We streaked through the dark, thick underbrush like a bullet, like a ghost. Barely a whisper of sound, as though there were no evidence that his feet touched the ground. Icy forest air scorched my cheeks.

The dark and damp struck me. I couldn't hide it; I was afraid. Afraid this man would kill me, afraid there was some sort of secret spot he murdered people. I didn't want him to murder me. I wasn't ready to be murdered by anyone.

Then it was over. Wind ceased. We'd hiked hours this morning to reach Edward's meadow, and now, in a matter of minutes, we were back to the truck. Probably. I still hadn't managed to open my eyes and tear myself from the crook of Edward's neck.

"Exhilarating, isn't it?" His voice was high, excited.

He stood motionless, waiting for me to climb down. I tried, but my muscles wouldn't respond. My arms and legs stayed locked around him while my head spun, while all of me panicked. Tears kept streaming down my face, onto the collar of his shirt.

"You're shaking."

"Sorry. I think my face was torn off. Maybe I'll just, uh, stay here for a minute."

Edward chuckled and started unlocking me from his neck. "I apologize. In hindsight, it doesn't seem like the best idea."

"No. It was fun," I said, stumbling onto the ground stumbling, stumbling, back—

Into Edward Cullen's arms, just like that day he saved me from the van. Except this time, he grinned down at me instead of glared. He hoisted me back to my feet. "You're not upset?"

"Of course not." Kinda. I was upset. I was upset at the forest for being such a scary place. I was upset at myself because I was crying. On a date(?). What kind of perfect date(?) ends with one person crying?

I apologized again, but Edward was gentlemanly about the whole thing. He laughed at my jokes and draped the spicy scent of his coat around my shoulders and told me things were okay, that he was sorry, that we wouldn't do it again. He even let me drive my truck without having an attitude.

He almost let me pick the songs, but I insisted. The passenger picks the music. It's practically the law.

"You have to order the decades musically from your most to least favorite," he told me, glancing through the tracklist of the three CDs in his left hand.

"All of them?"

"The ones you know."

"Okay." A million songs flashed through my brain while my tongue touched my teeth. "Uh, so, let's see: seventies, first of all. Then nineties. Aughts—"

He smirked. "Figures."

"—eighties, sixties, then fifties. Don't give me that look."

"Fifties? At the bottom? I'm surprised."

"Surprised?" Our side-eyed glances implied an impending argument. "Okay, fine. Enlighten me, All-Knowing One." He shot me a smug smile; I rolled my eyes. "Decades, let's hear 'em."

"Twenties —" Shocker "—fifties, tens, thirties, forties, sixties, eighties, and seventies."

"Seventies? At the bottom? You're kidding."

"Most of it is garbage."

"Garbage?!" I startled in my seat, gripping the steering wheel. "What? Elton John? Michael Jackson? Queen? Garbage? Do you know what garbage is?"

"You didn't experience the seventies like I had to."

"But you're cool to turn right around and say you like fifties bubblegum trash?"

"Bubblegum pop, which you're referring to, was late sixties, actually," he said, teeth flashing in a smile. "I'm talking about classic, pure rock 'n' roll. You don't get music like that anymore."

"Pure." I rolled my eyes. "Okay, old-timer." He fell silent. I glanced at him after a semi passed us. He didn't look at me. "How old are you? —Don't say nineteen. I've heard that one."

His answer came delayed. "Old."

I laughed. He did not. "Not a great preface, I'll be honest." He never spoke. "What, you're not gonna tell me? Aw, c'mon. Please? I'll take back what I said about rock 'n' roll. Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Little Richard—wonderful. Studs. I mean it. —Please?"

"Let's say, twice as old as Mr. Banner."

"Ew, what?" I smirked, glancing out at the lush scenery. "That's a weird way of putting it."

"Is it? I think that the way things are panning out, it's an apt comparison," he said, arching an eyebrow at me.

I laughed. He did not. Again. And I realized: holy shit, this guy's serious.

"Apt? No way. Don't even. —What, you mean because of the, our, dynamic? —Because we, we're…." Edward nodded, not looking at me. My attention pulled back to the highway, slowed at a sharp bend. "That's totally different. Banner takes advantage whether you want him to or not. I mean, he's looked at me in Bio without even a second—"

"Don't. I know."

