Friday May 5th, 1933

1 day until the wedding

Of all the places in the world that I'd expected Carlisle to take me to, a garage had been pretty low on the list of conceivable possibilities. But the world didn't spin in one direction anymore, and probably never had. Anything was possible.

It was somehow possible that a world existed where I, Rosalie Hale, could be found in the middle of nowhere, in a garage, without having been kidnapped.

"...Does Esme keep her sewing machine in here?" I asked, totally lost. I failed to see how my request for a needle-point-like activity had resulted in this.

He chuckled like I was joking. "I told you to keep an open mind, right?"

My supernaturally perfect memory record showed that he had, in fact, said that, and that I had agreed.

Ah, a loophole – I'd agreed to try.

"I said I'd try to," I clarified. He walked into the musty room, brushing my words off as he headed towards an object underneath a canvas cover. An automobile, I assumed.

Sure enough, a surprisingly dapper-looking four-wheeled machine was hiding underneath. Carlisle had fun with the reveal, I could tell; he even flung the canvas up with a flick of his wrist,

"Excellent presentation," I complimented him, and meant it. The delivery of my compliment, however, was acidic.

"Thank you," he accepted. "Can you identify this model, Rosalie?"

"Typically, I am the model," I replied, my displeasure evident. He chuckled again.

"Fair," he said. "This is called a Cadillac. Have you heard the name before?"

I'd definitely heard it before. Royce might've owned one. I wouldn't know – because why the hell would I have gone into the garage?

"I've heard of them."

Carlisle nodded. "They're well-made vehicles. I happened upon this one a few years ago. It had a "for sale" sign in someone's front yard; they were selling it for next to nothing, and I bought it with the understanding that it would need a fair bit of tweaking."

He opened the hood. It looked like jaws unnaturally separating. I found it to be strangely… beautiful.

Or maybe that was just Doctor Cullen leaning over a car with his sleeves rolled up.

It occurred to me that I would look leagues more beautiful than he did, if I were to denigrate myself enough to mimic his posture.

Come to think of it, if I were to hypothetically recreate his tableau, and someone happened to be standing by to capture it on camera… there would've been an entire pin-up calendar dedicated to the moment.

…Maybe I could get into cars.

I walked to stand beside him. He smiled slyly, like he knew the trap he'd set had worked to capture my attention flawlessly.

He wouldn't get to bask in the glory of being correct, though. I'd lately mastered the art of turning my face into stone, showcasing a perfect pout. The kind of look that conveyed not only a lack of interest, but also active displeasure.

And really, the only thing I was interested about regarding automobiles was the vision I'd had of myself interacting with one. The car was nothing special. The enjoyable part of the thought was me.

I barely even had to feign my annoyance. I was annoyed.

When I got to the hood of the car and peeked inside, I saw a whole lot of nothing. Just a labyrinth of gears and screws and smells.

"Do you spot any irregularities?" Carlisle prompted.

I scanned the tangle of pipes more rigorously. Still, nothing stood out to me. "No," I replied. "It looks normal."

"You'd think so, by only looking at it." He tossed me some kind of small, key-like device. "Try starting it."

Was he being fucking serious?

"I don't drive," I told him.

"Do you have your license to drive?"

"Of course I don't. I've never gone somewhere in a car and not been driven." I was a little insulted that he'd even considered anything else.

He seemed to pick up on my disgust. "I'm not trying to waste your time, Rosalie."

I crossed my arms and stared into the distance. The distance, unfortunately, was the wall of a dirty barn-turned-garage.

"Alright," he conceded, closing the hood and sitting back on it. "Miss Hale, do you consider yourself to be a good girl?"

That got my attention.

The world may spin out of control in all imaginable directions, but in every single iteration, I had excellent manners.

Even if those manners were sometimes rivaled by an untameable bloodlust.

This felt familiar. This reignited a flame within me that had been snuffed out on a snowy street. I felt a sense of relief as I recognized the true nature of our power dynamic – he would be easy to charm, even if I wasn't thrilled to showcase my etiquette in the first place.

I straightened up and met his gaze. "Yes, I do."

"What would you say is your best skill?"

It was straight out of a pageantry textbook. Not that I'd read any, of course. "In broad terms, my most admirable skill would be that I feel perfectly aligned with womanly duties and am proud to partake in them."

He nodded. "And what about in more specific terms?" he asked.

"I earned a perfect score in most subjects at finishing school," I boasted, but not excessively. "I can set a table with my eyes closed. I can ascend and descend three flights of stairs while balancing a book on my head. You'll never find a grammatical error in any of my Thank You notes."

