Chapter 11

Bella

Shortly thereafter, the flashlight Mrs. Masen had found flickered, then went out. She cursed under her breath. "All right," she sighed. "Here's what's going to happen. I need you, Edward, to go upstairs and look for a flashlight, or candles. Or whatever you can get your hands on. Bella, you stay down here, on this floor, and do the same. I'm going to look and see if I can find anything in the basement. How's that sound?"

"Okay," said Edward.

A roll of thunder interrupted my affirmation. An uncomfortable trill shot through me.

Edward disappeared up the stairs, and Mrs. Masen went down to the basement, leaving me alone. It felt wrong to be rooting around in some one else's house –especially when that some one else was Edward. I tried not to dwell on it. I'd never realized how creeped out thunder made me. With each crash of thunder, my stomach tightened further into coils of –what was it? Fear? The dark wasn't helpful either.

Mrs. Masen came back up stairs after only ten minutes. "I found a candle," she said. I couldn't quite see her. She was a dark outline. My eyes were still not quite adjusted to the dark yet. Either that, or this was as adjusted as they were going to get. There was nothing for my eyes to grasp for light from. Everything was dark.

Her hand was suddenly on my shoulder. "Here," she said. "Take it." I could make out the hand not on my shoulder held out to me, offering the candle. I took it from her.

"What should I do with it?" I said. I squinted down at the candle in my hand. It was short and thick, and the wax was smooth, and almost cool. I tried to imagine what color it might be. In my mind's eye, I saw it as scarlet.

"Upstairs –I'm sure we have matches up there. I'll keep looking for the flashlight."

"All right," I agreed.

I made it up two whole steps, before, I stumbled, having stepped down, on where there wasn't a step. I made the rest of the way up, on all fours, to be sure I wouldn't make another display of uncoordination –even if even I couldn't see my folly.

Once I got to the landing, I realized it was even darker up here, than it was on the main floor. I carefully brought myself upright, the candle still gripped tightly in my hand. Thunder rolled. My fingers tightened around the wax, and my jagged fingernails bit little crescents into the malleable material. You could hear the rain on the roof, up here, and the wind.

I tried to make my way to a wall, blindly. My arms were outstretched, but that didn't help my clumsy feet, as they tripped over a bump in the carpet. I tried to regain balance, but I fell, and my knee slammed painfully into the floor. I groaned.

"Bella?" Edward's voice was not as far away, as I might have expected it to be. I saw him, his shadow-like form, in a doorway, just to the left of me. I could see him draw closer, and his soft footsteps on the rug. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. My voice was pitched high with embarrassment.

He knelt by me, and helped me to my feet, though I honestly didn't need the help.

He led me to his room, wordlessly, where I was introduced to yet another, deeper, shade of black. "Did you find anything?" he asked me.

It bothered me that I couldn't see his face when I spoke to him. I couldn't place exactly why it was so particularly disquieting. "Your mom found a candle in the basement." I felt his hand on mine, prying my fingers loose. "What are you doing?" I asked, though I got that same excited rush that I got every time he touched me.

"Getting the candle. Or, trying to."

I felt my cheeks burn. "Oh." I loosened my grip immediately on the candle, handing it to him.

He shuffled with something, and I heard a metallic grind, and a small flame rose up out of the lighter he was holding. I could see his face now, as with care, he lit the wick of the candle (that turned out to be ivory colored). He walked over to his desk, to set it on, and turned to face me. His hands were in his pockets, with a seemingly relaxed stance, but there was something about him that seemed tense. Weird shadows were cast about. The waxen glow gave the room a hollow, eerie cast. His smile was strange.

"So," I said. "Now what?"

He shrugged, one shouldered. "I don't know."

I listened to a gentle rumble, followed by an ear-splitting crash. I jumped. I could feel it even in the soles of my feet.

Edward edged a little closer to me. He seemed both amused and concerned toward my reaction. "Are you afraid?" His voice was soft. It fit into the dark, unlike my own awkwardly pitched voice.

"No," I said, even though I was starting to feel it prickling at the small hairs of my arms.

"Listen," said Edward. He was very close to me then. There was a foot, maybe more –maybe less- between us. He looked up toward the ceiling, and I followed his line of sight. In the silence you could hear the whistle of wind whipping past the windows, and the rain pelting the roof.

