Trigger warning: Graphic descriptions ahead in the last (4th) scene.

A/N: Edited the last bit of this chapter. I regreted it after posting.

Seventeen/Twenty

June 2007

That night, after his excruciatingly uneasy twentieth birthday dinner, Edward went to his father's apartment. Carlisle's was a quaint, two-bedroom apartment in a quiet neighborhood close to the hospital where he worked. Father and son shared a bathroom, with furnishings Carlisle had bought at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Their living room was filled with contemporary art by unknowns – things Elizabeth had liked that had probably appreciated in value. It was an open floor plan, with a kitchen that spilled into the living room. Their next-door neighbor – across the hall – was a retired psychologist, Mrs. Fritz, that was particularly talented at playing Tchaikovsky.

Nobody would ever suspect that Carlisle was a millionaire.

That night, Edward couldn't sleep. His skin felt like it was too tight. Inside him, his stomach roiled with a mixture of dread and regret. He catnapped throughout the night, noticing how the color of the light changed as it filtered through the blinds. He managed to drift off to sleep as dawn broke. At the ungodly hour of 9:30, per his alarm clock, he started to hear the hum of his father welcoming his grandmother. Then –

The door to Edward's bedroom slammed open, rattling against the wall, making Edward groan. He pulled his pillow over his head. "Christ, I know you're old, but - "

"You spent three hundred thousand dollars?"

Groggily, Edward opened his eyes. Carlisle was so angry that spit flew out of his mouth like a projectile, hitting Edward squarely in the face. His father – his even-tempered, gentle-natured father – was red-faced with anger. Carlisle's eyes were bulging menacingly, his anger palpable. Breathing as heavily as if he had run a marathon, Carlisle was heaving.

"Carlisle, relax," Victoria was muttering behind her son. Fresh-faced, wearing a long-sleeved summer dress, she looked unusually beautiful at age 75. "The neighbors will hear you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Edward sneered insolently, and then put the pillow over his head, as if to shield it from the light.

In a rare show of physicality, Carlisle let out a growl of rage, tearing the pillow from Edward's hands, and then stripped the bed by tugging at his sheets, with Edward on them. Edward yelped; Victoria screeched. "It's almost noon, Edward," Carlisle half-pleaded, half-growled. "Get up, son."

Grumpily, Edward stumbled to his feet, looking shell-shocked. Victoria was looking at the scene disapprovingly, then rushed to Edward's arm quite fussily. "I'll see you in the living room," Carlisle barked, and Edward – shirtless and in boxers – followed. Almost gently, he marched his son into the tiny apartment kitchen.

"Carlisle, I beg you. I don't mind. The money is no object." Carlisle ignored his mother all together.

"What is this?" Carlisle hissed, shoving a black-and-white print copy of something in Edward's face.

"It's a piece of paper," Edward said mockingly, arching an eyebrow.

Carlisle ignored his mother. "You need to learn some respect, Edward," Carlisle spat furiously, ignoring his mother. The blond doctor took a deep, calming breath. Edward thought his father looked mildly deranged as he shuffled through papers that were sprawled across the kitchen island. Like a madman, Carlisle reached for another piece of paper and raised it victoriously. He shoved it sharply against Edward's chest, jabbing it with one of his long fingers.

"These," he snarled, "are credit card bills."

"Carlisle," Victoria insisted, "Carlisle. Had I known this would happen, I would have never shared this information with you. I neither want nor need a refund."

Carlisle spun on his heel, suddenly deathly, deathly calm. At that moment, Edward worried about the sharpness of his father's mood swings. His voice was icy, clear, and articulate. His eyes were burning with thinly veiled rage, undercutting the smooth ice of his voice. In that moment, he was deathly serious and even Victoria was rendered moot and obedient.

"I will, of course, pay for a refund, and request that you kindly refrain from funding my son's debauchery," Carlisle said. "I can no longer forbid you from seeing my child, but I will remind you that he is mine. You've hurt us – you've hurt him – enough, and I won't allow you to inflict fresh damage. I'd thought you've learned your lesson, but evidently you have not."

