Silence covered us like heavy blankets.

Or, maybe a more appropriate analogy would be, silence strangled me by the throat.

"What are you thinking?"

What was I thinking? Who knew. I didn't seem mad or sad or annoyed or anything. Just shocked. Was I upset about the fact that Edward Cullen killed— or, rather, had killed? Or was I more upset at the fact that inhuman humanoid creatures existed and all this time no one bothered to say anything?

"I think," I said, hesitating over my words, "I need a distraction."

"Would you like me to talk?" he asked in a soft voice. "I can talk about jazz." My expression never changed. "Or, I can ask you the questions."

I gave a sarcastic snort. "Yeah. Right. You want to ask me questions?"

"Well, you know who I am." We exchanged glances. "Not exactly, but you're close. You have everything you need to solve the problem. Apparently." He looked down at my feet. "But I don't know much about you."

"Uh." I stumbled over another incredulous laugh. "What's there to know?"

"Since I can't read your mind— everything. Your favorite movie. How you got that scar on your arm. How you ended up here, more than anything. What you meant that day when you said you 'took away the choice.' Your favorite color."

"Brown."

"And?"

"Romeo and Juliet. The one with Leonardo DiCaprio." No response. "I got the scar falling out of a tree on my twelfth birthday."

He waited. "Bells."

I groaned. "I mean, I could tell you the rest but it's— it's in the past now. I'm different. It's just— idiotic."

"Will it sound more idiotic than me telling you I'm a mind-reading killing machine?"

That joke was enough to loosen the tension in my shoulders but not enough to let my guard down. "It's contentious."

"Contentious." We exchanged wry smiles. "One conversation. After that, we don't ever have to speak again, if you really want. Or so it goes."

Damn. This One Conversation thing was more of an investment than I'd planned.

"Fine," I said. It took me a minute. I started a few times and stopped, blushing. I glanced out the window, but everything rushed by in a blur of color. "Ugh. So. I sent myself here because I felt— trapped. In Phoenix. Renée was off in her own little world and Georgi and I were fighting."

"Georgi?"

"Oh. No one. We were friends. I don't really make friends. But she was mine." I paused, but he said nothing. "She was two years older than me, impulsive and irresponsible, but you couldn't help loving her, y'know? Like Renée. And I think that's why I liked her, too. Because Renée and I have a great relationship. Had, anyway. Once she got married, everything got worse. She was unhappy without Phil. But she— god, she's so stubborn." Like a flock of ox.

"Sounds like someone I know."

"It was like marrying Phil made her want to prove something to herself, but she just got crushed under the weight of the responsibility. You know? I told her she was welcome to go run off with her husband, galavant around. I'll hang back while she goes and does what she wants. —No, no. 'Oh Bella, I couldn't possibly leave you here alone. I'm your mother. You need me.'" I sighed.

Renée had denied the truth about her maturity for a long time, but when it came crashing down, she could barely handle the pain.

"So, okay. We stayed. I helped her with rent, I controlled our budget, I cooked all the meals, I did what I could for her. For years, I helped her with all that. But after she married it got— overwhelming. Lovesickness always crushes her." I finished with a hmph and rolled my eyes; Edward laughed. "At first, she tried to get involved with it all, but I've got a meticulous system going, and she's not the practical type. That made her super depressed. So eventually I start asking: 'Okay, if you're not gonna go be with Phil, what if I lived with Charlie?'

"Nope. She shut me down. Every time. 'You wouldn't be happy there,' or, 'We're the Gilmore Girls, you can't tear us apart!'"

"Well, I'm sure she didn't want you to go."

"No, of course not. And I didn't want to go either. I loved her. I still love her more than anyone. There just came a point where my relationship with her— with both of them— became unhealthy."

"As in abusive?"

"No, nothing like that. Not with Renée. With Georgi...there was a lot of lying for her, and taking care of her. We got into a lot of arguments that became fights. I put up with bad behavior I shouldn't have. That was my fault. That's not me. Or not who I want to be. But as ugly as it was, it also made me realize that I sorta had a similar relationship with Renée." Even saying the words stung. "I mean, credit where credit is due, Renée tries to be responsible. She was insistent I do everything to get a good education. That was number one for her."