"What are we listening for?" I whispered

"Sh," he shushed me. Eyes still turned on the ceiling of his room, he placed his palm against my cheek, and his thumb over my lips.

I stilled instantly, afraid to react. The gesture was more than a sign to keep me quiet. It was tender. Affectionate, even. I could feel my cheeks burning –my whole face burning- under his warm hand. I stared hard at him, fixated, and petrified.

He must have felt my staring, because he looked down at me, slowly. His thumb moved away from my lips, but his hand remained at my cheek. We were frozen, staring. Was it just me, or was his head tilting toward mine, and mine towards his, ever so slightly? Or was that just my imagination? Was I just imagining the feeling of his breath, warm on my face? Or was that just the pulse of blood, hot, and excited, beneath my skin?

But then, he moved away from me, to the door. I was still immobile, taken aback by what I might have just imagined.

"I think there's an emergency flashlight in my dad's office," he said, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. "I'm –uh- going to get it."

"I'll come with you," I volunteered in a moment of rare boldness.

I almost completely lost my nerve when I saw the ambivalence in his face. But all he said was "Sure," and held the door open for me.

I thought to take the candle off of his desktop. He walked behind me. His footfalls were much quieter than mine, and I might have thought they were the mere echo of my own –that he wasn't behind me at all- if it weren't for the high clear tune he was whistling. I wondered if he was musically talented. Whenever Charlie whistled, all it sounded like was an indistinguishable warble. Edward whistled a tune that reminded me of a joke in black humor. Uplifting, somehow, yet the minor key made it simultaneously sad.

"What tune is that?" I asked him.

"I don't know. I made it up."

I stopped, and turned.

"What?" he said to my blatant stare.

"Just now? Did you just come with that?"

He laughed. "You seem surprised."

"You're lying," I said. "You couldn't have just come up with that."

He pressed his lips together to hide a laugh. He snorted, though, giving it away. "You don't think I could?"

"I don't know –did you?"

"I came up with it, but not on the spot," he admitted. He was still beaming his heart-breaking, crooked smile. His eyes looked dark, not in color –for they were as brilliantly green as ever- but in essence. I had the distinct feeling, at that moment, that it would be a cold day in Hell before I understood anything about Edward Masen.

"Well. It's very pretty," I said.

"Well," he said, with barely concealed amusement. "Thank you."

Edward pushed the door next to him open, and waited for me to go through, before he himself did.

Edward rummaged through various drawers –in a wide oak desk, that was probably an antique, in the shelves of the bookcases pushed up against the walls, and ever in the filing cabinet drawers that weren't locked. I leaned against the wall, and watched him search, for a little while, but eventually I wandered over to one of the bookcases. What drew me were the thick volumes, but then, what captured my attention were the picture frames placed on the shelves.

On the shelf that was on eye level to me, was a picture of a little boy sitting on the heavy limb of a tree, his feet dangling over. His face was half turned, as if the picture had been taken right as he was turning his head. He was wearing shorts, but his top half was bare. His skin looked fair, and I could make out the ridge of his spine in his little back and a trio of dark freckles, or moles on his right shoulder blade. His hair stuck up in a mad cowlick at the back of his head. And, just in the profile of his face, I could see that he reminded me very much of someone. There was something about the line of his nose, or the direction his hair sprang from his head.

"My mom," he said.

I jerked, startled, that he was behind me. I looked at him.

"She took that picture of me. I think it was the summer before first grade." His eyes were fixed on the picture, with an expression of unfathomable nostalgia. "I didn't know she was going to take it."

I studied the picture some more. "You were very cute," I concluded. I smiled at him.

He rolled his eyes. "Come on, let's go. There aren't any flashlights in here."

"Okay," I said. I hesitated though, my eyes wandering, scouring each frame, for Edward's face, and there were quite a few –family pictures, school photos, pictures of him with friends, and family- but then I found one picture, just as I was turning to follow Edward, of him next to a girl, her hair red-gold. They were sitting on his porch together, their hands disappearing between the little space between them, and they looked like they were trying to make serious, straight faces for the photo, but they were clearly smiling –it was in their eyes.

"Bella?" Edward called. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," I said. I shook my head, and went out of the office, into the hallway, where he waited for me.

