her hand crept up past my panties, traveling up alongside my tummy, then a bit higher, ...

.. then a bit higher.

I was gasping so hard I was afraid of blacking out.

... then her hand went a bit higher, and it came to rest and cupped my breast.

"Auuuannnh?" I panted, almost wheezing in panic.

Rosalie was staring so hard at me, so intensely, so intently, looking so directly at me.

Then she softly sang, "Shhh!" she said. "It's okay, Bella? It's okay, okay? It's okay?"

She was asking me, and telling me, and ordering me for it to be okay, all at the same time.

And my heart!

My heart was beating so hard against the palm of her hand cupping my breast, that it was actually a good thing her hand was there, not quite pressing into me, but holding me together, because if her hand wasn't there, my heart would have pounded itself right out of my chest and onto the bedding between us.

And, ... it was too, too much, but I didn't know how to say it, I was scared to. She said could she touch me, but I didn't know she would do this. I didn't know this was possible, and now that it was happening, I didn't know how to make it stop. I didn't know how to run away from it in terror. I didn't know how to look away from her so-intense eyes. I just knew that if I did look away, I would simply die. Her eyes were the only thing keeping me from exploding, her hand was the only thing that was holding my heart in my chest. I couldn't break away from her; I didn't know how.

"I..." I said, looking into her cobra eyes, and I was panting, each gasp my last breath, or so it felt like.

Rosalie looked at me intently, then very, very carefully leaned in, so, so slightly, and her lips brushed against mine, the softest and most careful of kisses.

She leaned back, looking at me at intently.

"Bella," she said.

Her other hand moved along the bed toward me.

"Aaaaannnnn?" I whined, staring at the encroaching hand with terror.

"Bella," she said calmly, her voice so tightly controlled, but this terrified me more. Why was she so controlled? What was she being so careful about?

I feared for ... everything, and understood and could control ... nothing.

Particularly not my run-away heart.

Her hand snaked to my neck cupping in, and pulling me just slightly closer to her.

She bit her lip and looked at me, and a fire was burning in her eyes, a hunger there that I had never, ever seen there before.

She just held me like that for a second, then, tentatively, she leaned in again, and kissed me, pressing her lips to mine.

I was playing 'catch-up,' and I was failing miserably, and I prayed, God! God! Let me just die! I was so scared and ashamed of myself for not being 'cool' with this as I was supposed to be, and I was furious at myself at not being what I needed to be so Rosalie could touch me anywhere she wanted like she asked and kiss me without me having a panic attack.

But Rosalie didn't cast me away from her in disgust. In fact, if anything, she was the opposite of me, patient with me, patiently kissing me, waiting for me to catch my breath and get my bearings.

And her patience ...

... saved me.

It was the only anchor I could attach myself, adrift in this swirling sea of sensation.

So I tried to breathe, and gasped into her patient kiss, and she kissed me through it.

And, eventually, my breathing restored itself to a rhythm, slower and slower, calmer.

And, ... eventually, I felt her strong, steady kissing lips, kiss me, and, eventually, I was able to return her kiss, and I was able to feel her hand on my breast as something there, and not as fire and electricity so powerful that it hurt my whole body, but as her hand of my breast, and I was able to lean, just a little, tiny, tiny bit into her cupping hand, and then I was able to allow her to pull me just a little more tightly into her kiss and not strain and struggle to pull away, as was my natural inclination.

I was able to allow her to kiss me, and I was able, finally, to kiss her back.

And, as we kissed, I grew hotter, and hotter, and hotter, until my heart was beating so hard in her hand. It was pumping hot, hot blood through my whole body that was now burning as hot as the Sun could ever burn.

I burned. I was alive and I was on fire.

Rosalie Hale was kissing me, holding me.

God!

And now I kissed her back with a burning passion, a need that burned me up from the inside and radiated out as pure heat all over my skin touching her, touching the sheets, touching the air.