"So she had her priorities straight, at least."

"Yeah. Kinda. Except she kinda didn't. She'd say 'work towards a good college' and then she'd go and spend my lunch money on pottery classes, or she'd stand up to her boss and get fired from a job, or something. Always something. Always an excuse. So then I'd have to swoop in and find some way to pay the bills, or I'd have to convince the landlord to give us extra time, or I'd have to stay up late to keep Rene from— herself. And it was a lot of work to do that and prepare for my future and keep myself sane. So. I. I don't know. After midterms last semester, I—took a sabbatical. From. Regular life."

"Aha. So is where you 'took away the choice,' hm?" I nodded, embarrassed. "May I ask what happened on this 'sabbatical'? You're talking about your time with this friend of yours— I presume she has something to do with it?"

"Yeah. I mean, she was there for me, Georgi, in the summer and fall. She went to the college when I had a hybrid schedule between AP and college courses. No one on campus knew I was still a high school senior. So it was kinda like a fresh start. She'd sit down and talk to me, joke around, share artwork. She saw me. She had been there with the whole 'irresponsible mom' thing. And so I leaned into my relationship with her, this creative outlet. And. Yeah. Turns out, she was just another Renée that I catered to." I sounded more disappointed than I wanted to, and added, "But at least she was fun. We did a lot together. Um. Including graffiti. Among other things. It was dumb and irresponsible, but... I don't know. I needed it.

"I left clues around the house, hoping Renée would figure it out so she'd send me away. I knew I needed to get out, even though I was having fun. Maybe because I was having fun. But I just couldn't speak to her. She never listened. Just— talked."

"Graffiti. Hm. Really." His eyebrow arched. "I didn't peg you as the type."

"I'm really not," I assured him. He chuckled, low. "Or, well, I guess I didn't start out that way. Besides, it wasn't like tagging or anything. Never tagging. My friends tagged. I just painted."

"Plants."

"Plants, trees, landscapes, whatever. And it was—wow. Just, so invigorating." A laugh spilled out of me. "I felt like a daredevil. Like, in one life, here I am, this perfect student, perfect daughter, responsible, prudent, practically middle-aged. And then, to have these loud, physical statements around town shouting my name, who I was, who I could be— it was a relief. People saw me instead of this, like, torchbearer of responsibility. I even started hiding it from Renée because I liked it so much. I liked how that outlet changed my personality, how I could 'cultiver le jardin,' or whatever the hell Candide says." Edward got a kick out of that. "Such a dumb mistake."

"But it wasn't a mistake because you changed, right?" he said, skipping over a guitar solo to another, more calming track. He fiddled with the dial; I watched his fingers. "It was a mistake because you were eventually caught. Right?" he looked at me like a Rubix cube he couldn't stop turning.

"Kinda. A little of both." I looked down. "After a while, I started thinking maybe I should, I don't know, get involved with painting murals for the community, y'know? I liked the art but not the sneaking out, not the quick getaways, all that stuff. I liked the thrill, but not the illegality of it.

"So, I pulled in another direction, back to Perfect Bella world. I was torn between that and my friend. She freed me in some ways, elevated my art and the way I viewed the world, and I— I dunno. I felt like I owed it to her to stay. I thought if I stuck with her, if we could be good influences on each other, maybe she wouldn't...be the way she was.

"But she kept roping me back into different things. 'Bella, you gotta loosen up, you gotta loosen up.' Her and Renée, they're so similar. So, whatever. I ignored her immaturity— and mine, too, I guess— to prove I wasn't totally uptight. I'll admit it. But I stayed longer than I should've. Even after things got ugly."

"And how did that happen?"

"Just more fights, I guess. More fights and more doing stuff for her and more, just— ugh. That woman! She made so many friends without questioning their intentions. She did so many things without thinking of the consequences. Here I am, thinking, 'Oh, I grew up with Renée, this should be a cakewalk.'

