The word "consume" hung in the air like smoke from a particularly dramatic cigarette in one of those black-and-white films her mother was obsessed with—the kind where everyone spoke in clipped, meaningful sentences and looked perpetually windswept. It curled around Bella's brain, settled into that peculiar corner where absolute seriousness collided head-first with the kind of absurdity that made you question whether the universe was playing an elaborate practical joke on your entire existence.
And then she started laughing.
Not the polite, controlled variety of laughter that well-mannered seventeen-year-old girls were supposed to produce in social situations—the kind that said *oh, how amusing* without actually meaning it. This was the real thing. Unfiltered, bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest like champagne that had been shaken too vigorously, refusing to be contained by social conventions or basic human decency.
Because if Mike Newton only knew. If he had even the faintest inkling of how devastatingly, hilariously accurate his word choice was. If he could peer behind the curtain of her impossible new reality and see Edward Cullen—her Edward, her beautiful, tortured, century-old Edward—sitting across from her in a dimly lit Italian restaurant, confessing with the solemnity of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis that being near her was like being a recovering alcoholic locked in a wine cellar with nothing but a corkscrew and increasingly poor impulse control.
Mike thought "consume" was metaphorical. Oh, sweet, naive, wonderfully oblivious Mike Newton.
"Consume," Bella repeated between waves of increasingly hysterical giggles, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand while trying not to think about how attractive she must look right now—all red-faced and slightly unhinged, like someone who'd just discovered that reality was significantly more entertaining than she'd previously believed. "That's... wow, Mike. That's actually a really good word for it. Very—what's the word I'm looking for here?—insightful. Perceptive. You should totally consider a career in, like, relationship counseling. Or maybe criminal profiling. You know, behavioral analysis of predatory patterns and unhealthy relationship dynamics."
The irony was so thick she could practically taste it, metallic and sharp like pennies or blood or the particular flavor of cosmic jokes that the universe seemed to specialize in at her expense.
Mike's ears went pink—that particular shade of embarrassed red that reminded Bella of elementary school Valentine's Day cards and awkward middle school dances where nobody knew how to move their bodies in ways that looked intentionally rhythmic. His usual cocky grin, the one that belonged in commercials for sports drinks or healthy breakfast cereals, collapsed like a house of cards in a windstorm.
"Bella," he said, his voice carrying that peculiar strain of someone who was trying very hard to be taken seriously while their conversation partner appeared to be experiencing some kind of mental breakdown in real time, "I'm being serious here. This isn't funny."
She tried to stop. Really, genuinely tried to pull herself together and respond with the kind of mature, thoughtful consideration that Mike's concern deserved. But every time she looked at his earnest, worried face—at his blue eyes filled with the kind of protective instinct that belonged in after-school specials about the importance of good friends looking out for each other—another wave of laughter threatened to escape.
Because he was right. He was so, so right, and he had absolutely no idea how right he was, and the cosmic irony of it all was like something out of a particularly twisted episode of *The Twilight Zone*.
"I know you're being serious," she managed between the last fading giggles, trying to wrestle her badminton racket free from where it had somehow become entangled with her wrist like an overly aggressive bracelet designed by someone with a grudge against basic motor functions. "That's what makes it so—ugh, never mind." She tugged harder at the racket, which seemed determined to achieve some kind of symbiotic relationship with her arm. "I'm sorry, Mike. I really shouldn't have laughed. That was... that was really insensitive of me."
But the damage was already done, spreading across Mike's face like spilled ink on white paper. She could see it in the way his shoulders went rigid, in the slight backward step that suggested he was already planning his retreat from this conversational disaster zone.
"You know what?" he said, his voice carrying that particular flat tone that people used when they were trying very hard not to let their hurt feelings show. He shoved his badminton racket into the equipment bin with unnecessary force, the sound of graphite against metal echoing through the gymnasium like a small thunderclap. "Forget it. Just... forget I said anything, okay?"
The bell chose that exact moment to shriek through the gymnasium air with all the subtlety of an air raid siren, mercifully ending their not-quite-fight like a referee throwing in the towel during a boxing match that had gone on too long and gotten too personal. Students immediately began their mass exodus toward the locker rooms, moving with the desperate efficiency of survivors abandoning a sinking ship.