"You know?" Pause. "You mean...wait, you've seen—"

"Don't."

"Him and me?"

"Yes," he snapped, running a claw through his hair. "I—why do you think I threw him out of school?"

"Literally?"

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "No, not literally. I blackmailed him into resigning. Among other things."

"You blackmailed our teacher?"

"Banner isn't fit for that title. I blackmailed an ephebophile. Rose and I are gathering his online information to send to the police. It's the least he deserves, surely."

"How is Rose involved?"

"She's more tech-savvy than I am. This brand of vigilante justice is, or was, a sort of—hobby of ours. Though we're more merciful these days than we'd like to be." That last sentence made him frown.

"And you're saying you and him are the same? Do you hear how crazy that is? Are you telling me that your primary sexual interests involve—"

"No." He looked sick. "No. Not at all. But. It's just—with, with you— How could I not say that I— Experiencing any level of—with the dynamic, it's, God, this—it's weird."

"You're really freaking out, huh?"

"Should I not be freaking out? Shouldn't you be freaking out?"

I shrugged. "Look, if you'd just tell me your age, I'm sure I'd be able to make my own judgements. But I know you know there's a difference between having a power dynamic and using it to—"

"Let's not." Edward huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. If that's what it takes, fine. I was born in...Chicago. In 1905." He slowed. Maybe for dramatic effect. But I never answered. "Carlisle treated me in the summer of 1925. At the time, I was nineteen. Dying of tuberculosis." Pause.

My heart hammered; I knew he could tell. "Do you remember? It?" I didn't know if 'it' referred to his life or his death.

"It was a long time ago. I don't remember much. Scraps, really. But I do remember how it felt when Carlisle changed me. It's not something you could forget."

"What about your parents? Did they know what happened to you?"

"My mother had died from the Spanish influenza several years back. My father was—not the same after the war, after he came back and found out that she—hm. That was one reason why Carlisle chose me. Realistically, very few people would realize I was gone. Or, I suppose I should say, very few people would care."

"So he—bit you? Am I profiling again?"

A few seconds passed before he answered. He seemed to choose his words carefully. "No, you're right. Venom. Myths and truth overlap from time to time."

"Boy. So it's true? Wow. Are there—a lot of you, then? Out there?"

"Ah, see—the human myth is how easy it is to change someone. Not many of us have the restraint necessary to accomplish it. Certainly not myself, nor any of my siblings. After Emmett, Rose would never. Hm. Yes. Come to think of it, I struggle to think of anyone who could, save for Carlisle. Most vampires are 'born' by accident." Another silence. A sax solo crooned over the radio. Edward frowned. "Cannonball Adderley?"

"This? Charlie Parker."

"Ah."

"Can I ask why Carlisle chose you?"

"Surely, I had my suspicions beforehand. And death has a way of lowering your inhibitions." Pause. "I'm not clear on the details. But. Carlisle tells me I cried and begged him to."

"Oh. Wow. I'm—so sorry."

"Water under the bridge," he murmured, far away. "Knowing what I know now, I understand why he did it. He was lonely. He shouldn't have taken me at my dying wish—which, I suppose, is gray enough of an area to not despise him for his choice. Still, I understand what drove him. All of his relatives had died hundreds of years ago. Carlisle had no one in the New World, but we had fun together. We played gin rummy and chess. I swindled him out of fifty dollars." Edward's smile was sad and somewhere else. "As the consumption progressed, he read me the Bible I'd inherited from my mother and lent me his copy of À la recherche du temps perdu."

"Proust."

"That's right."

We rode the rest of the way home saying few words. His eyes traced trees that dotted the road. His fingers twitched to the melody of the music. Whenever I'd go to say something, his lips would be a tight line, and I'd decide against it. How often did he think about it, his death? How did he cope? With himself? With his family? With losing everyone he ever loved?

Would I be able to do that? Not saying that it would happen, of course. I didn't even know if I would want it to happen, even for all the heightened senses. But either way, I'd have to die someday. How, as an adult, will I cope with the inevitability of death?

I pulled into Charlie's driveway and parked there with the emergency brake thrown on. Cut the engine, though the radio still crooned. We both sat listening to the music, thinking.

