Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Here's my hypothesis: Having an eternity of time also means having an infinite amount of patience.

This is what I'm thinking while I watch my boyfriend agonize over a seven second piano chord progression with a single minded fury. He's hunched over the keyboard with a look of pained concentration on his face, repeating the same mournful melody again and again and again, eternally seeking something that I clearly do not understand.

"Can you hear that, Bella?" Edward whispers, reverent before his sacred instrument. He doesn't lift his eyes to look at me, too locked in on his craft. "Do you hear the anguish in the shift between octaves? Here, listen carefully, I'll play it again."

And he does. He plays the same seven seconds of melody for, perhaps, the two thousandth time. We’ve been at this for over four hours now, so trust me, I’ve had time to do the math.

"I hear it, Edward," I say obligingly, but he doesn't seem to have heard me, still mesmerized by the conjuring of music by his own perfect ivory fingers dancing across the ivory keys.

Thank God he can't read my mind. This is a prayer I whisper to myself every single day—thank you, thank you, thank you universe for keeping my mind hidden from the view of prying telepaths. Because I'm not sure Edward would appreciate my line of thought right now.

Like, how I'm thinking I can't stand to listen to this piece of music for even one more single second. And if I have to sit here for another four hours waiting for Edward to finish appreciating the melodic nuances, I'll happily open a vein and let the weakest willed finish me off (the obvious choices are of course Edward or Jasper, but I’m feeling lucky – why not put my money on Esme, that doe-eyed dark horse?).

I shake my head sharply, hoping to shake these thoughts loose too. I can't have such unkind thoughts about Edward passions and Edward’s family. I must be supportive, because that's what girlfriend do, right? They support their immortal vampiric boyfriends?

But perhaps I can be supportive from afar... just for a little while. I'll support him from down the hall. From the front porch. From my truck... and then from the quiet of my own bedroom.

Oh, wait. I can't go home yet.

"I'm going to go to the toilet," I interrupt.

Edward's fingers pause, and when he finally does look at me, it's through a distracted haze.

"Toilet?" he repeats uncomprehendingly. The way someone who hasn't needed to take a piss in a century might say it. Reluctantly focusing his eyes, he proceeds to scan my body clinically. "But your bowels do not sound ready for a movement. I expect you won't need to vacate them for at least another forty-five minutes. Why do you need the toilet now?"

I slap my hands over my reddening face and groan. "Oh my God, please don't talk about my bowels."

"A sudden urgent need to urinate can be a symptom of a UTI," Edward recalls, a look of horror blooming across his face. In an instant he is crouched before me, where I sit, mortified, on his chaise lounge. "My love, are you alright? Should I call for Carlisle?"

His phone is already at his ear when I screech, "No!" Taking a deep breath, and exhaling it on a disbelieving laugh, I repeat, "No, Edward, I don’t need a Doctor. I just need to go be a human for a second. Freshen up, stretch my legs, you know—that mundane mortal stuff."

Edward lowers the phone from his ear and drops it onto the lounge, before moving to cradle my hands with the most careful, tender movements. I can see the concentration it takes, to hold my hands without crushing them. Edward never moves slower than he does with me, slow even to my human eyes. It's as though he sees me as something as delicate and fragile as a cobweb, and if he even breathes too hard in my direction he may ruin me. There's a part of me that rebels at this thought, wanting to prove that I am stronger, better, more powerful than he thinks—but the sad truth is, when I'm stood before Edward, I am about as formidable as tissue paper.

"Your 'mundane mortal stuff'," Edward repeats with a doting smile, "is an attribute I happen to adore. You’re so innocent," he says, tracing a wrinkle in my palm with the barest tickling touch of his index finger. It twitches in response. "So pure," he continues, moving to lovingly map the veins in my wrist. "So normal," he finishes, his hands stilling over the crescent shaped scar on the inside of my forearm. His eyes lose focus once more, retreating somewhere deep and dark inside himself.

I don't need Jasper's empathic insight to sense the self-loathing rising up inside Edward like a tsunami of woe. I try to extract my hands from Edward’s so that I may hold him, comfort him, but I might as well be trying to escape a pair of Charlie's handcuffs. In Edward's distraction, his hands have solidified into marble restraints.

So instead I lean down to press my forehead to his. "Edward," I whisper. "Come back to me."

My words don't touch him, I can tell. He's already in too deep. But perhaps I can still reach him in other ways, I realize, because I soon feel his nostrils flex against mine; feel his slow, appreciative intake of breath. My scent, his ambrosia. He inhales it like a line of coke, and it invigorates him. From this close I can see the moment his amber eyes turn black.

He springs away from me, and suddenly he's somehow braced up in the ceiling corner like a fucking bat. I'm careful not to show my shock on my face, a habit I’ve formed ever since I first started dating a somewhat neurotic vampire. He may insist I should fear him, but I know the truth. My fear would break him.

Instead I smile gently up at his stony face. "Will you please play the piano some more for me, Edward? You make such beautiful music."

And just like that, calm is restored. Edward moves back to the piano stool and plays the melody for the two thousand and first time.

*

Edward was right, as always. Forty-five minutes later and I really do need the toilet—for the dreaded number twos. God help me.

I try to rationalize this horrifying development. Yes, I'm surrounded by supernatural beings with supernatural noses and ears. Yes, everyone in this house will know exactly what I'm doing while I'm sat on the toilet, vulnerable and half naked and undignified. But this is a human thing, it's unavoidable. It's necessary. It simply must be done if we don't want an even more embarrassing situation on our hands.

Swallowing my dread, I slink out of Edward's bedroom like a scorned kitten. The toilet is only two rooms down, which is not nearly far enough. I close the bathroom door behind me, wishing it was reinforced with at least some level of sound proofing. I wonder, if I asked very nicely, whether they would consider building me an outhouse far away from listening ears.

A girl deserves to poop in private, you know?

At least this isn't as bad as the first time I got my period in Edward’s company. We were at my house, one of the first nights that Edward ever stayed with me when I actually knew about it. My full bladder woke me up at sometime around 3am, so I sheepishly pulled myself from Edward's cold arms and tiptoed to the bathroom. And just my luck, when it was time to wipe, the paper came back bloody.

The dread ripped through me like a crushing flood of vertigo. I swear I almost fell off the toilet. How could I not consider this, plan for this? I devoted myself heart and soul to a vampire, and yet not once did it cross my mind that blood would actively ooze from my body on a monthly basis.

And my negligence would kill me, would kill my father. I couldn't even blame Edward, it was all my own fault. As soon as the scent of my blood reached Edward's nose, he would be helpless to do anything else but what his nature demanded. Hunt. Catch. Kill.