Edward went to look in the other rooms on the floor, including his own room, for another comb through. However, no flashlights were found. Eventually Mrs. Masen came up, and asked us if we were hungry at all. Because we were bored, we said we were. Thankfully, their stove was gas powered.

"You know," I said, smiling devilish at Edward, where he stood across from me, against the counter. "Edward could make some grilled cheese sandwiches."

He blanched, and shook his head.

Mrs. Masen turned sharply, from cutting vegetables for a salad. "What's this? Since when could you cook anything?"

Edward's expression turned sheepish when looking at his mother. "I can't."

"You can too," I said. "I didn't show you how to, for nothing."

"I'm going to mess it up."

"How?"

He threw his hands up. "I don't know, but I will."

Mrs. Masen rolled her eyes. "Have a little faith, Edward. It's not that complicated of a recipe. I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Why don't you just try?" I insisted.

He shook his head.

"Edward," Mrs. Masen chided. "Come on."

"We probably don't even have all the ingredients."

"What kind of grilled cheese sandwiches are you planning on making?" said Mrs. Masen. She gave a short laugh.

Edward narrowed his eyes at his mom's back, when she turned back to the vegetables she was slicing.

"Go on," I said, taking a step toward him. I nudged him, with my elbow. What has happened to you? Where are you getting this kind of courage? Since when did you nudge anyone? Especially anyone like Edward?

He nudged me back –his only response.

"I don't get why you're so chickened out by the idea of making a simple, grilled cheese sandwich. I showed you how to before," I said.

This seemed to grasp his attention. "Are you calling me chicken?" he asked with joking out-rage.

It was a dare –a challenge – for me to reciprocate the banter. With out so much as a moment of hesitation, I managed to smile, and said, "Maybe."

He sighed deeply. "Fine. You win." He stalked over to his fridge, and removed the ingredients necessary, and set them on the counter by the stove. He moved with surprising confidence, for someone who was just prior so dead set against cooking.

Once, however, he had everything laid out next to the stove, he seemed lost. "Okay, now what do I do?"

I resisted the urge to smile. "No hints."

"What?" He turned to look at me with what looked like real out rage. "That's not fair."

"I showed you how to make it," I said. "You can figure it out."

He muttered something under his breath, but turned back to the stove.

Mrs. Masen had stopped her chopping, to watch Edward, as he carefully, cautiously, set to making the sandwiches. I watched too, and the more I watched the more unclear it was to me, what Edward had been so worried about. He was doing perfectly fine, and hadn't forgotten a single step. Once he'd finished he placed the sandwich on a plate, and cut it in half with the edge of his spatula, diagonally. He handed me one half, and watched me bite into it, with an expectant expression.

"Well?"

I swallowed, and felt the corners of my lips turn up at how anxious he looked.

"There aren't words really," I said.

He smiled at that. "I'm glad."

After eating, I started to get the feeling that I wouldn't be able to go home. Especially, when Edward's father finally came home about an hour later, with news that a logging truck had slid, and caused a major accident on the 101. The storm had also refused to subside. The thunder was only getting louder and more frequent.

Edward must have sensed my discomfort, and offered to take me on a tour of the house –as a distraction, he said.

"I've seen your house," I said.

"Not all of it," he said. He set the plate he'd been rinsing in the dishwasher. He'd refused to allow me to help him. His excuse was that I was a guest. And every time I'd try to argue, he would start speaking over me, asking a question like, "When's your birthday?" or "Do you have any pets?" I gave up, pretty quickly.

"I don't see how…" I trailed off as a grumble of thunder shook the floor.

One corner of Edward's mouth curled up at the corner. He closed up the washing machine, and walked over to me, and guided me out of the kitchen. "Okay," he said. "I have one question for you." He was leading me toward a hallway off the kitchen and down it.

"Shoot."

"Why does thunder scare you so much?"

"It doesn't," I said, before thinking.

He laughed at my denial. Before I could clarify, that I just wasn't used to it, he stopped in front of a door opposite their back door. "This," he gestured to the door. "This, Bella, is our basement."

"Oh. Well. This is quite the honor, isn't it?" I said. "The Masen Basement. Wow."