"I heard through the grapevine that you're quite skilled at cross stitching."

"That's true, I am. I'm even more impressive with needlepoint, though."

Carlisle smiled. "There's a difference?"

"At the risk of sounding like a know-it-all," I explained, "cross stitching is a rudimentary form of hand embroidery. They require different techniques. Needlepoint is far more advanced."

He raised his eyebrows, seeming to accept that. "There's always something new to learn."

"Indeed," I acknowledged. "But there's no reason why a man should know the difference between the two. As you said yourself, you're not well-versed in ladies' things."

He laughed lightly. "It's true, I did say that. And I stand by that statement, just as I'm sure you are unfamiliar with the daily affairs of men."

"You are correct."

"Tell me, what is it about needlepoint that interests you so?"

I was surprised at how quickly the words came. "The… intricacy. The specificity – the color of thread, the size of the needle, the material upon which I operate. The guarantee of an immaculate result, as long as the pattern was followed. The pursuit of an unseeable perfection, beyond what the pattern can offer."

He absorbed that thoughtfully, silently, looking out of the barn-garage door-wall.

I'd lost him.

"...Which isn't to suggest that it's anything a man of your standing should trouble himself with."

"No, no," he waved the words away. "It's ironic that you used the word operate. Your description is quite similar to how I feel about practicing medicine. Surgical procedures, specifically – I don't want to simply put things where they're meant to be or remove them from where they aren't. I strive for something beyond. When I finish, I do so with the hope that I've done more good than was required."

"That's very noble."

"In my study, didn't you compare surgery to needlepoint?"

My stomach dropped. "I in no way meant to equate the two. Your work is far more significant."

"Fret not." He laughed again and stood upright, his hands loosely behind his back. "I'm acknowledging the parallel. They are quite similar in many distinctions."

"I suppose they are," I said slowly, not following.

"It makes me curious to see if… oh, well." He sighed and moved to put the cover back over the car.

"To see if what?" I prompted. I couldn't have him thinking… whatever he was thinking.

"It's alright, Rosalie. Never mind."

I felt a sensation similar to what once would've been a spasm of panic.

I'd never been in a situation where every man around me wouldn't find me impressive, no matter the circumstance. Every nerve in my body, human or not, cringed at the feeling of failure. It was more than a cringe – a twisted grimace was more appropriate.

Unacceptable.

Rosalie Hale wouldn't be caught dead grimacing at herself. Losing control to demonic bloodthirst notwithstanding.

I couldn't disappoint him. I would not.

"Please? I shouldn't have spoken out of turn."

He stopped moving the canvas back into place and studied me for a few moments. I tried to make my eyes look as pleading as possible.

"Forgive me," I pressed. "Please finish your sentence."

Slowly, he pulled the cover back off. It fell into a rumpled heap on the dirty garage floor. He didn't re-open the hood, though.

"I've always thought that automobile mechanics and operating share similar traits," he began, shrugging his shoulders humbly. "And, as you likened surgery to needlepoint, I thought you might be willing to share this hobby with me."

It took all my willpower to not act like a brat.

Clearly, my practiced pout wasn't going to work here. I'd have to switch up my strategy. Daddy had said that compromise was the key to successful negotiation… maybe I could meet Dr. Cullen in the middle.

A supernaturally strong and surprising wave of grief washed over me as I thought of my father, sweeping my composure away with it. I knew for a fact that my face had betrayed me this time.

I missed him so much. I'd been so lost in my pursuit of vengeance that I'd barely had time to mourn never being a part of my family again.

The family that pimped you out, I snarked to myself.

I crossed my arms and stared at the ceiling again. I felt like crying out of frustration. My emotions were out of control, I trusted absolutely no one, the rules of life as I knew it were scattered to the wind, I was covered in forest gunk, and instead of preparing for my rehearsal dinner like I should've been, I was in a fucking garage with the cult leader of the town's most reclusive anti-socialites.

It really, really hurt when I fell from heaven.

Carlisle watched me with no sense of urgency.

Which was good. I was supposed to be killing time. So… if I refused to hear him out and at least try, we'd be on the way back to the house.

And I had time to kill.

For the dress. I had said it was a dress to die for, hadn't I?

And maybe it wouldn't be so different from needlepoint, after all.

I swallowed what remained of my dignity, letting my venomous throat dissolve it on the way down.

"So, what's the problem with your piece of junk on wheels?"

/

Happiest of birthdays to Arielwashere 3 see y'all next Monday!