My panic had manifested into sobs without me even realizing it, and that's how Edward found me. He almost ripped the door from its hinges in his haste as he hissed, "Bella? Bella what happened?"

I braced for the attack, but none came. Instead Edward was searching the tiny room as if it might be harboring an assassin.

"The blood," I hiccupped.

Understanding dawned on Edward's face. He knelt before me. "Oh my love, don't worry. Menstrual blood doesn't hold the same temptation as fresh blood. It’s all mixed up with uterine tissue and mucus and other bodily excretions. Practically unpalatable. We smell the menses of women every day with only minor discomfort—in fact, I could smell the nearing of your cycle days ago. I’m not sure if you realized, but there was even a small amount of bloody residue in your discharge this morning.”

"Oh," I said, and grabbed some fresh toilet paper to wipe my soggy eyes and nose. And that's when I became properly aware of our situation. Edward, on his knees like some kind of divine fallen angel, and me, pants-less and pathetic. I pulled my sleep shirt down over my knees in a sad bid for modesty.

Before I had time to fully process this humiliation, Edward's head snapped towards the direction of Charlie's bedroom. Moments later, I heard the floorboards creak and moan as my father pulled himself out of bed.

Edward evaporated before my eyes at the same moment Charlie came shuffling down the hall.

"Bells? You okay? I thought I heard something."

He stopped before the open toilet door, palming his face tiredly. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he frowned at me. "What's going on, why are you crying?"

"Got my period," I mumbled, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Charlie's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Oh." He looked at me a moment longer. "Oh!" He quickly spun on his heel to give me some semblance of privacy, seeming to finally become aware of what exactly he was looking at.

A pause ensued, and I found myself entirely unable to fill it. Bravely, Charlie took the plunge.

"Listen, uh... if you aren't equipped with the uhh... necessary equipment... I could, you know. Run down to the shops for you. The gas station in La Push is 24/7."

I dropped my head into my hands. My voice was muffled by my palms when I said, "It's fine. I got it covered. Thanks."

"Good," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "That's good." He hesitated. "But listen, Bells... I don't know what kind of bathroom etiquette you and Renee observed, but in this house, we close our bathroom doors." A pause. “Except for when you have boys over. Then you’ve gotta keep that bedroom door open. Got it?”

"Got it," I croaked.

But wait. That's not even the worst of it. The worst also wasn't when I returned to my bedroom, Edward already reclined against my pillows, my awareness of the tampon string dangling between my legs impossible to ignore. Nor was it when I sat across from Charlie the next morning, silently eating our breakfasts, both of us unable to meet the others eyes. (Although the best part is undoubtedly the block of chocolate and bottle of Advil I found on my bedside table when I came home from school that evening, along with a handwritten note containing the words "Chin up, champ—Love Dad." That note still lives inside my wallet.)

No, the worst came two days later. Once again, I awoke in the extremely early hours of the morning, but this time Edward was not in bed with me. Instead, I found him sitting in the corner rocking chair, golden eyes fixed upon me as he held one of my soiled tampons to his nose.

I shot out of bed, my mortification compelling me to rip it from his hands, but the tangled sheets held me captive and I was only half able to launch myself free. My upper shoulder hit the ground with a dull thud—although it wasn't the ground, was it? It was Edward who caught me, his arms and chest as cold and unyielding as the floorboards.

"Be careful!" Edward whispered in alarm. "What if you'd hit your head?"

"What are you doing?" I looked up at him accusingly. "Why were you—you had my—oh my God—"

"Shh, calm down, calm down." Edward carefully pushed my panicked, flailing body back onto the bed. "Why are you so worked up? Did you have a bad dream?"

"No!"

"Then what is wrong with you?" Edward asked, and I could see the frustration he was trying to hide in the tightness of his jaw. At times, I thought Edward's inability to read my mind was his most favorite thing about me. The rest of the time, I thought it was his most despised.

"You had my—" Oh God I couldn't say it— "you had my you know what." My voice pitched low and horrified. "And you were smelling it."

Edward's face cleared. "Oh, that," he said, in a way that was far too unconcerned for my level of concern. "Yes, I discussed it with Carlisle, and we thought it would be a good exercise for me to practice my tolerance and restraint. It’s true that menstrual blood is not quite so appetizing, but you are still my singer—so the blood should help me learn to manage my thirst for you, whilst also not being too overwhelming."

"Wait—Carlisle?" My mouth opened and closed soundlessly, totally appalled. "Carlisle signed off on this?"

Edward stared at me, unblinking. Nothing in his expression told me he felt in any way embarrassed by his actions. "Well, it was Carlisle's idea, actually," he said slowly, as if worried his words might reignite my panic, and yet was totally unable to understand why I was even panicking in the first place. "After I told him about our incident on the toilet the other night, he suggested it."

"Okay, but why didn't you then discuss this with me?" I demanded.

"Hmm." Edward tilted his head thoughtfully. "You know, it just didn't occur to me to mention it. How interesting.”

His admission floored me. And yet, there was a voice deep down inside of me that whispered: Why am I even surprised? This is the same man who, under the cover of dark, climbed through my bedroom window and watched me sleep.

Edward must've taken my silence for permission, for now he smiled and moved to lift the tampon—that was somehow still inside his fist—back to his nose. My arm shot out to stop him.

"No," I said lowly. "Don't." Denying Edward felt as sinful as denying God himself, and I had to swallow back my unease. "Don't ever do that again. I'm serious, Edward."

"Okay, if it's that important to you…"

"It is," I said emphatically.

He smiled and nodded, the kind of smile you give an adorable child who is babbling at you incomprehensibly. I snatched the tampon from his hands and raced to the bathroom, something unnamable burning in my stomach. I soothed this feeling by reminding myself that Edward is not a mere human, he is something stronger, better, more powerful than anything I could ever comprehend. He doesn't have to abide by the same rules as us feeble mortals.

*

And yet, first thing the following morning, I made arrangements to commence the contraceptive pill. I haven’t had another period since.

*

Back in the Cullen's bathroom, there is a knock on the door.

"Um, someone's in here?" I squeak, like a complete idiot.

Alice's tinkling laugh is my reply. "Well duh!" she says. "I'm just here to make a delivery!"

"What do you mean?" I ask, but even as I say it I think I've found the answer to my own question. Looking at the toilet roll holder next to me, I realize it's empty.

"I had a vision just a moment ago," Alice explains, "that you would be needing some toilet paper right about now. So, here I am!"

Great.

"Okay, well... thank you. I guess. If you just crack open the door and pass it through, I can grab it. But don't open it too far, okay? Just a crack!"

"Okay sure," Alice says, obliging me by opening it just wide enough that her skinny, pale arm can poke through the gap. "But you don't have to be embarrassed, Bella. I've already seen it all in my vision."

