Author’s Note: This was something a little different from me while I outlined the sequel to LYLS/ALE. I had always been dissatisfied with the lack of discussion at the end of New Moon and wondered how things could have gone if Bella had reacted differently. I know this has been done before – what hasn’t? But hopefully there is enough of a different voice in there to make it worth my time.

This story begins on the plane back from Italy. It explores the outcome of two different decisions. After chapter 1, and until chapter 10, the story will alternate in separate story lines between Bella’s two reactions. It’s not all roses to start, but trust that there will be plenty of fun ahead. ~Lola

All characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. Some canon quotes are used in this story, out of context. No disrespect or copyright infringement is intended.

Thanks to Ms. Beta Awesomesauce, siouxchef, as always, and to my preview gals – you all rock hard.

The jets seemed unbelievably loud to me. I looked at him and noticed that he was wincing. It occurred to me how loud the noise must be to his ears. How scratchy the blanket against his arm. How dry the air blowing from the vents.

How heavy the silence between us.

He turned my hand over and over in his, tracing the lines of my palm with his finger, pressing the pads of my fingertips with his thumb, and brushing the back of his fingers against my wrist. His touches were typically restrained, but also held something more. My brain was too cloudy to interpret anything.

A meal had been served, a movie had played in too-vibrant reds and too-dim greens on the screen only inches from our seats. He hadn’t spoken much to me but I could tell that he was saying goodbye again with this simple touch: easy fondness seeped from his skin. I provided the comfort of an old friend. I knew he was reassuring me that it was okay that I had not let him die.

Nothing more.

To be honest, I was almost grateful that he wasn’t speaking, because there was nothing more he could say. His silence meant that he wasn’t going to break me again. This time, we would land, he would kiss my forehead, and smile. I would remain upright until I found my bed. And then I would begin the process of healing all over again after seeing his face, feeling his fingers, wanting him so much it made me ache in emptiness.

The thought alone, of lifting my heavy limbs from my bed and of trying to find comfort in routine, exhausted me, but I would give anything – any level of energy, any level of re-recovery – to have saved him.

His fingers danced up the side of my wrist and pushed back my sleeve, feeling the pulse there. The touch both cooled and burned my arm and I allowed myself a few moments of devastated weakness, silently begging him to touch me more, elsewhere, with some hint of passion or romantic love. For a brief moment, I desperately wanted the fantasy that he felt something for me, that I hadn’t imagined everything.

I wanted something to carry me through the nights full of renewed heartbreak that lay ahead of me, and for the moment I didn’t even care if it was a lie, a delusion.

I froze, then, as he bent and pressed his lips to my wrist, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes. He didn’t bring my wrist to his lips; he brought his head to me. Bowing. Almost a gesture of supplication.

He sat up and looked at my shoulder, my arm, my ear, my legs. Anywhere but my face. His hands held my fingers and maintained their exploration of my skin. His movements were so incongruous with platonic feelings that confusion pressed at my mind. Does he regret leaving me? The thought was discarded immediately. No, he would never lie. He does not love me. I watched his eyes move over my skin, his mouth was open as if he was tasting me in the air.

He inhaled quickly, breathing me in, and I realized that he was overwhelmed by something; his eyes simply could not meet mine. I didn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was struggling, but I needed to. I needed to know the shape my recovery had to take this time.

I took a deep breath and held it, trying to find words to ask how I was supposed to get over him again when he was touching me like this, when he seemed to be absorbing me all around him. Instead, my voice – scratchy from misuse, from tension, from raw, naked need – whispered, “I don’t understand why you’re holding my hand.”

His eyes flew up and met mine at the sound of my voice and the ache in his gaze felt like a sharp point pressing between two ribs.

“Bella,” he croaked. “Oh God.”

I felt tears burn in my eyes but looked up to keep them from falling. That opening could start a thousand variations of heartbreak.

He pressed my hand to his lips and kissed my palm, hard and desperate. “God I missed you. I missed you more than I can possibly articulate.”

I rolled the words over in my head, feeling them, hearing them in different contexts. They didn’t mean he wanted me. He could miss my scent. He could miss my companionship. He could miss the quiet I provided.

But it didn’t feel like that was what he was saying.

My chest splintered but my heart stuttered. Once-brittle shards of cardiac tissue – pieced together so haphazardly in the past months – remembered that it had once been vital, beating flesh and threatened to beat again.

“Edward, you broke me,” I whispered, not even having the strength or sense to protect my unclothed pain. “I’m barely keeping it together. Please don’t say things like that.”

In an instant his arms were around me and I was in his lap. He climbed back into my window seat farther and leaned close to me, his breath familiar and cold and sweet and his on my face. It was altogether too much. I didn’t care where we were or who was around us. I didn’t care what form of heaven or hell I was walking towards, what form of torture it would be to recover from the feel of his arms around me. I needed this.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, anguished.

