Beast at My Side

This Is the Montage

They talk in straight lines. All uniform and neat. A conversation should have bends and folds, turns that make you want to wrap your arms around it. This charmless civility is clearly well practised between the two. Somehow I know that they are having another conversation underneath this one. One I cannot hear. Once he realises who I am Jacob is quick with consolation. He should have recognised me, he says, he has heard so much about me. I mirror his words back but they are not wholly true. There is no way to reconcile this boy with the one that Bella has described. Her Jacob is lanky and shy, a giddy smile on a childish face. But this Jacob is a wall of muscle, a twitching fury in a coat of skin. She loves him. I wonder which of the two she fell in love with. The boy gives me a tentative smile and a wave goodnight before starting off towards the cottage.

Jasper is perfectly still and quiet as the grave. My body shakes with unspent adrenaline, blood rushes in my ears. I have a dozen questions but not a single one can fight its way past my teeth while I am still looking at him. A lingering embarrassment.

"So, which classic movie monster is he?"

He smiles, amused. "Guess."

I consider it carefully. It is obvious that he is something else—something more than human—but I do not yet know what. His skin had appeared warm and dark, his face was round and youthful, he had emerged shirtless from the trees. "Woodland nymph?" It is such a peculiar thing I find myself doing - mockingly guessing at what creatures I surround myself with.

His responding laugh is deep and brilliant. "No, no. But I'll be sure to tell him you thought so."

A minute stretches out between us and it becomes obvious that he will not tell me. Either they have some sort of agreement or Jasper suffers from supernatural scruples. Would I? I wonder if I drank blood and lived forever, would I bother to burden myself with congeniality? I hardly bother now. The minute stretches in to another, and then two more, and then I am no longer counting.

"It's my family," I say. He looks bemused so I answer his stare, "You must have asked me a dozen times. I'm going to Seattle to see my family."

I tell him about my parents who love without affection, about moving from England to America as a little girl. I tell him about Luc—my fraternal twin—born only six minutes before me but every inch a protective big brother; about how on the night of our high school graduation, he and his boyfriend boarded a plane for Seattle and never looked back. He's so brave, I say, so much more than I could ever be, and my lips feel heavy from the admission. I have lived nothing but a mixture of cowardice and conformity. The stupidity, I think, is new. I let a dead girl carry me to the top of a tree, I kissed a monster on the mouth. But what a beautiful monster he is.

A few hours sleep are all I need. The air is warm, the rain is light, and I am looking forward to the drive. I say goodbye to Bella and whisper a promise to return in her ear. Her answering smile is too magnificent for words. She is comely and cadaverous.

I follow the 101. It is all mountains and trees, golden sunshine and delicate rain. The windows are rolled down and the tinny echo of the stereo fights against the roar of the wind. I close my eyes for a heartbeat. My face feels warm. Only now, truly detached from their syrupy scent and their exquisite features can I see how great a danger they pose. The Cullens are a death that you walk to willingly. They do not want to eat us. We want to be eaten. The sad reality is that their impeccable manners and respect for human life are the only things keeping breath in our lungs, blood in our veins. They are dangerous. Somehow that is alluring in itself.

More than half of my journey is complete when an odd anxiety creeps across my shoulders. My hands sweat. My fingers are chilled. By the time the drive is finally over I am clammy and pale, shaking at the thought of seeing them again. It will be the first time that we have all been in the same room together since my brother left home. I need armour. I need to summon up protection against the barbed tongue and heated steel of my mother's savage inquiry. She sharpens her knives for family. This time will be no exception. She cuts through flesh and strikes at bone until we are no longer her children, no longer human, no more than twisting smoke. There is no cruelty quite like that of a mother, but her words can only hurt me if I let them. God knows I always do.