July 2011

Twenty-One / Twenty-Four

It took Isabella almost two entire days to realize Esme had gone.

Esme left without a goodbye. All Esme left was a rather impersonal thank you card for Carlisle, in her perfect script. Along with the thank you note came a box of Turkish delight, which Edward spat out disgustedly. Edward would reveal these details only after Bella asked.

The first hint of her mother's absence was on the kitchen table the morning after Fenway. She went into the kitchen that Monday and found a platinum-colored cloche waiting. A plate with a lukewarm breakfast quesadilla and a dollop of store-bought salsa sat under the cloche. The most likely cook was Carlisle. Edward was barely competent in the kitchen, and Esme was too pompous to serve store-bought food.

Edward found her nibbling on her breakfast dejectedly, forcing herself to eat. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, thighs and hips resting against the backrest of her chair. He squatted to her eye level, resting his chin on her shoulder and his cheek against hers.

"You OK?" he said, his voice a low, warm rumble that sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

Bella hummed against his cheek, then kissed it. "Yup. Migraine is over."

On the return trip from Boston to Maine, she had been hit by one of the most horrible migraines of her life. It was so intense that it came with a wave of nausea. Burnt caramel swirled in the back of her throat, threatening to come up as vomit. "Thank fuck," Edward said, kissing her temple. "It scared the shit out of me."

"Did you have a nice run?" she asked, tilting her head to peck him on the lips.

"It's too fucking hot outside," Edward grumbled, pulling her closer for comfort. "The shower was ice cold, though. That felt so nice I almost had an orgasm."

Blushingly, Isabella snorted.

Edward stood, walking around her. He sat opposite her on a chair, so that he was facing her, at her eye level. With the back of his knuckles, he stroked her cheek. "What do you wanna do today?" he asked gently. "I know it's been a lot, babe."

Edward had an intuitive understanding of how her energy levels worked. Some things just completely depleted her. After the day she had, she felt like sleeping all day.

"Don't you have to study?" she asked curiously, tilting her head.

"I don't have to do anything, sweetheart," Edward said pointedly. "I'm choosing to do it to pick up my GPA next semester."

"Do you want to play something?" she half-squeaked bashfully, lighting up. That they played was one of the things she loved most about being with Edward. It was one of the things they loved most about being together. When they were kids, and his mother had just died, Isabella taught him to play again.

Edward grinned back, lighting up, and looking at her with such intense emotion that her entire body warmed. He replied with the kind of child-like, dorky enthusiasm that he concealed with anybody else.

The idea struck her, and she gasped delightedly. "Is the pool ready, do you think?" she asked.

"We can go check," Edward offered brightly.

Isabella went back upstairs and changed into a white strapless two-piece. Rosalie had half-strong armed her into buying it, and Bella was glad she had listened. On top, she put one of the dresses her mother bought – a white linen camisole-like dress. Reminded of her mom, and aching for her, she put on copious amounts of sunscreen, focusing especially on her face.

On her way out of her bedroom, she cast a longing glance at her mother's room. The three adults – including Carlisle – lurked around like ghosts, Isabella thought. Esme had spent nearly her entire week at Wharton Bay giving Edward and Isabella the silent treatment. However self-defeating it was, Esme had somehow managed to avoid them for days, possibly by keeping to her room.

A burning need to plead for forgiveness was driving her forward. Esme had always built Isabella up. You're smart, you're funny, you're kind. You're brave, Esme would chant, day in and day out. There had to be something else to her warning, something genuinely important.

Isabella had made a terrible mistake, and she needed to apologize. Filled with guilt, Isabella spun in that direction, wanting to knock, to apologize, to understand.

"Baby, don't," Edward said gently, a vein of ice running through his words. "She's been trying to hurt you all summer."

Isabella turned her head. Suppressing the urge to snort and giggle, she eyed Edward from head to toe. He was wearing a white linen button-up shirt, with aviators tucked at the top, blue swim trunks, and suede loafers. You look like a frat boy, she wanted to blurt but didn't. Tucked underneath his arm, he had an old-fashioned beach ball that looked at least ten years old. It was dusty all over and half-deflated.

"Come on, Bee," he said brightly. "I have an idea."

Five stone steps led from the veranda to the lawn, and a cobbled stone path led to the pool area. When she was fatigued like she was that day, so bone tired that even a good night's sleep was doing little, she used her wheelchair. Edward carried her down that first staircase, and he was patient while she navigated the grass. "We need to fix this up for you," he grumbled. "Maynard should've known you needed a ramp and a railing, for fuck's sake."

Edward's temper reached its limit when they reached the pool. After years of neglect, it had turned into a swamp. In the past week, it had been drained: there was not a drop of mossy, green-tinted water on the concrete pool. Stubbornly, the little ecosystem had left stains, like splattered algae and moss. A very shallow puddle at the very center stubbornly refused to be drained.

"Wait here, love."

Without waiting for a reply, Edward ran off. He had tossed the beach ball on one of the wicker sun loungers. Isabella set her book down – The Shadow of the Wind – on the lounger.