Victoria's face transformed, cracking as if the lines of her face were melting into a mask of sorrow and rage. As her eyes filled with tears, her beauty vanished. "What happened to Elizabeth is not my fault."

Carlisle was shaking. "You gave a fifteen-year-old boy a sports car," Carlisle snarled frigidly "It was an absurd, overindulgent present. What happened to my wife was an accident, and I – I don't blame you, mother, but you are accountable for a terrible decision."

Victoria took a deep breath, and in her rage, she reminded Edward of a hag. "I'll take my leave before you keep saying things we'll both regret," she snarled back. "I'm leaving today. Edward, darling, I will call you with my flight information. My door is always open."

Edward's jaw came unhinged. Victoria patted his stubbled cheek, grabbed her purse, and walked out of the room. Carlisle turned to Edward, eyes rimmed red, with the desperation of a drowning man.

"What – what is this, Edward?" Carlisle asked, but his tone was hoarse. "This is just – July last year - 2,709 euros for a bottle of Clos D'Aboo boo – French something - vintage. 1,764 euros for a meal at L'Ambroisie Paris. 657 pounds of room service at the London Ritz. Without considering that your grandmother dropped 20,000 dollars for you to go spend three weeks in Kenya -"

"That's the going rate for study abroad programs," Edward snapped defensively.

Carlisle's fury was lit again, and he was yelling himself hoarse, growing red. "But – and the - fucking - pardon – the ridiculous bill for … thousands of dollars in cash, Edward! What the hell are you buying, son!? Drugs?"

Edward stood against the kitchen counter defiantly, arms crossed over his chest. "Tell me we can't afford this," he said, smirking cockily. "In all seriousness. Tell me we can't afford this."

Carlisle closed his eyes, as he breathed heavily, looking torn between crushing sadness and deep disappointment.

"Your mother explained how much we have in stock," Edward said cockily, smirking. Carlisle slammed his hands against the kitchen table – and Edward was finally frightened.

"It's not yours, Edward! You're not entitled to it!"

Edward raised his voice, laughing incredulously – a cruel, condescending laugh like ice water. "We have millions. We're goddamned millionaires, and all this time you've been acting like we're middle class – I don't know, like you're fucking Homer Simpson or some shit, and Mom was fucking Marge. I asked grandma – to explain how the dividends work! You get millions in dividends and returns and – "

Carlisle had buried his face in his hands. "I don't believe you."

"This is your fault, you know," Edward snarled. "Yours and – You and my mother. I turn eighteen, grandma fucking shows up again, and explains that we're actually one of the richest – "

"Don't flatter yourself," Carlisle spat, filled with contempt. "We're run-of-the-mill millionaires, Edward. Not billionaires."

"We're fucking rich enough," Edward thundered. "We fit in with all these dipshits that own yachts, and stocks, and private jets – and you never taught me. And I'm surrounded by these fucks that crap money and run the world, and you expected me to survive that because Mom wanted to live in La La Land, teaching kids to play the recorder."

Carlisle grew quiet, and Edward could see the fight in him ebbing. "You're right," he finally sneered. "You're right. For what it's worth, I do regret it now. I do see how hard it'd be to… start swimming in the deep end with no context. It's a different planet, with difficult fucking people, and I didn't – I didn't think. We didn't think."

Edward was breathing heavily, eyes watering, deflating like a popped balloon.

"Your mother hated it," Carlisle admitted, almost defeatedly. "Your mother hated me, for a while," he added, smiling ruefully, eyes twinkling with nostalgia. "We met when I was seventeen – our fathers were friends, you see – and I could tell she thought I was a boring idiot." Memories that were fading in Edward's mind sharpened briefly, like blurry photographs under a spotlight, of his mother teasing his father.