"Anyway, I digress. What was I saying? —As it turns out, Georgi had a lot of friends from high school. One of her friend's dad was a cop—I'd met him a few times. And after one bad fight, he was asking me about this black eye I got, and—"

"You mean to say you got into physical fights?"

"It, uh... yeah. It escalated. Not our finest hour." And by the look on Edward's face, I was sure I had just opened another fresh pack of questions. Uneasy, I jumped back in. "Anyway, I sorta dropped hints to cop-dad that my relationship with this girl was problematic, that things might be happening near x y or z. We were planning on painting this building near the pond. —Well, I say we, but I was—disinvited. Georgi knew, I mean she knew that the water just— never mind. She picked that spot because she didn't want me to come with. That's why we fought.

"I went anyway to spite her, even though the mature thing to do would've been stay home and never talk to her again. But of course I don't because there's just—something about her that made me crazy, I guess. So it's me and her and a couple other people. And long story short we end up getting into another fight. Like the fight of all fights. In front of everybody. Georgi pushed me into— w-well, she did something awful— and I guess someone got 'scared' and called the police." I rolled my eyes. "Wouldn't you know it, cop-dad was right in the area, patrolling around, thanks to me, because of what I had told him the other day.

"So cop-dad shows up. Everyone books it. Georgi books it— even limping, y'know, she still managed to get away. And I—" sighed "—got caught trying to climb a fence. I wasn't strong enough to be quick about it and Georgi messed up my shoulder. Ugh. Stupid lats. —Quit laughing!"

"Sorry, it's only—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, that's easy-peasy for you, but some of us are weak even by human standards." He continued to laugh. I rolled my eyes. "Anyway, that's the last time I saw her. She found out I spoke to cop-dad, blamed the whole thing on me, and never spoke to me again."

"Sounds like you're better off for it."

"One hundred percent. This was not how the 'take away the choice' plan was supposed to go. I was kind've hoping that Renée would figure it out or get an anonymous tip from cop-dad or something. I even told him, like, 'Man, it would be so awful if my mom found out these things were happening, dot dot dot.' Looking back, I don't know what the hell I was thinking." Every time Edward glanced in my direction, he had this smile slide across his lips, something he tried to hide on more than one occasion.

I continued without waiting for a response. "So, new plan: I had to get myself off the hook with cop-dad. Which would've been easy, except I had spray paint on my hands and looked like I had gotten into a fight. I was a complete idiot. Ugh. More than an idiot. No one would've been patrolling if it wasn't for me; they would've never shown up in time. Someone could've got hurt or something bad could've happened and it would've been my fault."

"But nothing did happen, hm?"

"No. I lucked out. If you could call it that. He only caught me and, like, one other person. Dunno what happened to the other guy, but cop-dad drove me home. In the back of the cruiser. Ugh."

"As far as breaking the law is concerned, it's quite a gentle episode to have happened."

"It's not about the law, it's about—" Me. Who I was. Who I wasn't. It was about all the mistakes that led me there. There had been so many. So few that Edward knew about.

I never continued, so he did. "A lapse in judgment."

"A months-long lapse in judgment. Knowing you're lapsing in judgment but shutting down anyway because everything just—too painful."

"So, you get caught." The warm incandescents of streetlamps washed our faces in light and plunged us back into darkness. "And I'm assuming this is the part where Renée gets involved?"

"Yeah. So there's Renée, two-thirty in the morning, sobbing curbside in her Looney Tunes bathrobe. And there I am getting out of a cop cruiser, soaking wet, bloody nose, bloody mouth, paint everywhere, all scratched up. I felt so horrible, I thought about all the lies I could tell her when I saw her."

"Did you? Lie to her?"