Edward gave me a look. "I don't know what you're implying, but, yes, this is our basement." He opened the door, to a carpeted stairwell. Only a few feet in front of Edward were lit, by the candle I was holding, but the rest of the way down, was utterly dark.

He laughed at my undoubtedly unnerved expression. "It won't be scary, I promise."

"Isn't there some other part of your house that you could show me?"

His smile was dark. "No. Come on." He motioned me toward him. With apprehension I drew closer to him. His smile remained on his face, and he put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm right here."

"Are you mocking me?" I said. His expression –his smile- wasn't quite serious enough to be comforting.

His face quickly sobered, though his eyes burned darkly, with humor. "No, of course not. Come on."

We walked down the stairway, bumping shoulders. There was just room enough across for us to walk side-by-side, but not so we didn't touch, every step we took down. I did feel more at ease, having him so close. He felt safe. Rather, I felt like he could protect me, more than he was really safe.

The room we came down to was less of a basement, and more of a wreck room. The floor was thickly carpeted in the same grey carpet as was on the stairs. The walls were paneled with out-dated wood paneling, and long fluorescent lights were on the ceiling. A TV sat on an old paint-chipped dresser, across from a couch whose fabric was fuzzy with age, and had holes, that showed its yellow foam insides. It sat on the ground, with no legs. A washing machine and dryer were next to the doorway.

Edward however, did not seem interested in any of that. He pad across the room toward a huge shape, that, when he pulled the sheet off of it, revealed to be a piano. He pulled out the bench, and sat down on it. I slowly walked toward him. He wasn't playing. He just stared at the ivory –contemplating it. "You know," he said, "I haven't played for a while."

"How long?" I asked him.

He exhaled. "I don't know. A while."

He placed his long pianist's fingers on the keys. He paused, then began playing. The song unraveled, like a spool of thread, developing into more complex, more emotive chord progressions, and notes. And as the song went along, I thought I could detect the melody he had whistled, weaving it's way through the song. It sounded much sadder, here, on the piano than when I'd herd him whistle it. Where there had been humor, there was derision, and in place of the gentle darkness, to the tune, there was poignancy. And suddenly it was over, the notes still reverberating in the air. I realized that I'd wandered over, to him, and was standing just behind his shoulder.

On his profile I could see that he was smiling, satisfied. "I'm glad I haven't forgotten how to play."

"That was really good," I said. I was in awe, though a part of me wondered if there was anything he wasn't good at.

He looked up at me. "Thanks."

"You wrote that yourself, didn't you," I said.

He grinned wider. "Yeah, I did. Why?"

I stared at him for a moment, and his smile faded at something he saw in my expression. "You've just never mentioned that you play piano," I said. "I wouldn't have thought, if you never mentioned it, that you wouldn't be this good."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't smile. "Do you want me to teach you?"

"No," I said, with a nervous laugh. "Definitely not."

He seemed confused. "Why do you say that?"

I didn't want to reveal to him that after just hearing his own ridiculous playing, I didn't want to even attempt anything of my own. "I'd rather you played," I said instead.

He rolled his eyes. "Think of it as something to do." He scooted over on the bench, and pat the space next to him.

I didn't move. "Why? Are you bored?"

"Well, anything else I can think of to do involves either going outside, or electricity, and neither of those things are options so," he pat the seat again. "Sit."

I suppressed a sigh, and sat next to him on the bench, and put the candle on the glossy piano top. "What are you going to teach me how to play?" I had my eyes on the twitching flame of the candle. When Edward didn't answer, I turned to look at him.

He was turning the pages of a music book. His brow was furrowed in an exceptionally attractive look of concentration. "I don't think you'll be able to play anything in here," he said.

"How come?" I tried to see the pages, but he closed the book. The cover was yellow, with a picture of a middle-aged man with a powdered wig. Above the picture in black type it said Bach.

"Because it's giving me a headache looking at it," he said. He stared into space for a moment. He seemed to have come to a decision then. "Have you taken lessons before?"

"Yes," I said. "My mom had me take lessons when I was little. But I never liked them, so it didn't last." I wished for the first time since I'd had those lessons, that I had continued my playing.

He smiled a little. "I didn't like my lessons either. I was ready to quit when I was thirteen, and I told my dad, and he just said that it'd be my loss."