Edward re-appeared with the elderly caretaker in tow. Because of years of ravenous reading, Isabella had imagined old caretakers as tall, craggy old men with flat caps. Mr. Maynard, however, wore the attire of every other old man Isabella had seen, except Edward's grandfather. The old, plump groundskeeper wore socks up to his ankles, sturdy sneakers, cargo shorts, and a faded checkered t-shirt with a flimsy collar.

She knew before it became audible that Edward was yelling.

The scene was revolting. Twenty-four-year-old Edward, muscular and tall, in all his preppy garb – brand aviators down, all loafers and button-up shirt – was yelling at a man in his seventies. Isabella felt for Mr. Maynard, wizened and old, trying to explain. In response to Mr. Maynard, Edward tapped his loafered foot impatiently against the imported flagstone that circled the in-ground pool.

Fuming and groaning, she spun towards him.

"Why has it taken so long? We've been here for a month. You've had time."

"It's taken time because you need to, well - I needed to get rid of all the gunk in the water, and then I needed to drain the water, and now we need to scrub the walls, and then I can install the grab bars and fill it back up." Edward huffed with audible irritation, and Bella disliked him intensely for it. The Edward he had been at nineteen – monstrously spoiled – had never left.

"It should have never gotten that bad," Edward scolded icily. "This kind of incompetence is – "

"Excuse me," Isabella said loudly in a high-pitched voice.

Edward looked at her with an expression of complete bewilderment.

"Hi, Mr. Maynard," Isabella said sweetly and deliberately, in her kindest voice. "I'm sorry – I hadn't had a chance to introduce myself. I'm Isabella."

She held out her hand – small, delicate, and roughened. Mr. Maynard and Edward looked at her like she was crazy, but Mr. Maynard recovered faster. He took her hand, and his palm – like his forehead – was drenched in sweat.

Politely, Bella fought back the urge to wipe off the sweat that had transferred to her palm.

"I know who you are," Mr. Maynard said, grandfatherly and enthusiastic, offering a toothy grin. "You're Miss Lizzie's niece."

Bella beamed. "Former niece," she said lightly, taking on the tone of someone sharing a great secret. "My parents are getting divorced."

"Oh, that's a shame," Mr. Maynard said.

"Not really," Isabella said in purposeful deadpan, making Mr. Maynard chuckle. She meant every word. The reality was that her parents were mismatched and miserable together. Genuinely, she wanted them both to be as deliriously happy as she felt – with the right person.

Isabella gave Mr. Maynard her loveliest smile. "We'll let you go, Mr. Maynard," she said authoritatively, looking pointedly at Edward. Edward's jaw clenched. He was giving her that look again: like he thought she was batshit crazy, but he was resigned to obeying. "You have a lot to do, with the docks, and the tennis court, and the lawns, and the flowers, and the house maintenance."

Mr. Maynard looked at Edward askance. "What she says goes," Edward said quietly but commandingly. "We'll figure it out later."

"I'll talk to your father directly, young man," Mr. Maynard replied crabbily. "Bye, Isabella."

"Take care, Mr. Maynard," Bella called back, and she meant that, too. It was eighty-eight outside – a record high for the area. With his limp pronounced, Mr. Maynard wobbled away. Sun flaps hung around his baseball cap, and Isabella found them endearing.

Glaring at her boyfriend, she spun her wheelchair away.

"Bee?" Edward called after her, confused.

"You're such a prick," Isabella spat, her voice a low, angry rumble.

Edward looked taken aback.

"Darling, he's paid to do this upkeep," Edward explained condescendingly, without a smidgeon of guilt.

Isabella felt like she was dissociating, caught in an absurd cliché. Dating a boy who called her darling, went to an Ivy, had a "summer estate in Maine," wore loafers, and would inherit his own personal trust fund next summer on his 25th birthday.

Isabella's face iced, and she growled out her disappointment. "You are not Mr. Maynard's employer!" she snapped. "And besides, it's disgusting. Don't you realize how gross it is for a 24-year-old, yelling at a 70-year-old man?"

Out of experience, she knew Edward's temper would be lit eventually, even though he was in the throes of deep infatuation.

"Bee, darling, it's his job. If he can't keep up with it, he should retire."

She took a calming breath. "Your girlfriend is disabled," Isabella growled. It was the first time she referred to herself as such. "Mr. Maynard has a bad knee. It's 88 degrees outside. So what if it's taking him extra time to scrub out a giant pool? Would you want my employer to yell at me like that? It takes me longer to do everything."

Isabella had explained it to Edward repeatedly – how much it meant to her that she had found a job and that she was able to keep it. There were books she could not reach, and packages she could not carry, in the library when she did her loan clerk job. The professor who gave her the TA job – Mark – had enough of a heart and a brain to know that she was brilliant even though she didn't always sound it.

"You're right," Edward said finally, voice quiet, hanging his head in shame. "You're completely right. I'm so sorry, love."

"Don't apologize to me. You should go apologize to Mr. Maynard," Bella barked sternly, hating how she sounded like his mother – or his wife. "Not least because he's employed by your father, not you."

