That little, fucking bitch! I give her an object lesson so she can at least stop punishing herself, but then what does she do? She turns my words right around and uses them against me! God, I want to fuck her so hard right now. Fuck! I could just ... God! Angry sex, blow off some steam, fuck the little shit to death, and then exist thereafter with eternal regrets! Fuck my whole fucking existence. And the gods say to that: तथास्तु. Joy. I wish at least she would try to pronounce the word correctly! Then I'd be so happy, as she threatens. God. Bella Swan endeavoring my happiness! Anybody else see the impending doom, or is it just me, again, as always? Fuck.

I woke. BAM! Swept from my dreams as if pulled by a tornado or a tidal wave into instant wakefulness, confused, then very, very sick.

"Ro-...urmph!" I shouted then spat.

"Bella!" Rosalie cried, alarmed, and twisted me hard from my position toward the edge of the bed, reaching down under the bed, quickly, with her free hand.

But the twist.

My stomach lurched, then lurched again.

Then I heaved.

"Got it!" Rosalie shouted.

I puked so hard I scared myself at how much stuff travelled up out of my body, so fast and so hard, and it just shot out of me in a straight stream, a fire hose, my mouth was, and I blasted vomit.

Then the deluge.

Of puke.

Rosalie rescued me, of course. I puked into my hands, at first, trying not to mess everything up, but that was a lost cause from the get-go... but what was I supposed to do? Throw up on the bed? Throw up on her?

Sure.

So instead of either of those unthinkable options, I threw up into my hands.

But then: Rosalie.

The chamber pot was right there, in her hand, and uncovered, and right beneath my hands, so I could open them up and let the steaming hot vomit fall into the pot, falling through my hands.

And I just ... jettisoned everything from my body into the pot.

And Rosalie held the pot, and she hooked my hair in her other hand, out of the way of the mess I was making, and she did this all so ... expertly, so ...

I wish there were words that I could say how ... cool she was with all this, like: oh, Bella's puking, no problem, no big deal, I've got this covered.

It crushed me how calm she was about how my whole world was falling apart so suddenly, and she wasn't even surprised as everything in me just disintegrated.

So I puked into the pot.

And then I filled it.

God, what a ...

What a pig I am.

I hated myself in this moment where my body took over and destroyed every shred of decency I had had to just make me look like ...

To look like I don't even know what. A helpless girl who had to puke everything out of her stomach in the blink of an eye.

The pot was full, but I was still vomiting, so it started to slosh over the side as I puked into the pool of puke.

So Rosalie brought her hand up to catch my puke.

"No!" I wailed.

You ever speak through your vomit? I have. Just now. It sounds like you're drowning. It sounds pathetic.

"It's okay, Bella," Rosalie said calmly.

It doesn't sound anything like Rosalie Hale, at all.

But, somehow, her 'okay' or not, I lifted up my hands above hers, and puked into my cupped hands.

It was the principal of the thing. There was no way I was going to let my puke touch Rosalie Hale's hands. It was my puke. I should clean up after my own messes; she should have to sully herself with me and my filth.

That was what love is: dealing with my own stuff, so she wouldn't have to be bothered.

Or something like that.

So I puked into my own hands, and, boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen... it was disgusting. If there were anything grosser than my puke, I don't know what it'd be.

Except maybe my pee and my poop, which I reminded myself Rosalie had to deal with, like around this hour when I had lost control of my body before.

Lovely.

"I'll be right back, Bella, okay?" Rosalie said softly into my ear, because my body had given up everything and had stopped heaving, too, so there was just me and my mess.

Effortlessly, she glided over me, balancing the chamber pot so perfectly that not one drop spilled, ... of course! ... and she was out the door. Then, gone, she was right back, opened door adroitly closed behind her, as she glided toward me, emptied chamber pot in hand.

If Rosalie Hale ever needed a job as a maid, she would have no competition.

If Rosalie Hale ever needed a job at all ...

I didn't know how to finish that thought.

The concept of 'job' and 'Rosalie Hale' were just so opposite, I couldn't even imagine the possibility.

For the opposite reason of me: I was unemployable: a girl, no skills, no education, no nothing. Rosalie Hale was a God, and she would probably just make things happen around her: why would she ever lift a finger for another when people would fall over each other to serve her?

Rosalie Hale in a job? Please!

She took my hands, by my wrists, into her porcelain hand, and she forced them open, letting my puke drop into the chamber pot that caught the remains of what had been in my stomach.