I laughed, incredulous still about how it all played out. "No. First off, cop-dad and I had a talk on the way back. I explained a few things. We make a deal, he holds up his end: Renée never finds out about the fighting, just the spraypainting. So she asked me, like, 'Vandalism, really?' Like, 'Why on earth?' And I just—got honest. I looked her in the eye and just said listen, Renée, I can't do this. Y'know? I can't be everything all at once and still be me. I can't keep up having to care for you and protect you and save you all the time. I said it more diplomatically than that, but..." I shook my head, still incredulous. It had been a huge realization for me at the time, and there I was, blurting out hot truth at two-thirty in that dingy, dirty kitchen of our shitty apartment. Edward nodded along like he knew what I meant, flicking on the blinker to merge into the exit lane. "Of course, that starts a big argument."

"So she didn't see it that way, hm?"

"Oh. Not at all. Renée was so mad about what I said, she never even asked about my face."

"Did she ever find out?"

"No. She didn't get the chance. We get back into the apartment, she's still yelling at me. I look around. Just within the last like three weeks, when I stopped being middle-aged Bella, when things got real crazy—everything fell apart. Everything. I was sleeping a lot at Georgi's house while Phil stayed with Renée, so I wasn't really home. But three weeks later, here I am. Phil's gone. We've got unopened mail sitting on the table from bill collectors, there's nothing but a bottle of tomato juice and an empty pickle jar in the fridge, that stupid bathroom pipe I'd fixed had started leaking again and soaked the bathroom rug, everything we own is scattered all over the place because Renée read an article about how throwing out all your stuff will help you get your life together or whatever. Three weeks!" I groaned and rubbed my forehead. "Like, I'm happy to do more than my fair share. Really. I know how to keep a household running. I'm good at it when I have to be. But you're telling me you can't keep it together for less than a month?" I laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Forget it. That's above my pay grade."

"So you told her you were leaving, then?" Edward turned the corner, and we rumbled along the cracked pavement at a sluggish twenty-five miles per hour—the road that led back to Forks.

"Not really. The stars must've aligned because Renée threw out this ultimatum about how I had to turn my life around, 'Boarding school or live with your dad.' Gee, wonder where she got that idea." We exchanged smirks. "I booked my ticket to Seattle that night. Checkmate, I guess. I got what I wanted. In some odd, roundabout way. Even if it means Renée thinks I'm some delinquent sleazebag."

"I'm sure she doesn't think that. —But why Forks, if I may ask? You don't like the cold and wet. You're not close with Charlie. Why not choose boarding school?"

I rolled my eyes. "What am I gonna do, go to some fancy schmancy academy for the last semester of high school? No. Renée had no idea what she was saying. Plus, she'd never be able to afford it. And guess who'd end up paying for it?"

"Phil?"

"And even more likely, me. Yeah."

Edward blinked rapidly. Like the concept of not having enough money was unfathomable. "Ah. I can certainly understand why that might deter you."

I paused to replay the events in my mind.

"I love her. I love Renée. I never wanted to hurt her like I did. But she didn't understand—or even believe—that I needed more than her. It was beyond frustrating."

"So what was it that sparked your, er, sabbatical?" he asked. "From what you've told me, it sounds like you'd been caring for her for a long time. She got married, you said, but—is that really how this all started? She got married and then you befriended a girl that reminded you of her?"

I rolled my eyes to search for an answer and felt around for one with my words. "She got married over the summer. Every time Phil leaves for work, she gets super depressed. He's gone for a few weeks at a time, maybe a month or two. And I should've been paying attention. I don't know. But November rolled around, and there was a midterm in one of my college classes that had to be done on the computer." I sighed. "Renée had skipped out on the electric bill. So I scramble for the money. Pull it together, pay the bill, it's all good, and then—" And then. Always 'and then.' I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Come to find out, Renée had decided, a week earlier, after she realized we wouldn't have enough money for electricity, that the internet was like 'her generation's TV.' So she unplugged us."

"Oh."

"Couldn't make it up. The professor said she didn't accept late work. 'College isn't high school, you know.'

"And I was just, oh man, I was angry. I'm still angry. That stupid midterm tanked my grade, tanked my GPA. Here I am, eyeing up Ivy League schools, Dartmouth, Brown, UW Madison as a safety, and all of a sudden—gone. Like that. Years of hard work. Next year I'll be enrolled in community college and then maybe, maybe, if I can get good grades and explain away the bad ones, I'll have a shot. For a waitlist. Because I couldn't—" Keep it together. Control myself. Be better. There was a long, angry pause. But it didn't help to keep it in, so I breathed it out and let it go. "I failed my midterm, so I quit my life. That's all."

