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eighteen
i think he knows
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When I return to work after my impromptu furniture appointment with Edward, both Chelsea and Heidi confront me.

"What happened?" Heidi asks, looking at me strangely.

I sit down in my seat, and open my laptop. "Nothing, why?"

"Yeah," Chelsea chimes in. "You seem… perky."

"Perky is not an adjective that has ever been used to describe me," I deadpan.

"Exactly," Chelsea laughs. "That's the problem. You walked in humming. And smiling."

I ignore them and open my email. Heidi moves closer to my desk. Like she's trying to suss out the situation.

Will she smell the dopamine high I got from flirting with Edward?

No. I'm being ridiculous. Happy hormones don't have a scent.

"You looked dead when you got here this morning," Heidi assesses. "Lifeless, pale, tired." The hits keep coming. "Now you're—"

"Glowing," Chelsea finishes, but she has a glint in her eyes that lets me know she thinks this is because of Edward.

Before Chelsea opens her big mouth and shares that I had a date last night, I blurt, "I got coffee on the way back!" It's not a lie, but I say it too quickly and my tone is a little too… perky. "Big deal."

Using caffeine as an excuse luckily does the trick, and I relax as they ease up and return to what they were doing before I got here.

They're right though—I'm perky. Energized. I'm… oh, God.

I'm happy.

Fuck.

It's such a foreign feeling, and I roll my eyes at myself.

Maybe I'm not happy, though. Maybe I'm just… affected. Edward activated some chemical in my brain that made me feel good and flooded me with pleasure. He made me forget that I drove. I forgot where I parked my car. I walked around a few blocks until I remembered, duh, I parked in a nearby garage. I'm surprised I didn't walk into fucking traffic with how loopy he made me feel.

Clearly, I need to get a grip on myself when it comes to Edward.

We had one date.

One fucking date.

I guess, two dates, if you count today's furniture shopping. Which I don't. It was work, and I'm a goddamn professional.

If I'm really being honest with myself, I know my initial plan was stupid.

I'm going to make Edward Cullen fall in love with me?

Cringe.

And then I'm going to ruin his life?

Diabolical? Maybe. But also so damn delusional.

I didn't think this shit through. Clearly, my original plan would mean I have to get close to him. And that wouldn't be an issue if he weren't so… him.

I think I need to drink about it. And if I'm going to spend time overthinking about a man, I know the perfect person to indulge me.

"Happy hour after work?" I ask Chelsea, deciding to go to Dad's bar later so I can kill two birds with one margarita and check on him.

Chelsea eyes me, fighting a smile. "Sure."

I sigh. "What?"

"Nothing." She reaches over and taps the drawing I did of Edward's living room, and says, "But happy looks good on you."

XXX

When we get to the tavern later that night, I don't spot Dad right away.

"Garrett's in the back," the bartender tells me, and I nod.

"I'll be right back," I tell Chelsea as she slides onto a stool. "Order me a marg."

"Aye aye, captain."

Moving through the bar, I sneak past the swinging doors into the kitchen, uncaring that the stench from the frier will cling to my hair and clothes. I wordlessly greet the cook with a small wave and slip into the attached office where I find Dad working on his laptop.

"Hey, you," he says, looking up with a small smile that doesn't feel real or meet his eyes. "Didn't know you were coming by."

I walk around the desk and he stays sitting while I lean over to give him a quick hug.

"Just grabbing a drink with Chels before I head home," I tell him.

"Ah, I'll have to come out and say hi."

I smile. "You should."

"You hear from Jas yet?"

"We were texting a little last night." Obviously, I don't tell him it's because he was checking on me while I was with Edward. "I think he seemed okay."

"Good, good."

Dad exhales heavily and I can feel stress radiating off of him. My eyes flick toward the laptop screen and I see he's reading a bar review someone must've recently written. But the tabs next to the website he's currently on say "effects of high cholesterol on the heart" and "Rosalie Hale case Mysterious Minds."

I sit on the edge of his desk.

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask. "Taking your medication and—"

"Yeah, yeah, Nothing to write home about."

"I just have to check."

"You really don't, kid. I'm okay."

"Have you been listening?" I ask. We don't talk about the podcast when Jas is around, so I take advantage of the fact that he's not here.

Without expanding, Dad knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"A little," he says, scrubbing a hand over his graying stubble. "Been hard to fully listen to the episodes. I'm still not sure it was the right decision to agree to this at all, but…"

"Why not?"

He looks at me, his blue-gray eyes so sad. "Because at some point, we need to move on, Isa."

"We are moving on. We will," I insist, swallowing a lump in my throat. "When the podcast is over."

"That's the thing, kiddo. I don't know if this podcast will bring closure or just dredge up the past and drop us in the middle of it again."

I know he's right. I know that telling ourselves things will be good once the podcast is done is a cop-out. It's a false sense of security I've been clinging to. But the reality is that Jackson and James might not solve Rosalie's case. I might not gain any useful information from Edward. And we'd be back at square one.