Chicken cordon bleu smelled way worse, post-digestion, then when I had been cooking it. Way worse.

But Rosalie...

Not one complaint from her. She just ... did what was before her and didn't even give a hint of reproach to me, or a sign of disgust. I was throwing up; she just dealt with it.

Would I have done the same in her shoes? I don't know. Yes, I guess. I was just too far gone with my body reacting to be thinking straight, and just too impressed with her.

She was like ... perfect.

She was like too perfect for me, or for anything: she was just above it all.

Well, some of my ... stuff had seeped through everything and fallen onto the bed sheet, so she just pulled it off the mattress and used the edge of it to wipe off my hands so they were nice and clean, or, that is, just mostly free of the yucky chunks.

You know.

And my beautiful slip that Rosalie gave me...?

Yeah. That was ruined, too.

It was just like ... everything that I touched, I ruined. I couldn't do anything right, ever. That's what I was, a lowlife, now empty of all dignity, and, now, empty-stomached, too, and all that was left of me was just a stink in the air. That's all.

I looked at Rosalie, illumed in the darkness by the moonlight, so ... angelic.

And I burst into tears.

Rosalie blinked, surprised at my outburst, but then her face mellowed as I wailed.

And that only made me feel all the worse, really. Why couldn't she just be done with me, once and for all? Why did she have to be so hard on me when I fought her, but so gentle with me when I was frail?

Rosalie slid into the bed behind me, wrapped me in her arms, and held me, tightly, into her. And she didn't say one word, not of reproach, nor of comfort, she just held me.

...

"S-some ..." I sniffled, tasting my own acidy bile, "some lover I make!" I huffed angrily. "I can't even ..." I bit my lip, unable to continue.

I sniffled again, hard, then swallowed. "I can't even," I whispered bitterly, "... say 'I love you,' without ..." I sniffled. It was so hard to speak, "... without ... ha ... hahahaha!" I laughed bitterly at my own joke as I told it, "... without making a mess of everything! Who'd ... who'd wanna ..."

Shit.

I swallowed, and said the damning words quickly. "Who'd ever wanna ... love a complete loser like me!"

There.

I said it.

And then, ... the terrible waiting for Rosalie's reaction.

Which didn't come.

Rosalie was quiet, digesting my words, just like the chicken cordon bleu, that I didn't digest, apparently, after all.

"Bella," Rosalie said.

But then she was quiet again.

"Hey," she said, "let's change you out of your slip, hm? Sit up, and we'll get you out of this, okay?"

And, ...

And that was what she had to say to me?

In astonishment, I let her lift me up to a sitting position on the bed, because, really, I didn't know how else to react to her complete non-reaction. I didn't have time to process this, either, because as soon as I was up, Rosalie adroitly pulled my slip off me, exposing my body for the whole world to see.

Not that there was anything to see.

Rosalie balled my slip into her hands and, going to the door, tossed it outside, and retrieved something as she came back to me.

I could just see her smiling privately about something as she came to me in the darkness. My eyes had adjusted. I couldn't see her, her facial expressions; she was just a form in the darkness, but I could feel her mood better than I could feel my own.

I was just a jumble of nerves and disappointment, anyway.

Rosalie sat beside me and handed me something soft and cozy.

"Flannel pajamas," she said factually. I could feel her bite her lip, trying to hide her smile made invisible in the darkness. "I know you're comfortable wearing them."

"Thanks," I said listlessly, and slumped down onto the bed beside her.

"Bella," Rosalie's tone was disapproving, "put them on, hm?"

"Yeah, okay," I said carelessly. "I will... eventually."

Rosalie sighed. The sigh said stubborn! And it wasn't in appreciation.

Yeah. It was annoyed.

Rosalie waited for me to make a move, but I just held onto the pjs and waited for the World to end, so it could be official, the certification of my utter and complete idiocy today.

Rosalie sighed again. It was a different sigh. It was a I give up!-sigh, and I smirked, a little, tiny bit.

Making Rosalie Hale give up on anything was a major accomplishment, because, you know, she never did.

And then I realized the thing she just gave up on was me, and that made my victory bittersweet.

Rosalie slide into the bed behind me again drawing me into her marble-iron grasp, and I felt the solidity of her against my back, and it felt wonderful, her absolute strength and power, but just so, so controlled. There was nothing human that could compare to this feeling.

Which made sense, I guess, I was being held by something that wasn't human. Not anymore.

"May I tell you a story?" Rosalie asked quietly.