I was on fire, and everything I touched, I set ablaze.

I was on fire, but I wanted to burn up with it, if it meant I was in her embrace.

Rosalie pulled back again, and I did not want her to. Oh, God help me! I so did not want her to. I wanted her to press her advantage that my body so eagerly telegraphed, and I wanted her to take me and have her way with me, any way that she wanted to have with me.

I wanted this so badly it hurt.

But she pulled back, and looked at me as I gasped for breath, as I struggled to regain my senses in the sea of all this wonderful, lush sensation.

And she saw the want in me, writ large on my face, beating so hard in my bosom.

Rosalie smiled.

Not victoriously. Not ... anything.

She smiled. Pleased. Just that.

And then she leaned in, and pressed her advantage.

And I thought: Thank GOD! at the same time I thought: About TIME!

And she pressed her lips to mine, and pulled me, hard, into her kiss, just like I wanted her to, just like she needed to, finally! and she kissed me.

And then I felt it.

Her shy, questing tongue.

And, oh, God! I moaned into her mouth as I opened mine to accept this curious little serpent that was Rosalie Hale's questing tongue. I moaned and groaned, and opened my mouth, and sucked, hard, needily, to hasten her tongue into my mouth.

And ever so slowly that in some parts of the world this would be deemed torture, she eased her little, curious tongue into my needy, little mouth.

Her little, questing tongue, my little, needy mouth: the only two things in the whole-wide world I was aware of now.

And I sucked at her tongue, hard, coaxing, grabbing, if I could, begging it to invite itself into me, and it did. Rosalie's tongue, very gently, eased into my mouth, bit-by-bit, coming to rest on top of mine, but not questing further, not exploring my mouth, but resting in there, resting, ... testing, ... waiting for something.

I didn't know what, but whatever it was, I wanted it. I wanted her now, like this.

And I wanted her more.

And ...

And ...

And ... oh, my God, I felt it.

A shifting.

The world started to ...

Oh, God.

Rosalie pulled a bit, under my neck, pushed, just ever so slightly at my breast, not pushing in, but shifting me ... oh, God ... shifting me ... under.

And then Rosalie rolled, no: just shifted slightly.

And she was on top of me.

I ...

My heart couldn't decide whether to stop, or to burst.

And again: disengagement.

Rosalie very gently began to withdraw her tongue from my mouth, and, once free of my desperate clutching-sucking, she pulled back, now looking down at me.

A lock of her hair tickled my nose and spilled onto my cheek before an impatient head-toss from her freed me of it for, oh, all of a half-a-second before it, a mind of its own, spilled back down from her neck and rested on my cheek again, connecting us together.

Another flick of her head, once more, but that disobedient strand of hair wouldn't listen to her command. In fact, maybe her strand of hair was a little like me in that way, so willful and disobedient. Rosalie gave it up as a lost cause, and let the hair rest on my cheek, tickling it, connecting us more tightly than her hips pressed to mine did.

Yeah. That.

God! I ached with need for her!

She smiled down at me, faintly, glowing in the moonlight from the window. A cold, cold, absolutely starkly clear night that illumed us and our very, very private moment.

Rosalie's hand was on my breast still, connecting us, body-to-body, soul-to-soul. I felt my heart beating for the both of us as it pushed against her hand. I felt her need my heartbeat more than ...

More than anything. I felt her need this, my heartbeat. I felt her need ... me.

Rosalie was breathing in even, measured, calm breaths, a ... a God-damn beautiful Goddess here on the Planet Earth, come down just for me.

"Do you know where this is going?" Rosalie asked gravely.

"Yes," I gasped.

Yes, I said, very quietly, very gravely, answering her seriousness with my own. Yes, I knew where this was going. Yes, I wanted it to go there. My own body ached for it.

"Do you want this?" she asked, even more seriously.

"Yes," I said simply. Yes, I echoed from the depths of my heart.

"I do, too," she said. "More than anything in the world."

