but diesel is desire,
you were playing with fire
and maybe it's the past that's talking
screaming from the crypt
telling me to punish you for things you never did
so I justified it

thanks for reading! this chapter ain't for the skimmers... *side-eye emoji*

.
fourteen
the great war
.

While Edward busies himself in the kitchen, I grab my phone and excuse myself to the bathroom where I message Jasper.

Bella: Still alive. Miss you. Hope you're having fun with your secret boyfriend.

Using the label boyfriend is merely to trigger Jas into replying because he's the world's worst communicator. He rarely answers the phone, and hardly ever replies to messages. Months ago, I forced him to turn on "read receipts" so I'd be notified whenever he opened one of my new texts. Even if he doesn't reply, seeing the timestamp that he acknowledged my message is good enough.

I wait another minute to see if he'll read my text, but he doesn't. So I use the toilet and wash my hands, checking my appearance before I head back out there.

When I find Edward in the kitchen, I watch him for a moment. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he holds a stainless steel pot in one hand, drizzling sauce over whatever was in the oven.

"Need any help?" I ask, but he doesn't look over at me.

"Nah, I'm good," he says, setting the pot down and wiping his hands on the towel that hangs over his shoulder. He definitely seems good. Like he's in his element. Certainly not the first time he's entertained a woman by cooking dinner for them. Glancing my way, he adds, "You can help by picking out whatever wine you want."

"Any preference?"

"Red will go better with dinner."

I move toward the wine rack next to the small fridge.

"Any of these are fair game?" I ask. "None of these are vintage, or the bottle from your grandparents' wedding or anything sentimental like that, right?"

"No. Whatever you pick is fine."

"Hmm. Which one is the most expensive?" I tease.

He chuckles. "Any of the ones on the left side of the rack."

I grab a bottle of pinot noir from the right side because I like the label, and meet him at the table just as he sets down a rack of cherry-glazed lamb with roasted potatoes and veggies.

If I were a bitch, I'd claim to be a vegetarian. But hunger outweighs the urge to reenact a classic scene from "How To Lose a Guy in Ten Days."

Edward politely helps me into my chair, uncorks the wine, and pours two glasses before sitting across from me. I like that his sleeves are still rolled up. Mostly because it adds a casual element to our date. Not because it gives me a good look at his strong forearms.

I nod toward dinner. "You outdid yourself."

"The oven did most of the work," he humbly insists.

I grab my plate and dish up, giving in to my urge to learn more about him just in case anything interesting stands out.

"Are you close with your parents?" I ask, adding food to my plate. "You must be if you said you moved here after medical school to be closer to them."

Uncertainty flashes over his face. "Yes and no. Long story."

I'm intrigued. "If you wanna talk about it, I'm a great listener."

"I'm sure you are. But why ruin a good evening with a beautiful woman," he says, maintaining his charming confidence while spooning roasted veggies onto his plate.

"You think talking about your family would ruin our evening?" I fish. "Mommy and Daddy issues? Woof."

He laughs, unoffended. "Nothing like that. I'd just rather talk about you."

Talk about ruining an evening.

I take a bite of the lamb and fight back a moan.

It's tender. Juicy. Salty and a little sweet with the cherry glaze.

"Good?" he asks, watching me in appreciation.

I nod and cover my mouth while I chew, then ask, "Do you like romcoms?"

"Can't say I do, but I don't watch many movies. Why?"

I tell him the premise of "How To Lose a Guy in Ten Days" and explain the scene where Matthew McConaughey makes Kate Hudson dinner for the first time and cooks this exact meal, only for her to lie that she's a vegetarian.

"She sounds like a cruel, cruel woman," Edward says, amused, taking a bite of his food.

"Maybe. But he had his own agenda, too. So it was doomed from the start."

Kind of like us, I can't help but think.

"Do they end up together or what?" he asks.

I'm torn. I'm a stickler for not spoiling endings, and I get pissed when others are inconsiderate and share how books, shows, and movies end. The thing is, he's asking to be spoiled. So I could tell him. But I figure a little white lie won't hurt because if he truly wants to know, he can Google it.