"I keep replaying that time in my life," Dad continues. "Where I went wrong. What I could've done differently. How I could've helped Katie more…" He trails off and my eyes burn from hearing and seeing him so down. "And I can't say that's been good for me."

I frown, looking for the right words of encouragement. But I have nothing.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He sighs and shuts his laptop. "Hey. Don't be. None of this is your fault."

"It's not yours either," I offer.

"No, but sometimes I feel like I failed you."

"What?" I balk. "How?"

He shakes his head like he's lost in his thoughts. "Charlie and Renee would've wanted me and Katie to protect you. To give you a happy and secure life. And I don't know if I've been able to do that on my own."

"Hey," I say firmly. "Stop that. I'm fine. Okay? You've provided so much for me. And I have you and Jas. We're good. I'm happy."

I'm not unfamiliar with this—trying to cheer up Dad and convince him that I'm okay to ensure he's okay. But this time, it's not a total lie. Just earlier today I realized that I did feel happy. The kicker is that it had to do with Edward, and I'm not sure what to think about that. I'm not sure how real this feeling is or how long it will last.

I'm not even sure I deserve it, either, because of the shady way I'm achieving it.

Reluctantly, Dad nods, my words convincing enough for now.

"Sorry. Not trying to do a whole pity party," he sighs. "Rose's birthday always hits me hard."

"It's okay. I understand," I softly reassure him. "I talked to Jackson over the weekend. He said he got an anonymous tip. Maybe I'll reach out to him again and ask him to share it with us? Maybe it'll spur on some memory or… something. Maybe it will be helpful."

"I don't know how good of an idea that is. Half the anonymous shit they receive is likely fake information anyway. Bored armchair sleuths trying to weasel their way into a case. At least, that's what I gathered from The Twitter."

"The Twitter?" I echo, my mood lifting a little. "You are not on Twitter."

"Where else am I gonna get the tea?"

"Dad." Laughter bubbles out of me. "Who taught you how to use Twitter?"

"Hey, give me some credit. I'm not that decrepit."

"What's your username?"

"WhatTheHale63."

"Damn. That's actually decent," I admit, impressed.

"Don't act so surprised. Your old man isn't as cringey as you thought."

"Cringey?" I laugh harder, shaking my head. "From Gen X to Gen Z."

"Okay, okay. I'll stop embarrassing you." He smiles, and this time it feels like he means it.

XXX

Happy hour with Chelsea turns into two hours.

After a little tequila, I slip up and mention how Edward and I met up earlier today to look at furniture, which confirms her suspicion that I was in a better, perkier mood after returning to work.

She goes on a passionate rant about why she thinks I'm in my lovergirl era because she's never seen me hung up on a man like this before.

After my chat with Dad in his office, though, the last person I want to talk about is Edward.

I feel guilty, I guess. I worry what Dad will think if he finds out what I'm doing with Edward. My conscience does its thing, forcing my moral compass to spin around and around.

Just because I don't indulge Chelsea in conversation about Edward, doesn't mean he isn't there on the periphery of my mind. Especially the more we drink.

I wonder what he did after we left the furniture shop today. Wonder if I'm on his mind every time he looks at the side table he bought. Wonder if working with him is a bad idea after all because leaving my mark behind in his condo seems cruel whenever he finds out who I am.

I draft a text, telling him we can't work together anymore. I give no excuse why. Cold turkey is best.

But I don't send the message because a man strolls up to the bar and I overhear him asking if Jasper's around.

It catches my attention. The man stands a few people away and I survey him, eavesdropping as the bartender tells him Jas isn't working tonight.

Before he walks away, I tell Chels I'll be right back and slide off the stool, approaching the stranger.

"Hey," I say, stopping him. "I'm Jasper's cousin. You're looking for him?"

The man is tall and built with dark hair and kind eyes.

Recognition flashes in his gaze. "Isa, right?"

"Yes, and any bad thing Jasper said about me isn't true," I say, earning myself a wry smile from him. "And you are?"

"Sam."

"Sam," I echo, trying to place him, but he's unfamiliar.

"Jas and I are… well, I don't know what we are but—"

"Oh! Sam," I say with intention, even though Jasper never told me his name. "You're the guy he's seeing?"

He exhales a laugh, looking both shy and smug. "I'm the guy. Unless there's more than one guy he's seeing, but… yeah. I haven't heard from him so I was getting worried."

"Yeah, no, Jas is in a cabin in the mountains right now for his birthday." And I thought he was inviting you, I think to myself, but I don't say it in case Jasper brought someone else along. There's also a chance Jasper decided not to invite Sam because he didn't want their situationship to feel more serious than it is.

"Right, I knew that I just wasn't sure when he'd be back," Sam says, sounding disappointed. "He isn't returning my calls or texts."