I groan as I take the toilet paper, wishing I was anywhere but here. Next time I think I'll just go squat in the woods. Better than this torture.

I hear Alice gasp, the kind of gasp that accompanies an undesirable vision. "Bella, no! There's no way I would let you defecate in the woods! How barbaric!"

Next it's Emmett's cackle that travels through the door. Jesus, where did he come from?

"You better be careful shitting in the woods, Bella! I might mistake you for a bear and try to eat you!" he howls.

"Shut up, Emmett," I mutter angrily, staring down at the roll in my hands. Somehow I can't seem to make myself clean up while I have such a captive audience.

"Aww, Bella, don't be mad," Emmett says encouragingly. "And besides! I actually think your pooping sounds kinda cute! Reminds me of throwing pebbles into a lake. Plop plop plop."

"Totally!" Alice agrees. "And you keep a relatively clean diet, so the smell isn't nearly as bad as you might think! It kind of reminds me of... I want to say, fox feces?"

"Yeah!" Emmett agrees excitedly. "With just a hint of Swan shit!"

This sets them both off, and I massage my temples to the sound of their giggles.

"I'm not strong enough to kill either of you," I mutter grumpily, "so I guess I'll just have to kill myself." Anything to escape this hell.

"Bella," comes Edward's stern voice, because of course he’s here now too. The more the merrier. "Don't talk about your own death so casually, not even as a joke. You know the thought pains me so."

"Listen," I say, in the most authoritative voice I can muster, "could you guys please just give me some space? I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

Emmett snorts, but I hear his deliberately human-paced footsteps fade down the hall, followed by the clickety clack of Alice's heels.

I wait a long moment, listening to the silence on the other side of the door.

"Edward?" I whisper. "Are you still there?"

"Always," he breathes, a profound promise encapsulated in just one single word.

Most of the time, such a declaration would fill my stomach with giddy butterflies. This is not one of those times.

*

Charlie's out of town for the weekend, some kind of police business. "They need an extra set of hands down in Hoquiam," he'd explained.

Before the Phoenix incident, Charlie wouldn't have thought twice about leaving me alone for a couple days, but my teenage runaway act has damaged that trust. The fact that I'll be eighteen in just a few weeks hardly changed his mind. "I don’t care what age you are. When you start making adult choices, that’s when I’ll start giving you adult privileges." That's what he'd said.

So then the negotiations began.

"I could call the Blacks, see if they don't mind you crashing on the couch?" he'd suggested.

"How about the Cullens? I could have a sleepover with Alice," was my counteroffer.

"Or better yet, how about the Clearwaters? You remember their daughter Leah, don't you?"

"Did you hear me? I said what about the Cullens?"

"Or here's an idea—why don't you call one of your school friends? That Weber girl is very sensible, I like her."

"Okay, I get it, so you’re ignoring me."

"I'm not ignoring you, I'm just waiting for you to have a better idea."

"My idea is the Cullens.”

"Yeah, yeah, the Cullens. Which includes your little boyfriend too. Edward."

"Well... obviously."

"Hm."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's definitely not a yes…"

It took promises from both Alice and myself that no funny business of any kind would be had. "Strictly a girls weekend!" Alice vowed. "Boys are gross!" Edward wasn't spared either. He received a long stare, which was followed by a long talk about celibacy, which was followed by yet another long stare. I believe he even managed to squeeze in some thinly veiled threats of gun violence.

Even after all that, Charlie still insisted on speaking to Carlisle and Esme personally, and only then did he reluctantly agree.

"Don't make me regret this, Bells," he'd said, as I loaded up my truck with my overnight bag. "Don't make me a Grandpa just yet. And don't go disappearing again either!"

And so that's how I ended up here, at the Cullen’s home, for an entire weekend. I arrived early this morning, and I'll go home tomorrow evening for dinner with Charlie.

But for now, it's Saturday, it's 5pm, and I'm sitting on the living room couch. After I'd finished my human business, I wasn't quite ready to return to the monotony of Edward's bedroom, so I'd crept down the stairs feeling like the world’s clumsiest burglar.

Except for the distant sound of Edward's piano, the house is completely silent. Not even a tick of a particularly obnoxious clock. Is anyone else here? Did they all leave to go on a hunt or something? The silence is awful. Maybe even more awful than Edward’s obsessive piano loop. (Wait, no, think supportive thoughts, remember?)

There's no television in the living room, otherwise I might have turned it on. Maybe I'll try find a book to read? But where? Edward’s room has plenty, but surely there are more to be found.

But first I should find a light switch. The Cullen’s house is full of windows to invite the light inside, but the late afternoon skies are grey and gloomy. Shadows fill the crevices like dust bunnies.

Getting up, I flip the switch quickly, before turning back around to the couch, glancing up just once to make sure I don’t trip over something like a stool or a lamp or even a pesky shadow. My eyes catch on something, a statue maybe, something over on the… someone over on the…?

“Jesus!” I squawk.

No, not Jesus. Jasper. Sitting on the armchair right next to the couch. When did he… was he there the whole time?

“Bella?” Edward calls down the stairs. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No!” I call back.

“Be careful!” he replies. The faint sounds of the piano resume.

During this entire exchange, Jasper has not moved a single muscle. His chest is devoid of movement or breath. His eyes are open, stationary, and seeming to be looking at nothing at all. I’m suddenly overcome with the thought that... this is a corpse. His face is too still, his skin too sickly, his fingernails so pale that they’re almost blue. The Cullens are beautiful in a way that is frightening.

I tip toe back over to the couch and take a careful seat, all the while watching Jasper from the corner of my eye. I’m far too aware of the fact that no matter how quiet I try to be, no matter how sneaky I think I am, all of my behavior is going to be perceived as cartoonishly obvious to him as a slapstick comedian is to me. So, giving up pretenses, I turn to stare at Jasper directly.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice cracks, and it sounds awfully loud in the silent vacuum of the room. Licking my suddenly dry lips, I try again. “Jasper?”

“Yes,” comes the answer, quick and somehow unexpected, and despite looking directly at him I barely see even a twitch of his mouth as he says it. Like a ventriloquist throwing his voice into a secondary host—in fact I find myself looking over my shoulder to check whether it wasn’t somebody behind me who spoke.

I take a steadying breath, embarrassed by the realization that Jasper can feel everything I feel. Can feel my revulsion at the sight of his corpse-like body, can feel my fear at his uncanny stillness, can feel my disgust that I can’t get a handle on my own wild emotional impulses.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I expect what you’re feeling is very normal,” Jasper says, and although he still isn't looking at me, his mouth does move just enough to make it look like a very poorly dubbed film. I don’t often see this sort of behavior from the Cullens, behavior that is so totally not human. It makes me appreciate how much they all pretend.