"No," I lie. "They don't."

He looks surprised. "Doesn't that go against every romcom rule? I assume there's always a happy ending."

With his eyes on me, I just shrug.

"So, you don't have much time for movies but what about podcasts?" I boldly ask. "Listening to anything good?"

"I'm not really a fan of podcasts. The idea that anyone can start one and claim they're an expert while influencing others is a little impractical and risky." I immediately think of Mysterious Minds and Jackson's large following. "What about you?"

It's tempting to mention Jackson's podcast. To see how—or if—Edward would respond to that. But for some reason, I just shake my head, the subject effectively ending.

We lapse into silence, eating.

"Is your family in Seattle?" he prompts after I've taken a bite of food.

I hesitate, swallowing before I speak. "You want to talk about my family?"

"Sure. If you want."

"I don't know. It's not a happy story and might ruin the night's vibe," I say.

"Ohhh. Mommy and Daddy issues?" He echoes my previous joke, and maybe it would be funny if not for the circumstances and his role in everything.

"I didn't know my parents long enough for them to damage me potentially," I confess, sticking with the truth. "They died in a car wreck when I was three, and my aunt and uncle raised me."

Edward doesn't say anything right away. He just watches me with sad, pensive eyes.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs.

I stay quiet because what can I say?

"Thanks" is out of the fucking question.

And "it's okay" is far from the truth.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asks after our silence stretches on and he realizes I'm not going to be the first to speak.

I decide to offer another truth, if only because when he finds out who I am, I want him to realize I left little breadcrumbs all along.

"Kind of. My aunt and uncle had a son and daughter before they adopted me," I admit, obviously withholding their names and the fact that they're twins. "They always wanted more kids, but it never happened. My aunt always told me I completed their family."

"So you're close with them?"

"That's difficult to answer," I admit. "Yes, they're everything to me. But… one of my cousins is no longer with us. And then eventually grief overcame my aunt and she… she couldn't cope—" I pause, my throat tightening with surprising emotion before I swallow it back.

Devastating understanding flashes in his eyes.

This was stupid of me. I shouldn't have attempted to talk about this with him. It's dangerous, and I clearly can't keep it together enough to make this seem normal.

"Fuck," he exhales, looking uncomfortable. I wonder if I just made things too awkward, but then he says, "I'm sorry to hear that, Bella."

My gaze falls. I can't look at him.

"Sorry about which part?" I ask, voice traitorously shaky.

"All of it." He's earnest when I finally meet his gaze. "That's a lot to deal with at such a young age. The part about your parents, though… my father passed away when I was two, so I understand the strange complexity of grieving someone you don't quite remember."

The accuracy of his words hits me hard.

"It's a phantom feeling sometimes," I say without thinking. "The longing is so palpable, but you can't ever quite touch it. And pictures, videos, and secondhand stories never do them justice."

"That's exactly it," he agrees quietly. "Phantom grief."

We stare at one another, mutual mourning passing between us until something else hits me— he's fucking lying. I know his father isn't dead. But I can't exactly tell him I know that.

I can feel my armor going up again.

"My mother remarried when I was four," he adds, unknowingly clearing up the confusion for me. "My step-father adopted and raised me."

Carlisle Cullen isn't his real father.

I never knew.

If I act too surprised, it'll be suspicious.

"I guess we have something in common," I murmur, the loss of his father humanizing him in a way I hadn't wanted or even expected.

"Unfortunately," he says with a small, somber smile.

I can feel myself softening to him. And I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that. So I up the risk factor and say, "Today is actually my cousin's birthday. Or would've been, if she were still here."

I watch his expression too closely, looking for any recognition that today's date registers for him. But I get absolutely nothing, other than tender compassion.

Some boyfriend you were, I think sourly. But they only dated for three months—the end of summer until she disappeared in October—so they never celebrated her birthday together.

He surprises me by raising his wine glass. "Happy Birthday to her."

He waits patiently before I clink my glass against his. With locked eyes, we drink, and I fight the guilt that creeps in because his innocent birthday sentiment for Rosalie feels fucked up, even for me.