"Well, it's not the end of the world," Edward reasoned, tone gentle. "And Ivy Leagues, of course—there are plenty of other schools. Better schools. You don't even have to go to school, if you don't want to."

"No, and I get that. And no knocks against a community college. It's just." I sighed. "This was what I wanted. For myself. And that's what I mean when I say her 'good mom' shtick didn't work. Our relationship wasn't healthy for me. You can't be putting my education first when you're making decisions like that. It's irresponsible." I could hear her crying in the back of my mind. Crying. Always crying. She always cried. I always comforted her. I was tired of comforting her. When is it my turn to cry? Why can't I be the child? That response had made her cry harder. "I needed to think about what was best for me."

"And your father didn't know what was going on?"

"We, uh, kept Charlie on a Christmas card–basis. Renée resents the hell out of him. No idea why. He was happy enough to spend a few months or weeks a year with me. And then I stopped going, and the whole thing just faded. He reached out a few times. But I hated Forks. And maybe he couldn't keep up with our mailing addresses. I don't know."

"Odd," he said.

"Maybe he assumed I was happier with Renée." We were parked now, basking in the glow of a warm street lamp. I looked across the front yard of Charlie's house. "And maybe I was. But Renée got reckless as she got older. I couldn't live my own life and keep up with hers."

"Are you okay?"

I snapped out of it and whipped around to face him. "You got quite the conversation out of me, huh? I think you owe me one."

Edward grinned. "Now I see why you overstepped our terms in Port Angeles. It really is hard to resist. And you're a good storyteller."

I chuckled. I let the calm of the music swell over our comfortable silence. "If you didn't have such a great playlist, I would've bolted by now."

"I almost forgot. You like it?"

"How could I not? I've loved everything you've recommended so far."

"It's supposed to be a sort of smorgasbord of different styles. Here." Edward plucked the metal USB from his dashboard and held it so the mouth pointed towards me. Silence.

"You're giving me your smorgasbord?"

"Well, I hadn't exactly planned on— or, it could have used a little more fine-tuning. I was going to adjust it tonight. However, since you're here, I thought I might..." As he trailed off, he dropped the USB in my palm. We stared, silent. "I thought you might like it."

"Edward Cullen, are you nervous?" I teased, throwing open the car door and snatching my new book from my feet. It caught him off guard, but he hid it in a smile.

"You make me nervous."

Not the response I was expecting. He rolled the window down; by the time I shut the door behind me, I could turn and rest my arms on the open frame and speak to him through the window with my head ducked into the car. "You should be more worried about me demolishing your weak playlist."

"Isabella?"

"Bells?"

He smiled. "Bells?" Edward leaned toward me, over the middle console, his face inches from mine. My heart stopped beating. Maybe. Hard to tell when the only thing you can hear is the girlish screaming inside your own head. "It's been a pleasure. Thank you," he said. "But just—" and he zipped his lips shut with his thumb and forefinger, locking them up at the corner.

I did the same with a scoff-laugh, tossing him my key.

I swear I panted up the driveway.

I threw open the screen door and kicked in the front door, squeezing the USB in my palm and pocketing it.

"Made it back in one piece?" Charlie called from the kitchen. Greasy fish smell wafted through the air.

"Sorta," I said, as I crossed to the stairs. "We sold my liver for gas money. Figured you'd understand."

"Least now I won't have to worry about underage drinking."

"Let's not get carried away."

"Bella."

I poked my head down from the stairway. "It's a joke, Dad."

"Fish sticks?" He shook the frosty yellow box at me.

"Wow. No. No offense, but—no. Thanks."

"Say, so I was thinking, speaking of, uh, fish— maybe we could go sometime. Fishing." He leaned back on the countertop, bit off a piece of fish stick, and wiped the grease on his jeans. "With Billy? And Jake?"