"I will. I promise I will," Edward swore, voice gentle and achingly sweet. The tone of his voice made her warm all over. It was one of those contradictions she loved best. He was so sweet – with her and for her only. With age, time, and wisdom, it would start to bother her.

Isabella was looking at her relationship in an entirely new light. It had been complete happenstance that Edward Cullen III, moneyed heir, had fallen in love with a girl with a disability. Hers was a severe disability, too: Isabella was completely at peace with the fact that she would never walk unassisted. It was not a tragedy to her, nor was it a blessing. It just was. It worried Isabella - as much as it made her uncomfortable - that she had become a reason Edward could be kind, or empathetic.

Bella didn't like it.

"I'm staying here to read," she informed him acidly. "It's nice out."

"Right, of course," Edward said, finally sounding guilty and morose. "I'll… Can I stay here with you?"

Busy transferring her body from the wheelchair to the lounger, Isabella just glared. She took the book and opened it to where she had left off. Edward settled in the lounger next to her and began to fidget almost immediately. Fighting to keep her face expressionless, Isabella pursed her lips.

Not five minutes had passed, and Edward ran off – God knew where – and found her a parasol and a stand. He was a flurry of activity until she was completely covered in shade. God, he could be so adorable and so attentive.

Not ten minutes had passed, and Edward finally said something. "Bee, angel?" he asked, indulgent and earnest. "What are you reading?"

"Nice try."

"I honestly want to know," he said quietly. "I love it when you talk about your books, and not just because I love the sound of your voice."

With an incredulous snort, she looked up to glower. Edward explained himself sheepishly, neck turning red. "I don't have the patience for novels, and sometimes I learn from you when you talk. And …your book stuff has saved me from looking like an idiot at cocktail parties."

Snorting uncertainly, Isabella squinted at him suspiciously. "You're lying," she decided finally.

"I'm not," he admitted sheepishly. "Two years ago, I was at a party for pre-med students at the dean's Residence, and his wife asked me what I liked to do for pleasure. I couldn't say that I liked to fuck in my spare time, so I crapped out your favorites – the Kite Runner, A Thousand Splendid Suns, Beloved, and the God of Small Things– and I shit you not, the lady said I had excellent taste. The Dean stopped thinking I was a piece of shit after that. True story."

"Edward."

"I pay attention," Edward said shyly, grinning at her.

More brazenly and commandingly than she ever had before, she tugged at his collar, and they kissed.

The chef was there to feed them lunch and Isabella went to fetch Carlisle for lunch – even though lunch was usually an every-man-for-himself situation. It was Monday, and Carlisle's eventful three-week vacation would come to an end in two days. Isabella was going to miss him terribly. Adolescent-like in attitude, Edward was grumbling about the idea – but Isabella sent him to find his grandfather.

"Uncle Carlisle?" she piped, poking her head through the study doors. "We're having lunch on the terrace. Do you want to join us?"

"We never see you," she added, as an afterthought.

Carlisle smiled at her, a crinkly-eyed smile. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

The four met at the terrace, and Isabella was struck by guilt. She felt like a part of that family because of her mother in all but name. "Should I go get – ehrm, my mom?" she asked, of no one in particular, overcome with remorse.

She should have known something was amiss at that point – and, for a split second, she did. Everybody's breath hitched, and Edward curled a hand around her protectively. "You had a migraine yesterday, love, and…"

"I'm trying to get her to come back for you," Senator Masen said, and it struck her as such an earnest, heartfelt statement that she didn't question how strange it sounded.

They were served flatbread with an assortment of dips, like baba ghanoush and crushed chickpea with herbed yogurt. Isabella marveled at her good luck again. Her Uncle Carlisle, who was her uncle in all but name, had essentially treated her to a luxury vacation all summer long. She had no idea how to thank him, and that filled her with apprehension. What could she give him when he left – just as a little token of how grateful she was?

Edward complained about the food and the texture the entire time, complaining that he wanted meat. "Shut up and stop whining, Edward," Bella said, her tone a mixture of aching sweetness and blistering irritation. "This is delicious."

"I'm a growing boy," Edward said petulantly, ignoring her completely.

"No, you're not," Isabella snorted.

"My metabolism is at its peak," Edward explained cockily, and Isabella rolled her eyes. "My muscle mass percentage is at 40%. I checked on a BIA scale last month."

"You sound like a moron," she retorted and then smirked blushingly, because both Carlisle and Edward Senior laughed.

"You're not going to lose your 100 pounds of muscle, or whatever it is, for skipping a day of red meat," Carlisle added with an eye roll.

After lunch, Isabella and Edward went to apologize to the Maynard residdence. Back in the 19th century, a 'small four-bedroom house' had been built for the staff at the corner of the estate.

Edward knocked. Mr. Maynard looked at Edward with no small amount of irritation on his face. Mrs. Maynard, standing behind him, invited them inside for iced tea.

"Honey," Mr. Maynard mumbled at his wife, gesturing at the rail staircase that led to the kitchen door.