“I’m actually reassured that you’ve retained a level of wariness around us,” Jasper continues in that same monotone, “although I would have been even more pleased if you had simply left the room after catching sight of me. Your prior reactions to us have been far too cavalier for my tastes.”

“Were you trying to frighten me?” I ask, stuck between feeling annoyed with him and annoyed with myself.

“No,” he says. “I was just sitting here minding my own business, reading a book, before you came stomping in here. Humans are so fucking loud.”

“Well you vampires are too quiet!” I snap back. “I feel like I’ve wandered into a mausoleum!”

Jasper turns to stone once more.

I lean back into the couch with a sigh, slouched down low with a brooding frown on my face. After a moment, a thought occurs to me. “Wait a minute… what do you mean, reading a book?” I make a show of looking around the obviously book-deficient room, before looking back at him accusingly.

The statue of his arm rises to tap the side of his head twice with the tip of his finger. Then it lowers to resume its petrification.

“You mean, you’re reading it in your head?”

After waiting a full five seconds, I decide to interpret his silence as a yes.

“So… what are you reading? Maybe you could read it aloud… To me, I mean,” I clarify, feeling only a little bit silly. After all, Jasper definitely just heard me take an anxious poop upstairs. This doesn’t even come close to the most embarrassing thing I’ve done in the last half hour.

After a long stretch of absolutely nothing, I decide to interpret this type of silence as a no. Perhaps even a piss off and leave me alone. But I guess I need to sharpen my Jasper interpretation skills, because then he surprises me.

“I’m reading Partial Differential Equations by Lawrence C. Evans, it’s about the theoretical study of PDE with an emphasis on nonlinear equations. I’m up to the Cauchy-Kovalevskaya Theorem.”

“Ah,” I say, as if I’ve read it too, and in fact possess a great many opinions about it. I’m not the smartest person on the planet, but I like to pretend I’m at least reasonably bright. But spend any amount of time with a person who’s got centuries of experience under their belt, as well as a brain that never succumbs to entropy, and your academic self esteem inevitably takes a hit… as well as your regular self esteem if I’m being honest. “Sounds really interesting,” I try to say as earnestly as possible.

“It’s not,” Jasper says. “But Alice told me to recite it any time I feel particularly thirsty for something stronger than the blood of woodland creatures.”

“Ah,” I repeat, and this time I try to communicate how much that revelation totally does not phase me. It’s just a shame Jasper can read the thrill of alarm running through me just as easily as he can read the theoretical study of whatever the hell.

Okay, so what do I do with myself now? I guess I could catch up on some school work, but I don’t really feel like fumbling my way through high school level Trigonometry problems while Jasper’s over there doing whatever it is he’s doing. Although, maybe he could be a pal and lend me a hand? Edward helps me too sometimes, but he tends to help perhaps a bit… too much. And then suddenly he’s written my entire American History essay—“I lived through those years, Bella, so trust me when I say it would be better if we wrote it like this”—and I’m on a fast-track to failing my next exam because “officially” I’ve completed the classwork but “unofficially” I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

But, come on. Let’s be real. I totally don’t feel like doing my homework right now. I’m too keyed up, but also too uncomfortable to dare make a sound. Humans are so fucking loud, says Jasper. Well, what am I supposed to do? Hold my breath and wait to die?

Oh my God. This was supposed to be a nice weekend where I could properly bond with my boyfriend’s immortal family without worrying about a rival coven plotting to kill me. Maybe I could even go on a romantic stroll through the woods with Edward while he lists all the ways he loves me. My expectations for this weekend were embarrassingly high. And instead, I feel clumsy, gross and dumb.

Sighing, I collapse sideways onto the couch and curl myself up into the smallest, most unimposing ball I can manage. My voice is muffled when I ask, “Got anything a little more fun stored in that skull of yours? Some Austen, for example?”

Silence is my initial answer, because of course it is. Trying to talk to Jasper is like trying to talk to someone through a really bad phone connection. Except the other person has already hung up, and I’m still shouting down the receiver like an idiot.

“I spent some time in Vietnam,” is Jasper’s eventual non sequitur. “I met a Viet Cong, Bao was his name. Really young, probably not older than fifteen. We exchanged some stories for a time, I remember. I also remember that I didn’t kill him. Kind of liked the kid, I guess. He didn’t have the spirit of a fighter or a killer, but the strength inside of him burned fiercer than most. Everything he did, he did for his family. Sort of admired that, I suppose.” After a pause, he adds, “I’ve never felt so strongly about anything, not like that. Not once in my very many years. Humans, you are all so volatile on the inside. But me? I’m just an empty vessel for your passions to cycle through.”

I stay curled up on the couch, my eyes pressed into my knees so hard I can see stars on the insides of my lids. When I first saw Jasper, sitting stiffly on that armchair, I thought he looked dead. Hearing him speak now, I can’t help but think he sounds dead too. A ghost yearning for the comfort of the living. Before my chest has a chance to swell with pity—because then Jasper’s empty vessel will fill with my pity too—I stomp on my feelings and shove them down as far as I can. I’ll store them in my toes if I have to.

“Do you remember any of the stories you exchanged?” I ask quietly, to distract both of us.

“I remember all of them,” Jasper says dully. “But I guess my favorite would be one he told me. And now I’ll tell it to you.”

“Yes, please.”

Jasper’s voice, as he tells me this story, is slow and meditative. Careful, as though to ensure I catch every word.

He tells me the story of a girl, who loves a boy who is fated to die.

*

The Girl knew the Boy was fated to die, because Death had warned her it was to be.

“You shouldn’t bind your soul so tightly to his, or else I won’t be able to distinguish his fate from yours. I might accidentally claim both of you! He is fated to die young, and you are fated to die old. So please, little sister, forge your own path!”

But for the Girl, life without the Boy was not one she could bear to suffer. Her heart beat for him, and it would perish for him too.

Now, you are probably assuming that the Boy loved the Girl also. That was simply not true. In fact, the Boy had never even spoken to the Girl. They lived across the street from one another, he in a home so grand you might be tempted to call it a palace, and she in a home so sad that you might be tempted to call it a hovel. But every day, the Boy came and sat on his balcony with his violin, and from it he drew music so heavenly that even the birds stopped to listen.

The Girl was helpless. The Girl was spellbound. The Girl was in love.

And then arrived the day that Death came to collect what he was owed.

The Boy was on his balcony, as usual, and across the street the Girl was sat in the gutter on an upturned bucket, also as usual. She had eyes and ears for nothing and no one but the Boy and his violin, so it really was a surprise that she actually noticed Death ascending the steps to the Boy’s front door.

“Wait!” she gasped, stumbling to her feet and lurching across the street. “Please, wait!”