Finally, he spoke: "If it's too much—"

"No."

"It seems like maybe you're bothered. By my being dead. Or, or by the—how old I am."

"I thought you were bothered."

"I'm bothered by the fact that I'm even alive for this conversation. But if anyone should be bothered..." it should be you.

"No one is meant to exist anywhere, I don't think," I said, unsure. "Especially now that I know about all this. The random happenstance that we're together at the same time is good enough for me. I don't know. That's how I'm justifying everything. Anyway, it's not like I can sit here talking about 'the right way' the universe should be run. I would've died from that van if you weren't there to save me."

"You seem much more calm about this than I assumed you would be."

I shrugged. "Maybe I don't have my head wrapped around it. I dunno. But at the same time, how could I, y'know? Life is strange enough as it is, but death comes for you regardless of how many times you freak out about it."

"Hah! I like that."

"Can I ask you something?" I picked at the fabric of my coat. "What do you do? For all eternity? Like how do you pass the time?"

"Good question," he mused. "Make the world a better place, I suppose. In the small ways you can."

"Yeah, but what do you do?"

"I don't know. Play piano."

"Huh." I nodded, mind wandering with the guitar riff plucking in the background. How wonderful. To forever submerge yourself in a system of perfect mathematics— "That doesn't sound so bad. I mean, if you're living over a long time." At this point, he was probably the best piano player on earth.

"Mm." His lips flickered into a frown. "Immortality always sounds more glamorous than it is. As a human, you think about what you yourself, living in the present moment, would do if you were instantly 'gifted' something like immortality. But limitless time destroys the notion of the self, and by extension, your purpose. And that's where it's a curse."

"Sure, yeah," I said. "But the self is always changing, right? Minutely. Like with every decision and thought, you change. So, I mean, time doesn't destroy the self. It's never formed enough to be breakable." My nails picked at the charcoal stains in my cuticles.

Edward studied me but didn't contradict. "Okay. And we can sit here and say that's true, and we know it's true: the self changes with every action, every thought, every second. But it's still hard to wrap your head around it, isn't it? Reality is different. We sit here and talk about how we don't have a permanent self, but deep down, we'll do everything to convince ourselves it's not true. You want to know that you're on this planet for a designated purpose, don't you? You want to know that even when your interests and your ideas change, you have a baseline temperament that guides you through life. A set of patterns you can subscribe to. You want to find meaning in those things."

"I mean, yeah. Of course. That's what humans do, isn't it? Find patterns? Find meaning? But I wouldn't say I feel, like, tethered to any one purpose or destiny," I said, and crossed my legs as if naked. "Seems kinda like wishful thinking."

"But what I'm saying is, there are aspects about yourself that you, as a mortal, would point to and say, 'Yes, that's me.' Right? Your art, for example. Your sense of humor. That scar on your right arm. And you use that sense of self to construct your identity and purpose."

I tapped my index on the wheel, chewing my lip. "True. Yeah, okay. I see what you're saying. You have this self based on your thoughts and feelings and your actions, whatever. And then based on that, there's this 'future you' or future goal you have in your head as something you work towards. And that's your 'purpose'. Right? Kinda?"

"Exactly. But when you've lived as long as—" He stole a glance in my direction and looked away. "When you're immortal, the monumental shifts you endure make it painfully apparent that the universe has no use for you. You look inward, and what do you find? You've been living with you all this time, trying to figure things out in the context of the world around you, and you still, after all this time, have no idea who you are, where you're going. It's quite unsettling. Frustrating."

I frowned. "Yeah, I mean, I get having an identity crisis. But whatever you used to be, those facts about you are forever yours. The artistry, the scar. You can always point to those things and say, 'Yeah, that's me. Because that was me.' Y'know?"

"What I'm saying is that they are not forever yours. Even facts are impermanent. The virtues you've espoused, the talent you nurtured, the relationships you fostered—at a certain point, they're so far out of sight in the rearview mirror, they don't define you. Nothing defines you, eventually. You define the universe in an attempt to conceptualize your own existence, not the other way around. And once you wrap your head around it, really experience it, it—hurts."

My lips twisted, unconvinced. "I don't—sorry, I don't get it. I don't agree. You make it sound like you don't have anything to define you. But that's not true. You've still got a past to look back on and a present self. You're still part of this world, even if you're not 'meant' to be here. I don't get it."