"Jas is notorious for going off the grid around his birthday, so I'm sure it's nothing personal," I promise. "If I hear from him, I'll tell him to reach out. He should be back in a couple of days."

"I don't want to come off as needy, so maybe don't mention I was here. I feel cringey enough for coming at all."

"You sure? It's probably fine."

"Jas will think I'm trying to lock him down and ghost me, if he hasn't already so… yeah, just don't mention it. Thanks, anyway."

Honestly, that sounds like Jas. If Chelsea thinks I'm in my lovergirl era, then Jas has firmly been in his fuckboy era since forever.

"I'm here having a drink with a friend. You can join us if you want?" I gesture toward where Chelsea is sitting. "We can swap stories about how Jas is the worst," I joke.

"I appreciate it, but maybe another time," he says, offering a polite smile. "Maybe I'll see you around."

He turns to exit, and I head back over to Chelsea.

"Who was that?" she asks, watching as he leaves. "Another one of your suitors?"

I laugh, sipping from my straw. "I assure you, I am not his type."

Chelsea scoffs. "You're hot, funny, and such a boss bitch. You're everyone's type."

"He's seeing Jasper."

"Aww. Wait, I love that."

"I know," I agree, hoping Jasper feels comfortable talking to me about him, and that Sam and I can officially meet soon.

XXX

When I get home around nine, pangs of loneliness creep in. Jas is usually at work at this hour, but still—knowing he won't be home later tonight makes me feel more reclusive than normal. And now that I know he might have been alone this entire time, I worry.

So I call him while feeding Lucy.

His phone goes straight to voicemail.

I try a second time, thinking the signal is messed up. But again, it doesn't ring and I'm sent to his automated voicemail.

"Um, hey weirdo," I say into the line after it beeps. "Just wanted to check on you. Hope you're okay. Miss you, call me back."

Maybe I shouldn't read into it, but his phone being off is strange. We don't usually talk when he's away on this trip. But he knew I was going out with Edward, and he was seemingly concerned. Would he really turn off his phone? What if I needed him?

Still feeling unsettled, I go into Jasper's room and turn on the light to find his phone charger plugged into the wall under his nightstand.

"World's worst packer," I mutter to myself.

Knowing his lazy ass, he'll go the entire trip with a dead phone because he can't be bothered to go buy a new one.

I start to walk out, but Lucy runs into Jasper's room and immediately slinks under his bed.

"Luce, come on," I mumble. "You know Jas doesn't like you to be in here."

She doesn't listen, so I head into the kitchen and grab her treats, purposely crinkling the bag in my hand to gain her attention.

When it doesn't work to lure her out, I go back to Jasper's room and drop to my knees, peering under his bed. He has so much shit under here, so I can't see her.

I reach beneath the bed to move some stuff around and hopefully startle Lucy out of hiding. Grabbing a shoebox, I shake it a little and my plan works—the literal scaredy cat runs out and leaves the room.

Still crouched, I spot something familiar under the bed—a keepsake box that Dad gifted both Jasper and me a few years ago. He split up all of our family photos and gave us matching wooden boxes to keep them in.

I reach for it and lift the lid, eager to reminisce. There are more than just family photos in here, though. I find awards from school. Trinkets—seashells, keychains, and magnets—from family vacations. Birthday cards. A journal.

I'd opened the box assuming it only held photos because that's all mine is used for. Feeling a little guilty, I purposely ignore the other personal items in here and grab a handful of pictures to admire them.

I look through Christmases, birthdays, family vacations, and barbeques. Some events are from before I was born, but I still like seeing the family dynamic. I love having physical proof of how close everyone was.

I remember stories from Aunt Katherine of how she looked up to her brother, Charlie, and how much she admired Renee and loved her like a sister.

Sometimes I feel guilty for missing Aunt Katherine more than Renee. But it makes sense. I remember her the most. She raised me. She's the mother I remember.

My eyes sting with tears, and I swallow a lump in my throat. It must be the tequila and the lingering sadness from my conversation earlier with Dad that's making me so damn nostalgic and emotional.

With a heavy sigh, I start to put the photos back in the box, ending my little emo moment. But the corner of a drawing nestled inside catches my eye.

I pull the paper out to find a kid's drawing. It's a house surrounded by what looks like cacti, maybe. There are four stick figures and an animal of some sort, but I can't tell if it's a cat or a dog. The crayon is faded, but I can make out that it says "To: Jas, From: Jas" written in big, bulky letters, but the J's are backward.

With only four stick figures in the drawing, it's easy to assume they're Jas, Rosalie, Dad, and Aunt Katherine. This must've been before they adopted me. I don't recall them ever having an animal, but maybe I was too young to remember.

I put everything back in the box except the drawing because I want to display it on the fridge, mostly to tease Jas for his lack of artistic ability and the fact that he drew himself a photo when he was younger.

Turning off his light and shutting the door, I make my way back into the living room when my phone chimes with a text.

I expect it to be Jasper.

But it's not.

Edward: You lied.