"Mike, wait—" Bella called after him, finally managing to extract herself from her racket's grip, but he was already disappearing into the crowd of teenagers. She caught a glimpse of his blonde head bobbing through the sea of bodies before he vanished entirely, leaving her standing alone on the polished gymnasium floor with a slightly damp shuttlecock, a racket that had apparently achieved consciousness and developed trust issues, and the overwhelming sensation that she had somehow managed to fail at badminton and basic human interaction simultaneously.
Which was really quite an accomplishment, when she thought about it. Not many people could claim to have completely destroyed a friendship while simultaneously violating several fundamental laws of physics during a sporting activity that was supposed to be relaxing.
The girls' locker room buzzed with the usual post-class energy—a mixture of relief at having survived another forty-seven minutes of state-mandated physical activity and the kind of social strategizing that required advanced degrees in teenage psychology to fully comprehend. Bella changed clothes with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had perfected the art of post-athletic-humiliation recovery over years of dedicated practice.
Jeans that actually fit her properly, unlike the gymnasium shorts that seemed to have been designed by someone operating under the mistaken assumption that all teenage girls were built like professional athletes or perhaps abstract geometric shapes. A faded blue t-shirt that had seen better days but was comfortable and familiar and didn't require any complex understanding of how fabric was supposed to interact with human anatomy. Hair wrestled into something that looked passably intentional rather than like she'd been struck by lightning while sticking her finger in an electrical socket.
As she shoved her gym clothes into her backpack—carefully, because the zipper had been threatening to give up on life for several weeks now and she couldn't afford to replace the bag until her next birthday or Christmas, whichever came first—the laughter from earlier began to curdle into something considerably less amusing.
Meeting Edward after school suddenly felt like volunteering for a second round of emotional gymnastics, except this time the stakes were significantly higher and the potential for catastrophic failure was exponentially greater. What if he'd been listening to Mike's thoughts during their entire conversation? What if Edward knew that Mike had basically accused him of looking at her like she was something edible?
What if Edward had heard her laughing at Mike's concerns and drawn his own conclusions about what that laughter meant?
The thought made her stomach perform a series of increasingly complex acrobatic maneuvers that would have impressed Olympic judges and possibly violated several laws of internal organ physics.
When Bella finally emerged from the school building into the characteristically gray Forks afternoon—the kind of overcast sky that looked like someone had draped the entire world in a damp wool blanket and then forgotten to remove it—her eyes immediately began scanning the parking lot for Edward's distinctive silver Volvo.
She found it, and him, almost instantly. Because Edward Cullen didn't blend into crowds so much as exist in his own personal spotlight that followed him around like a devoted stage technician.
He was leaning against the passenger side of his car with that casual elegance that made even simple actions look like they belonged in the kind of expensive cologne advertisements that ran during primetime television. The ones where impossibly beautiful people did everyday things like leaning against cars or walking down stairs while violin music played and viewers were somehow supposed to understand that purchasing this particular fragrance would transform their mundane lives into artistic masterpieces of romantic possibility.
His bronze hair was doing that thing where it looked perfectly disheveled despite—or perhaps because of—the Pacific Northwest breeze that was making everyone else look like they'd been attacked by a particularly vindictive hair dryer. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his charcoal gray jacket with the kind of calculated casualness that suggested he'd been posing for invisible photographers.
And when he spotted her approaching across the parking lot, his entire face transformed. The carefully controlled marble mask that he wore during school hours melted away, replaced by a smile so genuine and radiant that Bella was honestly surprised the permanently overcast Forks sky hadn't immediately cleared in response to the sudden increase in ambient luminosity.
"There she is," he said warmly, pushing off from the car with that liquid grace that reminded her of dancers or big cats or creatures that existed in a fundamentally different relationship with gravity than the rest of humanity. "How was the rest of your day? Particularly gym class—I heard it was quite... eventful."
Bella stopped walking so abruptly that her backpack slid off her shoulder and hit the asphalt with a dull thud that seemed to echo through the parking lot like a small explosion of teenage indignation.
"You heard it was eventful?" she repeated, her voice rising to a pitch that probably alarmed nearby wildlife and possibly registered on instruments designed to detect seismic activity. "From who, exactly? And please don't tell me the answer involves telepathic surveillance of my athletic disasters, because I'm really not emotionally prepared to deal with that level of privacy invasion right now."
Edward's expression shifted into something that was clearly supposed to look innocent but was undermined by the obvious amusement dancing in his golden eyes like sunlight on water. The kind of amusement that belonged to people who knew they were in trouble but were enjoying themselves too much to be properly apologetic.