I blinked, looking up at her.

Then I felt it. A shift.

I drew in a sharp breath. "No!" I said quickly.

But then I saw it, in her face, a distancing, a ...

"No!" I shouted. "No! Nonono! No, Rosalie, please!" I pleaded, "No ... no ..."

But it was too late.

Rosalie's face completely closed off, and then, like this morning outside, she fell beside me, poff, onto the bed instead of onto the snowy ground, and she lay there, quiet and still.

As she had fallen, her encircling arm slipped away from my neck, and her hand on my breast slid down my tummy away from my slip and now ...

Oh ... fuuuuuuuudge!

And now it was just her, and now it was just me. Her, beside me, on the bed.

And I had never known what loneliness was, until I felt it in this moment.

I looked over at Rosalie, my heart, seconds ago hammering with fear and terror and want, was now doing a slow, steady, sad thud-thud of despair.

I shut my eyes for a second, then forced them open to look at Rosalie.

"But ... why?" I whispered, and the hurt and the heartbreak bled into my words, even as I tried so hard to remain ... rational.

Rosalie breathed slowly for a minute, then she looked over at me, a sad smile on her face.

Rosalie's sad smile was so heartbreakingly beautiful, so utterly crushing.

"I want you so badly, Bella, that it physically hurts," she said slowly.

I swallowed a big gulp and bit my lip. "I ... I do, too, Rosalie. I do, too. Did I ..." Although I tried to stop it, a tear fell onto my pillow. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Something ... 'wrong'?" Rosalie asked surprised.

"Yes," I said, pleading. "Did I do something wrong so I can not do it anymore! Did I do something wrong so I can ... fix it or something. I'm ... okay, I'm not like ... I'm ... I'm new to all this, okay? And I'm sorry! Did I ...?"

"Bella, Bella!" Rosalie's hand came to my cheek and was wetted by my tears now falling freely. "Bella," she said, "You didn't do anything wrong at all, sweetheart, it's just ..."

I saw Rosalie clench her jaw, and she looked away.

"What?" I pleaded. "Please tell me, Rosalie."

She looked back at me and smiled ruefully.

No: bitterly.

"Bella," she said. "You're really drunk. All your natural inhibitions are gone, and ..."

"Oh," I shouted, shocked, surprised and a little bit angry, interrupting her patronizing little excuse of a speech. "Oh, my God! Rosalie Hale, no! No! I'm not drunk, I swear to God, I'm not! I am in tot-..."

"Bella," Rosalie chastised.

"I'm not drunk!" I spat.

Rosalie smiled patiently.

I glared, pure hate not dripping from my eyes... or trying not to.

Drunk, she said! I felt my jaw tightening up so hard I was afraid I would actually grind my teeth to dust.

She sighed. "Bella." she said.

And that's all she said.

I looked at her calm face now, so, so different than a moment ago when her eyes were smoldering with desire.

Now her look was patient, and I wanted to smack that patronizing, superior air right off her face with one tight slap. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand her 'oh, you're just a baby'-look.

I turned away from her and rolled up into a ball, hating her, hating myself, hating myself more for having wanted her so badly. How could I be such an idiot? Didn't I know her opinion of me, really? Didn't I know it would come to this eventually, the Great Letdown?

I wrapped myself into my arms in a tight, little ball, refusing to cry, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

Ha, ha! What a baby! I could just feel her supercilious triumph oozing from her.

A hand rested on my shoulder.

It took everything in me not to viciously jerk my shoulder away from her.

I will NOT cry! I reminded myself.

"Bella," Rosalie said softly.

I sniffled.

"You're not drunk," she said.

"I'm not!" I hissed back at her.

"And you're in full possession of your faculties," she said.

"Yes!" I wanted to scream.

I didn't.

Barely.

"Just like Saturday night," she said.

"Yes ..." I said, my voice quavering.

I didn't know what night it was anymore. I had lost count of the days.