"Edward can carry me," Isabella cut in quickly.

Edward did exactly that, cradle-carrying her inside. Mrs. Maynard pointed them to a shabby but clean checkered couch. Thigh-to-thigh, they sat on it. Mrs. Maynard brought out a pitcher of iced tea and fig newtons. Isabella, who had been raised by Esme to notice minuscule details, could tell the tea was store-bought Lipton and that the fig newtons had been packaged.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Maynard," Isabella said immediately, beaming. "That's so kind." She was neither hungry nor particularly fond of fig newtons, but she reached for one and hummed her gratitude.

Next to her, Edward had stiffened and was hiding his discomfort by schooling his features into looking expressionless. It was exactly the kind of behavior that made Edward seem cold when he was just shy.

"Pour the tea," she nudged him with a whisper, and he did.

An awkward silence followed. Compelled as always to be her mother's perfectly angelic child, Isabella filled with bubbly chatter. There's always some nice compliment to give, if you look for it, Esme had taught her early on, imparting a little trick that people easily mistook for charm. Isabella scanned the room and her eyes landed on four tea-tins. "What are those, Mrs. Maynard?" she asked brightly, pointedly with a bit of impudence. "They look so fun."

Mrs. Maynard went into a cheerful tirade about a 1980s trip to England, and Isabella's heart squeezed with longing for her mom, who had done a great job.

Mr. Maynard came into the room, looking suspiciously and crabbily at Edward,

Edward apologized immediately. His apology was heartfelt and honest, without any guidance from Isabella. "Mr. Maynard," he said quietly, confident and sincere. "I wanted to apologize. I was disrespectful, rude and insolent. I didn't mean to imply your work isn't excellent, and it isn't my role regardless. I regret it and I apologize. What can I do to make it up to you?"

Mr. Maynard's mouth fell open in shock.

"Thank you, son," Mr. Maynard said, gracious but dry. "I truly appreciate it."

Just like that, Edward was forgiven. In the early days of her infatuation, Isabella could have forgiven and overlooked murder. She hugged Edward's arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Their eyes met, and hers sparkled with that besotted adoration that made her look like an idiot.

Keeping her arms wrapped around Edward's bicep, Isabella steered the conversation back to the Maynards' trip to the British Isles. "Was it just London that you visited, Mrs. Maynard?"

While Mrs. Maynard explained that they also visited Canterbury and Edinburgh, a tabby cat meowed and rubbed its head against Mrs. Maynard's ankles. Its coat was the color of sun-bleached seashells with darker swirls.

"Oh! Edward, look!" Bella squealed enthusiastically. "Oh. She's so cute."

"What? Oh. That's Seabiscuit. She's been around for a million years."

"I always wanted a cat," she admitted shyly to no one in particular, and Edward looked at her so tenderly he looked pained.

"I know, angel," he said softly, playfully. "And you'd name it Mister or Lord something because you think it's funny."

He was quoting something she had said, word for word, and Isabella fell for him a little harder. Edward listened to what she said and seemed to care about all those whimsical sentences that came out of her mouth and made her feel stupid.

That afternoon, hours before dinner, Edward barged into her bedroom again. Isabella squealed. "Edward," she hissed. She had just taken an ice-cold shower. Her hair hung damp and stringy, and she wore a towel. "You need to knock. Seriously."

Edward grinned at her so cockily and so wolfishly that alone made her skin prickle. "I'm saving us time."

"You're so gross," she said, but she was smiling like a lovesick idiot. In truth, Isabella was desperate to be touched and touched everywhere.

"Help me up?" Bella asked, peevishly, eyes sparkling. She locked the brakes on her chair and pressed down on its armrests. It gave her body the momentum her legs wouldn't give her. Helping her the rest of the way, Edward placed both hands on her waist.

Intuitively, Isabella had always known – even as a teenager – that Edward needed to be held. Edward needed simple affection more than most because his mother wasn't there to give him any. Isabella wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight as if wanting to merge them into one person. She hugged him because he needed it – because he had gone from being hugged silly by his mother every day, to never hugging her again.

"I love you so much," she hummed. "So, so much." She pulled back a bit to kiss his jaw. With a minuscule grunt, Edward lifted her so that they were face-to-face, and he kissed her.

"I adore you," he whispered in between kisses, playful. He undid the knot Isabella had made to gather up her towel. Naked and wet, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Bella grinned back, smiling like a lovesick idiot. "I'm crazy about you," she countered, wishing she could wrap her legs around his waist. She tugged on his frat boy shirt. Edward stripped off his shirt, cuddling her impossibly closer, hissing at the contact.

They had been skin-to-skin many times, but the intensity had not faded. Wave after wave of emotion hit her, and she felt so close to him, so in love.

Edward walked them backward onto her bed. Again, he did exactly what she had wanted for days.

He trailed a line of kisses from the tip of her chin to her clavicles and then worked his way meticulously over her breasts. Edward kissed the tip of each of her nipples, brushing them so lightly that she felt tingles all over. He repeated the pattern over and over, swirling circles with his tongue until she was mewling and her eyes were burning. Embarrassingly, she started to make that noise again – that rhythmic whine that was as much a whimper as it was a pant. Her legs couldn't lift her to buck up her hips, but she started wiggling, stretching out her legs, moving.