I felt confused. "What does that mean? 'Your loss.'"

"He said that girls liked musicians," he said.

I raised my eyebrows. "And that convinced you to keep playing.

"Naturally."

"So, when did you stop taking lessons, then? You said you hadn't played for a while," I said.

"Not too long after I turned sixteen," he said. His expression was unreadable. "At that point, I figured I had the piano playing thing figured out. I was cocky. I didn't think I really needed lessons."

"Did you?"

He grinned. "I don't think so."

As I stared at him, I felt my smile fade. Here it was again –his put on. I couldn't fathom why he though he needed to act this way around me. And what if this wasn't a put on at all? What if this was really how he was? I didn't think that was true though. Edward was better than his false arrogance. The more I thought about it, in fact, the more it seemed like a security blanket. I wanted to tell him that he didn't need it, that his whole act was silly, and ridiculous, and ask him whom it was for? Me? Or himself?

His own smile slipped. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

I didn't answer for a beat. "No, nothing's wrong."

He put his hand flat on the bench, in the space between us. His arm was almost completely flush with mine.

I felt his eyes on the side of my face. I tried to not look back at him, but then, felt myself do just that, very slowly.

He smiled at me. "Thanks for making me make those sandwiches."

I sighed, strangely relieved. "Any time," I said.

He laughed.

Edward and I stayed in the basement for some time. He never ended up really teaching me anything, because I wouldn't play anything. He played several songs. He found a music book from when he'd first started his lessons at six, and played a few of the simple tunes, albeit adding on to them, to make them more elaborate. I liked his bluesy Mary Had A Little Lamb best. I studied his awkward, six-year-old handwriting on the inside cover. EDWARD ANTHONY MASENES BOOK PLEAS DONT' TAKE, it said.

Edward then gave me a thorough tour of the basement; he showed me the small TV, his video game consol -that he told me he only used when someone else wanted him to play-, the crummy couch, the stash of red liquorish, and dirty socks under the cushions of it, the washing machine, and dryer, and its cabinets overhead (that were loaded with dryer sheets, fabric softener, Shout!, all-purpose cleaner, and a jar of loose change), and the crawl space under the stairwell, that was originally used as a wine cellar, but had also served as a hiding place, for when he was younger. "I still come down here sometimes," he said. He was hunched over, so his head wouldn't knock the ceiling. I had to slouch, myself, under the descending ceiling.

He sat on the floor, and I sat across from him. "How come?"

"It's very quiet. You can't hear a thing."

"Oh," I said.

"It's probably the asbestos."

I rolled my eyes.

"See, what I don't get is how come you're afraid of thunder, but not the risk of cancer," he said, his eyes glinting with laughter.

"Thunder is noisy," I said. "And there's no asbestos here."

"How do you know?"

"Because. I can tell you're joking."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"I have a question for you," I said. I squared my shoulders.

He seemed to sense a change in my mood, and straightened himself up too. The motion seemed to be in mockery, and I felt a surge of bitter resentment, as I'd been feeling anytime he acted too fake, masked in. "I'm ready," he said.

"Why do you do that?" I asked, and tried not to sound too accusatory at that same time. "Why do you act so fake? I know this isn't the way you are, and I don't know. There's just something really cocky, and odd about it. It doesn't make sense for you. You're not that person you want me and other people to think you are. I don't even know who you are, even though I try to -but every time I feel like I get close to you, you shut me out, and –and—" I stopped myself. I stared hard at my steeped knees, rather than his face, afraid for what I might see.

But when too much time passed for it to be any kind of comfortable silence, I slowly –very, very slowly- looked up at him.

He looked at a complete loss of what to say, or how to react. His expression was blank, but it seemed like emotions roiled just underneath. He opened his mouth, to say something, maybe, but closed it.

I felt my cheeks burning. "I'm sorry. Never mind that. I don't –just forget I said that at all." I was speaking to my knees again. I had no idea how to take back what I'd just admitted to feeling about Edward. A mere apology, and plea to turn the other cheek, couldn't possibly suffice.

"Don't apologize," he said.