My hands wound in his hair and I pressed my face to his neck, sucking in the smell of him, pressing my nose against his throat. His body was hungrier than I remembered, his hands were less controlled. He pivoted me so I was straddling him, and his lips pressed into my hair as he moaned my name softly. Strong hands pulled me close to him before running up my back and down over my hips and to my thighs.

I felt the hands I remembered so vividly, longed for so acutely, move back to my hips and pull me closer against him and I gasped against his skin. I lifted my head and opened my eyes to meet his, realizing he had never closed them.

Reality enveloped us and in an instant our position, our proximity felt too surreal. I saw us as if a camera panned from the scene: he was shaken and traumatized, he was clinging to me falsely. It was too dangerous for me to let him touch me like this after everything he had been through. Whatever relief he felt after our encounter in Volterra was making him do this. He would regret this and it would crush me.

I slid my hips back and away from his. I pressed my hands to his chest and shook my head. “Edward? Just be honest with me again. You were right to be honest the first time.”

He looked at me, horrified. “I was anything but honest. I was anything but real with you in the woods.” His eyes searched mine, frantic. “Bella, I can’t even find the shape of the words I need to beg you to forgive me.”

I shook my head and my arm reflexively pulled my hand away from him, wanting to gather my appendages in a protective gesture against the cloud of confusion.

“Please don’t,” he whispered, reaching for my hand. “God, please…”

I let him take my hand back and he kissed it once, and then again, before pressing my palm to his face. The ringing in my ears became louder than the jets outside the airplane window. “What do you mean you were anything but honest.” The words dropped from my lips but were dull and detached.

He leaned his body towards me, seeming to melt at the opening to explain. “I thought you deserved a shot at normal. I wanted to give you that, and knew I had to leave, knew that if I couldn’t convince you that I didn’t love you anymore, that it would just take you that much longer to get on with your life. When I said I didn’t love you… I lied. I lied and I hurt you. I lied and I almost killed myself in the process because I do love you, have always loved you. Bella, I love you so much it cracked me open to be away from you.” His hand tugged mine to make sure I understood, and my eyes focused on his mouth because I couldn’t watch his eyes, couldn’t believe that they held love instead of the dead blackness they contained when he left me. “But you believed me; I could see it in your eyes. You honestly believed that I didn’t want you anymore.”

“Of course,” I said flatly, stunned and frozen. “It never made sense for you to love me.”

He shook his head quickly, remembering this conversation we’d had many times before. He pressed his hand against my cheek. “I hurt you, I broke you, and I’m so sorry. God, Bella… I think I love you might make me mad it is so inadequate…” He shook his head again, and for a moment I wondered if he had lost his mind during our time apart.

“What…” A voice, from somewhere began the question I needed to ask. It sounded like me, but I hadn’t registered that I could speak. “What truth am I supposed to believe?”

“That I left you to protect you?” he seemed to be asking himself if it was worth all this. “That I was wrong. That I lied, and it broke us both. Bella, I’m so sorry.” His voice was a whisper, soft and defeated. His forehead fell against my shoulder and his hands fell to the armrests.

I blinked rapidly and turned my head towards the window, watching the plane fly through blackness. The tears fell down my cheeks and I wondered for a moment if I had fallen asleep, if I was dreaming after all. I pressed my free hand to the window and felt the cold almost-condensation, felt the hum of the jets outside, and knew that this was happening. My heart needed this, had reached out brittle tendrils and began the process of fitting the shards back into the mold. But it hurt, and it came together awkwardly and with creases and jagged fault-lines. My sternum ached and I coughed, first shallow and dry, and then deep, wracking sobs.

“Bella, Bella,” he whispered, pulling me into his chest. “My Bella, my love.”

My head didn’t understand. Everything these past months had been a lie. All the clenching heartache, the feeling of death eating my chest – it had been because of a lie.

Every physiological reaction I had felt slow: blood whooshed in my ears, my eyes blinked slowly, I swallowed and it felt thick, time-lapsed. I struggled to lift my head and meet his eyes. His hungry, familiar, eyes. His eyes. My love. My former life.

“Edward. I can’t… understand… what you are saying.” The words came out broken and in spurts.

He leaned in and pressed his hands to my face, willing to say it as many times as I needed. “Bella, I made a terrible mistake.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Please, Bella, let me fix it. Let me put us back together.”

I stared at his eyes now and saw that I did, indeed, have that choice. I never expected to be given the option of taking Edward back. Furthermore, I never expected that the option would cause me any hesitation.

His face fell and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Am I too late? Have I hurt you too much?”

*****