Edward noticed.

Slowly, gently, he moved his hands to cup her buttocks. He shifted so that he was hovering above her, with his head right above her midriff. Unlike Isabella, he had no trouble with any position.

There was a question in his eyes when they met hers. Shy but pleased, Isabella nodded.

He didn't go straight for the spot. He kissed her hips almost meticulously – from the bone graft scar to the apex of her thighs, eventually making his way to the soft curls. That made her blush. She had never, ever had reason to want to wax. Intrusive thoughts started to bombard her. She was certain he'd done this before, with girls that did wax, with girls that weren't scarred, with girls whose butts didn't feel like flattened jelly.

All those thoughts vanished when he touched her cunt with his lips.

Shocked at the sensation, Isabella squealed – so loudly that his first instinct was to shush."Is this OK?" he asked worriedly, eyes flashing with concern. They both turned scarlet when their eyes met, and the sight of Edward blushing felt curious to her.

"It's OK," she whispered shyly, unable to wipe the idiotic smile off her face. "Sorry."

He let a laugh slip out – warm, sheepish, embarrassed, and she laughed, too.

"Carry on," Bella said laughingly, and she snickered again.

Edward was redder than she had seen him in his entire life, and he tickled the space between her arm and her ribcage again in punishment. Bella threaded her fingers through his hair, massaging, knowing he enjoyed casual touch.

It took less time than she imagined to get back in the mood. He started with her breasts again, alternating between kissing her nipples and kissing her mouth. He stole kisses in between smiles, snickering with her, lighting up. Older and wiser, she would realize their chemistry burned so bright because they could laugh like that during sex.

When he finally touched her again, she was soaking with anticipation. Her legs spread to accommodate him of their own volition, and the discomfort in her muscles – the spasticity refusing to yield - felt like a chronic, dull hum.

His touch was lighter this time, and he didn't head straight for the most sensitive nub on her anatomy. He worked his way to it slowly, kissing her in places she didn't know could be kissed.

When he finally touched her clit, it was with feather-light flicks of his tongue.

It was so intense – so unbelievably intense – that she clawed at the mattress and fought back the urge to clamp her legs shut. The closer she came to orgasm, the more her legs spread of their own volition, despite the spasticity limiting the movement.

It was so intense that she almost couldn't take it. Almost.

"I need you to hold me," she said, and for the first time in her life, the tremors wreaking havoc through her body had nothing to do with her cerebral palsy.

Roughly, he tightened his grip on the small of her back, lifting her closer to his mouth. When the orgasm finally hit, she screamed. Her legs did clamp shut, smacking Edward's head.

"Shush," he hissed, lifting his head, covered in a sheath of sweat. "Baby, shush."

Panting like she did after heavy exercise or strain, she fell back on the bed like a puddle of jelly.

Edward like this was a revelation. He was neither embarrassed nor cocky, just thoughtful. He crawled around her and lay by her side, pulling a hand on her hip. He was damp and warm with exertion, and he was all hers.

"Wowzah," Isabella blurted stupidly, and he grinned at her with the strangest expression she had ever seen on another human being – tender, cocky, self-pleased, adoring.

She turned dark red. "I had never… I had never felt something like that before," she admitted in a whisper, for his ears only. She couldn't articulate her gratitude. In a lifetime of physical pain and struggle, Edward was the first person to show her pleasure. "And I could have ever only done it with you," she added, meaning it. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he murmured, and he kissed her. "I love you more."

It was a kiss that cemented their bond. They were a couple in every way and they belonged to each other. It was a kiss of contradictions – as tender as it was profane and earthy.

They stayed together for what felt like hours, until he stood, claiming he wanted to shower before dinner.

She took her shot, and asked for his help sitting up.

"There's something I've been wanting to try," she said coyly, blushingly, looking meaningfully in the eyes.

Frankly, Bella's main motivation was that Rose had just explained how the process worked, and she had just seen it. There would be no better time to try. Isabella tugged on Edward's shorts and his boxers. He stripped quickly, and his erection sprung free. Ever imaginative, she pictured a Jack-in-the-Box springing out of its lair, and she fought a giggle as she inspected it with her hands.

"Baby, you don't have to if you don't want to," Edward said throatily, Adam's apple bobbing. He would say that every single time, for years. "You're not obligated to do anything back."

"I know. I want to do it," she admitted.

Speedily, impulsively, she wrapped her mouth around it. Edward's breath hitched, and he thrust his hips out, dropping his hands to her shoulders. "Fuck, love. Fuck."

For a split second, she felt like an idiot and her doe eyes bulged. She tried to think about what up and down meant – bobbing her head. Pushing back thoughts about her many predecessors in this arena, she did exactly that. At first, it was clumsy and even awkward.

Like Rose said, he liked her tongue on the crevice in the head. He also liked being stroked, she noted – just a light touch. He closed his eyes whenever she let her hand grip his shaft, whenever she explored it with her hand.