Death darkened the Boy’s door, but he did not yet enter. He turned to regard the helpless, hopeless Girl.

Tears were already in her eyes. “Please, you can’t! You can’t take him!”

“I’m afraid I must,” said Death. “From the moment he was conceived, I have been waiting for this day to take him home.”

“Then just one more day, please! Just one more day so that I may fill my heart with his music one more time!”

Looking into the Girl’s soul, Death felt pity. She had never taken the time to lay down roots anywhere but in the Boy’s soil, and without him, she would have nothing to anchor her.

“One more day,” Death agreed. “But it comes with a price.”

“Anything!”

“Then you must give me your hand.”

Without even a moment of hesitation, the Girl thrust forward her hand, and Death took it. They both watched as the soft, youthful skin of her hand withered and blackened, as her flesh turned to rot, as her bones turned to dust, and then it was gone. The stump of her arm fell limply beside her.

“Is it done? Have I paid the price?” the Girl asked.

“Yes, it is paid. I will be back tomorrow,” Death promised.

The Girl returned to her bucket, once more slipping deep into the trance of her love’s song. She did not miss her hand for even a single second.

But of course, Death made good on his promise. The next day, he returned.

“Wait!” the Girl cried.

But Death ignored her. He followed the steps up to the Boy’s home.

“Take my other hand!” the Girl wailed, the pain in her voice as visceral as an open wound. “Please, I beg you, take my other hand so that I may buy just one more day!”

Once again, Death hesitated. He turned to regard her. And then he snatched her hand and claimed it.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

For days this continued. Next it was her feet, then her forearms, then her knees and thighs and biceps. Once she could no longer walk to him, Death came to her, and he claimed his price from the ruin of her body.

Her nose. Her eyes. Her tongue and teeth. Her jaw, her rib-cage, her lungs and kidneys. And still, the Girl felt elation that with every sacrifice, she bought another precious day with her love.

Soon enough, she was nothing but a naked, bleeding heart, propped up on an upturned bucket.

When Death stopped before her, she knew it was the end. But still, she had to try.

“Surely there is another way?” she asked.

“What more can you give me to buy him time?” Death replied.

“I have only my heart, please take it. I don’t want to live in a world that is empty of my love.”

And once more, Death felt pity for this helpless, hopeless, pathetic Girl.

“There is a way,” he said, “that guarantees he will live a long, healthy life. If he eats your heart, he will gain the time that was meant for you.”

“Thank you,” the Girl said, so reverently it felt like a prayer.

Now disguised as a servant, Death crept into the Boy’s home. He carried a delicate platter, upon which sat a heart heavy with purpose. Stepping out onto the balcony, the Boy’s music faded to a stop.

“What’s this?” the Boy asked.

“Dinner,” replied Death.

“A heart?”

“Yes. Eat it. It will give you strength, my lord.”

“Very well. Bring it here.”

Death placed the platter before the Boy, and then withdrew into the shadows. He watched as the Boy carved open the Girl’s heart and devoured her vitality, her loyalty, her worship, and he watched it sate the Boy’s body and soul.

Fate adjusted plans, and so did Death. He slipped away into the darkness.

But in time, he would be back.

*

“That is an awful story.”

Jasper’s only response is a shrug. Over the course of telling me the story, he had slowly reanimated, becoming gradually more human in his gestures and inflections. It was bizarre to watch, like an alien learning to assimilate on earth.

“Seriously, that was terrible! What a stupid girl! That didn’t sound like love, that sounded like delusion. Why did you tell me that story?” I demand.

“Because I like it,” says Jasper.

My revulsion at the story is over the top, but I also can't seem to keep a lid on it. “Did you tell it to me as some kind of cautionary tale or something? Do you think I’m just as pathetic as that girl, dedicating my humanity to a boy who takes it for granted? Because Edward and I are nothing like them! We are truly, deeply, irrevocably in love!”

Jasper frowns at me with the sort of look you give a rambling madman on a street corner. “I’m sorry to break this to you Bella, but you came to that conclusion all by yourself. Don't blame me.”

But I am blaming him. “Why else would you tell me that story?” I demand once more.

“Are you humans even more deaf than I realized? I told you already, because I like it.”

I scoff. “What could you possibly like about it?”

“I like the part where he eats the heart.”

“...Pardon?”

Jasper smiles. “I reminisce about it a lot, what it feels like to bite into a human heart. How hot and juicy it is! In my fantasies, the heart is still beating as my fangs first sink into it – that was my favourite way to eat a heart. God, how chewy it is! By the time Bao first told me this story, I was almost two decades into the Cullen lifestyle, and it made my teeth ache with want. Mere hours after hearing it, I was ecstatically cheating on my diet, eating enough hearts that I puked from the gluttony of it all. Oh, Bella. At every moment of every day I yearn to experience it again.”

“What about a pigs heart?” I ask dumbly, trying not to think about how relieved I am that Jasper just likes to daydream about eating live organs and isn’t making any profound statements about my relationship with his brother. “I’ve heard they are very similar to human hearts.”

Jasper laughs. “Like trying to compare a candle to the sun.”

*

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because my next moment of awareness is waking up.

My head is propped up on something cold and unyielding, a sensation I am now familiar with. This is how I wake up most mornings, cemented into the hard planes of Edward’s body.

“Edward?” I croak, before I’ve even opened my eyes. I feel so sluggish and lazy, exhaustion still weighing me down like a sleep paralysis demon on my chest. My mouth tastes stale and sour.

“Not Edward, sweetie,” a voice whispers lovingly.

I jolt upwards. I’m pretty sure if my companion didn’t have such lightning quick reflexes, I would have brained myself on their rock hard skull and acquired a new concussion. Which is quite lucky because I’m not sure I have many head knocks left in me before I develop CTE, like those boxers you hear about. And then Edward will need to check me into a nursing home much earlier than either of us intended.

“Esme?” I ask, feeling very confused. The lights are off and it’s so dark outside. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep,” she says, still with a gentle, loving smile. It’s at odds with the way her pupils reflect an unsettling silver light, like a creature in the night.

I frown. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Well, I suppose it was Jasper who put you down,” Esme says with a fond laugh. “I think he got a bit tired of entertaining you, so he sedated you with a wave of drowsiness. But perhaps he was a bit too heavy handed, you’ve been out for hours!” She laughs again like we’re just a couple of silly kids up to silly hi-jinks.

Sedated me, did he? Well that would certainly explain why I feel woozy all the way down to my bones. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be roofied.

Hmm. Let’s not think about that right now.

“What time is it?” I ask, shifting to put some distance between us. My face feels hot at the knowledge that just a moment ago I was nestled into her lap like a sleeping babe.