We eat in silence again, letting the heaviness pass. The weight of what I'm doing sits like lead in my stomach, making me feel sick.

"How's dinner?" he asks when I push food around my plate. "Does everything taste okay?"

"Yeah, it's delicious. Sorry, I just… talking about all of that…" I shake my head, pushing through my uncomfortableness. "Who taught you how to cook?"

"My mom."

I hum. "Are you close with her?"

"At the risk of sounding cheesy, yes," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "She's one of the best people I know."

I don't really remember Esme Cullen, but I wonder what she thought of everything when it went down.

"So when your parents came up earlier and you said it was a long story…" I trail off.

"It's not that long. I figured once I mentioned my stepfather, there might be questions about my real dad. Most people don't want to start a date with talk of loss. So I was playing it safe."

I don't point out the obvious that he could've just referred to Carlisle as his father and I wouldn't have known the difference. But maybe they aren't close.

"Do you get along with your stepfather?" I ask, fishing.

"Mostly. He can be intense and has high expectations. We didn't always agree when I was growing up. But he's fine. He takes care of my mom. That's all I can really ask for."

"Is he a doctor, too?" I wonder, already knowing the answer.

Carlisle was a primary care physician at Forks Medical Clinic. Rosalie worked there for a little while, answering phones at the front desk after school. I don't remember how long she worked there, and I can't recall any mention of Dr. Cullen at all. I just know the days she didn't have cheer practice, she was there because our parents said she needed to get a part-time job to help save money for college.

"Yeah. Carlisle currently works as a PCP at a local health care group," he tells me.

"And your late father? What did he do?"

"He was a cardiothoracic surgeon."

"So, you followed in his footsteps," I realize.

"Yeah."

"That's… really sweet," I admit, unable to sound anything but genuine as I mentally file away all of this new information. "And what happened to your father, if you don't mind my asking?" I realize I'm asking because I'm curious, not because I think it has to do with anything regarding Rosalie.

"He had pancreatic cancer. It all happened quickly from what I hear from my mom."

"That's awful. I'm so sorry," I mumble, meaning it.

"Thanks. But it was a long time ago."

I nod as the various information I learned about Edward on the internet starts to click into place.

"Wait, so that's why you're part of that pancreatic cancer foundation," I realize out loud like a fucking dumbass.

Edward watches me, then smirks.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, that's exactly why. But I don't remember telling you that, Bella. Which means you were… Googling me?"

My cheeks burn but I play it off, keeping eye contact with him while sipping my wine.

"I did, yeah. I also Googled your profession. Tell me, do other surgeons in your field have as much free time as you? Google said you work close to sixty hours a week, but every time I've seen you, you're out and about like you have a life."

"You've seen me in public twice," he laughs, not suspiciously.

More like three times a week for two weeks before we ever made contact, I guiltily think.

"We've interacted twice, yes," I say, because that's the truth. "But I always saw you at a reasonable morning hour."

"I'm usually at the hospital by six a.m., but my schedule changed recently. Because of the wrist injury," he says with intent, lifting his arm. "I haven't been operating, just doing consultations and meetings. So."

I guess that explains why I ran into him yesterday at Cafe Allegro. But it doesn't explain why I always saw him after six a.m. the weeks when I watched him from afar. Before his arm injury ever happened.

It's possible I always caught him when he was on a break since the hospital's only a ten-minute drive from here.

"There's a good Thai food place near your work. You should try it out sometime," I casually suggest. "Or do you usually go home for lunch or whatever?"

"Nah. Once I'm there, I don't really leave until I'm done for the day."

I'm skeptical, but I don't push. I accept what he's saying for now because I need our interaction to stay natural and unforced. And so far, our conversation has been effortless, despite the gloomy topic.

"It kind of feels like you're trying to change the subject to get off easy on being caught Googling me," he accuses, a playful edge in his tone.

I shrug. "Now we're even. You followed me to Cafe Allegro. I cyberstalked you to make sure you weren't a murderer."

"And did you find anything incriminating?" he teases, not the least bit shaken.

With a coy, calculated shake of my head, I say, "Would I be here right now if I had?"