I HAD TO WAIT WHEN I GOT BACK TO SCHOOL. THE FINAL HOUR WASN’T out yet. That was good, because I had things to think about and I needed the alone time.
Her scent lingered in the car. I kept the windows up, letting it assault me, trying to get used to the feel of intentionally torching my throat.
Attraction.
It was a problematic thing to contemplate. So many sides to it, so many different meanings and levels. Not the same thing as love, but tied up in it inextricably.
I had no idea if Bella was attracted to me. (Would her mental silence somehow continue to get more and more frustrating until I went mad? Or was there a limit that I would eventually reach?)
I tried to compare her physical responses to others’, like the receptionist and Jessica Stanley, but the comparison was inconclusive. The same markers—changes in heart rate and breathing patterns—could just as easily mean fear or shock or anxiety as they did interest. Certainly other women, and men, too, had reacted to my face with instinctive apprehension. Many more had that response than the alternative. It seemed unlikely that Bella could be entertaining the same kinds of thoughts that Jessica Stanley used to have. After all, Bella knew very well that there was something wrong with me, even if she didn’t know exactly what it was. She had touched my icy skin, and then yanked her hand away from the chill.
And yet… I remembered those fantasies that used to repulse me, but remembered them with Bella in Jessica’s place.
I was breathing more quickly, the fire clawing up and down my throat.
What if it had been Bella imagining me with my arms wrapped around her fragile body? Feeling me pull her tightly against my chest and then cupping my hand under her chin? Brushing the heavy curtain of her hair back from her blushing face? Tracing the shape of her full lips with my fingertips? Leaning my face closer to hers, where I could feel the heat of her breath on my mouth? Moving closer still…
But then I flinched away from the daydream, knowing, as I had known when Jessica had imagined these things, what would happen if I got that close to her.
Attraction was an impossible dilemma, because I was already too attracted to Bella in the worst way.
Did I want Bella to be attracted to me, a woman to a man?
That was the wrong question. The right question was should I want Bella to be attracted to me that way, and the answer was no. Because I was not a human man, and that wasn’t fair to her.
With every fiber of my being, I ached to be a normal man, so that I could hold her in my arms without risking her life. So that I could be free to spin my own fantasies, fantasies that didn’t end with her blood on my hands, her blood glowing in my eyes.
My pursuit of her was indefensible. What kind of relationship could I offer her, when I couldn’t risk touching her?
I hung my head in my hands.
It was all the more confusing because I had never felt so human in my whole life—not even when I was human, as far as I could recall. In those days, my thoughts had all been turned to a soldier’s glory. The Great War had raged through most of my adolescence, and I’d been only nine months away from my eighteenth birthday when the influenza had struck. I had just vague impressions of those human years, murky memories that became less real with every passing decade. I remembered my mother most clearly and felt an ancient ache when I thought of her face. I recalled dimly how much she had hated the future I’d raced eagerly toward, praying every night when she said grace at dinner that the “horrid war” would end. I had no memories of another kind of yearning. Besides my mother’s love, there was no other love that had made me wish to stay.
This was entirely new to me. I had no parallels to draw, no comparisons to make.
The love I felt for Bella had come purely, but now the waters were muddied. I wanted very much to be able to touch her. Did she feel the same way?
That didn’t matter, I tried to convince myself.
I stared at my white hands, hating their hardness, their coldness, their inhuman strength.…
I jumped when the passenger door opened.
Ha. Caught you by surprise. There’s a first, Emmett thought as he slid into the seat. “I’ll bet Mrs. Goff thinks you’re on drugs, you’ve been so erratic lately. Where were you today?”
“I was… doing good deeds.”
Huh?
I chuckled. “Caring for the sick, that kind of thing.”
That confused him more, but then he inhaled and caught the scent in the car.
“Oh. The girl again?”
I scowled.
This is getting weird.
“Tell me about it,” I mumbled.
He inhaled again. “Hmm, she does have a quite a flavor, doesn’t she?”
The snarl broke through my lips before his words had even registered all the way, an automatic response.
“Easy, kid, I’m just sayin’.”
The others arrived then. Rosalie noticed the scent at once and glowered at me, still not over her irritation. I wondered what her real problem was, but all I could hear from her were insults.
I didn’t like Jasper’s reaction, either. Like Emmett, he noticed Bella’s appeal. Not that the scent had, for either of them, a thousandth portion of the draw it had for me, but it still upset me that her blood was sweet to them. Jasper had poor control.