Apparently Rosalie hadn't.

And she knew I was befuddled by her mentioning the day of the week, so she added, "When you last drank from the dram, and told me you were in charge and what I needed was a boy – just like you – to laugh at my jokes ... that is, if I every made any."

The last bit she said came out a bit wryly.

'... if I ever made any,' she said. Like she never would make a joke, and she knew it.

I looked away from looking away from her. I mean: ... well, you know what I mean. I was so embarrassed, that even not looking at her, I couldn't bear the way she cut right through to me, even when I was turned away from her. I couldn't even think on her now, nor at that moment, bearing the brunt of over-bearing me, freed from any sense of shame, just saying whatever I felt.

I was quiet.

Saying 'yes' now just didn't feel right.

Rosalie sighed for me.

She snuggled up into me – I allowed it – and wrapped me into her arms.

"Rosalie," I whispered, "I ... want you so badly. I know what I want, and I want you. I didn't want you to stop. I ..."

I was the one who stopped.

"You know what you want, you say, but you were so certain then, too," Rosalie reminded me softly, "and the alcohol is just oozing out of your pores now, just as it was then."

I closed my eyes and shook my head, shamed. "You don't have to be a bitch about it," I said sadly.

"Ah!" Rosalie gasped. "Ooh, ouch! That hurt."

Her tone was mocking, but I could tell it was covering up something.

Something like the truth.

"It's true," I said, rubbing in the hurt more, hurting myself as I hurt her.

Rosalie was silent for a moment, breathing on my hair.

"Yes," she said with regret, "it's true."

There, I told myself, you won. Happy?

I breathed along with her.

"Rosalie," I tried again. "Why do you always have to make everything so hard? I mean," I amended quickly, because I really didn't want an answer to that broad question: Rosalie Hale made everything so hard, because she was Rosalie Hale, obviously. "I mean," I said again, "why couldn't you have just ..." I paused, biting my lip, "just ... taken me. I wanted you to; you wanted to. What was ... what was ... why ..." I swallowed, my voice trailing off into despondency. "Why didn't you, Rosalie?"

"Because ..." Rosalie began.

But then she stopped.

My jaw worked as I filled in one hundred reasons for her as to why she, nor anyone else, would ever want ... me.

A tear fell then. Just one.

Ugly, stupid, awkward, clingy. It was actually a good thing she stopped. If she had carried on as she did, then she'd forever have that burden of having to admit this one terrible mistake she had made.

And who would ever want to have to admit that?

She started again. "If I had ... done this thing ..." she said.

"'sokay," I said, my voice breaking.

I didn't need to hear this out loud.

"No," she said, "let me finish, please, Bella."

I sniffled and swallowed.

Let her finish, she said. Joy, I thought sadly.

"If I had done exactly as I wanted, exactly as you say you want now," she said.

"I do!" I shouted.

"Yes," she said gracefully, allowing my outburst, but not being affected by it.

I sniffled again.

"Then tomorrow," she continued, "you'd wake up, just as you did on Sunday, and you'd look at me and realize what I had done, and what you had lost, irrevocably. And your hate..."

"That is," I burst out, trying to turn to face her.

A lost cause, her grip on me was not tight, but it was an unbreakable vise, holding me in place.

"That is so not true, Rosalie Hale!" I said. "That is... Oh, my God! I really can't believe you ..."

I was at a loss for words. She stopped because she thought I would hate her in the morning?

"You say that, Bella," Rosalie said, "but do you remember Saturday night, then Sunday? Do you remember how you were so sure of yourself then, just as you are now, but in the morning, you ..."

"Stop," I said, fuming now, really angry. "Just stop."

She stopped.

She didn't let me go.

I sniffled, and two more tears fell.

"Do you have to take everything," I asked hurting, "and just ... ruin it?"

Rosalie was quiet for moment, then she said: "Yes."

Just that.