"But what does it mean, to be part of this world?" he asked. "What does it mean to have a self that's not defined by time?"

"Am I really the best person to ask?"

"Perhaps not." Edward's smile was sad. "Let's think of it on a more macro scale, hm? In the context of the human race. You grow up in a blip in time, a period of eighty years, we'll say. As a young person, you wear your time period like a second skin, and the truths and values and history that comes with it. You understand the world around you because you were born into this second skin; this time period has shaped you from birth.

"As you grow into adulthood, that time period becomes yours to manipulate, shape, and mold with your generation so that successive generations can one day wear your skin. You define the truths, the norms, the values, the aspirations, everything. You can point to scars on that skin and say, 'Yes, that's me, my generation. We gave your skin that scar.'

"As you enter elderhood, the second skin sheds. Time marches on, away from you. Your family, your friends, the world you knew dies. They're far behind you now. As a mortal elder, this is your period to reflect on the skin you wore, what it brought you, how it defined you. You cannot wear this skin again, but you can watch how others wear it. You recognize its faded scars. This is the bittersweet fruits of your generation's labor. You see the product of what you've sown, and then you die."

Edward sighed, frustrated. "But for immortals, we are forced to remain. To watch. Time molds and sheds and molds and sheds to every successive generation, each one of them less and less recognizable to you. Imagine, then, how frustrating it is to be forever trapped outside of this experience. You remember wearing the skin, you remember shaping your world, you remember how it felt to know yourself, and now you have to watch as society becomes this creature you don't even recognize. Scars fade. Even the foundational truths that guided your own society start crumbling underneath you.

"Let's refocus back to the self. What I'm trying to say is that, yes, you do have markers to define you: your relationships, your former values and ideas, your experiences, et cetera. You wear your past and present; you always will. But at a certain point, as an immortal, you shed and mold and shed and mold so many times that the 'you' becomes this, this landfill of former adjectives and long-gone memories. What do you keep? What do you forget? You lose track. You become something unrecognizable, trapped in a world you no longer understand.

"That is what I mean when I say that you define the universe and not the other way around. You have to. You're stuck trying to identify the simplest of things—yourself—without the luxury of the universe, your time period, to guide you. The universe cannot define you. And hard, it's, it's frightening, it's—it's..." He glared out the window, tired. "It's been a rough decade. For me. That's all. Sorry. I'm sorry. Perhaps this is something you won't und—"

"But I'm confused. Wouldn't that make you happy?"

"Happy?" It was like he'd never heard the word.

"Like relative to the tragedy of it all, wouldn't it eventually make you happy to realize the universe has no purpose for you?"

Edward's face screwed up in confusion, in pain. "What happiness do you harbor, waiting to die? It's a tragedy, forever moving forward without purpose. Floating from one thing to the next while time stretches out ad infinitum."

"How come? You said the universe doesn't define you, that you define it. So if you define the universe, you define yourself, right? You define you." I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to pin down my meaning. "What if your era isn't a second skin? What if it's more like a shackle? What if, now, you're finally free?"

"Aha. But am I?" Edward's lips flicked into a smile, and he stared into the distance, nodding. "Perhaps the difference between your view and mine is the connotation. You seem to view immortality as good, as a means to shed your limitations. But immortality is not that. You're trapped inside yourself. Forever finite, constrained by this life. By this earth. You are forced to move forward without moving on. Unlike the humans with whom you walk, you will never reach the beyond."

I snorted. "Should we be banking on there being a beyond? And as far as being stuck on earth goes, you're way more infinite than anyone else here could ever be. You're as infinite as they come. You get to experience way more than any of us could in one lifetime. You've got the strength, the speed, the mind reading. You've got the money, the power. You're not bound to any time period, you've got none of that 'contributing to society' crap to deal with. The potential!"

"None of it matters regardless of outlook."

"Sure, I guess. Unless it matters to you," I said, gripping the wheel with one hand to turn towards him. His lips twisted and brow furrowed, but he mirrored me. "If the universe doesn't care now, it certainly didn't care about you back then. Screw the universe. You're here. You have interests and ideas and whatever. Take that sense of self and whatever time you've got left and run with it. Or don't. Y'know? Be whatever self you wanna be and make the most of your time, even if it's forever. Aren't people always saying that you never have enough of it, even when you think you got a lot?"