"She brought out the best in me. Being with her," Carlisle continued softly, looking like he wanted to cry. "Being with her made me the best version of myself, and I loved her for it. We got married, had you, and she always said – we didn't need to live like 'Richie Rich.' That was a comic book from the seventies."

Edward was filled with longing, with a love that ached like a missing limb. He folded his arms over his chest, then hugged tightly, as if he could have soothed the maelstrom physically hurting his chest. The longing wasn't just for his mother, but for the person that made him the best version of himself. "I don't know what to say," Edward breathed in a pained exhale. "You can't blame me for not knowing how to deal. You really fucking can't."

Edward rushed to the Swans', feeling desperate. His skin was too tight for his body. His stomach had roiled inside his innards with a mixture of dread and enthusiasm. I'm sorry, he wanted to beg, to grovel, prostrate at her feet. I know I'm an idiot. That was the worst five seconds of my life, and I'll make Jamie Hunter pay for it several times over. But I love you. I've loved you since I was fifteen.

With an unsettling sense of desperation, Edward circled the property on foot, and knocked on the back door. Esme opened it.

"Edward!" she croaked. "Edward, I wasn't – I wasn't expecting you at all."

Edward inched closer. "Could I go talk to Bella?" he asked softly, feeling vulnerable. Esme took a step back, and Edward stepped into the kitchen. "Is she still sleeping?"

"And could I get a cup of coffee?" Without waiting for a response, Edward took his pick from the mug tree's selection. He picked Bella's favorite – one that had green-and-white polka dots on it, even though it was girly. Using the Keurig machine, Edward began brew himself a cup.

"Bella's not here," Esme explained skittishly, looking at him carefully. There was a hint of pity in her eyes. "She went fishing with… a friend."

"A friend" Edward repeated stupidly. "Fishing?"

Esme looked nervous, like she did when she was hosting Victoria Cullen-Hockley. "Yes, fishing," she repeated.

"Fishing. With a friend."

The amused smirk on her face disappeared. Esme made a split-second decision. "He's a … He's a good kid, I suppose. Nice boy," Esme settled on saying finally. "Works at a mechanic shop and gets good grades. Charlie really likes him."

"A nice boy," Edward repeated stupidly. Something corrosive, not unlike hate and as acidic as jealousy, flared up Edward's spine.

"Do you want me to make you something to eat? It's almost – it's almost three. Have you even had lunch?"

"I can heat up whatever is in the fridge," Edward interrupted robotically, feeling annoyed by the mundane turn. "He?"

"Bella had a great semester, you know," Esme explained. Edward was still stuck on her earlier words – boy, fishing - like an old computer whirring to life. "She made a little girlfriend – Claire, and – well, Isabella met Jake, and he's – a nice boy." Esme finished her statement squeakily, fetching a frying pan to reheat some chicken.

"Jake." Edward blinked stupidly, feeling like Esme had slammed the frying pan she was wielding against his face. "Who the fuck is Jake?"

Esme, who had looked reticent, looked like she wanted to laugh for a split second. "He's - he and Bella went fishing," she repeated slowly.

The acid jealousy began to burn in Edward's blood, turning into something real. "Fishing," Edward repeated, as he served himself fresh green bean salad.

"Is that even fucking safe?" he demanded with a sneer, at no one in particular.

"He does it with his father quite often," Esme interjected sternly.

"I've been surfing with my Dad. Doesn't make it safe," Edward sniffed.

"Mr. Black is a wheelchair user," Esme explained. Using a wheelchair was the correct phrasing, Edward knew – preferrable to "in a wheelchair," let alone "confined to a wheelchair."

"Who the fuck is Mr. Black?"

"Jacob's Dad," Esme repeated slowly, tilting her head.

"So?" Edward sneered, feeling cornered.

"You asked, Edward, if it's safe. Yes, it is. They're going with Jake's sister and her partner on Mr. Black's boat," Esme said slowly, but with crushing finality. "It took time, but I trust them with Bella and – all that entails."