I closed my eyes, and two more tears fell. I swallowed hard. "That's just ... great," I said bitterly. "You are, I swear, a piece of work."

"No," she said firmly, "work implies an improvement, and there is nothing to improve."

"Because your so perfect," I retorted scathingly.

I felt Rosalie smiled, "No," she said, "because there no h-..."

"SHUT UP!" I screamed.

"...hope for me now." She completed right over my scream.

See how she shut up?

Yeah.

"God," I said, incredulously.

I wish there were a God, so He could come down and just ... fix her, because I sure wasn't up for the job. That much was obvious.

I wish there were a God, so I could blame Him for making her ... and me. He could come right down here right now.

I'd punch God in the face, and right good, too.

"What day is today?" I asked quietly, the thought surprising me as I spoke it.

"Wednesday," she said. "It's Wednesday, ... coming onto Thursday."

"Ah," I said, as if what she said meant anything.

I reached up and took her hand holding my shoulder against her, the I brought it to my mouth and kissed the palm of her hand. It was marble on my lips, cool and smooth.

"I hate you," I said.

And I didn't know who said that. The voice that spoke was lifeless: dead. It wasn't Bella Swan who spoke; it was nobody. Nobody I knew, that is; the voice was so dead and lifeless.

"Yes," Rosalie answered evenly. " ... I ... know."

We were quiet.

"I can take your hate, Bella, I deserve it," she said.

"Shut up," I said listlessly. Why, oh, why does she just keep going? I wondered, just so dispiritedly.

"But what I can't take, ..." she continued, ignoring me.

"Shut UP!" I screamed.

"... is that shattered look on your face in the morrow, when you wake up, and realize what happened, what you did, ... what you regret, ... and ... what you'll never be able to regain. That, I cannot face, knowing that I did this to you, and with your consent that you believe you freely gave, but not really, being emboldened by alcohol to do something you would have never otherwise done."

I was quiet.

God! Rosalie Hale was a piece of work, wasn't she.

"If I had done this," she continued, "I'd be taking advantage of you. I ... couldn't face myself if I had don't that. I'd become worse than Royce, taking what not freely given."

I closed my eyes. "Yeah," I said tiredly, "whatever." I shook my head. "Are you done now, please?"

I felt Rosalie's smile on my hair. "Yes," she said softly, "I'm done now."

"There, ..." I said. "God! There wouldn't've been a 'shattered look' on my face tomorrow morning, Rosalie Hale, I swear! I thought ... never mind what I thought, but this has just turned into what you think of yourself and your God-damn pride! 'No better than Royce'? Is that all you care about? You and how you look? You say I'm selfish? Well, I tell you what, lady, why don't you go take a good, long look in the mirror and see what a Royal ..."

I stopped myself.

I was going to say more hurtful things at her... to her ... whatever.

"Yes," she said.

And then she was silent.

There was no fight in her, and fighting her, furious at her, and getting nothing at all back from her...

My anger just melted into sheets and all that was left was just the empty shell that was me, not angry, not ... anything.

Just me and Rosalie, and her, silent as the grave.

I shook my head sadly. "Rosalie, you could've ... just ... done this. You could've had me, and I would've been happy and you would've been happy! Don't you get it? Why do you always have to ruin everything, all the time? Why?"

I drew a stuttering breath.

"Because ..." Rosalie said, but then she said nothing else. She just stopped there.

"Because why?" I demanded angrily.

I felt her bitter grin on the back of my head. "Because ... no reason, Bella. It's just what I am. That's all."

I closed my eyes for a second.

"Rosalie Hale," I said calmly, "that is utter ... that is utter ... that is ... Oh, my God!" I couldn't even say what it was. "I must be getting better at this, because I can just smell your lie a mile off. You tell me because why. Really. I deserve an honest explanation from you."

Rosalie sighed. "You're right, Bella," she admitted. "I could've just taken you, and you would've been happy to let you. But then what? Tomorrow, you wake up and you ..."