“Close to 1am,” says Esme, “but I couldn’t stand to wake you! You looked far too cute, I could have gobbled you up!”

“Right,” I mumble, wiping what feels like crusty drool from my cheek. “Where’s Edward?”

“Oh, he’s with Carlisle,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “When Carlisle returned from the hospital, the pair of them went out to hunt. Originally it was Edward who was sat here with you, cradling you to his chest, oh Bella it was just so sweet, if only I had taken a picture so you could see… But once they left, I couldn’t quite help myself. I just had to scoop you up into my arms too! A sleeping angel right here in my living room, how could I resist! Oh the warmth of you against me, so soft and vulnerable, it really made me think… made me remember…” Her voice fades as her eyes glaze over.

I don’t know for sure what Esme is remembering, but it’s clear it’s something painful. Context makes me assume a child is involved, probably her own child, probably from when she was a human. My stomach twists when I realize I have no idea how to soothe this pain, in fact have no idea what to do at all. It’s 1am, my boyfriend has been MIA for hours, his brother put me into what essentially felt like a coma, and his mother is on the verge of whatever vampires do when they cry. Is this normal?

“Hey, uh… thanks for keeping me company,” I say, in a tone that is far too casual in light of the circumstances. “You know, while I was uh… sleeping.”

Esme’s eyes clear as she turns to smile at me once more. She reaches out to tuck some of my tangled hair behind my ear. I don’t even flinch when her ice cold fingertips brush against my cheek, I’ve had lots of practice with Edward. “Anytime,” she promises. “Now, are you hungry? I made you dinner!”

*

“Dinner” feels like too inconsequential a word to describe the eclectic banquet Esme sets down before me. For starters, I can count at least a dozen different pasta dishes – we Isabellas do love our Italian food, after all – accompanied by an equal number of salads, of which I can recognize a Caprese, a Greek, and a potato salad, but from there they venture into territory that’s a bit too avant-garde for me to name. Beyond this, we have a sea of curries and rice dishes and breads and dumplings and dipping sauces, so many that I can’t even guess what most of them even are. And that’s not even mentioning the whole entire roast turkey, taking pride of place in the middle of the table on his bed of herbs and spices like an almighty fragrant king.

“And I can’t wait for you to try dessert!” Esme cries, clapping her hands together ecstatically.

I’m going to die. That’s what I think, gazing down at this sea of exquisite food, the mass of which is probably equal to my own body weight. I’m going end up killing myself choking down just a fraction of this Michelin starred feast, because I can’t stand the thought of breaking Esme’s heart by not finishing every last crumb.

My salvation comes from a truly unlikely source.

“She can’t eat all that,” Rosalie says.

Rosalie looks as gorgeous as ever, but she also has ripped holes in the elbows of her cashmere sweater, mud stains all the way up the back of her jeans, and what looks like a twig sticking out the back of her hair.

Esme doesn’t mention any of this, so I decide I won’t either.

“I know she can’t eat all of it...” Esme says, with a look that’s a bit too crestfallen for my comfort, “I thought she might eat some tomorrow too.”

Rosalie glides by both of us, heading to the kitchen sink. She turns the tap on and begins primly cleaning the dirt from underneath her perfectly almond shaped, nude painted fingernails. This new angle confirms to me that its not just one twig, but many, which are tangled into her golden hair.

"That's enough food to feed a group of at least twenty humans," Rosalie says boredly. "It's going to take much longer than two days for her to finish it off, and by then it all will have spoiled."

Esme directs her wide, sad eyes at me.

I snatch up a napkin and stuff it into my shirt collar with a demented grin. "Don't worry, I'll certainly give it a good nudge!" Thinking quickly, I add, "And maybe anything I don't eat, we could bring to the church? I think Angela Weber's parents have a luncheon after the Sunday sermon, a potluck type of thing. Maybe they can eat it?"

"Oh bless your heart, what a sweet idea," Esme says. She lays her hand on my head and starts patting it, and I pretend it doesn't feel like I'm a dog who just performed a new trick. "We can drop off the food tomorrow morning!"

Rosalie rolls her eyes.

Esme picks up a large plate and serves me a taste of everything, stacking the food into an edible Mt Everest.

That's when Emmett staggers into the room, tripping over himself and catching his weight on the door frame. The impact leaves a spiderweb of fractures in the plaster, which has Esme tutting disapprovingly. However, the most noteworthy feature of his arrival is the fact that he is missing both an arm and a leg. His leg is thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, held in place by his remaining hand.

The severed arm comes scuttling in after him like a crab.

"Babe," he says, in a vaguely disapproving manner, "you know I love wrestling with you, but you gotta help me reattach my body parts once we're finished. Don't you remember, we talked about this after that time you decapitated me and dropped my head into the ocean."

Rosalie leans against the sink, arms crossed with a smug look on her face. "If you hate losing limbs so much, then maybe you should consider being less of a lil bitch."

Once I realize I’m just staring at the disembodied arm like an idiot, I leap to my feet and run to Emmett's side, leaning down to pick it up. The first tug almost makes me fall over, the weight of the appendage so much heavier than seems logically possible. The hand even tries to grab back at me, maybe in a bid to try and help, but all it succeeds in doing is giving me an extreme case of the heebie jeebies. I squat my legs and really put my gut into it, but all I achieve is an embarrassingly loud grunt as the arm writhes in my hands like a trapped eel. Stupidly, I begin to wonder if this is what it feels like to be an unworthy citizen pulling at Arthur's sword in the stone.

Rosalie watches me struggle with a bland look, totally unimpressed.

"Are you finished?" she drawls.

Panting, I release the arm and turn to Emmett apologetically. "Sorry, I don't think I can help with this one."

Emmett laughs. "Don't sweat it! I think I almost heard a hernia pop in your bowels, so take it easy, eh?" he says. The arm on the floor gives me a reassuring thumbs up.

"I've got it from here," Rosalie mutters as she pushes past me, leaning down and plucking the arm as easily as one might pluck a flower.

I shuffle back to the table, where Esme waits, still clutching the plate of food. Once I'm sitting again, she doesn't relinquish the plate, instead picking up my fork and scooping up a bite.

"Try this, Bella," she says, shoving the fork into my mouth. "You'll love it!"

Being hand-fed strawberries in a sunny field by my boyfriend, that's what I pictured for my weekend. Not being spoon-fed by my potential future mother-in-law like I'm some kind of invalid child. I try to assure Esme that I can manage the task of feeding myself just fine, but she seems to act as if she can't hear me.

"Open wide," she coos, shoving another spoonful of food at me. I open my mouth obediently, resigned to my fate.

