“Honestly, I’m not hungry,” she said. Why had she waited for them to be gone before speaking? Did she truly want to be alone with me—even now, after witnessing my homicidal rage? Whether that was the case or not, she was going to eat something. “Humor me,” I said. I held the restaurant door open for her and waited. She sighed, and walked through. I walked beside her to the podium where the hostess waited. Bella still seemed entirely selfpossessed. I wanted to touch her hand, her forehead, to check her temperature. But my cold hand would repulse her, as it had before. Oh, my, the hostess’s rather loud mental voice intruded into my consciousness. My, oh my. It seemed to be my night to turn heads. Or was I only noticing it more because I wished so much that Bella would see me this way? We were always attractive to our prey. I’d never thought so much about it before. Usually—unless, as with people like Shelly Cope and Jessica Stanley, there was constant repetition to dull the horror—the fear kicked in fairly quickly after the initial attraction… “A table for two?” I prompted when the hostess didn’t speak. “Oh, er, yes. Welcome to La Bella Italia.” Mmm! What a voice! “Please follow me.” Her thoughts were preoccupied—calculating. Maybe she’s his cousin. She couldn’t be his sister, they don’t look anything alike. But family, definitely. He can’t be with her. Human eyes were clouded; they saw nothing clearly. How could this small minded woman find my physical lures—snares for prey—so attractive, and yet be unable to see the soft perfection of the girl beside me? （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 181 Well, no need to help her out, just in case, the hostess thought as she led us to a familysized table in the middle of the most crowded part of the restaurant. Can I give him my number while she’s there…？ she mused. I pulled a bill from my back pocket. People were invariably cooperative when money was involved. Bella was already taking the seat the hostess indicated without objection. I shook my head at her, and she hesitated, cocking her head to one side with curiosity. Yes, she would be very curious tonight. A crowd was not the ideal place for this conversation. “Perhaps something more private?” I requested of the hostess, handing her the money. Her eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed while her hand curled around the tip. “Sure.” She peeked at the bill while she led us around a dividing wall. Fifty dollars for a better table? Rich, too. That makes sense—I bet his jacket cost more than my last paycheck. Damn. Why does he want privacy with her? She offered us a booth in a quiet corner of the restaurant where no one would be able to see us—to see Bella’s reactions to whatever I would tell her. I had no clue as to what she would want from me tonight. Or what I would give her. How much had she guessed? What explanation of tonight’s events had she told herself? “How’s this?” the hostess asked. “Perfect,” I told her and, feeling slightly annoyed by her resentful attitude toward Bella, I smiled widely at her, baring my teeth. Let her see me clearly. Whoa. “Um…your server will be right out.” He can’t be real. I must be asleep. Maybe she’ll disappear…maybe I’ll write my number on his plate with ketchup… She wandered away, listing slightly to the side. Odd. She still wasn’t frightened. I suddenly remembered Emmett teasing me in the cafeteria, so many weeks ago. I’ll bet I could have scared her better than that. Was I losing my edge? “You really shouldn’t do that to people,” Bella interrupted my thoughts in a disapproving tone. “It’s hardly fair.” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 182 I stared at her critical expression. What did she mean? I hadn’t frightened the hostess at all, despite my intentions. “Do what?” “Dazzle them like that—she’s probably hyperventilating in the kitchen right now.” Hmm. Bella was very nearly right. The hostess was only semicoherent at the moment, describing her incorrect assessment of me to her friend on the wait staff. “Oh, come on,” Bella chided me when I didn’t answer immediately. “You have to know the effect you have on people.” “I dazzle people?” That was an interesting way of phrasing it. Accurate enough for tonight. I wondered why the difference… “You haven’t noticed?” she asked, still critical. “Do you think everybody gets their way so easily?” “Do I dazzle you?” I voiced my curiosity impulsively, and then the words were out, and it was too late to recall them. But before I had time to too deeply regret speaking the words aloud she answered, “Frequently.” And her cheeks took on a faint pink glow. I dazzled her. My silent heart swelled with a hope more intense than I could ever remember having felt before. “Hello,” someone said, the waitress, introducing herself. Her thoughts were loud, and more explicit than the hostess’s, but I tuned her out. I stared at Bella’s face instead of listening, watching the blood spreading under her skin, noticing not how that made my throat flame, but rather how it brightened her fair face, how it set off the cream of her skin… The waitress was waiting for something from me. Ah, she’d asked for our drink order. I continued to stare at Bella, and the waitress grudgingly turned to look at her, too. “I’ll have a coke?” Bella said, as if asking for approval. “Two cokes,” I amended. Thirst—normal, human thirst—was a sign of shock. I would make sure she had the extra sugar from the soda in her system. She looked healthy, though. More than healthy. She looked radiant. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 183 “What?” she demanded—wondering why I was staring, I guessed. I was vaguely aware that the waitress had left. “How are you feeling?” I asked. She blinked, surprised by the question. “I’m fine.” “You don’t feel dizzy, sick, cold?” She was even more confused now. “Should I?” “Well, I actually I’m waiting for you to go into shock.” I halfsmiled, expecting her denial. She would not want to be taken care of. It took her a minute to answer me. Her eyes were slightly unfocused. She looked that way sometimes, when I smiled at her. Was she…dazzled? I would love to believe that. “I don’t think that will happen. I’ve always been very good at repressing unpleasant things,” she answered, a little breathless. Did she have a lot of practice with unpleasant things, then? Was her life always this hazardous? “Just the same,” I told her. “I’ll feel better when you have some sugar and food in you.” The waitress returned with the cokes and a basket of bread. She put them in front of me, and asked for my order, trying to catch my eye in the process. I indicated that she should attend to Bella, and then went back to tuning her out. She had a vulgar mind. “Um…” Bella glanced quickly at the menu. “I’ll have the mushroom ravioli.” The waitress turned back to me eagerly. “And you?” “Nothing for me.” Bella made a slight face. Hmm. She must have noticed that I never ate food. She noticed everything. And I always forgot to be careful around her. I waited till we were alone again. “Drink,” I insisted. I was surprised when she complied immediately and without objection. She drank until the glass was entirely empty, so I pushed the second coke toward her, frowning a little. Thirst, or shock? She drank a little more, and then shuddered once. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 184 “Are you cold?” “It’s just the coke,” she said, but she shivered again, her lips trembling slightly as if her teeth were about to chatter. The pretty blouse she wore looked too thin to protect her adequately; it clung to her like a second skin, almost as fragile as the first. She was so frail, so mortal. “Don’t you have a jacket?” “Yes.” She looked around herself, a little perplexed. “Oh—I left it in Jessica’s car.” I pulled off my jacket, wishing that the gesture was not marred by my body temperature. It would have been nice to have been able to offer her a warm coat. She stared at me, her cheeks warming again. What was she thinking now? I handed her the jacket across the table, and she put it on at once, and then shuddered again. Yes, it would be very nice to be warm. “Thanks,” she said. She took a deep breath, and then pushed the toolong sleeves back to free her hands. She took another deep breath. Was the evening finally settling in? Her color was still good; her skin was cream and roses against the deep blue of her shirt. “That color blue looks lovely with your skin,” I complimented her. Just being honest. She flushed, enhancing the effect. She looked well, but there was no point in taking chances. I pushed the basket of bread toward her. “Really,” she objected, guessing my motives. “I’m not going into shock.” “You should be—a normal person would be. You don’t even look shaken.” I stared at her, disapproving, wondering why she couldn’t be normal and then wondering if really wanted her to be that way. “I feel very safe with you,” she said, her eyes, again, filled with trust. Trust I didn’t deserve. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 185 Her instincts were all wrong—backwards. That must be the problem. She didn’t recognize danger the way a human being should be able to. She had the opposite reaction. Instead of running, she lingered, drawn to what should frighten her… How could I protect her from myself when neither of us wanted that? “This is more complicated than I’d planned,” I murmured. I could see her turning my words over in her head, and I wondered what she made of them. She took a breadstick and began to eat without seeming aware of the action. She chewed for a moment, and then leaned her head to one side thoughtfully. “Usually you’re in a better mood when your eyes are so light,” she said in a casual tone. Her observation, stated so matter of factly, left me reeling. “What?” “You’re always crabbier when your eyes are black—I expect it then. I have a theory about that,” she added lightly. So she had come up with her own explanation. Of course she had. I felt a deep sense of dread as I wondered how close she’d come to the truth. “More theories?” “Mmhm.” She chewed on another bite, entirely nonchalant. As if she weren’t discussing the aspects of a monster with the monster himself. “I hope you were more creative this time…” I lied when she didn’t continue. What I really hoped was that she was wrong—miles wide of the mark. “Or are you still stealing from comic books?” “Well, no, I didn’t get it from a comic book,” she said, a little embarrassed. “But I didn’t come up with it on my own, either.” “And?” I asked between my teeth. Surely should would not speak so calmly if she were about to scream. As she hesitated, biting her lip, the waitress reappeared with Bella’s food. I paid the server little attention as she set the plate in front of Bella and then asked if I wanted anything. I declined, but asked for more coke. The waitress hadn’t noticed the empty glasses. She took them and left. “You were saying?” I prompted anxiously as soon as we were alone again. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 186 “I’ll tell you about it in the car,” she said in a low voice. Ah, this would be bad. She wasn’t willing to speak her guesses around others. “If…” she tacked on suddenly. “There are conditions?” I was so tense I almost growled the words. “I do have a few questions, of course.” “Of course,” I agreed, my voice hard. Her questions would probably be enough to tell me where her thoughts were heading. But how would I answer them? With responsible lies? Or would I drive her away with truth? Or would I say nothing, unable to decide? We sat in silence while the waitress replenished her supply of soda. “Well, go ahead,” I said, jaw locked, when she was gone. “Why are you in Port Angeles?” That was too easy a question—for her. It gave away nothing, while my answer, if truthful, would give away much too much. Let her reveal something first. “Next,” I said. “But that’s the easiest one!’ “Next,” I said again. She was frustrated by my refusal. She looked away from me, down to her food. Slowly, thinking hard, she took a bite and chewed with deliberation. She washed it down with more coke, and then finally looked up at me. Her eyes were narrow with suspicion. “Okay then,” she said. “Let’s say, hypothetically, of course, that…someone…could know what people are thinking, read minds, you know—with just a few exceptions.” It could be worse. This explained that little halfsmile in the car. She was quick—no one else had ever guessed this about me. Except for Carlisle, and it had been rather obvious then, in the beginning, when I’d answered all his thoughts as if he’d spoken them to me. He’d understood before I had… This question wasn’t so bad. While it was clear that she knew that there was something wrong with me, was not as serious as it could have been. Mindreading was, after all, not a facet of the vampire cannon. I went along with her hypothesis. “Just one exception,” I corrected. “Hypothetically.” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 187 She fought a smile—my vague honesty pleased her. “All right, with one exception, then. How does that work? What are the limitations? How would…that someone…find someone else at exactly the right time? How would he know that she was in trouble?” “Hypothetically?” “Sure.” Her lips twitched, and her liquid brown eyes were eager. “Well,” I hesitated. “If…that someone…” “Let’s call him ‘Joe,’” she suggested. I had to smile at her enthusiasm. Did she really think the truth would be a good thing? If my secrets were pleasant, why would I keep them from her? “Joe, then,” I agreed. “If Joe had been paying attention, the timing wouldn’t have needed to be quite so exact.” I shook my head and repressed a shudder at the thought of how close I had been to being too late today. “Only you could get into trouble in a town this small. You would have devastated their crime rate statistics for a decade, you know.” Her lips turned down at the corners, and pouted out. “We were speaking of a hypothetical case.” I laughed at her irritation. Her lips, her skin… They looked so soft. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to press my fingertip against the corner of her frown and turn it up. Impossible. My skin would be repellent to her. “Yes, we were,” I said, returning to the conversation before I could depress myself too thoroughly. “Shall we call you ‘Jane’？” She leaned across the table toward me, all humor and irritation gone from her wide eyes. “How did you know?” she asked, her voice low and intense. Should I tell her the truth? And, if so, what portion? I wanted to tell her. I wanted to deserve the trust I could still see on her face. “You can trust me, you know,” she whispered, and she reached one hand forward as if to touch my hands where they rested on top of the empty table before me. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 188 I pulled them back—hating the thought of her reaction to my frigid stone skin— and she dropped her hand. I knew that I could trust her with protecting my secrets; she was entirely trustworthy, good to the core. But I couldn’t trust her not to be horrified by them. She should be horrified. The truth was horror. “I don’t know if I have a choice anymore,” I murmured. I remembered that I’d once teased her by calling her ‘exceptionally unobservant.’ Offended her, if I’d been judging her expressions correctly. Well, I could right that one injustice, at least. “I was wrong—you’re much more observant than I gave you credit for.” And, though she might not realize it, I’d given her plenty of credit already. She missed nothing. “I thought you were always right,” she said, smiling as she teased me. “I used to be.” I used to know what I was doing. I used to be always sure of my course. And now everything was chaos and tumult. Yet I wouldn’t trade it. I didn’t want the life that made sense. Not if the chaos meant that I could be with Bella. “I was wrong about you on one other thing as well,” I went on, setting the record straight on another point. “You’re not a magnet for accidents—that’s not a broad enough classification. You are a magnet for trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten mile radius, it will invariably find you.” Why her? What had she done to deserve any of this? Bella’s face turned serious again. “And you put yourself into that category?” Honesty was more important in regards to this question than any other. “Unequivocally.” Her eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious now, but oddly concerned. She reached her hand across the table again, slowly and deliberately. I pulled my hands an inch away from her, but she ignored that, determined to touch me. I held my breath—not because of her scent now, but because of the sudden, overwhelming tension. Fear. My skin would disgust her. She would run away. She brushed her fingertips lightly across the back of my hand. The heat of her gentle, willing touch was like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was almost pure pleasure. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 189 Would have been, except for my fear. I watched her face as she felt the cold stone of my skin, still unable to breathe. A halfsmile turned up the corners of her lips. “Thank you,” she said, meeting my stare with an intense gaze of her own. “That’s twice now.” Her soft fingers lingered on my hand as if they found it pleasant to be there. I answered her as casually as I was able. “Let’s not try for three, agreed?” She grimaced at that, but nodded. I pulled my hands out from under hers. As exquisite as her touch felt, I wasn’t going to wait for the magic of her tolerance to pass, to turn to revulsion. I hid my hands under the table. I read her eyes; though her mind was silent, I could perceive both trust and wonder there. I realized in that moment that I wanted to answer her questions. Not because I owed it to her. Not because I wanted her to trust me. I wanted her to know me. “I followed you to Port Angeles,” I told her, the words spilling out too quickly for me to edit them. I knew the danger of the truth, the risk I was taking. At any moment, her unnatural calm could shatter into hysterics. Contrarily, knowing this only had me talking faster. “I’ve never tried to keep a specific person alive before and it’s much more troublesome than I would have believed. But that’s probably just because it’s you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many catastrophes.” I watched her, waiting. She smiled. Her lips curved up at the edges, and her chocolate eyes warmed. I’d just admitted to stalking her, and she was smiling. “Did you ever think that maybe my number was up that first time, with the van, and that you’ve been interfering with fate?” she asked. “That wasn’t the first time,” I said, staring down at the dark maroon table cloth, my shoulders bowed in shame. My barriers were down, the truth still spilling free recklessly. “Your number was up the first time I met you.” It was true, and it angered me. I had been positioned over her life like the blade of a guillotine. It was as if she had been marked for death by some cruel, unjust fate, （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 190 and—since I’d proved an unwilling tool—that same fate continued to try to execute her. I imagined the fate personified—a grisly, jealous hag, a vengeful harpy. I wanted something, someone, to be responsible for this—so that I would have something concrete to fight against. Something, anything to destroy, so that Bella could be safe. Bella was very quiet; her breathing had accelerated. I looked up at her, knowing I would finally see the fear I was waiting for. Had I not just admitted how close I’d been to killing her? Closer than the van that had come within slim inches of crushing her. And yet, her face was still calm, her eyes still tightened only with concern. “You remember?” She had to remember that. “Yes,” she said, her voice level and grave. Her deep eyes were full of awareness. She knew. She knew that I had wanted to murder her. Where were the screams? “And yet here you sit,” I said, pointing out the inherent contradiction. “Yes, here I sit…because of you.” Her expression altered, turned curious, as she unsubtly changed the subject. “Because somehow you knew how to find me today…？” Hopelessly, I pushed one more time at the barrier that protected her thoughts, desperate to understand. It made no logical sense to me. How could she even care about the rest with that glaring truth on the table? She waited, only curious. Her skin was pale, which was natural for her, but it still concerned me. Her dinner sat nearly untouched in front of her. If I continued to tell her too much, she was going to need a buffer when the shock wore off. I named my terms. “You eat, I’ll talk.” She processed that for half a second, and then threw a bite in her mouth with a speed that belied her calm. She was more anxious for my answer than her eyes let on. “It’s harder than it should be—keeping track of you,” I told her. “Usually I can find someone very easily, once I’ve heard their mind before.” I watched her face carefully as I said this. Guessing right was one thing, having it confirmed was another. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 191 She was motionless, her eyes wide. I felt my teeth clench together as I waited for her panic. But she just blinked once, swallowed loudly, and then quickly scooped another bite into her mouth. She wanted me to continue. “I was keeping tabs on Jessica,” I went on, watching each word as it sank in. “Not carefully—like I said, only you could find trouble in Port Angeles—” I couldn’t resist adding that. Did she realize that other human lives were not so plagued with near death experiences, or did she think she was normal? She was the furthest thing from normal I’d ever encountered. “And at first I didn’t notice when you took off on your own. Then, when I realized that you weren’t with her anymore, I went looking for you at the bookstore I saw in her head. I could tell that you hadn’t gone in, and that you’d gone south…and I knew you would have to turn around soon. So I was just waiting for you, randomly searching through the thoughts of people on the street—to see if anyone had noticed you so I would know where you were. I had no reason to be worried…but I was strangely anxious…” My breath came faster as I remembered that feeling of panic. Her scent blazed in my throat and I was glad. It was a pain that meant she was alive. As long as I burned, she was safe. “I started to drive in circles, still…listening.” I hoped the word made sense to her. This had to be confusing. “The sun was finally setting, and I was about to get out, and follow you on foot. And then—” As the memory took me—perfectly clear and as vivid as if I was in the moment again—I felt the same murderous fury wash through my body, locking it into ice. I wanted him dead. I needed him dead. My jaw clenched tight as I concentrated on holding myself here at the table. Bella still needed me. That was what mattered. “Then what?” she whispered, her dark eyes wide. “I heard what they were thinking,” I said through my teeth, unable to keep the words from coming out in a growl. “I saw your face in his mind.” I could hardly resist the urge to kill. I still knew precisely where to find him. His black thoughts sucked at the night sky, pulling me toward them… I covered my face, knowing my expression was that of a monster, a hunter, a killer. I fixed her image behind my closed eyes to control myself, focusing only on her （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 192 face. The delicate framework of her bones, the thin sheath of her pale skin—like silk stretched over glass, incredibly soft and easy to shatter. She was too vulnerable for this world. She needed a protector. And, through some twisted mismanagement of destiny, I was the closest thing available. I tried to explain my violent reaction so that she would understand. “It was very…hard—you can’t imagine how hard—for me to simply take you away, and leave them…alive,” I whispered. “I could have let you go with Jessica and Angela, but I was afraid if you left me alone, I would go looking for them.” For the second time tonight, I confessed to an intended murder. At least this one was defensible. She was quiet as I struggled to control myself. I listened to her heartbeat. The rhythm was irregular, but it slowed as the time passed until it was steady again. Her breathing, too, was low and even. I was too close to the edge. I needed to get her home before… Would I kill him, then? Would I become a murderer again when she trusted me? Was there any way to stop myself? She’d promised to tell me her latest theory when we were alone. Did I want to hear it? I was anxious for it, but would the reward for my curiosity be worse than not knowing? At any rate, she must have had enough truth for one night. I looked at her again, and her face was paler than before, but composed. “Are you ready to go home?” I asked. “I’m ready to leave,” she said, choosing her words carefully, as if a simple ‘yes’ did not fully express what she wanted to say. Frustrating. The waitress returned. She’d heard Bella’s last statement as she’d dithered on the other side of the partition, wondering what more she could offer me. I wanted to roll my eyes at some of the offerings she’d had in mind. “How are we doing?” she asked me. “We’re ready for the check, thank you,” I told her, my eyes on Bella. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 193 The waitress’s breathing spiked and she was momentarily—to use Bella’s phrasing—dazzled by my voice. In a sudden moment of perception, hearing the way my voice sounded in this inconsequential human’s head, I realized why I seemed to be attracting so much admiration tonight—unmarred by the usual fear. It was because of Bella. Trying so hard to be safe for her, to be less frightening, to be human, I truly had lost my edge. The other humans saw only beauty now, with my innate horror so carefully under control. I looked up at the waitress, waiting for her to recover herself. It was sort of humorous, now that I understood the reason. “Sure,” she stuttered. “Here you go.” She handed me the folder with the bill, thinking of the card she’d slid in behind the receipt. A card with her name and telephone number on it. Yes, it was rather funny. I had money ready again. I gave the folder back at once, so she wouldn’t waste any time waiting for a call that would never come. “No change,” I told her, hoping the size of the tip would assuage her disappointment. I stood, and Bella quickly followed suit. I wanted to offer her my hand, but I thought that might be pushing my luck a little too far for one night. I thanked the waitress, my eyes never leaving Bella’s face. Bella seemed to be finding something amusing, too. We walked out; I walked as close beside her as I dared. Close enough that the warmth coming off her body was like a physical touch against the left side of my body. As I held the door for her, she sighed quietly, and I wondered what regret made her sad. I stared into her eyes, about to ask, when she suddenly looked at the ground, seeming embarrassed. It made me more curious, even as it made me reluctant to ask. The silence between us continued while I opened her door for her and then got into the car. I turned the heater on—the warmer weather had come to an abrupt end; the cold car must be uncomfortable for her. She huddled in my jacket, a small smile on her lips. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 194 I waited, postponing conversation until the lights of the boardwalk faded. It made me feel more alone with her. Was that the right thing? Now that I was focused only on her, the car seemed very small. Her scent swirled through it with the current of the heater, building and strengthening. It grew into its own force, like another entity in the car. A presence that demanded recognition. It had that; I burned. The burning was acceptable, though. It seemed strangely appropriate to me. I had been given so much tonight—more than I’d expected. And here she was, still willingly at my side. I owed something in return for that. A sacrifice. A burnt offering. Now if I could just keep it to that; just burn, and nothing more. But the venom filled my mouth, and my muscles tensed in anticipation, as if I were hunting… I had to keep such thoughts from my mind. And I knew what would distract me. “Now,” I said to her, fear of her response taking the edge off the burn. “It’s your turn.” （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 195 9. Theory “Can I ask just one more?” she entreated instead of answering my demand. I was on edge, anxious for the worst. And yet, how tempting it was to prolong this moment. To have Bella with me, willingly, for just a few seconds longer. I sighed at the dilemma, and then said, “One.” “Well…，” she hesitated for a moment, as if deciding which question to voice. “You said you knew I hadn’t gone into the bookstore, and that I had gone south. I was just wondering how you know that.” I glared out the windshield. Here was another question that revealed nothing on her part, and too much on mine. “I thought we were past all the evasiveness,” she said, her tone critical and disappointed. How ironic. She was relentlessly evasive, without even trying. Well, she wanted me to be direct. And this conversation wasn’t going anywhere good, regardless. “Fine, then,” I said. “I followed your scent.” I wanted to watch her face, but I was afraid of what I would see. Instead, I listened to her breath accelerate and then stabilize. She spoke again after a moment, and her voice was steadier than I would have expected. “And then you didn’t answer one of my first questions…” she said. I looked down at her, frowning. She was stalling, too. “Which one?” “How does it work—the mind reading thing?” she asked, reiterating her question from the restaurant. “Can you read anybody’s mind, anywhere? How do you do it? Can the rest of your family…？” She trailed off, flushing again. “That’s more than one,” I said. She just looked at me, waiting for her answers. And why not tell her? She’d already guessed most of this, and it was an easier subject that the one that loomed. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 196 “No, it’s just me. And I can’t hear anyone, anywhere. I have to be fairly close. The more familiar someone’s…‘voice’ is, the farther away I can hear them. But still, no more than a few miles.” I tried to think of a way to describe it so that she would understand. An analogy that she could relate to. “It’s a little like being in a huge hall filled with people, everyone talking at once. It’s just a hum—a buzzing of voices in the background. Until I focus on one voice, and then what they’re thinking is clear. Most of the time I tune it all out—it can be very distracting. And then it’s easier to seem normal,” —I grimaced— “when I’m not accidentally answering someone’s thoughts rather than their words.” “Why do you think you can’t hear me?” she wondered. I gave her another truth and another analogy. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “The only guess I have is that maybe your mind doesn’t work the same way the rest of theirs do. Like your thoughts are on the AM frequency and I’m only getting FM.” I realized that she would not like this analogy. The anticipation of her reaction had me smiling. She didn’t disappoint. “My mind doesn’t work right?” she asked, her voice rising with chagrin. “I’m a freak?” Ah, the irony again. “I hear voices in my mind and you’re worried that you’re the freak.” I laughed. She understood all the small things, and yet the big ones she got backwards. Always the wrong instincts… Bella was gnawing on her lip, and the crease between her eyes was etched deep. “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “It’s just a theory…” And there was a more important theory to be discussed. I was anxious to get it over with. Each passing second was beginning to feel more and more like borrowed time. “Which brings us back to you,” I said, divided in two, both anxious and reluctant. She sighed, still chewing her lip—I worried that she would hurt herself. She stared into my eyes, her face troubled. “Aren’t we past all the evasions now?” I asked quietly. （C） 2008 Stephenie Meyer 197 She looked down, struggling with some internal dilemma. Suddenly, she stiffened and her eyes flew wide open. Fear flashed across her face for the first time. “Holy crow!” she gasped. I panicked. What had she seen? How had I frightened her? Then she shouted, “Slow down!” “What’s wrong?” I didn’t understand where her terror was coming from.
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