"Who the hell cares about tomorrow?" I shrieked. "I don't!"

"I do," Rosalie said very quietly.

But even in her quiet, she was a rock, immovable.

I swallowed my sadness and bitterness and sighed, settling into her embrace.

Through this whole conversation she held me, and she didn't let me go. Not once.

There was stillness, and in that stillness: silence.

And into that silence, Rosalie spoke, her voice quieter than the silence: "Did you mean what you said to me?"

I thought about that.

Did I mean to call her a bitch? And say that I hate her?

Yes. When I said those things, I meant them. Boy! did I mean them more than anything in the world.

So either I said them, and I meant them, or I didn't say them, because I didn't mean them.

That's one thing I've learned from Rosalie Hale: no excuses, no 'sorry's.

"Yes," I said.

God! What a desolate, barren life this was. This is what Rosalie Hale lives up to. This is what she wants me to be. This.

I just lay there and said an emotionless 'yes,' like I meant it, and felt empty inside, saying it, hating myself for saying it, but not, now, being able to take back anything I said to her, ever, because she would always remember, and then always remind me.

Forever.

Rosalie kissed me on the head, very lightly.

"Thank you for your honesty," she said quietly.

And she meant it. She was thanking me for calling her a bitch, and for hating her. Like she wanted my hate, ... like she wanted my contempt.

Because she knew she deserved it.

And she was silent, holding me.

I swallowed. "I love you," I whispered.

I couldn't ...

I couldn't fight it anymore.

I hated her so much in this moment and then ... boom.

I didn't care anymore. I didn't care what saying it meant for me now.

Rosalie Hale had taken everything away from me, my self-respect, my dignity, my happiness, my life. I had nothing left.

Just love.

Rosalie held me, frozen. She didn't move. She didn't even breath.

Then ...

And this killed me.

She let me go and lay back in the bed.

"Great," she said sadly. "Just ... great."

I rolled up into a ball.

"Yeah," I said.

Like that was the answer I was hoping for. That was exactly her reaction I wanted.

Perfect. I am hopelessly in love with Rosalie Hale, down to my bones, down to my marrow.

And she thinks that's, 'Great, just great,' as in so great anything else in the world would've been better.

Rosalie tiredly raised her hand to her forehead, covering her face and sighed.

"Do you even know what you're saying?" she demanded sharply.

"Yes," I said tightly.

"Five minutes ago you said you hate me, and now this, Bella?" she pressed.

"Yes!" I said right back, not budging an inch.

"Look," she said, unhappy now that she didn't get me to back down like I would before, but a person would would back down was me before. Not me now. Not anymore. "You've had a long day," she continued, "and ... just get some sleep, please? And we'll talk about this in the morning, okay?"

"As long as we talk in the morning, then I'll say okay," I said tightly.

Rosalie was quiet. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, controlling her voice, too.

God, we were both tiptoeing around each other's prickliness, weren't we?

Yes, we were, I answered myself grimly.

"What I mean by that," I said so tightly that I tried to swallow to clear my throat, but I found I couldn't, "is that we, you and I, are going to talk, meaning you talk and I listen, but it also means I talk and you listen, Rosalie Hale, because if this turns into one of your little shouting ... things ..." I threatened angrily.

An empty threat, however, and I knew it, angry as I was. What could I threaten Rosalie with now?

The one who says 'I love you' first loses, because, obviously, she's the loser, admitting such a weakness, right?

It was all about power, according to Rosalie Hale, and if you say 'I love you' then obviously you're weak.

Weak little Bella Swan.

God! I hated myself so much now.

That's why girls never say it to the guy first, but make him say it, so he knows the score, even if he won't admit it.

"I don't do anything 'little,'" Rosalie averred, parroting my word, then she added: "nor by halves."

"No," I said sadly, "you don't. I know that."

Rosalie was silent again.

A feather-touch on my shoulder.