"Various sources," he said with the careful diplomacy of someone navigating a political minefield while simultaneously trying not to laugh. "The consensus seems to be that you achieved several impossible trajectories during today's badminton activities and possibly violated a few fundamental laws of physics in the process. There was particular admiration for your ability to launch a shuttlecock into a water fountain from what most people considered an impossible angle."
Bella's jaw dropped open so far she was briefly concerned about the structural integrity of her facial muscles.
"Edward Cullen," she said, her voice carrying the particular tone that mothers used when they discovered their children had been conducting unauthorized science experiments in the basement, "don't you dare try to play this off like some kind of casual observation. Were you spying on me through other people's thoughts during gym class? Because that's what this sounds like, and I have some very strong feelings about unauthorized mental surveillance of my personal humiliation."
"Spying," Edward repeated thoughtfully, as though he was considering the word from multiple philosophical angles, "is such an ugly term for what I prefer to think of as... staying informed about your wellbeing through available information channels. For legitimate safety purposes and general peace of mind."
"Safety purposes," Bella echoed, her voice flat with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for politicians' campaign promises or advertisements claiming that fast food could be part of a healthy lifestyle.
Edward had the audacity to arrange his features into an expression of complete seriousness, though she could see his mouth twitching at the corners like he was fighting not to smile.
"Bella, you have a well-documented history of gym class incidents," he said with the solemnity of someone presenting evidence in a court of law. "Property damage. Personal injuries. Things that Coach Clapp has officially classified as 'physics-defying catastrophes that challenge our fundamental understanding of how sporting equipment is supposed to interact with three-dimensional space.' I was simply monitoring the situation through naturally occurring thought patterns to ensure that you didn't require emergency medical attention or possibly intervention from the laws of physics themselves."
Bella groaned, dragging her free hand down her face in a gesture of profound existential exhaustion.
"So what you're telling me," she said slowly, "is that while I was busy making a complete fool of myself with badminton rackets and runaway shuttlecocks, you were essentially live-tweeting my athletic failures through the mental commentary of my classmates."
"I can't help what people think," Edward said, spreading his hands with an expression of faux-helplessness that was about as convincing as a three-dollar bill. "Their thoughts simply... occur. They broadcast themselves into my consciousness without any input or encouragement from me. And when those thoughts happen to involve someone I care about demonstrating what can only be described as supernatural levels of coordination failure..." He shrugged with elegant resignation. "It becomes rather difficult to ignore."
That phrase—*someone I care about*—hit Bella square in the chest with the force of a small meteorite, sending warmth spreading through her ribcage like hot chocolate on a cold morning. It was the kind of casual admission that Edward delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity that it temporarily short-circuited her ability to maintain proper indignation.
But she rallied valiantly, because this was an important principle and she was not going to be distracted by his marble-perfect face and his tendency to say devastatingly romantic things while discussing her athletic incompetence.
"That's still not the point," she said, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder as they reached his car. "The point is that I can't even trip over my own feet in private anymore. I can't accidentally hit myself in the face with sports equipment or somehow manage to defy the laws of physics through sheer coordination failure without knowing that you're getting a detailed play-by-play from thirty different mental perspectives. It's like having a very attractive, very polite stalker who happens to have supernatural abilities and really good hair."
Edward's expression immediately sobered, the playful amusement fading from his golden eyes as he registered the genuine frustration in her voice.
"You're absolutely right," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of sincere regret. "I'm sorry, Bella. I know it's invasive, and I know it makes things more difficult for you. I should have tried harder to block it out, to give you the privacy you deserve even in situations where other people are... observing."
The immediate shift from teasing to genuine apology caught Bella off guard, reminding her once again that beneath all the supernatural complications and century-long existence, Edward was someone who actually cared about her feelings and was willing to acknowledge when he'd made mistakes.
Her irritation began to soften around the edges, though she wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook completely.
"It's not that I want to hide things from you," she explained, leaning against the passenger side of his car while she tried to organize her thoughts. "It's just that being me is embarrassing enough under normal circumstances. Being clumsy and uncoordinated and generally hopeless at anything requiring basic motor skills is humiliating when it's just me and whoever happens to be in the immediate vicinity. But knowing that my vampire boyfriend is getting live commentary on every spectacular failure from multiple mental sources... it's like having my most mortifying moments broadcast on some kind of supernatural reality television show."