"Jesus, baby," he hissed.

Isabella didn't have the kind of coordination or control that would make her a natural at the act,. It was challenging to keep the rhythm, and sometimes – as ever – her limbs trembled, even though she was incredibly relaxed. Edward might have been aroused, but she didn't feel especially sexy.

After a handful of minutes, she grew a little frustrated. How many times had she bobbed? 50? 60? 70?

"Why isn't it happening?" she blurted, looking up at Edward quizzically. Was she doing something wrong?

Edward swallowed. The roughness of his grip would ebb and flow, and she could tell he was doing his best to be incredibly gentle. "It takes time," grunted. He seemed to be doing his utmost to control his thrusting, trying not to buck his hips against her face. "You're doing great, baby."

With time, Isabella would realize he liked – needed – more stimulation when she blew him.

When it finally happened – Rosalie was right – he grunted out with an "Ugh!" kind of sound. In the blink of an eye, he pulled away from her mouth. It happened in a split second, and she lost her balance and tumbled backwards – his hands had been on her shoulders, supporting her.

Aiming away from her, Edward exploded into his crotch and thighs, and to Isabella, it was eerily fascinating. He was jerky and trembling, and he made a lot of guttural noise – not unlike she did, whimpering moans and grunts that made them both sound primeval.

It was intimate for both partners, Isabella realized. Intimate and vulnerable. Edward had stepped away from her. She inched closer as he took heavy breaths, cursing and grunting. She wrapped her arms around his thighs and pressed a kiss to his hip. "I'm sorry," she said softly, cuddling closer. "I promise I'll get better."

It was so unbearably intimate to be sticky and sweaty together after making each other feel good. She was overcome by intense possessiveness, by greater jealousy than ever before. Shakily, Edward kneeled so that his head was at her eye level. He nuzzled her nose, gulping. When he spoke, his voice was weak and throaty. "It was perfect."

Flaming, she shook her head, and her laugh wasn't self-deprecating, just amused. "You don't have to lie," she reassured him with a rueful smile, pinkening, stroking his cheek with the pads of her fingers. "It can't have been that good."

"I'm not lying," he admitted shyly, so genuinely that he blushed. "It was perfect because it was you."

Isabella and Edward had dinner at a popular waterfront, and they were both so absurdly happy that Isabella laughed at everything. It was still light out because it was midsummer, and a handful of shops were still open.

Isabella wanted to start looking for a thank you gift for Mrs. Maynard, who made her bed every morning, and for her Uncle Carlisle. Carlisle was scheduled to leave in two days, after nearly three weeks of leave. "I want to get something for your Dad before he leaves," she told Edward shyly. "As a little thank you. I know I can't actually, you know, get him something useful."

"Bee, you really don't have to get him anything, love."

"I know I don't have to. I want to," Isabella explained. "It's the thought that counts."

With her own money, Isabella got Carlisle a box of truffles from an artisanal confectionary. She also got an artisanal lavender soap for Mrs. Maynard, who made her bed every day.

Typically, every winter, Carlisle got either socks or a sweater. She had never been in a position to buy him other gifts, and she was anxious.

"Your Dad does have a sweet tooth," Isabella said uncertainly. "I think he'll like it."

"Sweetheart, he'll love it because it's from you. Now can we go eat? If I spend another second looking at lavender soap, my testicles will fall off."

Isabella rolled her eyes even as she snickered. "I really don't understand why you're so threatened by flowers," she grumbled. "You know what I really admire? Being confident about your masculinity that you're OK with things that are girly. That kind of confidence is sexy."

"Kind of like guys that don't shove their dudeness in your face," she mused thoughtfully. "Kind of like your Dad."

Edward gagged. "Eugh. You find my Dad sexy?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Bella said, wrinkling her nose. "I just admire men that don't masculinity in your face every three seconds. Men that are comfortable enough in their skin to admit they like herbal tea. That kind of thing."

"I don't understand a word you just said."

She rolled her eyes again. "What d'you wanna have for dinner?"

They settled for a pizza joint. When they ordered, Edward squinted at the menu. Unthinkingly, he brought it up to his nose to look at the words. Isabella's theory was confirmed.

"Edward, baby?" The term of endearment had been a complete slip of the tongue. When she called him baby, however, Edward lit up so beautifully that she hardly blushed. Instead, her lips turned into a goofy, lovestruck grin. Their idiotic, goofy grins mirrored each other perfectly.

"I was thinking," she began very gently. It was exactly the kind of thing she planned well in advance and knew exactly how to handle. "Have you had your eyesight checked lately?"

Confused, Edward squinted at her curiously. "You're having a hard time reading things, aren't you?" she prodded.

He looked like he hadn't thought about it at all, but realization dawned slowly.

"Maybe a little… For a while," he admitted thoughtfully. "For a while."

"Maybe we should get that checked, no?" she said softly, sweetly. She kissed his hand, and they ordered New York Style pizza with pepperoni.

