50

"Are you sure?" Rosalie asked, tilting her head to the side. "I mean, are you really sure, Bella?"

Bella pressed her lips together before she nodded. "Yes."

Rosalie sighed and reached for her hair, ignoring the way her little sister flinched. Marcus had told her it was important that she didn't let Bella's automatic reactions to being touched show that they bothered her. He said it would take time for get used to people touching her without being afraid, that Sam Uley had conditioned her into believing that every touch would be followed by pain. It made Rosalie sick just thinking about what that monster had done to her, how he had taken her childhood from her.

"But it's so long." When Bella rolled her eyes, Rosalie almost laughed. Almost but didn't because she could tell that this was important to her. "I could take you to my stylist. He would do a way better job than me. I'll probably make you look like a chia pet."

Bella quickly shook her head. "No, please."

"Okay, okay." Rosalie put her hand up, trying to stop her from having a full blown panic attack. "I'll do it, if you're sure you want me to."

"I do," she whispered, biting the inside of her lip before adding. "He liked it long, so . . . I want it short."

Rosie nodded. "Then I'll cut it short, but if I mess it up, don't be mad at me, okay? Last time I cut your hair, Mom grounded me for a week."

For the first time in days, Bella smiled. "You cut my bangs too short."

"They were horrible," Rosie giggled, running her fingers through Bella's hair. "You'll look beautiful with shorter hair, though. I mean, you look beautiful no matter what your hair looks likes, but you'll look really pretty with shorter hair."

"Will . . . will I look like . . . like a mom?" she asked so softly Rosalie barley heard her. Barely, but she did.

Rosalie frowned. "You're a mom, no matter how long or short your hair is, Bella. You're a mom even if . . . even if Hope never gets to come live with us. You will always be her mom."

"I will?"

She nodded, placing her hands on Bella's shoulders. "You will, honey. Now, are you sure you want me to cut your hair? Esme or Alice probably can do a better job than me."

"I trust you, Rosie," she said, shifting her eyes up to her through the mirror. "I trust you."

Though it was hard, Rosalie managed to keep from opening weeping. Her sister trusted her, trusted her to take care of her, so with tears filling her eyes, she simply smiled and nodded. "Then let's get started."

Bella took a deep breath as she sat in the wooden kitchen chair Rosalie had moved into the bedroom. She almost hid the way her shoulders tensed as Rosalie draped the towel around the front of her body, covering her shoulders and clasping it with a hair clip. Rosalie picked up the hairbrush and looked Bella in the eyes before she started the brush through her hair, hair so long it reached the top of her butt. Her eyes closed and a small, delicate smile played on her lips.

"Okay, Bella, I'm going to start cutting it, all right?"

"I'm . . . I'm ready," she whispered, her eyes opening and smiling. "I'm ready, Rosie."

Rosalie picked up the scissors and started cutting her hair as straight as she could across her shoulders. As the hair fell from her fingers, she found herself in awe of how strong her little sister really was. She'd lived in Hell for eight years, yet she never stopped fighting, never gave up. She saw herself as a nobody, a nothing, but Rosalie saw her as amazing and strong and beautiful — a survivor, even if she wasn't ready to see herself as such yet.

—SfH—

Edward sat in the middle of his bed, his knees bent in front of him. He had his earbuds in his ears, Claire De Lune playing on repeat, and a book he hadn't looked at in over three years propped up on his legs. A book his mother had given him for the last birthday they had together, a book about art. The pages were worn, a couple of them torn from where he flipped them too fast. The corners of his favorite pages had been dog-eared, earning him a glare from his mother when she found out, but he gave her his best, cheeky smile and she didn't glare at him anymore.

He stopped on his favorite page. This one of a picture of The Starry Night painted in 1889 by Vincent Van Gogh. It had been the first painting Edward had ever seen, the first one that had him staring at every detail, enthralled by the way Van Gogh made the images almost pop off the canvas. From there, he'd become obsessed with art: paintings, sculptures made from stone, steel, wood, clay works, and everything in between. The artist mind fascinated him, and he'd longed understand their way of seeing the world.

The sound of someone knocking on his bedroom door, caused him to sigh and drop the book on the bed before he hurried over, yanking the door open. He was prepared to be annoyed, but any annoyance left when he found her standing there. Beautiful and delicate, and the way she looked up at him, the fight in her eyes touched his soul in ways he would never be able to understand.

"Hey," he whispered, smiling before he reached up and tugged the earbuds from his ears.