"Yeeaah. Sounds like...yeah."

"Or," he fumbled, "we don't have to do that. You and I can do something. We can hike. Go to a movie. Something. I don't know. —Do you still hunt?"

"With who? Renée?"

"What? You were an ace shot when you were a kid. You and Jake set traps like a pro. I just didn't know if she let you— No?— 'Kay. Well. You wanna go? Shake off the rust?"

I tried not to hesitate to say, "Yeah. That sounds good. I'd like that." Actually, it'd been a long time. Maybe too long. Shooting and hunting weren't really my passion, but I had good aim, and the conversation with Edward left me sentimental. Maybe it would do me some good to spend time with the parent who made my life more routine. "Thanks, Dad."

I trudged up the stairs, head clouded. All the details from my and Edward's conversation flooded my memory. Truth be told, I can't believe how much personal info I'd given to a guy who more or less hated my guts for the first month of the semester. But there was something. Something in the way his eyes begged me, something in the way he moved. It had changed.

Less—robotic? Firm? Cold? Tense?

Control. Edward had less reactive movements. —No, the opposite: he was less controlled. He moved fluidly. Sure, he had kept his fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, he made a point not to touch me, but he could stand to be three feet from me. Inches from me. So, you know, I either switched to a better shampoo or maybe he liked me a little more.

My heart leaped. I tried not to smile, but it's kind of cool, knowing you're charming enough to make someone stop hating you.

It was a good night to draw. I plugged in the USB and started Edward's playlist. Debussy first. Of course. Probably trying to butter me up before hitting me with Norwegian death metal or something.

The vampire book was sticking out from my purse; I grabbed it, my eyes absorbing the cover. Georgi would have loved this for sure. But, honestly — I kinda wanted to keep this for myself. For a really dumb reason, too. But those eyes reminded me a lot of Edward's when he was in a bad mood. Angry, or angsty.

They were golden tonight. I followed his eyes everywhere: darting across the windshield, the monitor. To me. To my feet.

You have everything you need to solve the problem. Apparently.

The sickness from earlier resurfaced. And while I stared at the cover of my book, my brain didn't so much as click, but jam. Like broken gears.

Black eyes on the front cover stared back at me.

My hands iced over.

Don't be an idiot. I flipped through the pages, through every "type" of vampire. Not the ones that feed on blood; I'm talking vampires who drink nightmares, emotions, tears, semen, everything. Which I guess exist? All looking similarly beautiful, ashy, sunken. They matched, and yet, not?

It wasn't until I reached the back of the book, where the types of vampires had gotten progressively darker, where I found him. His type. Edward. The guy whose eyes changed from gold to black. The guy who never ate food. The guy whose body was icy. The guy who stayed as far away from me as possible.

Because he had fangs. Because he was built to kill me. Because his eyes were black when he was hungry.

Oh, god. Oh my god.

He was one of them. A Dracula-type. A Nosferatu. An Angel. A bloodsucker.

Don't think about it, don't think about it—

Absentminded, I snatched up my colored pencils and sketchbook. I drew and read the page, switching colors every so often. Mulling over the words. Vampiristic. Deadly. Ruthless. Immortal.

But he kept it together so well.

No. It couldn't be true. Or real. Humans recognized patterns that weren't there; they did it all the time.

He's not human.

If these—I don't know, these parasites, or vampires, or whatever the hell they were—were so malevolent and bloodthirsty, what kept them from killing the entire school? The entire town? How could they do it?

Golden eyes, red eyes, black eyes. Were the golden eyes good? God, I hoped they were good. What kind of book was this, anyway?

The more I mulled and drew, the more I knew that whatever the exact truth was, I wouldn't find out in a book. If I wanted to know, I would have to ask. Him.

My pencils ran out of page. I looked down. It felt good to draw in color. The first time I'd done so since I moved. A lake blazing with a sunset, and velvet-green trees soaking in its light, Northern lights drifting overhead. And I realized, through the fear and the butterflies, what Edward had really meant about crossing a line and not being able to go back.