It was Tuesday morning, 24 hours before Carlisle and Edward Senior departed back to their respective jobs.

The tension was palpable in the kitchen. Later, she would be looped into a conversation behind that tension. It would be a conversation as mortifying as it was deeply moving. Carlisle did not want to leave her in a big house alone with Edward, afraid of putting Isabella "in a vulnerable position."

Sunlight dripped like honey into the kitchen, where they were eating another absurdly elegant catered breakfast. Smoked salmon eggs benedict with asparagus hollandaise.

Edward Senior, impeccably dressed in a linen suit that might have been once white, sat at the head of the table. Across from him, Isabella wore a sunflower-yellow sundress and meticulously poured Earl Grey tea, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn't want the trembling to spill the tea.

Edward Senior cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the morning air. "Isabella, there's something you need to know." His voice, usually firm, held a tremor of unexpected vulnerability. "Your mother left last night, sweetheart."

Isabella's hand, hovering over the teapot, stilled. Very carefully, she set it back on the table. "Left? Where'd she go?"

"She left a note in my study. A thank you for the summer, that sort of thing," Carlisle said.

"She flew back to Washington," Senator Masen explained kindly.

Isabella's shoulders slumped, hit by an onslaught of crushing remorse. She wondered what she could have done to prevent her mother's departure. "A note? That's it?"

Edward Senior sighed. "My daughter can be quite particular. You know that better than anyone."

Isabella did know.

"I just… I… Was I too harsh?" she demanded of no one in particular, her voice thick with unshed tears. She turned to her Edward. "Should I have apologized?"

"No, baby," Edward seethed furiously, angering at the sound of her tears. "She's just psychotic, love. Even my dad agrees."

"If that's what you got out of that conversation," Carlisle bemoaned irritably, "then you weren't mature enough for it."

Edward Senior rose, his movements slow but deliberate. He came to stand beside her, his hand, cool and dry, resting on her shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, sweetheart."

Bella wiped at her eyes, feeling her nose burning. She tried to look optimistic. "I guess that means I – eh, I have to figure out what to do. Call my Dad," she said, forcing a glittering smile on her face – but completely crushed at the prospect. However much she wanted to be with Edward, she had no right to impose on Carlisle. I'm the reason you're here, Esme had snarled, quite rightly.

That meant she had to call her father, which she had been trying to avoid all summer. She had spent the summer of her freshman and sophomore years in Seattle, caught in a tug-of-war between her father and her stepmother. Though Charlie claimed incredible offense when she went to Esme's apartment, Charlie was rarely there when she did see him.

"You don't have to figure out anything," Edward said roughly, and Carlisle winced. Because of the expression in his eyes, it was not a command, but a plea. "Both of your parents are psychotic."

Carlisle's words were careful, and Edward reacted by snorting to every word like an enraged bull like he had heard them before. "You're always welcome anywhere we are, my darling," he said very firmly.

"However," Carlisle continued, looking very sternly at both Edward and Isabella. "It is important that you speak to your father, and that you consider whatever his offer is."

"Hi, Daddy." That Charlie did not catch the dry sadness in her tone was a testament to the distance between father and daughter.

"Princess! I'm happy you called, kiddo. It's been a while," Charlie said, and he sounded reticent.

Isabella's stomach twisted unpleasantly. For all her faults, Esme never let too much time pass without asking about her or without calling. They would not speak for a year, but Isabella always knew she was topmost in Esme's mind. Charlie and Isabella had not spoken for at least six months – because neither party had tried.

"Are you still in Maine?" Charlie asked, unable to hide the dislike and the disapproval in his voice.

And...Isabella was exhausted. Her patience was running thinner than a white sheet of paper. Irritation was bubbling up her every pore, as it often did when one was emotionally depleted.

Isabella fought to keep her voice emotionless. "Yes."

"You're not at your college? You're at that Maine house?"

Isabella didn't know if the question came from negligence, or if her father was playing coy to cross-examine her like a prosecutor.

"Yes, I'm at Wharton Bay. With the family," Isabella couldn't help but snap.

Charlie scoffed, clearly irritated.

"Isabella, Carlisle is a fine man, but they aren't your family. They never were your family. Come home where you belong. I'll buy your plane ticket."

A tear rolled down Isabella's cheek, not because Charlie's words had hurt, but because the truth did. She had no right to impose on Carlisle – no matter how close she felt to him, no matter how protected. More painful than all the surgeries she had ever endured, and the contortions and contractures the spasticity forced on her body, was the fact that she felt nowhere near as close to her father.

Despite the pain and the exhaustion, Isabella was still intelligent enough to know she couldn't go home blind.

"Where would I stay, in Washington?"

Charlie's breath hitched, and that little cue gave him away. "Listen, Princess," he said, with a nervous chortle. "You remember Sue? She used to work at the firm, and then she moved on with my team to work at the DA's office."

As early as that sentence, Isabella felt in her gut. Esme had told the truth.

The door clicked open, and Edward pushed in. Torn between wanting to kick him out and wanting to be held, she winced at him.