It stung like a live wire. No, not stung. It hurt, her touch; it hurt my whole body.

"Get some sleep," she ordered tersely.

This was how it was going to be, huh? I thought to myself bitterly.

"Hold me," I commanded back.

My voice sounded firm, strong.

It sounded like that to me, my voice, not, at all, like the voice of a girl about to lose it.

After all, how could I lose it, if I had nothing left to lose?

That's what I had left to me: nothing.

Rosalie shifted in the bed and wrapped me in her arms.

Her touch now.

It didn't sting. It didn't hurt.

It felt ...

... It felt right.

It felt just right.

Now the tears fell. One. Two. I sniffled.

No. Stop.

Three. FourFiveSix. I sniffled again.

Don't. I told myself. Don't.

Don't be weak. Don't let her see you weak like this, like you always are.

I sniffled again. Two more tears fell.

Rosalie pressed her lips to my head and kissed me, then she held me more tightly.

I didn't lose it.

I couldn't.

I was now a girl with nothing to lose.

"Why are you being nice to me, Rosalie Hale?" I asked sadly.

"Because," she said softly, "I don't know how to do ... this."

I drew in a ragged breath. "I don't know either," I said quickly. "But we could learn, really! We could ..."

"By 'this,'" Rosalie interrupted. "I meant, I don't know how to try not to crush you tomorrow."

"Oh," I said, the wind leaving my sails again.

I swallowed. "You're so sure of yourself," I said, because that's exactly how she sounded.

"Yes," she said calmly.

"So you won't listen to a word I say tomorrow?" I asked, because I needed to know. If she wasn't going to listen, why even bother to speak? Either of us.

"Oh," she said, "I'll listen to what you have to say, Bella, but ..."

My whole body tingled when she said my name.

That's how desperately I loved her: wholly and completely.

God! I'm such a loser, aren't I? Fighting for this lost cause to the bitter end, going down with the sinking ship.

Wonderful.

But that was me. That was who I am, and that's why I'm going to win this one.

The one worth fighting for.

Her.

"Then you'll surely lose," I said with absolute conviction, "because there is nothing you can say that will make me take back what I said. You can try your worst, but you won't win this one. I will. You hear me, Rosalie Hale?"

"Oh," she said, "I hear you, it's just that ..."

Rosalie was silent and shook her head, herself absolutely certain of herself.

What a pair we made: her, fighting so hard to close herself off from everything and everybody, particularly me, and me, fighting so hard for her, of all people! so that she would just open up and be happy like I knew she could if she just let herself be.

Pa said that in the War they had something called triage for the doctors, so they knew who to treat, those that they could save, those they might save, and those they shouldn't even bother with, as it was a hopeless case.

I bet a doctor looking at us would know which one we were: a hopeless case, don't even bother.

So why did I bother?

"I'm not even going to have to try hard, Bella," Rosalie said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.

You know why I bothered?

I did. I knew.

But I won't tell you. You have to earn that, like I did: every day fighting with her first for my life, then fighting for hers.

"You sayin' I'm a pushover?" I challenged.

The thing is, I could be angry about this, and I was, but I totally saw why Rosalie would see me that way. But now she was going to be in for a surprise. A big surprise.

"No, ..." Rosalie said hesitantly, hearing the resolve in my voice, but still sure of herself.

Mostly.

"You're smarter than me," I said. "I'll grant you that, but whatever arguments you throw at me, know this: I love you." I said the last three words like I meant them, because I did. "And there is nothing," I added, "that will make me not love you. Nothing."

Rosalie held me and sighed wearily, shaking her head. "You say that now, and you think you believe it, but tomorrow ..."

"Nothing," I said firmly.

"One word," she said, "one word and that belief will crumple and blow away. Dust in the wind. Vanity."

I snorted. "That's the word that will crush me?"

If that were the word that would crush me, I thought, then Rosalie Hale was losing her edge.