Edward tilted his head slightly, and she could practically see him processing her words, filing them away in whatever complex organizational system he used to catalog important information about her emotional well-being.
"Your vampire boyfriend," he repeated slowly, as though he was testing the phrase for weight and balance, seeing how it felt in his mouth. His lips curved into a small smile that was equal parts pleased and wondering. "I have to admit, I quite like the sound of that."
Bella felt heat flood her cheeks with the efficiency of a flash fire, spreading up her neck and across her face until she was certain she resembled a tomato that had been left in direct sunlight for several hours.
"Don't—" she started, pointing an accusatory finger at his perfectly sculpted face, "don't try to distract me with terminology and labels and that thing you do with your voice where it gets all low and smooth like you're narrating a documentary about the mating rituals of exotic birds. I'm trying to be annoyed with you right now, and it requires focus and determination."
"Are you succeeding?" Edward asked, his grin widening to reveal teeth that were almost certainly too perfect to occur naturally, even in people who hadn't been frozen at seventeen for nearly a century. "At being annoyed, I mean."
Bella glared at him with as much authority as she could muster, though she was fighting her own traitorous facial muscles' apparent desire to respond to his smile with one of her own.
"Not as successfully as I would like," she admitted grudgingly. "Which is extremely frustrating, because I have legitimate grievances here and you keep... doing that thing where you're charming and apologetic and impossible to stay mad at for extended periods of time."
"I apologize for being difficult to stay angry with," Edward said solemnly, though his eyes were still dancing with barely suppressed mirth. "I'll try to be more irritating in the future."
"Don't you dare," Bella said immediately, then paused as she realized what she'd just revealed. "I mean—that's not—ugh. You're impossible."
"So you've mentioned," Edward said, moving around to open the passenger door for her with that old-world courtesy that belonged in historical romance novels and PBS adaptations of Jane Austen. "Shall we continue this discussion in the car? I have a feeling Coach Clapp is watching us from his office window, and I'd rather not provide him with additional entertainment for the day."
But Bella remained standing on the asphalt, arms crossed over her chest in what she hoped looked like an unmovable stance of principled determination rather than teenage stubbornness.
"I'm still driving to Seattle on Saturday," she announced with the authority of someone making a non-negotiable declaration of independence. "That part of our arrangement is completely set in stone, and I will not be swayed by apologies or charm or any other supernatural boyfriend tactics you might try to deploy."
Edward's smile widened into something that was pure masculine satisfaction mixed with what looked suspiciously like relief.
"Actually," he said, "that works out perfectly for what I have planned."
Bella's eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion. "It does?"
"I won't be bringing a car," Edward explained, settling back against the Volvo's hood with casual grace while she processed this information. "Charlie would almost certainly notice a strange vehicle in your driveway at dawn, and I'd rather avoid having to explain to your father why I'm picking you up before the sun rises. It would raise questions that I'm not particularly eager to answer."
"Before sunrise?" Bella repeated, her voice climbing toward frequencies that probably bothered dogs and small woodland creatures. "Edward, what exactly are we doing in Seattle that requires leaving Forks before dawn? Because that sounds either incredibly romantic or incredibly ominous, and I'm not sure which possibility terrifies me more."
Edward's eyes lit up with that particular brand of mischief that had probably been getting him into trouble for the better part of a century. The kind of expression that belonged to people who knew secrets and enjoyed keeping them, who found entertainment in other people's curiosity and had perfected the art of revealing information in the most dramatically satisfying way possible.
"It's a surprise," he said simply, as though this explanation should be sufficient to satisfy her curiosity and eliminate all further questions.
"I hate surprises," Bella said immediately, with the fervor of someone who had experienced enough unexpected plot twists in her life to develop a healthy skepticism about anything that involved unknown variables and other people's secret plans.
"You'll like this one," Edward replied with the kind of absolute confidence that suggested he had access to information about her preferences that she herself might not possess. "I guarantee it."
"Edward Cullen, you cannot just say 'it's a surprise' and expect that to be an adequate explanation for why we need to leave town before sunrise. That's not how communication works in healthy relationships. There are supposed to be things like transparency and mutual decision-making and informed consent about mysterious dawn expeditions to major metropolitan areas."
Edward considered this with the seriousness of someone contemplating complex philosophical questions about the nature of surprise-based relationship dynamics.