Alice skipped to my side of the car and held her hand out for Bella’s truck key.
“I only saw that I was,” she said—as was her habit—obscurely. “You’ll have to tell me the whys.”
“This doesn’t mean—”
“I know, I know. I’ll wait. It won’t be long.”
I sighed and gave her the key.
I followed her to Bella’s house. The rain was pounding down like a million tiny hammers, so loud that Bella’s human ears might not hear the thunder of the truck’s engine. I watched her window, but she didn’t come to look out. Maybe she wasn’t there. There were no thoughts to hear.
It made me sad that I couldn’t hear enough of her thoughts even to check on her—to make sure she was happy, or safe, at the very least.
Alice climbed into the back and we sped home. The roads were empty, and so it only took a few minutes. We trooped into the house, and then went to our various pastimes.
Emmett and Jasper were in the middle of an elaborate game of chess, utilizing eight joined boards spread out along the glass back wall, and their own complicated set of rules. They wouldn’t let me play; only Alice would play games with me anymore.
Alice went to her computer just around the corner from them and I could hear her monitors sing to life. She was working on a fashion design project for Rosalie’s wardrobe, but Rosalie did not join her today, to stand behind her and direct cut and color as Alice’s hand traced over the touch-sensitive screens. Instead, today Rosalie sprawled sullenly on the sofa and started flipping through twenty channels a second on the flat screen, never pausing. I could hear her trying to decide whether or not to go out to the garage and tune her BMW again.
Esme was upstairs, humming over a set of blueprints. She was always designing something new. Perhaps she would build this one for our next home, or the one after that.
Alice leaned her head around the wall after a moment and started mouthing Emmett’s next moves—Emmett sat on the floor with his back to her—to Jasper, who kept his expression very smooth as he cut off Emmett’s favorite knight.
And, for the first time in so long that I felt ashamed, I went to sit at the exquisite grand piano stationed just off the entryway.
I ran my hand gently up the scales, testing the pitch. The tuning was still perfect.
Upstairs, Esme’s pencil paused and she cocked her head to the side.
I began the first line of the tune that had suggested itself to me in the car today, pleased that it sounded even better than I’d imagined.
Edward is playing again, Esme thought joyously, a smile breaking across her face. She got up from her drafting desk and flitted silently to the head of the stairs.
I added a harmonizing line, letting the central melody weave through it.
Esme sighed with contentment, sat down on the top step, and leaned her head against a baluster. A new song. It’s been so long. What a lovely tune.
I let the melody lead in a new direction, following it with the bass line.
Edward is composing again? Rosalie thought, and her teeth clenched together in fierce resentment.
In that moment, she slipped, and I could read all her underlying outrage. I saw why she was in such a poor temper with me. Why killing Isabella Swan had not bothered her conscience at all.
With Rosalie, it was always about vanity.
The music came to an abrupt halt, and I laughed before I could help myself, a sharp bark of amusement that broke off quickly as I threw my hand over my mouth.
Rosalie turned to glare at me, her eyes sparking with mortified fury.
Emmett and Jasper turned to stare, too, and I heard Esme’s confusion. She was downstairs in a flash, pausing to glance between Rosalie and me.
“Don’t stop, Edward,” Esme encouraged after a strained moment.
I started playing again, turning my back on Rosalie while trying very hard to control the grin stretching across my face. She got to her feet and stalked out of the room, more angry than embarrassed. But certainly quite embarrassed.
If you say one word, I will put you down like a dog.
I smothered another laugh.
“What’s wrong, Rose?” Emmett called after her. Rosalie didn’t turn. Back ramrod straight, she continued to the garage and then squirmed under her car as if she could bury herself there.
“What’s that about?” Emmett asked me.
“I don’t have the faintest idea,” I lied.
Emmett grumbled, frustrated.
“Keep playing,” Esme urged. My fingers had paused again.
I did as she asked, and she came to stand behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders.
The song was compelling, but incomplete. I toyed with a bridge, but it didn’t seem right somehow.
“It’s charming. Does it have a name?” Esme asked.
“Not yet.”
“Is there a story to it?” she asked, a smile in her voice. This gave her very great pleasure, and I felt guilty for having neglected my music for so long. It had been selfish.
“It’s… a lullaby, I suppose.” I got the bridge right then. It led easily to the next movement, taking on a life of its own.