"I remember Sue." It took all her self-control to sound carefully neutral, or as much as she ever could. Her trembling was out of control – her entire body was shaking like she was shivering out in the cold, even though the summer heat had reached its pinnacle.

"Listen, bunny," Charlie began hesitantly. "I love Sue very much. We're getting married this August and we are having a baby in the fall. She's six months along."

Isabella grunted like the air had been punched out of her stomach. You're getting married in a month and I'm only finding out now? Was I even invited to the wedding?

"Six?" she repeated shrilly. "Six?! Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I – I am sorry I didn't warn you, pumpkin. We've been keeping things under wraps. I – I wanted to rebuild my life as soon as possible. There are other things that you need to know."

"Rebuild your life?"

"I wanted the situation with that woman to be over, and to start my life again once you were … Once you were old enough to take care of yourself. I wanted to be rid of that woman. The judge declared me legally divorced a couple of months ago, and I was finally free."

It would take Isabella days to unpack all the layers of that statement. Each layer would lacerate her with pain. She was speechless with shock. She felt as though her father had hit her in the stomach so hard that no air was coming through her windpipe. Her tears were falling hard now, and she covered the mouthpiece with her fingers. Messily, she wiped at her nose with her sleeve.

"That woman who? My stepmother - my mother? The woman who raised me? What woman?"

"Esme," Charlie said in a conciliatory tone, even though Bella could sense her father's anger. "Esme. You're right. She did a fine job raising you, and I'm thankful to her. Well. It was a mutual deal. She should be thankful to me. I gave her my little girl."

"Listen, Bella," Charlie said in a voice that Isabella found repulsively oleaginous.

"Sue is a wonderful woman. Sue was at my mother's funeral in '97, and that woman was God knows where. Probably in New York blowing off money on some ridiculous handbag."

Isabella felt a pang of fury and defensiveness.

"My mother and I were in Boston when Grandma had her heart attack. At Boston's Children's Hospital. Because I was going through serial casting." The anger in her statement was belied by how pathetic she sounded – weepy, sniffy, and trembling with cerebral palsy.

Casting was a painful procedure to treat CP, but it was a state-of-the-art treatment in the mid-1990s. Isabella had been so very little, and casting had been brutal. A therapist would stretch the limb beyond its natural limitations, set it in a cast, and repeat the process until Isabella reached the limit of her tolerance eight weeks later. It was one of the reasons why her heel was as brittle as if she were eighty.

In some ways, Charlie had been as absent as Renée Jolie in Isabella's life. Charlie had never been able to stomach seeing Isabella in pain and had delegated treatment options to his wife. Esme cried sometimes during treatments but tried to hide it. In her memory, Isabella had cataloged images of her mom wiping away her own tears and flashing warm, comforting smiles.

Her mother fought tooth and nail to accommodate Isabella in mainstream school, pursued every treatment doggedly, and built up the resilience Isabella had. Her mother.

Isabella started crying. In return, all Esme had asked for was for a little consideration.

Edward, who had been leaning by the bed, sat next to her. The way he was looking at her terrified her. His jaw was clenched, and she did not know if that cold, calculating anger was directed at her or her father.

"Oh." It was such a genuine statement of realization and guilt, that Isabella realized Charlie's earlier statement of contrition was oleaginous and disingenuous.

"I understand why you're loyal to her, honey. I do. You've always been a sweet girl. But you should come home. I'll get you a ticket. You'll come stay here with me and Sue, Leah, and…Seth."

"Who is Seth?"

Charlie sighed a deep sigh. "It's going to be in the papers any day now. That woman has been threatening to go public with it, and I know my career is going to take a hit," Bella's father said darkly and angrily. "I'm not gonna lie. I was thinking of running for state Congress. I don't know why that woman is so angry about it. That was always the deal. She got you until you were eighteen."

Traded like she was some kind of load her father needed to offload on some one else.

Wordless with pain and confusion, she made a strange hum to convey her anger. There was no tool in her emotional arsenal: she had always been her parents overprotected, angelic little girl – well into her early twenties. She had been punished twice as a teenager, both times for minor offenses. She had never fought back.

"Whaz-o-een- pu-public - oon?" Bella repeated croakily, stupidly, desperately. She was so spent and trembling that she sounded completely garbled. Every advance she had made in twenty years of speech therapy – to the point that she spoke with a certain elegant cadence now, much like her mother's – vanished.

"Bella, hang up the phone. Sweetheart, hang up the phone." Edward.

"Seth is my son. Your little brother. He's three. He's turning three in October."

Isabella froze and dissociated. Isabella closed her eyes, mustering what little remained of her emotional energy.

The math was brutally simple. If the little boy turned three the month Isabella left for college, then Sue had become pregnant while Isabella was still living at home. If the little boy turned three the month Isabella left for college, then Sue had become pregnant while Charlie and Esme were still married.

Charlie had hidden this information for years.

More forcefully than ever before, Edward extricated her cell phone from the claw her hand had become. He looked at the mouthpiece furiously, thought better of it, and hung up the call. With agile, furious fingers, Edward turned off the device.