Oh, brother, I thought. "Is this a story with a moral of 'and Bella died a horrible death and so there!'-stories, Rosalie?" I asked tiredly.

Rosalie was quiet, thoughtful. And I winced, knowing my zings hurt her somehow. And I mean: it wasn't her fault that I loved her, so why should I punish her that somebody like me, such a failure, would ruin her life? ... or whatever she called it.

"Noooooo..." Rosalie breathed through her answer. "It doesn't have that moral ... I think," she qualified quickly, then added: "but it does have ... well, a moral, a lesson to it."

Joy, I thought bitterly.

Rosalie's stories always had lessons in them, usually along the lines of how I could become less of a dumbass, but if I got all ornery about it, my own petulance shut Rosalie right down, and then we were both pissy until I relented, so I may as well resign myself to taking my drubs now.

Like I said: joy.

I sighed and snuggled into Rosalie, pressing my back into her a little bit more.

"Can I ask you a question first, Rosalie?" I quavered.

"Besides that one?" she asked automatically. "Yes," she said.

I narrowed my eyes to slits and resisted the urge to smack her.

"Did you really ... want me ... earlier, or were you just ...?" My voice petered off.

Rosalie was silent.

Great. I thought sadly.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"'Yes,' what?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, "I really want you."

"Then, or ... now?" I said.

"Yes," she said.

I blinked three times, rapidly.

"Wait," I said. "You want me ... now?"

"Yes," she said.

I paused, considering this.

"Now," I said, "like in ... pukey ... yucky ... me. Now?"

"Yes," said Rosalie.

I couldn't ...

There wasn't one drop of emotion in her voice. Not want, not sadness, not desperation, not ... anything. She just said it, factually.

"And, ..." I asked carefully. "You wanted me ... earlier tonight ... on the bed ... I mean ... you know."

"Technically," Rosalie said, "that would be last night, as it is now after midnight."

"Uh ... huh," I said, ignoring her 'technically.'

We were quiet.

"You want me," I said.

Rosalie was quiet.

"You want me?" I asked, my voice quavering, the certainty just gone, just like that.

"Yes," she said quietly.

I didn't get it.

"But you're not ..." I bit my lip.

How to phrase it?

"But I feel safe in your arms," I said finally.

Rosalie said nothing there. Was she smiling? Wryly? I couldn't tell.

From the pit of my stomach a welling burst throughout my whole body.

"I want you," I said sadly, so helpless in this sadness and want.

"I want you," she said, and now I heard it, her sadness and want, not echoing mine, somehow, for it was wholly hers.

But somehow, our bodies were attuned to each other, complete, as one, and, even though she held me into her, we were somehow completely separated and alone, far, far, far from each other.

Separate, whole, connected, but apart.

"So," I said reasonably, "why don't you ... take me?"

Rosalie was still, ... quiet.

"Because," she said tiredly, "I do not do what I want. I do what I will. Always."

"Wow," I said, digesting her words.

I took in a very deep breath, then I held it for three whole seconds.

Rosalie Hale was always going to do what she willed, I thought to myself. And with that thought I could just see it: I'd be the woman, always waiting by the windowsill for her man to ride back from the Great War and get on his knee and propose, but the Great War took so many away, even some of our soldiers who came back, heroes, even they were gone. Like Pa. And I'd just be sitting by the windowsill, waiting. Forever.

I reached up and took Rosalie's hand into mine. "Let me go," I commanded.

She did. Right away. Like she was afraid of holding onto me.

I shifted around so that I was facing her, but I couldn't. I couldn't kiss her, like I wanted to so desperately. Kiss her, and take her, and make her mine, like I had wanted her to do to me. She wasn't going to, and somebody had to take charge, God damn it! But I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed of my pukey-breath, and my snotty nose, and my tear-stained cheeks, all ruddy from crying.

So I didn't kiss her mouth.

I let go of her hand and pushed against her shoulder, pushing her back down onto the bed.

She watched me with very guarded eyes.

I couldn't look at those judging, eagle eyes, so I mounted her, quickly, not looking at her face.

And I was on top of Rosalie Hale.

And that's when I looked down at her.

God.

She was so beautiful, a dark shape, almost formless, but insubstantial? No. She was the most solid thing in the Universe.

I looked down at her, but I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to start this. I mean, I did. I'd kiss her, and she'd kiss me back, and we would just float in that bliss until finally she couldn't stand it anymore, and she'd just take me, just like she wanted to do.

It was all so simple.

So why was nothing happening?

"What do I do?" I said breathlessly.