I glanced up at him. He no longer looked shocked by my question, but he still seemed perturbed that I'd said anything at all. I felt a ball of guilt in my throat. I never should have said anything about his strange behavior. It wasn't my business. "I should not have said that," I said. "I'm really, really, sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"No," he said. His voice was quiet, earnest. "Listen to me, Bella –you're –you are absolutely right."

I fidgeted, unable to respond.

"You're a lot more … perceptive than I give you credit for," he said. He sounded like he was trying to make light of the situation, by complimenting me. His smile was forced.

I felt my stomach lurch. Stupid, stupid, STUPID. How could you be so tactless? "I shouldn't have said that," I said.

"Don't say that," he said. "I'm glad you said something. I would have kept doing it, if you didn't say anything." He seemed to see that I wasn't convinced that it was okay to any degree, so said, "Look, all right? I'm not going to really get into it, but I think it's sometimes easier to face people when you don't act like how you feel, you know? Honestly, if I knew everyone could tell I was doing it, I wouldn't, but you're the only person who's even shown a sign that you noticed it, so I won't do it anymore. Not, at least, when you're around. I promise."

I took a deep breath. "You don't have to do that for me. It's not fair that I should have even pointed it out."

"I want to do it for you. I owe it to you."

I wasn't prepared for the urgency in his voice. "You don't owe me anything," I said, because he didn't, and it made me feel even worse, that he was turning this whole thing around. He should be mad at me. Not trying to do me favors.

"Yes," he said, "I do." His expression was so completely and utterly serious, that I couldn't refuse him.

"Okay," I said, weakly.

He leaned back, as if he suddenly realized he'd been leaning forward, toward me, all this time. "So. Tell me –are you liking Forks any better, now that you've been here for a couple weeks?"

"I am," I said, glad for the change in subject. I hoped he wouldn't ask why, though. My blush would give it away, even if I lied.

"Is there anyone you miss from Phoenix, besides your mom?" he asked me. "Like, a boyfriend?"

I bit back a groan. I thought I was done with this question. "Uh, not really, no. I've never had a boyfriend. I wasn't really that close with anyone either."

"Really?" he said, skeptical.

"Why is that so hard to believe? No, I have never had a boyfriend, or anything like it."

"But, why?" He still seemed utterly confused, as if there was no way he could make sense of me not having a boyfriend. Which, I found really confusing.

"I don't know. I haven't really been pining for one. Not, that I've ever been asked out or anything, either," I said. I shrugged. I didn't know how else to explain it.

"You like your independence," he said with appraisal.

I wondered how he'd come to that particular conclusion. "How do you figure?"

"I can just tell. You can hold your own, and you're okay with that." He was smiling, faintly. He was looking at me in a way that made my stomach ache with how knotted it got. He looked down, then, the smile vanishing, and he swallowed.

It was moments, like these when I could see some old ache, a buried past, in him, that I remembered how much I didn't know him –and how much I wanted to. I felt a rush of questions flood my head, and, though I knew I shouldn't ask them, I wanted to. "Edward?" I said, tentative.

He lifted his head again. His expression gave away nothing. "Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question? A really big question?"

"Another one?" He smiled, though it was tired, resigned.

"I'm sorry," I said, quickly. "I don't have to ask it."

"No, I want to hear it, at least," he said, though he looked like he really didn't want to hear about it at all.

"Who's Tanya?" It wasn't the question I'd exactly meant to ask, but in essence it was the same. I still didn't understand who she was.

His face turned ashen. He swallowed again. "She –she was a girlfriend I had last year." His voice cracked at the end, with emotion.

"Oh," I said, voice small.

He was studying my reaction. "I'm not still with her," he explained.

"Yeah, I got that," I murmured.

Maybe he saw that I was somehow still unsatisfied, or something, because the next thing said was, "She's dead."

My eyes flew wide with shock. "Oh," I said. "I –wow. I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"It's fine," he cut me off. "I'm over it." He looked like he could hardly keep himself composed. I didn't believe him.

Was this why he seemed so distant –so out of reach? Was this his private sorrow? Was he just sad, because she'd died, or was it more? Did he love her? Whatever it was, I could see, now that it plagued him. I felt a need to comfort him –not to pity, but to simply make it so he wouldn't feel this way anymore. But, for now all I could offer him would be to be near him, and so with not but a second of apprehension, I moved so I sat next to him. He didn't seem surprised. He simply put his arm around my shoulders, and leaned his head against mine, as if he was a cripple, and I was supporting him. I leaned back into him, in return. And it didn't feel scary to be close to him. It felt easy, and warm, and it smelled like soap and Edward, and I could feel electricity everywhere we touched.