"You're absolutely right," he said finally. "Let me be more specific: it's a surprise that involves showing you something about my nature that you haven't seen yet. Something that requires specific lighting conditions and privacy from casual observers."
Bella stared at him, her mind immediately jumping to a dozen different possibilities, most of which fell somewhere on the spectrum between "incredibly romantic" and "potentially life-threatening."
"Lighting conditions?" she repeated slowly.
"Natural sunlight," Edward clarified, and something in his expression shifted to become more vulnerable, more uncertain. "I want to show you what happens when vampires go out in direct sunlight. What we actually look like when we're not hiding what we are."
The sparkling. He wanted to show her the sparkling that he'd described with such obvious embarrassment during their dinner conversation. The supernatural glitter effect that he'd compared to disco balls and craft store explosions.
Bella felt something warm and complicated settle in her chest as she realized that Edward was volunteering to share something that he clearly found mortifying, something that made him feel vulnerable and ridiculous, simply because he wanted her to understand every aspect of what he was.
"Oh," she said softly, her irritation about the telepathic surveillance suddenly seeming much less important in the face of this gesture. "That's... actually really sweet. In a weird, supernatural, potentially blinding way."
"Sweet wasn't exactly the adjective I was aiming for," Edward said dryly. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'educational' or possibly 'illuminating.'"
"It can be both," Bella said, finally accepting his offer of the open car door and sliding into the passenger seat. "Sweet and educational. Like one of those after-school specials, except with more supernatural elements and less heavy-handed moral messaging."
Edward closed her door with careful precision and walked around to the driver's side, his movements carrying that liquid grace that made even mundane actions look like choreographed dance sequences.
As the Volvo's engine came to life with a purr that suggested German engineering and probably more money than Bella's family had ever seen in one place, she found herself studying Edward's profile in the afternoon light that filtered through the gray Forks sky.
The sharp line of his jaw, tense with concentration as he navigated the parking lot traffic. The way his bronze hair fell across his forehead in waves that looked artfully disheveled even after spending an entire day in various classrooms. The careful control he maintained even while doing something as ordinary as driving, as though he was always aware of his own strength and the potential for accidents if his attention wandered.
"Edward?" she said suddenly, struck by a thought that had been building since their conversation at lunch.
"Yes?"
"Next time you want to monitor my wellbeing during gym class, maybe just send me a text afterward instead of getting real-time updates through other people's mental commentary? It would feel significantly less like I'm living under supernatural surveillance, and more like I have a boyfriend who cares about whether I've injured myself during state-mandated athletic activities."
Edward's laugh was low and warm, filling the car's interior like honey poured into tea.
"That's a perfectly reasonable request," he said, glancing at her with obvious fondness. "Though I should probably warn you in advance that my texting abilities are somewhat... outdated. The last communication technology I mastered involved actual typewriters and carbon paper. The transition to cellular phone messaging has been challenging."
"How challenging are we talking here?" Bella asked, suddenly entertained by the mental image of Edward struggling with modern technology like someone's grandfather trying to program a VCR.
"Let's just say that my messages tend to be either single words or complete novels, with very little middle ground," Edward admitted. "Alice has been trying to teach me about abbreviations and emoticons, but I find the whole concept rather..." He paused, searching for the right word.
"Ridiculous?" Bella suggested.
"Undignified," Edward corrected. "Though I suppose 'ridiculous' works as well."
"Edward Cullen finds text messaging undignified," Bella said, grinning despite herself. "That might be the most endearingly pretentious thing I've ever heard. Do you also have opinions about the decline of handwritten correspondence and the death of proper penmanship?"
"Actually, yes," Edward said seriously, which made Bella dissolve into fresh giggles. "The art of letter writing has been completely abandoned in favor of abbreviated digital communication that lacks both elegance and emotional nuance."
"Oh my god, you're like a ninety-year-old man trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old Calvin Klein model," Bella said, wiping at her eyes. "This is amazing. Do you also complain about modern music and the way young people dress these days?"
"I have some concerns about the current state of popular music," Edward admitted with obvious reluctance. "And I do find some contemporary fashion choices... puzzling."
"This just keeps getting better," Bella said, settling back into the leather seat with obvious delight. "My vampire boyfriend is secretly a cranky old man who disapproves of progress and probably owns a gramophone."