Rosalie looked up at me. Was there want? Yes. Was there longing? Yes.

Did I need to see this in her face?

Yes. More than anything in the world.

"You ..." Rosalie said.

Then she sighed, sadly, and lifted my flannel pjs to my chest and pressed them there.

"You put this on, and you get some sleep, Bella, huh?" Rosalie said.

I looked down at the pjs. Stung. Hurting.

"No!" I said, but even I knew I was just being a bratty, little child.

If I had a gun, I would shoot myself now.

I turned my face away from her, quickly, and whispered an angry 'No!' and the tears fell.

"Bella," Rosalie sighed, and pulled me down to her, so easily, and turned me, so we were side-to-side, and I felt her press me into her, my whole body, her lips seeking mine.

"I'm dirty!" I whined into her mouth.

"I'm not!" she snarled distinctly.

And then she kissed me, forcefully. No negotiations. No compromises, just a good, hard kiss, mashing my lips to hers.

A good, hard, full-body kiss, for every inch of her body mashed against mine as she forced her kiss on me. And I melted away into it, along with my shyness and shame and despair, as she imposed herself upon me. This was the way the Universe is: she takes and I was more than willing to give.

If only she would have me.

And my leg reached, tentatively, and then I hooked my heel around the back of Rosalie's leg, and, instead of brushing me off or fighting this new contact, Rosalie continued the kiss, and even ...

Yes.

... rolled on top of me, just a little bit, and now her lips were pressing down onto mine, and I sighed, still embarrassed of my breath, knowing how badly I stank and tasted, but I couldn't help it, and I actually floated in a pool of sweetness and bliss that Rosalie just seemed to exude from her body, from her very being. Her sweetness trickled into my mouth, and the acid bitter aftertaste sizzled with her taste, and my mouth came alive again, not with pain, but with the sweet, rosy taste of Rosalie Lillian Hale.

And then, all good things come to an end, don't they?

Rosalie pulled away from the kiss, looking down at me, her hair curtaining us into our own private world.

She looked away and drew a long, ragged sigh.

Then looked back at me, mask firmly in place, resolve renewed.

"Rest, Bella," she said. "Sleep?"

"Ho-okay," I said sadly. I bit my lip, looking up at pure, completely self-controlled beauty, wanting so badly to reach through to her, but knowing so badly there was no way that I could.

Not now, not so weak as I was now, and her, so strong and sure.

I sniffled, and Rosalie leaned down, then gently kissed my nose, and that was so damn cute of her, which was odd to me, and scary, because I didn't know what it meant. So I just looked up at her, dumbly, waiting for her to make the next move.

And she didn't.

Just a small peck on the nose, and that was it.

I swallowed and turned from her, because I couldn't look at her anymore, wanting her so badly, I grabbed flannel, and hugged it to me. My one and only real comfort in life.

And it did absolutely nothing for me now.

Rosalie lowered herself down to me and wrapped me in her arms.

Wasn't this what I wanted? Last night? The night before? I can't remember anymore. But shouldn't I be grateful for this, that Rosalie was holding me, even though she didn't need to? That maybe she wanted to ...?

Or maybe she just wanted me to shut up and go to sleep? And she was just being nice now, so I would do that, and then just deal with whatever came tomorrow, ... tomorrow?

Or today, now, I guess, right?

"I love you," I whispered despondently.

Then I cried.

"Oh, God!" I moaned.

I know what it now feels like to love.

And to be not loved back.

This hurt had to end now. "Kill me," I begged her. "Oh, God, please kill me?"

Rosalie held me tightly.

"Please?" I whimpered as the tears fell.

"May I tell you that story now?" Rosalie asked quietly.

"HA!" I barked out a surprised laugh. In the pit of my misery, Rosalie Hale tells a funny joke, except she was being completely serious in her tone, which only made it funnier.

I beg her to kill me, and she wants to tell me a story.

The irony.

Particularly since her stories always make me feel three times worse!

I bore down at got ahold of myself.

I wondered what she must be going through right now. I knew what I was going through, the agony of despair, wanting her so badly, and not being able to hav-...

Wait.

'Wanting her so badly, and not being able to have her'?

Does that describe Rosalie from day one?

And I couldn't last an hour like this, and she's been doing this for days on end?

How?

"Yes," I said softly, stilled by this revelation, and trying to probe into the mystery that was her.

Rosalie breathed out a tiny little laugh into my hair, but then she, too, stilled herself.

And I waited.

And it was quiet.