"Hey," Bella murmured, shifting from one foot to the other as she tugged on the front of her T-shirt. "Sorry if I'm interrupting anything. Carlisle said you were up here, and everyone is downstairs, so I thought I would keep you company."

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot." Edward stepped backward and waved her into his room. She stepped inside, bringing her hand up and pushing her hair behind her ear. "You cut your hair."

"Rosie did," she said, nodding. "Does it look okay?"

Edward grinned as he reached over and ran his fingers through her hair, causing her eyes to close. It was much shorter, reaching just below her chin. It was choppy and uneven, yet he wasn't going to tell her that. His mother had always told him that you never criticize a woman's hair. Ever.

"It's beautiful, like you."

Bella smiled, opening her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Bella walked over and sat on the side of his bed, picking up the book he'd been looking at. She flipped it open, her mouth opening as she looked from it to him. "You're looking at art."

Edward shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans before nodding. "My mom . . . She gave me that book for my birthday. I was turning sixteen, and most kids would have wanted a new car, or something big and flashy, but I just wanted that book. It's kind of a rare book, really hard to find, and um, really expensive," he whispered before he walked over and sat next to her. "I woke up the morning of my birthday and found this box on the bottom of my bed. I peeled the bow off and the paper and when I opened the top, this book was inside. I don't know how she did it, how she found it, or how much it cost her. After she died, I couldn't look at it again, not until this morning."

"What made this morning different?" Bella asked, flipping through the pages, stopping at same one he had just been staring at it. "I like this one. It's . . . magical."

Edward smiled. "It's my favorite, too. It's called The Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh."

Bella nodded, shifting her eyes up to his. "What made you open this book this morning?"

"You," he admitted.

"Me?"

Edward nodded. "You make me want to . . . to live my life again, I guess."

"Oh." Bella smiled and looked back at the book. "You go to college, too, right? Like Rosie and Emmett do?"

Edward nodded. "Spring semester starts in a week."

"What are you studying?" she asked, shifting her eyes to him. "What are you going to be when you grow up?"

"I don't plan on ever growing up," he laughed before sighing. "I haven't declared a major. Before . . . before the accident, I would have told you that I was going to study art history, maybe work in a museum or something. But now, I don't know."

Bella nodded, looking down at the book again. "What would she want you to do? If she were sitting here with us, what would she tell you to study?"

Edward frowned. "She would tell me to listen to my heart, to find my passion, and not to let . . . fear or doubt keep me from being happy."

"And studying art history would make you happy, wouldn't it? It's your passion, isn't it?"

"It is," he whispered.

"Then you should study art history, Edward."

"Maybe," he said, slipping the book out of her hands and closing it, placing it back on the bed. "Are you scared about tonight?"

Bella tensed before she nodded. "What if . . . what if she doesn't like me?"

"How could she not?" he asked.

"But what if she doesn't?" she cried, looking up at him with tears filling her eyes. "What if she blames me for letting him . . . letting Sam Uley take her away from me?"

Edward reached over and took hold of her hand, bringing it up to his lips. "If by some far out, crazy reason that happens, we — all of us who love and support you — will help Hope understand that you fought for her, that you're still fighting for her?"

"Promise?" she wept.

"I promise, sweetheart," he whispered, bringing his other hand up to her cheek, leaning his forehead against hers. "I promise."

—SfH—

She and Edward had stayed hidden in his bedroom the rest of the afternoon. He showed her his books on art, explaining what he loved and hated about each and every piece. She loved listening to him talk. It didn't matter if it was about, either. Art, his brothers, his parents, just loved listening to him talk. He didn't talk down to her, didn't treat her like she was fragile or weak. The others did. Whether they meant to or not, they talked to her like she was eight, like she was still that little girl who had been whisked away in the middle of the night. She wasn't that little girl anymore, hadn't been in a long, long time. He made sure she wasn't that little girl anymore.

"It's almost time."

She felt herself tense as she lobbed her head to the side. "I know."

"I'll be there, with you, the whole time."

"I know," she whispered.

Edward climbed off the bed, holding his hands out toward her. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's go meet Hope."

Her hands were shaking as she placed them in his, allowing him to help her off the bed. He slipped his arm around her and they headed downstairs, where they found Emmett and Rosie waiting with Marcus, Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, and Alice. Baby Beth was asleep in Esme's arms, and she resisted the urge to hurry over and take the baby into her own arms. Beth wasn't her baby, something she reminded herself over and over again.