Across from me I watch Rosalie and Emmett. Emmett is sat up on the bench, and Rosalie is helping to reattach his leg with a tenderness I don't ever remember seeing from her. She carefully massages the thigh muscles as the flesh knits back together, while Emmett gently untangles the sticks and leaves from her hair.

I can't help but feel envious. They seem so evenly matched, secure in the knowledge that if one of them falls the other will catch them. Mutual trust and respect, I realize. Equals.

Esme pulls a napkin from her apron and dabs at my chin, where a spot of errant curry had dribbled. I don't even bother resisting.

What am I going to do if Edward loses an arm? Point at it and say, go fetch? I'm a liability, a lamb in a den of lions. Edward already warned me about that. What kind of help can a lamb offer a lion?

Unbidden, a vision of a plate of lamb shanks comes to mind. Edward’s fangs would be sharp enough to crack open the bones and drink the marrow.

Dinner. That's all the lamb can ever be.

*

Later, I stand in the shower staring at the tiled wall. There's no mold in here, which is sort of amazing. I've never showered somewhere that doesn't at least have a remnant stain of mold, the shadow of its former self scrubbed clean. I wonder whether vampires shower every day, or if it's a special occasion type of thing. Would they even need to? Edward never stinks and he never sweats. When we hold hands for long enough, and the heat of my palm finally warms his, the dampness that accumulates between us is always entirely my own. It's humiliating, actually, how crass my bodily functions seem in his immaculate company. Sometimes I try to secretly wipe his desecrated hand with my sleeve, to try and clean away my shame. I'm sure he notices this, and just doesn't mention it out of politeness.

I've been thinking about dying a lot lately.

Never on purpose. The thought just explodes inside my head like a smoke bomb, and suddenly I remember what it feels like to die. To be actively dying, to be having the life literally drained out of me.

I almost died. I almost died. And Charlie has no idea.

I grab the shampoo and squeeze a big dollop on my head, angrily scrubbing it into my scalp.

Who cares? I lived, James died, so screw it. No use dwelling on things that didn't even happen.

I didn't even die.

As I close my eyes to rinse out the shampoo, I'm suddenly overcome with the anxiety that my blindness now makes me vulnerable to attack. That maybe a monster has slithered into the bathroom and is about to eat me.

I stubbornly keep my eyes closed several moments longer, telling myself that I'm just being stupid, paranoid, irrational. But without my permission, my eyes snap open.

And see a dark silhouette on the other side of the foggy shower door.

"Ah!"

I scream, inhale a mouthful of water, choke on it, and slip backwards into the tile wall. I jar my hip on the shower tap, sending a dull thrill of pain all the way down my leg, but who cares - who even cares when I'm about to die again -

"Bella! Bella, it's just me! Are you okay?"

"Alice?"

I stumble forwards and wipe a porthole into the fog on the glass. Alice worried face frowns at me.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask faintly, holding my chest as if to physically comfort my wildly beating heart. I try blinking the darkness out of my eyes, but when that doesn't work, I realize I need to sit down. Like, immediately. Or I might faint.

My knees fold underneath me, and I hold them to my chest. I stare blankly at the tile wall again.

"Are you okay?" Alice repeats. I can see from the corner of my eye that she has crouched down on the other side of the glass too.

I take a deep breath and repeat my own question. "What are you doing in here?"

"I brought you pajamas!" she says brightly. "And a face mask, and some moisturizer, and several nice smelling serums that apparently prevent premature signs of ageing. None of these products work for our skin, but it would totally work for yours! So hurry up and get out because I want to play with them!"

I think about how it must be after 2am at this point. Maybe even 3am. And my stomach kind of hurts.

"I'm really tired, Alice," I mumble.

"Oh, it won't take that long!" she says dismissively. "Do you want me to finish shampooing your hair for you?"

"I can do it," I say, maybe a little sharply, but Alice doesn't seem to mind. She just stands up and starts fiddling with little vials of creams and serums on the bathroom counter, humming happily to herself.

I'm actually very lucky, I tell myself firmly, as I finish my shower duties. I'm extremely lucky to have a family of supernatural beings who are willing to look out for me, care for me, feed me, pamper me. I should call myself the luckiest girl in the world. Jessica would probably give her left tit to be in my position.

Oh, that’s a good question. Would I give my left tit to keep my life with the Cullens?

I look down at my chest thoughtfully. Well. I suppose I’d give both of them up, no use being lopsided.

And yet… and yet…

And yet nothing. This is stupid. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m obviously not thinking clearly. With a weary sigh, I crack open the shower door and grab a towel, wrapping myself up firmly before stepping out. Alice has seen more than enough of me lately.

She turns around, a pair of scissors glinting in her hands. “So, I was thinking,” she says, flexing the scissors between her fingers. The blades make a sharp, glancing sound as they glide against each other. “We should cut your hair.”

“What.”

I’m too tired for this.

“I saw it in a vision,” she justifies, because of course she did. “You had short hair, just above your shoulders. It looked so cute. Let’s do it!”

I look at my reflection in the mirror, at my grumpy pale face and long, wet, messy hair. It’s stuck to my body like a giant octopus, suckered onto my neck, shoulders, and all the way down to the middle of my back. It’s all mine, this hair. I’m actually surprised by how sentimental I suddenly feel, staring at this hair that I grew all by myself. Vampires can’t grow their hair, Edward told me that once. But my human body can.

“No thanks, I need to go to bed,” I say, pulling it into one thick, damp braid.

“That’s no problem,” she shrugs. “I can probably cut it while you’re sleeping, shouldn’t be too hard.”

I cling to the braid protectively. “No one’s cutting my hair, Alice. I like my hair the way it is.”

She hums a doubtful little tune. “Well. We’ll see about that,” is all she says, before handing me a pair of jelly pads that she explains will fix my ‘sad, droopy eye bags’.

Nice.

*

I’m lying awake in a brand new bed bought just for me, the sheets crisp and clean and cold. My braided hair is a heavy, wet snake coiled next to me on my pillow, and the damp patch beneath it steals any heat my body tries to produce. The house is entirely silent, except for the occasional crash of movement that vibrates through the walls like an earthquake. Each time I imagine it’s probably Emmett, crashing into a wall with supernatural frivolity. The crashes are sparse enough, unexpected enough, that every single time it still spikes both my heart rate and my anxiety.

My dry, bleary eyes squint at the clock on the wall.

4:27am.

A slight breeze is the only warning I have before my boyfriend materializes in front of me.

“My love,” Edward breathes reverently. He stares at my face as if just the sight of me sustains him.

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper, and suddenly I feel so awfully lonely. Being the only human in a den full of vampires is unexpectedly isolating, like being the only one not in on the joke. Like being the annoying little kid the older kids are forced to play with, and all their games are too rough, too smart, too much for me. And soon enough, I’m left behind, crying with skinned knees and a bloody lip.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says, as he scoops me up and cradles me to his chest. His cold embrace sends a wave of rippling goosebumps down both my arms and legs, and I clamp my jaw shut to stop my teeth from chattering.