She sighed. "No, sweetie," she said, kissing me. "It's just an oblique reference."

"Then what's this word, huh?" I demanded.

Rosalie smiled and kissed me again. "Rest, sweetie, okay? Sleep."

"The word," I demanded.

Rosalie smiled, immobile.

I growled angrily. "I'm not going to sleep until I hear it," I said obstinately.

"Of course you're not," Rosalie said, so smug.

She was lucky she was holding me, and behind me out of easy smacking range.

I narrowed my eyes to slits. "Don't you patronize me," I snarled.

"Yes'm," Rosalie responded quickly.

... patronizingly.

"God damn it, Rosalie Hale!" I growled, "I swear to God that ..."

"Bella," Rosalie said, the edge in her voice showing her losing her temper. "Go to sleep, huh?"

"No," I said.

"Fine," she shot back, and was silent.

I fumed. God-damn Rosalie Hale and her God-damn ...

I stopped.

I felt it.

Or: I didn't feel it, I more like, sensed it, the heaviness.

"Don't you dare, Rosalie Hale!" I squirmed in her arms, or tried to.

If I were in iron stockades, I'd've had more of a chance.

"Dare what?" Rosalie asked innocently.

And in her innocent voice, there wasn't even a hint of it, the magic spell she was weaving over me.

"You ..." I said, trying to focus, "you can't push me around! You can't make me sleep with your magic powers, Rosalie Hale! I'm onto you, I swear to God!"

"Hm?" she said, "What do you mean, sweetie?" she asked liltingly.

And then she started to hum, a musical, melodious, low sing-song, rising and falling, like breath, like the waves of the ocean, and in those waves I felt the slightest of vibration, her body pressed to mine, she wasn't humming so much her whole body was humming and in so humming, making my body synch with hers, synch, then sink into sleep.

My eyelids became too heavy to keep open.

"Don't!" I said, but softly, my voice further and further away. "Don't!"

I was pleading, because I knew I was helplessly captured in her spell.

And she knew it, too.

She hummed so softly, so gently, so beautiful, weaving her spell about me so tightly, drawing me into her web more tightly than the steel traps of her arms about me.

Hm-hm-hm, she hummed.

"No," I whined, I so wanted to show her up, I so wanted to ...

I was out.

And, falling, free-falling into sleep, I thought I heard her sigh, I thought I heard her whisper a regretful, "What am I going to do with you, Bella Swan..."

"Chut up!" I muttered drowsily. "'m soooo 'gry wid y'hhhh..."

"Mmhm," she hummed.

And, maybe I felt her lips press against my head to kiss me.

Maybe I dreamed it.

A/N: On twitter, a woman tweeted: "Being a woman means embracing one's femininity, not rejecting it. It's intelligence, grace, compassion, and a fierceness specific to her."

Did either Rosalie or Bella fully embrace their femininity in this chapter?

Yes, Rosalie Hale is fierce, and, yes, a fighter, too: a survivor at all costs. No, at any cost. And so is Bella, in her own way.

So they butt heads in this chapter.

Who won?

Definitely not Bella, but not Rosalie, either, right?

I put some thought up on my blog on this at

twilight-dad-dot-blogspot-dot-com-slash-2015-slash-05-slash-a-white-rose-dot-html

Question: why is it so hard for Rosalie to choose happiness, to let Bella in, even so close in this moment? What is she afraid of?

Oh, one more thing, reading the conclusion of the previous chapter, were you expecting something different here? Did you think Rosalie would just let her hair down and do whatever she wanted, just this one time?

Rosalie Hale is just so ... Rosalie, but Bella uses a different word this time, doesn't she?

Hm. How are they going to recover from this? Particularly after Bella let the L-bomb drop: saying what she really felt (surprising, right?), and Rosalie responding coolly, intellectually, clinically. How can it get any worse for tomorrow morning, with Rosalie's one word all lined up to crush Bella.

What one word?