And then she spoke.

"Do you recall the book that I have that you read in your dream, Bella, written in ..."

"Samscript!" I put in quickly, "yes," I said, "I know it."

"Yes," Rosalie said, distracted.

This pleased me a little.

I was rather distracted myself. Distracted and distraught.

"So," she continued, "there's this story in it," she said, then her voice got a bit wry: "besides the instructions on how to prepare young girls..."

Rosalie was quiet, and I blushed, wondering if I was the young girl in question who had been heated to perfection for Rosalie, according to her Vampire cookbook.

"The story?" I asked.

Rosalie smiled in my hair, but then she became serious. "It's about the concept of ..."

And then she said a word, but I didn't get it.

"About ... what?" I said.

It was something like ... tatty's stew.

Another recipe. Joy.

God, please cook me so Rosalie could eat me up and be done with it, please?

Rosalie said the word again.

Tatty's stew, she said.

I blinked, then I sighed. I couldn't concentrate any more.

"Is that a samscript word?" I asked tiredly.

"Yes," she said. "It means something like ..."

She paused for a moment.

"Tatty's stew?" I asked.

Obviously: a stew of little girls made by Tatty.

Rosalie's grip tightened on me for a second as her surprise at me saying the word swept through her.

She smiled in my hair as she loosened her death grip on me, and I found I could breathe again.

"That's ..." she said, "not quite it. It's more like ... ta-tah-stu."

Looking at the word in my head, it looks easy to pronounce, except for the 't' in the middle didn't sound like a 't' and the 's' was from some alien planet that didn't have 's'es.

I was lost.

"Yeah," I said, "that."

"Yes," she said, sounding slightly pleased. "Well," she continued primly, "it means something like 'let it be,' or 'it shall be,' or ... 'it is true,' or ..."

She was quiet.

"So?" I said into the silence.

For a Rosalie-story, this was way underwhelming. I wondered what her point was.

"So," she said, "according to the story, that word is repeated over and over by their gods to everything that is said. Tathastu, they say, 'so be it,' and it is, everything you say and everything you do, their gods hear it and see it, and they repeat tathastu."

Rosalie was quiet.

I was, too.

Sometimes Rosalie's silence spoke so loudly that I couldn't hear anything else, not even my own thoughts.

"I can hear what you're thinking, Bella," Rosalie said. "All the time."

"I know," I admitted, and felt ashamed for admitting that. There was no privacy from her, and I felt everything I thought, she knew, and she judged me.

I know I'm just not good enough, and that shamed me.

"I know you loved me," she said, "from before you would even admit it to yourself," she said. "And ... I saw you try to hide it from me, I saw you look at yourself in the mirror and loathe yourself, and feel unworthy of me. And ... what a joke, you feel unworthy of me, but I thought, maybe it was a fancy, and you would just kill it in your heart, just let it fade away and die, ..."

She was quiet.

"But you didn't," she said. "And now this. Tathastu."

"I ..." I said. "I don't understand."

"I know," Rosalie answered... 'helpfully.'

I sighed wearily.

Rosalie shook her head. "I hear ..." she began, but then stopped abruptly and said something else: "Bella, you throw up, so what? But already you are screaming so loudly in your head about how you don't deserve me or anything. You've done this to yourself your whole life, and the gods look down at you and say: tathastu, and, boom, so it is, just like that."

Oh, I thought. The moral of her story.

Yup. Just like she said. It stung.

But did that stop her? Yeah: no.

"I don't have to say even one word to you," she said, "because you'll convince yourself this morning what a stupid thing you said and how badly you don't deserve it, and I'll see it written across your face as clearly as if you had put pen to paper. I'll just let you talk yourself out of your happiness, and the gods will say tathastu, and that will be that."

"Rosalie ..." I said. "Okay, now I don't get at all, okay, why you're fighting so hard for me now!"

"I'm not," she said. "I'm fighting for the Truth."

You hear her capitalize that 'T' in 'Truth'? Because I sure did.

'The Truth.' Like: what was that? And what did that have to do with anything at all?

"You know," I said bitterly, "every single word you just laid into me with ..."

"I didn't lay into anything, Bella, I just mere-..."

"... can be used to describe you double-triple-riple! You ever think of that, huh?"

We were talking over each other.

But my words finished last.

And they struck home.

Rosalie was quiet. "That's not the case at all," she said firmly.