Edward felt like he was spiraling, and he wanted to rage. "Bella's very … She can't – You know she's not the world's greatest swimmer," he barked. She couldn't stand unsupported, for fuck's sake, especially now, with her right leg injured.

"She can't even – It's hard for her to – She needs – You know she needs a lot of help, for fuck's sake," Edward sputtered.

"Fishing. With a dude," he repeated.

"Yes, Edward," Esme snapped impatiently. "With a boy, that has proved himself trustworthy, with two other people. Are you done questioning my parenting?"

Edward stabbed his chicken forcefully as if it were this – this Jake. This Jake, Edward knew instinctively, to despise.

"Can I hang around?" Edward had asked, and Esme – looking suspicious and hesitant – had allowed it. Edward had soldiered through three hours of waiting, channel surfing on the Swan's TV and taking a crack at some of the books Bella left out in the living room. For the first time, it felt invasive to go into Isabella's bedroom without asking. Finally, as the sun started to set late in the day, spilling warm golden light into the back garden, Edward heard an incoming vehicle.

A part of him – the self-awareness and restraint still maturing in his brain – warned him that he was being a jackass. Like somebody's nosey neighbor, he leered through the curtains at the approaching vehicle. It was a rusty, ancient Ford pickup truck. Edward could tell by the sound of the engine. The model looked old-fashioned as if the truck were older than Edward's balls. The coat of silvery paint, however, looked fresh. The truck parked by the front door, and Edward's morbid, rabid curiosity spiked.

A dude climbed out of the driver's seat, and dislike seared the jealousy in simmering Edward's veins. Dark-skinned, tall, and well-built, the dipshit in question - this so-called Jake - wore his long, jet-black hair in a ponytail. He had a placid, stupid-looking expression, like he was wearing a fucking Barnie suit or something. Edward was not fooled. Something akin to disgust flared in the back of Edward's throat at the sight of the ponytail. It was something he'd never fucking do with his hair.

The dude retrieved Bella's wheelchair from the truck bed and opened it for her. Then he opened the truck door, and Edward cursed. The visibility of the scene was diminished through the yellowing car window, but something in Edward was jolted awake. Bella's lovely profile came into view, and then the dude leaned forward.

Edward had a stroke. An aneurysm. A heart attack.

Their lips met as Bella descended from the car.

The disgust flaring in Edward's throat intensified as Bella wheeled past the truck's front. The two stopped at the ramp before the door. That second time, it was unmistakable: the dipshit bent at the waist and – fucking awkwardly, too – pecked Isabella on the lips. Again. Edward didn't have time to focus on Bella's response. Like a rabid lion, he wanted to pounce on this Jake, almost as much as he wanted to vomit.

"Edward," Esme snapped, glaring at him like a viper. Startled, Edward took a step back from the window. "Behave."

"Hey, kids!" Esme trilled, opening the door. "Did you have fun?" The rest of Esme's droning – that idiot's voice – became a buzzing in Edward's ear.

Edward had never really thought about kissing Isabella, or about Isabella being kissed. Edward knew Yorkie had tried, and he found it doubly disgusting. Firstly, because Yorkie was a gross little shit. Secondly, because that pervert had defiled her by forcing her. Edward had punched Edward Yorkie for it, right after the admission. Knocked him to the floor and kicked.

This was the second time this happened. It was the second time somebody kissed Isabella- that somebody wanted her. And Edward, for the first time in his life, dwelled on why.

"Did you have fun, Bell?" Esme was asking. "Did you get the boot wet? No, it looks fine. Also – sweetheart, Edward is here."

Bella wheeled into the foyer, and Edward snapped out of his seething, fury-driven musings. Looking at her – fresh-faced, wearing a raincoat, and with her hair in a ponytail - Edward was struck dumb. The skin of her cheekbones had turned lightly red under the sun, and she was glowing. He wondered at how this girl – his best friend – made his mouth go dry. He had kissed – fucked - girls silly, and many of them were just as beautiful, and -.