“I’m so glad I got home in time to watch you sleep,” he says softly, rocking me from side to side. “This is my favorite time with you, when I have you here safely asleep in my arms. You’re so quiet and soft and pliable.”

“That’s your favorite time with me? When I’m asleep?”

“Oh, Bella,” he sighs longingly into my ear, “sometimes I wish you’d never wake at all. I just want you to stay right here against me until we both one day return to dust. Don’t you?”

He starts to hums as he continues to rock me, and though my eyes do close, sleep does not find me. I stay staring at the dark side of my lids for a long time, thinking about Edward singing lullabies to my crumbling bones.

*

When they open again, my eyes feel so dry it’s like my lids have been replaced with sandpaper. They also open suddenly, because somebody is shaking me.

“Bella, wake up! You can’t sleep the whole day away!”

“...the hell’s...happening…” I mumble, trying and failing to bat away whatever is accosting me.

“Language,” I hear Edward admonish from somewhere nearby. “And Alice, let go of her. You’re being too rough.”

“Oops, sorry.”

I’m unceremoniously dropped back onto the bed, and I’m so tired that sleep almost immediately reclaims me. But then Alice leans down close beside my ear and shouts, “Wake UP! You’ve already been asleep for a whole two hours. And we’ve got to go drop off your food to the Weber’s soon!”

Reluctantly, I pull myself up, first looking at Edward sitting on the left side of the bed, and then over to Alice on the right. Both of their faces look as immaculate as yesterday, and the day before that, and half a century ago too. No morning breath, no acne, no imprint on their cheek from lying on a wrinkled pillow all night.

“Do either of you remember what it feels like to be tired?” I ask wearily.

Edward gets a bit haunted around the eyes. “Tired of existing, yes, I know that feeling well.”

Meanwhile, Alice just keeps smiling. “When I left my mortality behind, I think my tiredness got replaced with boredom,” she says with a laugh that feels out of sync with her words. “And impatience!” she adds loudly, bouncing on the bed excitedly. “So hurry up, let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

By the time we’re pulling up to the church, my yawns have progressed to the point of being so wide my jaw actually cracks. I can feel it, and Edward can obviously hear it. He throws worried glances at me each time, and I can’t help but feel like a pet that’s behaving strangely, and he’s weighing up whether or not he should take me to the vets. But his worried glances end once we get out of the Volvo and turn towards the church. Now he just looks like a convict staring up at the gallows.

“Are you alright?” I ask, taking his cold hand between my own. I glance between his anguished face and the unassuming cement building a couple times, seeing nothing particularly interesting about the church, but then an absurd thought occurs to me. “Hey, you’re not going to burst into flames the moment we step inside, are you?” I ask, laughing awkwardly, only mostly joking.

“In times past, there were days I wished I would,” he murmurs softly, squeezing my hand.

Behind us, Emmett snorts. “You need to up your therapy sessions with Carlisle, Edward. You’re being a serious bummer.”

“They are not therapy sessions,” Edward snaps, turning to frown disapprovingly at his brother. “They are debriefs.”

“Alright well your debriefs clearly aren’t cutting it. Maybe you should ask Jasper for a chill pill.”

“Would both of you just shut up and help me carry these containers,” Alice says from behind a stack of tupperware. All that’s visible of her are the tips of her spiky black hair. “The humans are going to get suspicious if they see me holding all of them.”

The humans. Huh. That’s me, I’m a human. How strange to be a minority in that category.

“On it, boss,” Emmett says, filling up his arms.

I turn to help too, but Edward tugs on my hand and shakes his head. “Let them do it,” he says. “They’re much stronger than you.”

“I know,” I mumble. Obviously I know. But it would be nice for them to at least humor me once in a while.

Angela’s dad walks out of the church to greet us, followed by Angela herself.

My first thoughts upon seeing my fellow humans are gross things that are best kept in the dark. I even find myself peeking up at Edward, trying to reassure myself that he hasn’t miraculously gained the ability to read my mind just in time to hear me think horrible thoughts.

Because when I look at Angela, I see dry, frizzy hair. Flaky lips. A pimple on her cheek, ripe for the picking. Teeth more yellow than white, and an asymmetry to them that is reflected in all angles of her face. Eyes that are too small and made even smaller behind her glasses. One of her earlobes is strangely pink, like her piercing might be infected. And then there’s her posture, head jutting forwards like a turkey, her chin made weaker by the lack of confidence in her bearing.

I feel sick, and then sicker still when I realize I’m not sure what sickens me more:

That I’m thinking these horrible thoughts about Angela, or that I fear Edward thinks these horrible thoughts about me.

It’s the second one, of course it is.

Here’s a truth to carve into a marble tablet and shout from the mountaintops, over and over again until every cell in my body knows it for the Gospel that it is: Edward never would have loved me if he could read my mind.

Perhaps I would be dead by now, I think calmly. With no mystery to break up the monotony of immortality, all I could offer is a fantastic feast. A one of a kind delicacy. Maybe I’d even be better off that way – at least I’d come by my allure honestly!

“Are you okay?” Angela asks quietly. She’s come to a stop beside me, hands poised in a way that makes me think if I were to to faint she would try to catch me. “You seem a little… out of it.”

She looks different up close. Or maybe I just suddenly feel different, now that I have my own ugliness to use as a barometer by which to measure all others against me.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say weakly. “Just didn’t sleep great last night. You guys got any coffee around here?”

“It’s 8am on a Sunday,” she says with a tired grin. “Of course we’ve got coffee.”

Meanwhile, Mr Weber – Reverend Weber – greets us with open arms and a wide smile. It brings to mind the divine shepherd, welcoming all who wander into his flock. Liars and sinners and vampires alike.

“Your mother called me earlier this morning,” he says with a big grin, clapping Emmett’s free hand into a warm handshake. “Very generous of you lot to bring us all this food! I guarantee the parishioners will be drooling all the way through my sermon. Perhaps I’ll take mercy on them and do an abridged version, just this once, so we can all hurry along to the luncheon. I’m sure God will understand!” He laughs loudly, in a way that jarringly collides with the natural stillness of my companions.

Now that I think about it… I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a bird dare to cheep a single chirp on the Cullen’s property. The trees are barren, filled only with leaves and the wind that passes through them. Makes sense though, I suppose.

Why build your home in the backyard of a predator?

Angela is beckoning me to follow her into the church, but my hand is still held captive by Edward. When I try to pull away, he doesn’t seem to notice.

Yes. Why indeed?