"Hey, honey," Jasper said, smiling as he stood up. "You okay?"

She nodded.

"And you understand that you're just meeting her today, right? You can't . . . we can't bring her home. You understand that, don't you?"

And again, she nodded.

"Well, we should go," Marcus said, standing up and walking over to her. He slowly raised his hands up, placing them on her shoulders. It took a lot of effort, but she didn't flinch. It was something they had been working on. He said it was important for her to control the way she reacts to those around her. She didn't really understand, but she was trying. "Remember what I told you."

"Don't force her to hug me. She doesn't know me as her mommy, and I have to be patient, let her come to me, let her get used to me because I'm a stranger to her."

"That's right," he said, dropping his hands from her shoulders. "I'll be right there with you the whole time." Marcus shifted his eyes to Edward. "We both will."

"Okay," she whispered, clenching her hands into fists.

Marcus gave her another hard look before he turned toward everyone else. "We'll check in later."

She shifted her eyes from each of them, knowing they all wanted to go with her to meet her Hope, but Marcus said they needed to keep it small, make it less overwhelming for Hope, and for her, but mostly for Hope. So only he, Edward, Rosie, and Carlisle were going with her.

Half an hour later, Marcus pulled up in front of a large brick house with a big porch, large yard, and three cars parked in the driveway, two more parked in front. She recognized one of them as Maggie's, and the other she assumed belonged to Tanya, the woman who made it clear she didn't like her, or think she deserved a chance to know Hope. She didn't like Tanya, the way she looked at her, the way she talked about her like she wasn't even there. She was Hope's mom, and all she wanted was a chance. A chance to know her, to love her. She was just asking for a chance.

She could feel herself shaking as they climbed out of the car, Edward with his arm wrapped around her and Rosie holding her hand, keeping her close, keeping her from falling apart. Trying to, at least.

Marcus and Carlisle led the way up the front path to the porch, but when Marcus reached out to ring the doorbell, she said, "I want to do it." He looked back at her, so she added, "I should do it. I can . . . I can do it."

Marcus smiled and moved out of the way, gesturing for her to ring the doorbell. She blew out a heavy breath before she reached over and pressed the little white button. She had barely taken a step backward when the door opened, though, and she found herself face to face with Angela.

"Hey," she whispered, dropping her hands to the front of her T-shirt.

"Hey," Angela replied with a smile. "Come on in."

"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her eyes to Edward before she stepped into the house, knowing the others were going to follow.

She wrapped her arms around herself as she looked around. The living room was off to the left of the entry room, and a dining room was to the right. It was nice, clean, kind of dark compared to Carlisle's, but she liked it. There was large brick fire place in the living room and scattered around the mantel were a dozen pictures of Angela and Ben with Hope.

"Ben was just getting her out of the bath," Angela said, closing the door and when she looked back, she saw the way the woman was watching her. "She had spaghetti for dinner and got it all over her. Hair, clothes, it was not pretty," she added with a laugh. She gestured for them to follow her over to the couches. "Um, can I get anyone something to drink? I have coffee, teas, water. Apple juice."

"I think we're okay for right now," Marcus said, placing his hand on her elbow, drawing her attention to him. "You are okay."

"I'm okay," she whimpered, wishing she felt stronger.

"Vanessa . . ." Angela paused and then said, "Hope drew this picture this morning." She walked over to the coffee table and picked it up, holding it out toward her. "I thought you might like it."

"Oh, thanks." She took the few steps toward her and took the picture. There were two people in the picture: a little girl and a bear, or something that looked almost like a bear with a blue nose.

The sound of a throat being cleared drew her attention to the stairs, where Ben stood with Hope in his arms. She was even more beautiful in person, she thought. Her hair was wet and black, and long. Down well past her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, her skin creamy and soft. She was bigger, yet little at the same time.

"Oh," she whimpered, bringing her hand up to her mouth. In her arms was an old ratty teddy bear with a blue nose, a teddy bear that had kept her safe for a long time. Too long. "That's Blue."

"She's calls him Teddy," Angela said, drawing her attention from Hope and Blue back to her. "Blue is a good name, though. She's carries him around with her all the time."

"She does?" she cried.

"Yes." Angela walked over to Ben, slipping the little girl and Blue into her arms before she turned and took a handful of steps toward her. "Vanessa, this is Bella. Can you say hi, sweetie?"

Hope ducked her head into the crook of Angela's neck, but the softest, sweetest sound trickled out of her mouth when she said, "Hi."

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