Bella was a girl. With tits, and all. A beautiful girl. Not the hottest girl ever – not yet, and maybe not to everybody. But the one he loved.

"Edward," Bella croaked in greeting. Her doe eyes were wide with dread like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole.

"Bella, I – " Edward sucked in a breath, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Bella, I – "

I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry. I want this dipshit to keep his hands away from you.

"Edward, I'm – I'm sorry," Bella snapped politely but with finality. "This isn't – this isn't the best time…" In her wheelchair, Bella shifted uncomfortably.

Edward blinked stupidly.

"I – eh – I wanted to talk," Edward said, pleadingly, and Bella sucked in her cheeks, looking at him suspiciously.

"I – I'm all gross. And I'm hungry and tired," Bella pointed out grumpily. "I smell like a chum bucket. I need to change."

Edward was boiling with jealousy, but he pushed it back. He was desperate. There were bigger fish to fry. "I can wait," he said softly, imploringly. "If it's OK."

Bella pursed her lips. "Fine."

In the end, Edward weaseled an invitation into her room. Hair wet, she wore summery pajamas – shorts and a tank top. Like a compulsion, his eyes flashed to her tits – which he had never really admired before. Christ, they were nice. With her leg resting on two pillows, she was lying in bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Hey," he said gently, averting his gaze from her chest.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "Can I – Can I sit?" he asked dumbly. "Please?"

Bella looked at him coldly, sucking in her cheeks. She gestured at the green armchair, which Edward had never had cause to use before. Carefully, Edward moved her crutches aside, laying them to rest against the wall. Knees to his elbows, Edward tried to make eye contact, but Bella was refusing to meet his eye.

His eyes fell on the dream catcher hanging from the right side of her bed. Edward sneered at it, studying it with the severity of a snobbish art critic. "What is that?" he demanded.

"What does it look like, Einstein?" Bella retorted. "If you came in here to ask about my room, then I have to say, I'm not in the mood."

The distance between them grew, as if the floorboards had turned into a chasm that reached the depths of the earth. An awkward silence engulfed them, and Bella shifted in bed. It wasn't the direction he wanted the conversation to go, but -

"Is he gay?" Edward blurted. He meant it as an insult. "That ponytail looks gay."

Momentarily, Bella looked befuddled, and then her gaze darked dangerously. "That ponytail looks gay," Bella mimicked disgustedly, her face wrinkled with revulsion. "You're so – ugh. You're just – Ugh. Grow the fuck up, Edward."

It was the first time he heard Bella curse, and his mouth fell open with a mixture of admiration and shock. "You didn't answer my question," Edward smirked, almost teasingly, forgetting he was likely to get kicked out.

Bella looked furious. "Ugh. You've – you've – Ugh," she snapped. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response. And there's nothing wrong with being gay, even if he were. It's not an insult."

"But he's not," Edward said cockily, pouncing on her response.

Bella was shaking her head. "Is that what you wanted to talk about? Jake?"

Edward couldn't help himself. "No, I don't want to talk about Jake," he retorted, enunciating the name in a sing-song mocking mimicry of her voice. "I don't give two shits about Jake or his piece of shit truck."

Then he contradicted himself in the next breath. "Where the fuck did he come from?"

"My new High School," Bella snarled through gritted teeth. "And it's really none of your business – "

"That truck looks really sketchy, Bella," Edward said seriously. "And he looks – seedy."

Bella shut her eyes in exasperation. "Why? Because he's not a preppy white boy? Because he can't afford an Audi?" she snarled.

"OK, so now you're just making me out to be a racist shit," Edward accused her, growing heated.

Bella peered at him with her doe eyes growing glassy with tears. "I wouldn't be surprised. Now that you say "salaried" like it's an insult, and wear that stupid Rolex everywhere, and call people incompetent." She glared at the Rolex like it was responsible for all the world's evils.