"I have heard it said." His lips flicked into a smile at that. "Tell me, have you thought about this a lot?"

"Relative to my age or yours?" Edward got a kick out of that. "I dunno. Feels like I've had a million of these talks with Renée. I've read every 'spiritual roadmap' and self-help book she's ever bought. You know, she buys books and then doesn't read them and that's, I mean, that should be a crime." Pause. "Her thirties were rough. For both of us. I was only trying to help."

"I can relate."

"Anyway, for what it's worth," I said, fidgeting with the center console, "I think it's natural to reflect on what you've been through to help you define yourself. But if it's too painful, forget it." He frowned. "Er, at least, I guess, don't define yourself that way. Look at your life as it is in this moment: your relationship with your family—a-and me, I guess?—makes you part of this world. You've got a purpose in the context of their lives. And if those relationships have value to you, well, y'know, forget the rest of it. You don't need anything else." He laughed, and I blushed at blurting that last part out. "You should enjoy them while they last, that's all. Or so I've been told." I looked back up at him shyly, face still burning.

"I wish your advice was as easy to take as it is to listen to." His lips twitched into a smile. "Though you are a pleasure to listen to, regardless."

There was this moment, this tiny moment, when his eyes struggled between looking at me and looking at my lips, this tiny moment when I thought he might be leaning into me, and my heart leapt to my throat and I leaned in too...

Our foreheads met and the jolt felt just as good as any kiss; our breathing hitched. Edward caught my face in his right hand and brushed my cheek with his thumb to keep me from kissing him. We both shuddered. And there was no more radio, no more drizzly cold, no more soreness in my thighs from the hike. Just this. The spicy scent of him drowning me, my heartbeat hammering in my throat, that flash of pleasure that vacuum-sealed us in this truck. One brief moment in forever.

"Speaking of listening," I whispered to him, placing my hand over his. "For real, you still can't hear my thoughts now?" We snickered, soft and nervous, like we were sharing secrets.

"I don't know. Are you screaming? Or is that me?"

"That might be the both of us."

"Ah. Good to know. Then I don't think I can hear anything, but—" Edward's head snapped up, hand withdrew; he whipped around to look out the back windshield.

He muttered something under his breath and threw open the door.

"Charlie's around the corner," he said. "And the Blacks. I should go."

"How come?"

He spoke while he clambered out of the car and into his own. "The Blacks. We're on good terms, but it's best if we don't interact."

"Okay," I said. "Then I guess I'll see you— Oh! Hold on. I almost forgot." With the passenger door ajar, I dug around my bag. My hair flew wildly around my face. "Here," I said, stumbling out of the cab handing him his USB through the Tesla's window. "It's my music sampler. For your consideration. I was actually gonna give it to Alice to pass along to you. But since you're here, y'know."

"Thank you." Headlights spilled across the back of the car, splashed over the napes of our necks. "I had a lovely time with you today, Bells. Good afternoon."

The Tesla's tires crunched over the drive, and Edward peeled out of the driveway with a whip of a movement. I jogged to the porch just as the headlights of Charlie's car died. He flung the door open. A few moments later, another set of lights spilled onto the driveway: Jake and Billy's.

"Bells!" A familiar, husky voice cut through the rain.

"Jake, hey!"

While Jake helped Billy set up the wheelchair, Charlie met me on the porch, wrapping an arm around me and squeezing. "Did he just say 'Bells'?"

"Yeah. It's sorta my name now. Again."

"Takin it back to the old days, huh. Alright. —Billy Black, if you 'forgot' Harry's fish fry again, you better wheel your ass back home."

But Billy didn't greet back. Not at first. The man's face overflowed, cheeks sagging, eyes big, wrinkles running through him like they ran deep through my palm. Those black eyes sparkled like an old man and burned like a young one. Familiar eyes. I'd known them to be a comfortable set of eyes, the eyes I could look up to as a little girl. Here, they were intense, anxious. Scrutinizing my face.

And I realized, with a sort of horror I kept under hidden under my lashes, that Billy Black's red-eyed strangers held more truth to him than just one of La Push's legends.