"Oh ..." I said, "Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. "You God-damn hypocrite! Your whole life is a picture of unhappiness, and you just sail through it saying you're better-than, pissing everybody off in your wake, and then you blame everything and everybody because you're not satisfied that people just don't get out of your way and give you exactly what you want? Excuse me? You're the one responsible for us being right here, right now, and you being like you are because you were exactly like that already, and you have to be blind not to see that, okay?"

Rosalie was quiet at that.

"And then," I said bitterly, "your book says those gods or whoever say 'tatty's stew' and, bam! That's what happened, and you say you rise above when all you do is just sink down further and further, because all you do is fight, and all they say is, like: 'okay, fight; let us know when you get tired of that, okay?' And you never do, because you think you're better even than God, or gods, or no, I bet you think you're better than God, don't you? Memorizing the Bible so you can quote it back to Him, like that's going to make any difference!"

Rosalie had no answer. She was utterly still.

No, she breathed, deep, even breaths.

"You ever think of that, Rosalie Hale?" I demanded angrily.

"All the time," she said very, very softly.

"And what you doin' about that, huh?" I almost snarled.

"Nothing," she said.

"Yeah!" I spat back.

"Tathastu," she said.

"And that's your consolation?" I almost screeched. "Some stupid philosophy that says it's okay because you deserve it?"

"No," she said.

But her 'no' meant 'yes,' I thought. Didn't it.

"Git!" I said and knocked her hand off me. I turned, facing her, furiously.

"'Tatty's stew,' huh?" I said.

Rosalie bit her lip and looked away.

"Well," I huffed, "what if I make it make you ... I don't know, be happy, or ..."

Rosalie looked back at me quickly. "It doesn't work like that, Bella," she said, a tinge of righteousness in her voice. "It works on what you say about yourself. You can't make other people be anything other than what they are."

"You do," I said.

Rosalie's eyebrows crinkled. "Pardon?"

"You do," I repeated firmly.

Rosalie shook her head. "Bella," she said patiently, "no, I don't. And I don't know what you mean. I work on my own improvement, not ..."

"And that has worked so well for you, hasn't it!" I said.

Rosalie glared at me. "For the most part, yes, it ..."

"Oh, shut up!" I said, glaring right back. "Don't bother with your 'for the most part' with me, Rosalie Hale, because I smell a rat there. You worked on yourself so hard, that's all that was left of you. You didn't even know how to smile except to sneer when I first saw you, and you didn't 'improve' at all after that. And as for 'oh, I just work on myself,' God! Like what have you been doing with me this whole time, leaving me to my own devices? I think not!"

Rosalie looked away at that.

"What have you been doing with everybody else, huh? 'Get out of my way, you're not good enough!' 'You want to be in my Royal Presence, you have to improve yourself like I do: better than, a perfect gentleman,' and I just bet people stepped up their game because you demanded it, didn't they!"

I looked at her hard.

"And you say you don't do that to other people!"

Rosalie was just ... so withdrawn into herself.

God, I wanted to kiss her so hard!

I turned my back on her, so hard. Hurting her. Hurting myself more.

"Well, Lady," I growled. "Now I'm in on this game. I swear I'm going to make you ..." love me, I thought, then recoiled at the thought. "... honest-to-God smile because you're honest-to-God happy, for God's sake, because tatty's stew. So there, Rosalie Hale."

And I was done.

Just an angry echo in my thought: So there, Rosalie Hale.

Rosalie shook her head. "Happiness, Bella, implies ..."

I raised my hand wearily. "You do so love to talk, don't you?"

Rosalie was silent, glowering. "You do so love not to listen. No," she said tightly: "you love to hear only what you want to hear."

My hand pointed vaguely into the darkness of the cabin. "Mirror's over there if you want to keep talkin' about yourself."

Rosalie's teeth ground.

She so loved been right. She so hated being called on it, especially when she was wrong.

"You going to sleep now?" she asked, annoyed.

"Yes," I hissed back at her.

"You going to put on your nightwear?" she asked.

"Because this is distracting to you?" I asked.

"Yes," she said testily.

"Good," I said. I tossed the rolled up flannel pjs onto the floor. The pjs, rolled up, were like a teddy bear that I was snuggling. But I didn't care. Or I did. It hurt to toss that comfort from me, but ...

Let's see how she likes a taste of her own God-damn medicine, I thought angrily.

Besides, hot stove? Super-hot Rosalie-so-coldly angry? I was perfectly comfortable as I was, thank you!

I slept.

A/N: Happy Fathers' Day. My Fathers' day present to you. You like? I liked it.

... Rosalie didn't. Not at all.