"I prefer vinyl records," Edward said defensively. "The sound quality is superior to these compact disc devices, and don't even get me started on digital music files that compress all the nuance out of the original recording."
Bella was laughing so hard now that she was having difficulty breathing, clutching at her seatbelt as Edward navigated the streets of Forks with the patient precision of someone who was accustomed to being mocked for his technological preferences.
"Stop laughing at me," he said, though she could hear the affection in his voice beneath the mock indignation. "I have very reasonable opinions about the importance of preserving quality in artistic expression."
"I'm not laughing at you," Bella gasped between giggles. "I'm laughing with you. There's a difference."
"I'm not laughing," Edward pointed out.
"You should be. This is hilarious. I'm seventeen years old and my boyfriend is more old-fashioned than my dad. Charlie uses email, Edward. He has a digital camera. He probably knows more about modern technology than you do."
Edward's expression grew thoughtful as he considered this possibility.
"That's... actually somewhat disturbing," he said finally. "I may need to reassess my relationship with contemporary communication methods."
"I'll help you," Bella offered generously. "We can start with basic text messaging and work our way up to instant messaging and email. By the time we're done, you might even be ready for something really advanced, like online music downloads."
"Online music downloads?" Edward repeated with obvious skepticism.
"It's going to blow your mind," Bella assured him. "You can get any song you want, instantly, without having to go to a record store or wait for the radio to play it. It's like magic, except with computers."
"That sounds illegal," Edward said suspiciously.
"Some of it is," Bella admitted. "But there are legal options too. The future is amazing, Edward. You're going to love it."
As they pulled into her driveway, Bella realized that somewhere between her irritation about telepathic surveillance and her amusement at Edward's technological difficulties, her anxiety about their relationship had faded into something much more manageable. They might be navigating impossible circumstances with supernatural complications and century-long age gaps, but at their core, they were still just two people who enjoyed each other's company and could laugh together about their respective quirks and shortcomings.
"Thank you," she said as Edward turned off the engine.
"For what?"
"For apologizing about the mind-reading thing. For being willing to change. For trusting me enough to want to show me the sparkling situation, even though you find it embarrassing." She paused, then added with a grin, "And for being hilariously out of touch with modern technology. It makes you seem more human."
Edward's smile was soft and genuine, transforming his face from marble perfection to something warmer and more accessible.
"Thank you for being patient with me," he said quietly. "For accepting my apologies and my technological inadequacies. For agreeing to drive to Seattle so I can show you something that will probably make me look ridiculous but that I want you to see anyway."
"That's what girlfriends are for," Bella said, then felt her cheeks warm at her own boldness.
"Is that what you are?" Edward asked, his voice carrying that same wondering tone he'd used when she'd called him her vampire boyfriend. "My girlfriend?"
"Do you want me to be?"
"More than I've ever wanted anything," Edward said with such immediate certainty that it made her breath catch.
"Then yes," Bella said simply. "I'm your girlfriend. Your very patient, technologically superior, occasionally clumsy girlfriend who will drive you to Seattle before dawn on Saturday so you can sparkle at me in direct sunlight."
Edward's laugh was pure joy, bright and unguarded in a way that made her realize how carefully he usually controlled his expressions.
"I love you, Bella Swan," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out like they'd been waiting behind his careful composure for weeks.
Bella's heart stopped, restarted, and then began beating so fast she was briefly concerned about the possibility of cardiac arrest.
"I love you too, Edward Cullen," she said, and meant it with every cell in her body.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, hands intertwined across the center console, watching the gray Forks afternoon fade toward evening through the windshield.
"So," Bella said eventually, "Saturday. Dawn. Sparkling vampires and probably some kind of dramatic revelation that will change my understanding of supernatural biology forever."
"Something like that," Edward agreed.
"Should I bring snacks? Sunglasses? A camera to document your resemblance to a craft store explosion?"
"Please don't bring a camera," Edward said quickly. "The sparkling is embarrassing enough without photographic evidence."
"No promises," Bella said cheerfully, climbing out of the car. "I'll see you tomorrow, Edward."
"See you tomorrow, Bella."
As she walked toward her front door, Bella found herself smiling despite everything—the complications, the impossibilities, the fact that she was apparently in love with someone who considered text messaging undignified and probably owned more vinyl records than most music stores.
Her life had become completely insane, but it was her kind of insane. And she wouldn't trade it for anything.
---
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