He pulled away, though, too soon, and got to his feet. "We should probably go upstairs now –see if the storm's over."

I'd forgotten all about the storm in the time that we'd been spending in the basement. It felt like a sharp slap of reality –a reminder that Edward and I weren't the only people in existence. "Right." I got to my feet.

I followed Edward back up the stairs. The house was still all dark, and there was no light, except the light from the candle, I held. The clock on the coffeemaker was flashing 2:00. "Looks like the electricity is back on," I said.

He nodded, but didn't say anything for a while. "I wonder what time it is," he said, at last. He went into the next room. I stood for a moment, in the kitchen, before going after him. He'd flipped the light switch on. The chandelier hanging over the rectangular table winked its drops of ice. He was watching the face of a grandfather clock. It looked like an heirloom.

"It's one-fifteen," he told me, with out turning around.

"Oh," I said. I realized that I was still holding the lit candle, and blew out the flame.

"Are you tired?" he asked, turning to face me now.

I shrugged. "A little." Not at all. "You?"

He shrugged too. "Not really. But maybe I should set something up, in case if you want to go to sleep." I followed him up the stairs. He turned on all the lights, as he went.

Once we reach his room, he had me sit, on the chair at his desk, while he fixed his bed, and got a quilt from the linen closet in the hall. I snooped, as inconspicuously as possible. I looked for clues, and fragments of his past –anything to learn more about him. But, there wasn't anything to work with. He had no pictures, like in his dad's office. He had his CD's. He had tiny collection of books. He had his desk. But, like I said -nothing really to work with. I tried to make out the titles of the CDs, and the band names, but they were hard to see from where I sat, and I didn't want to get up; he'd know I was poking around, then, and I'd already done enough of that.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he said, breaking me of my thoughts. "You can sleep on the bed."

"What?" I turned to him. "Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want to share…?"

I blushed, and forced the image out of my head. "No –no, that wasn't what I meant," I said, almost hysterically. "I mean, you sleep in your bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

He heaved a sigh. "No. You're A Guest."

"What is all this you're-a-guest stuff about? It's your bed."

"I refuse to argue about this," he said. "You are sleeping on the bed. It would be a waste for me, to, since I probably won't sleep anyway." His tone was final, but not angry.

I crossed my arms. "Fine." I didn't want to argue with him, either, really. I just didn't want to inconvenience him any. I got the notion that arguing with him over such a trivial thing, as where I slept would be a greater inconvenience.

"Are you tired?" he asked me, while he folded the quilt on the floor in half –a makeshift sleeping bag.

"No," I said. I brought my feet up onto the edge of the chair, and hugged my knees. "Can I ask you a question?"

He paused, in his straightening of the blanket. A shadow passed over his face. "Sure."

I was going to ask him who the girl with the strawberry-blonde hair was in that picture, but then I chickened out. "How did you meet Alice?"

He sat down, Indian-style. "She lives just down the street from me. Our mom's were friends, and they herded all us kids together. Same with Emmett, Jasper, and Rosalie. But then Rosalie and Emmett's families moved. You know Jasper lives right across the street from Alice?"

I shook my head. "Alice says she always knew they would end up together."

He gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Even when we were little, she thought of him as her Prince Charming."

"What about Rosalie and Emmett? Was it the same?"

"No. It was kind of the opposite. Emmett just realized that Rosalie's really hot, and came on too strong; he for some reason thought incessant flirting would sweep Rosalie off her feet, or something. So, she started to avoid him all the time, or argue with him if he was ever around. I don't really even know how she decided she liked Emmett the same way. Maybe that was why she acted like she didn't like all his… come ons. I don't know. I choose not to think about it too much."

I smiled. It was such a complete picture –Alice and Jasper, then Rosalie and Emmett. I liked the idea, that they were brought together against their conscious will, and yet, they all remained friends, after all this time. They even fell in love with each other. I itched to ask him what happened to his Tanya. I itched to know if she had been one of them. I itched to know everything. But I bit my tongue. "What's your favorite book?" I said, instead –an honest curiosity, but not an urgent one, like the others.