“A lullaby,” she repeated to herself.
There was a story to this melody, and once I saw that, the pieces fell into place effortlessly. The story was a sleeping girl in a narrow bed, dark hair thick and wild and twisted like seaweed across the pillow.…
Alice left Jasper to his own skill and came to sit next to me on the bench. In her trilling, wind-chime voice, she sketched out a wordless descant two octaves above the melody.
“I like it,” I murmured. “But how about this?”
I added her line to the harmony—my hands flying across the keys to work all the pieces together—modifying it a bit, taking it in a new direction.
She caught the mood and sang along.
“Yes. Perfect,” I said.
Esme squeezed my shoulder.
But I could see the conclusion now, with Alice’s voice rising above the tune and taking it to another place. I could see how the song must end, because the sleeping girl was perfect just the way she was, and any change at all would be wrong, a sadness. The song drifted toward that realization, slower and lower. Alice’s voice lowered, too, and became solemn, a tone that belonged under the echoing arches of a candlelit cathedral.
I played the last note, and then bowed my head over the keys.
Esme stroked my hair. It’s going to be fine, Edward. This is going to work out for the best. You deserve happiness, my son. Fate owes you that.
“Thank you,” I whispered, wishing I could believe it. And that my happiness was the one that mattered.
Love doesn’t always come in convenient packages.
I laughed once without humor.
You, out of everyone on this planet, are perhaps best equipped to deal with such a difficult quandary. You are the best and the brightest of us all.
I sighed. Every mother thought the same of her son.
Esme was still full of joy that my heart had finally been touched after all this time, no matter the potential for tragedy. She’d thought I would always be alone.
She’ll have to love you back, she thought suddenly, catching me by surprise with the direction of her thoughts. If she’s a bright girl. She smiled. But I can’t imagine anyone being so slow they wouldn’t see the catch you are.
“Stop it, Mom, you’re making me blush,” I teased. Her words, though improbable, did cheer me.
Alice laughed and picked out the top hand of “Heart and Soul.” I grinned and completed the simple harmony with her. Then I favored her with a performance of “Chopsticks.”
She giggled, then sighed. “So I wish you’d tell me what you were laughing at Rose about,” Alice said. “But I can see that you won’t.”
“No.”
She flicked my ear with her finger.
“Be nice, Alice,” Esme chided. “Edward is being a gentleman.”
“But I want to know.”
I laughed at the whining tone she put on. Then I said, “Here, Esme,” and began playing her favorite song, an unnamed tribute to the love I’d watched between her and Carlisle for so many years.
“Thank you, dear.” She squeezed my shoulder again.
I didn’t have to concentrate to play the familiar piece. Instead I thought of Rosalie, still figuratively writhing in humiliation in the garage, and grinned to myself.
Having just discovered the potency of jealousy for myself, I had a small amount of pity for her. It was a wretched way to feel. Of course, her jealously was a thousand times more petty than mine. Quite the dog in the manger scenario.
I wondered how Rosalie’s life and personality would have been different if she had not always been the most beautiful. Would she have been a happier person—less egocentric? More compassionate?—if beauty hadn’t at all times been her strongest selling point? Well, I supposed it was useless to wonder, because the past was done, and she always had been the most beautiful. Even when human, she had ever lived in the spotlight of her own loveliness. Not that she’d minded. The opposite—she’d loved admiration above all else. That hadn’t changed with the loss of her mortality.
It was no surprise, then, taking this need as a given, that she’d been offended when I had not, from the beginning, worshiped her beauty the way she expected all males to worship. Not that she’d wanted me in any way—far from it. But it had aggravated her that I did not want her, despite that.
It was different with Jasper and Carlisle—they were already both in love. I was completely unattached, and yet still remained obstinately unmoved.
I’d thought that old resentment buried, that she was long past it. And she had been… until the day I finally found someone whose beauty touched me the way hers had not. Of course. I should have realized how that would annoy her. I probably would have, had I not been so preoccupied.
Rosalie had relied on the belief that if I did not find her beauty worth worshiping, then certainly there was no beauty on earth that would reach me. She’d been furious since the moment I’d saved Bella’s life, guessing, with her shrewd, competitive intuition, the interest that I was all but unconscious of myself.
Rosalie was mortally offended that I found some insignificant human girl more appealing than her.
I suppressed the urge to laugh again.