Edward's sense of shame was overwhelmed by his sense of offense, and he was torn between a million retorts. "You haven't been talking to me at all! Just because I said some shit – dumb shit – yesterday, you think I'm the world's largest turd. And I'm really fucking sorry, Bee. I've made sure that Jamie Hunter fuck pays for what he did to you. I'll make him pay for it until that fuck graduates."

In fact, Edward had tapped and relied on a hitherto unknown talent for cruelty to get his point across. "I've made him pay. He's an evil little social climber that's desperate to get in with his betters, and I – I literally made him eat shit, Bella. I invited him to Maine with a bunch of friends – people that really matter. And then I made him eat shit."

The response in Bella's eyes gutted him.

"It wasn't about what Jamie Hunter did," she murmured in a small voice, reaching for a pillow to hug it against her. "I know how to deal with Jamie Hunters. I've dealt with Jamie Hunters all my life. It was you."

Tears started spilling from her cheeks, and her pain was raw like Edward had torn her skin from her body. "You – The one person – The one person I'd ever really trusted, the only friend I'd ever really had, and I embarrass you. Like I don't – I know I've always been different and sometimes I even – I hate being like this - but to know I embarrass you and then – "

"You said I was nobody, and then – you laughed at the Telethon joke, like I'm –" Tears ricocheted down her cheeks, and then Edward tasted salt on his lips. "Like it's funny to be like this. Like you don't know how hard it is. And you're the one person in the world I trusted to not do that. Not anymore. And I feel so stupid, Edward, for ever thinking that you -"

Edward shook his head, falling to his knees between them. "I – It's the worst thing I've ever done, but I didn't really I wasn't thinking then. My brain short cuited for five minutes because it was the fucker that – Bella, he – You're being – "

"I'm being what?" Bella yelled defensively.

"You're being harsh," Edward finally snapped. "Can't you look at it from where I was standing? That shithead is evil, Bella. He made me drink spunk from other men. Beat me to shit when I refused. All of them did, Bella. And then he – I was scared, Bella. I'd never been – fucking tortured like that. You're – it's like he hit the jackpot, finding me with -"

"With me."

"With you. With – you're the only thing I love he – anyone - could ever hurt. I'm not embarrassed, Bella. I swear on my mother's grave. You don't embarrass me. I love -"

"Don't lie, Edward. Please don't lie," she said, so pleadingly, so genuinely, that Edward felt like he had been cut open. Like he was spilling onto her floorboard.

"I'm not lying. I'm not."

He loved her. For the first time in his life, he understood how he loved her. How much. He was so in love with every bit of her – even the manly hairs on her toes and the callouses on her hands. She was the first thing he thought about when he woke, and the last thing he thought about before sleeping. She was the reason he smiled, and the reason that he played guitar. She made him a better man. The force of his love struck him. It was so intense that Edward couldn't say it – not when he felt like Isabella found him so repulsive.

He swallowed thickly, and Bella closed her eyes.

"And I miss you so much," he said pleadingly, reaching out to touch her cheek.

"I miss you, too. But I miss … I miss you. I miss you playing me Beatles songs on the piano, and you making me watch surgeries on TLC, and … "

I'm here. I'm always here. And I'm so yours it hurts.

"Did you really – what do you mean made him eat shit?" She grew alarmingly pale, looking like she wanted to vomit.

Edward felt violently defensive. "I've – Look at what he cost me," Edward said, and he didn't care that he was crying, too. "Look at what he did to us."

Bella was still petrified with horror. "And he's OK?

"Why the fuck do you care?" Edward snapped, growing genuinely angry for the first time. "It was a frat thing - "

"That's enough."

The door had slammed open, with Charlie behind it. Esme had grown pale as a sheet, and Edward had the distinct feeling his aunt had been listening - snooping in on them - all along. "Get out," Charlie seethed. "Get out. I'm not bringing a shotgun out of respect for my wife. Out. Out now."

And Bella.

Bella was shaking her head in wordless terror, like she was seeing him clearly for the very first time.

Edward has hit bottom, folks. Bear with us.