He cocked his head the side. "I don't know. I don't read very much."

"But what about those books?" I pointed to the books on the top shelf of his CD case. They looked so worn, and loved –there was no way he didn't read them.

He squinted at them. "I don't think I finished a single one of them."

"But," I said, "they look so read."

He smiled crookedly. "They're secondhand books."

"Oh," I said. "Well, that's just sad. Were they really so bad that you couldn't finish them?"

"They weren't interesting to me." His eyes spark, amused at how dismayed I am.

I get up, to get the books. I had to reach, up on my tiptoes, but I got them down. Their spines all lined up, fit into one hand. I studied the cover of the book on top. Fahrenheit 451. "I love this book," I said, with a tiny gasp.

Edward got up from his seat, to see the cover of the book. He stood so close I could feel the heat of his body, though we weren't touching. "It was boring," he said. His breath was literally on the back of my neck.

"It is not boring." I shuffled the stack. Anansi Boys. "What, in the name of all that is holy made you stop reading this?"

"I got distracted. It was boring. I don't know."

"I'm appalled."

He laughed.

The next book was Into The Wild. "What was this book about?" I flip it over to read the blurb.

"Some crazy guy who ran off to Alaska, and died of starvation," he said, tone dry, bored.

I looked at him, surprised. "You finished it?"

"No, I just read the end, so I knew what happened."

"Oh," I said, disappointed. The next was Catcher in the Rye.

"I hated that book. So. Much."

I had to look at him again, in hopes that he was joking. He wasn't. "Why?"

"What's His Face –the main character-"

"Holden," I said. "Caulfield."

"Whatever. He was really fucking annoying."

"I love Holden," I said, quietly. The last book was American Psycho. "I've heard of this one."

"It was too depressing. I liked the movie, fine. But the book was a bit much."

I put the books back on the shelf. "How disappointing," I said. "Have you ever finished a book?"

He smiles. "Not unless it was an assignment, in school."

"I can't even imagine what that would be like."

"Not finishing a book ever?"

"Yeah. Don't you just feel so unsatisfied?"

"Not really. I have other things to do besides read," he said.

I shook my head. "I will never ever understand you."

For some time we didn't really talk about anything, but we talked a lot. Mostly it was about school, about what moving felt like, about friends, about family. I actually started to feel very tired, the more relaxed I got around him. I curled up on my side, on the floor, thankful that I was wearing comfortable clothes at least. I was tired enough, in fact to oblige, with out thought, when Edward told me I should get in bed. "I'm not going to sleep, though," I said, as I pulled back the covers, and got in.

He didn't answer –he only turned off the lights.

I laid my head down on his pillow, and pulled up the blankets, past my shoulders. The comforter was cool, soft, heavy. His pillow smelled of fabric softener, pillowcase, and him. And, it was as if his comforters, sheets, and pillows belied all the exhaustion of all his sleepless nights. Suddenly, I could hardly keep my eyes open.

I was about to fall asleep, when the question (a tag on a new shirt, scratching my neck) bubbled to my lips. I didn't even debate whether I should ask it or not –it just came out. "How did she die?" I felt nothing –no remorse, no regret. I just felt tired, and sleep, tugging me downward. My curiosity vanished. I yawned, hugely, my eyes tearing, ears popping.

I couldn't see his face in the blackness of his room. "Good night, Bella," he said. His muted voice, cushioned with old sadness, and old regret pushes me, over the precipice, into the yawning darkness –a lullaby. And I was gone.

A/N: Holy Christ, I am really sorry about how long this took for me to get one thing, I was cocky, and put writing this off for too long, thinking, I already knew exactly what was supposed to happen, and blah blah blah. But, when I started writing it, it was all wrong, and I didn't know what to write. So, I had to do a lot of fussing with it before I could even make myself want to write it. Then, I got really distracted by this book I was reading (City Of Glass anyone?), and school hasn't been a help. You get the idea. You people, however, have been fabulously patient, and deserve Jasper sundae (Jasper + whipped scream + nothing else.) for it. I can make it happen. Trust me, you guys.

So, you know, if you review, you can have Edward and Emmett served up, just the same. Just something to think about.