Proof

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By the time Bella wakes up, Kate has already left for work. Bella is disappointed at first—she hasn’t been interested in a guy since high school and would have liked to talk to Kate about Edward before she goes out with him. It then occurs to Bella that Kate would want to know where Edward is from, what he does besides gamble and (allegedly) take pictures, how old he is, and how long he’s planning to be in Atlantic City—none of which are questions Bella can answer. Perhaps it’s just well that Kate isn’t home, even if it means Bella will be unable to get input from her on what she should wear to meet Edward.

Bella isn’t typically one to fret over fashion, but even she acknowledges her plans for this evening provide a unique challenge when it comes to her attire. How is a girl supposed to dress to go out with an alleged womanizer who has already seen her in a get-up worthy of the Moonlite Bunny Ranch? If she sexes it up, Edward will likely think she’s easy—and though there’s something about him that makes her wish she was, in reality, nothing is further from the truth. If she dresses too modestly, he’ll think she’s playing games with him, that she wants him for his money and will only put out if he does first.

She pulls a few options from the closet she shares with Kate and tosses them onto her bed, knowing her dilemma isn’t so much about what she wants to wear as who she wants to be. The answer isn’t at all obvious, as Bella had often struggled to define herself.  After some thought Bella realizes that first and foremost, she is a caregiver. This is such a prominent part of her identity that she just doesn’t know what to do with herself when she isn’t looking after someone. This moment is one of those instances, and it affords her the luxury of introspection and mild frivolity. She is able to waste time thinking about herself and her outfit because  she has no one else (and therefore nothing more pressing) to consider.

In the absence of meaningful responsibilities, she finds that does care about her appearance—quite a bit. She may detest flaunting her sex appeal for a paycheck, but because this is how she earns her living, she knows despite her inexperience with men that she is sexy, even if she rarely feels that way.  So to answer the question of what to wear, she chooses a knee-length cotton sundress that shows a little skin and makes her feel pretty. It’s when she decides who she wants to be that she doesn’t recognize her own mind.

Tonight, she’ll be whomever Edward wants.

On her way out the door, Bella scribbles a note to Kate in which she tells her not to wait up for her, that she’ll be out very late and places it under Kate’s favorite shot glass so she’ll be sure to see it.  When Bella heads to work, she resolves that she will not think of Edward again until she sees him.

Two minutes after changing into her uniform,  her resolve crumbles.

“There you are.” Angela approaches Bella and hands her a white box tied with a midnight blue satin ribbon. “You must have a secret admirer.”

Bella wants to wait until she’s alone to open the box, but her curiosity is overwhelming.  She unties the bow and lifts the lid, under which she finds a single white gardenia nestled in a bed of tulle. Unable to resist its scent, she brings it her nose and inhales.

“Do you know who sent it?” Angela asks.

Bella knows what Angela will say about her plans with Edward, and she doesn’t want to hear it. For a woman who has almost no experience with deception, lying comes surprisingly easily.

“No.”

“Whoever it is gets props for originality. Is there a card?”

Bella’s eyes scan the inside of the box. Sure enough, there’s a piece of folded stationery tucked into the corner.  She  returns the bloom to the box and closes the lid, wanting to read it in private and says a silent prayer that Angela isn’t in the mood to chat.

“It won’t be a mystery for long. I’m sure whomever sent it will want to take credit at some point. Just in case it’s someone shady, I’ll have the boys keep an extra an eye on you tonight.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“I insist.” Angela turns to leave, then remembers that there is probably only one force at work in the casino greater than avarice, and it’s Bella’s pride. Realizing her gaffe, she adds, “We need to look out for each other, you know. It’s rough out there.”

Bella knows better than to argue with her supervisor. She offers her thanks along with a weak smile, and the moment Angela is gone, she opens the box and retrieves the note.

Before she is able to read the words, she is struck by the beauty of the script in which they are written, not because it is flawless (though it is) but because it reminds her of her grandmother’s handwriting. For the briefest of moments, she feels as if she has been transported to another time. Not necessarily a simpler one—she listened to her grandmother’s stories enough to know that no such thing has ever existed—but a period when people were less rushed.  Bella rarely idealizes her own past, let alone that of humanity in general, but even she sees haste as a tragedy contemporary.  The beautiful letters on the note were carefully formed, and that in and of itself makes them precious. Their creation took something of Edward’s that even the wealthiest individuals can’t buy.

Time.

Bella feels special, not because he bought her an exotic flower, but because he didn’t simply sign his name to a card from the florist, nor did he communicate his thoughts electronically. He took the time to write to her. His actual words seem almost unnecessary, until she sees what they are.

Bella,

Though I envy this paper for being in your hands

and these words for being in your sight, ultimately, they have my gratitude.

If not for them, you might not realize

how anxious I am to take their place.

Edward

The end of her shift can’t come soon enough.

-o-

Edward waits for her, like he said he would, outside the All-You-Can-Eat buffet. With the exception of each other, he finds everything humans eat distasteful, but the fare offered at this particular establishment is especially repulsive. He hopes this isn’t Bella’s idea of special and wonders what kind of cad would invite his sweetheart out to a meal where she is required to serve herself. If he is unable to convince her to go elsewhere, he will simply wait on her himself. As precautionary measure, Edward  listens to the thoughts of the diners at the buffet, noting which dishes they prefer with which accoutrements, so he will know what to put on Bella’s plate.

It keeps him occupied until he smells her.

He scans the crowd and sees her walking toward him, wearing a blue dress with tiny straps. Her hair is gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, leaving her throat exposed to him, and the gardenia he sent her is pinned behind her ear. The fragrance of the flower does nothing to mask the scent of her blood, which sings to him as strongly as ever. Desperate for a distraction,  he focuses on an aspect of her scent that was absent during their exchange on the Boardwalk but overwhelming when he stood outside her bedroom window—her arousal.

That the simple idea of his presence elicits such a reaction from her simultaneously thrills and terrifies him.

When she is close enough to see him watching her, she smiles and waves.

“I”m sorry,” she says as she joins him. “I got out of work a few minutes later than I’d hoped. You haven’t been waiting for me  long, have you?”

“No.” He regrets lying the moment the words leave his lips. It feels as if he’s been waiting for her forever, but he has no idea how the passing of time feels to humans. He decides to amend his statement.  “Actually, that depends upon one’s perspective, I suppose. Do you consider eighty years a long time?”

“Eighty years is a lifetime, but there’s no need to be melodramatic.”  She lets out a small laugh. “I’m not that late. It’s only fifteen minutes after you expected me to show up.”

“That’s where you’re wrong; I never expected you.”

Bella mentally replays their conversation from the previous evening. She is sure she said that she would meet him at midnight, and doesn’t begin to understand what he is talking about. Eventually, she comes to what she considers to be the only possible conclusion.

“I can’t believe you thought I would stand you up. I know lots of girls around here do that, but it’s not my style. If I didn’t want to see you again, I would have told you I wasn’t interested.”

“As opposed to rewarding my creativity?” he teases.

“If I weren’t interested in you, it wouldn’t have mattered how creative you were. I wouldn’t have agreed to go out with you.”

“Ah, see, that’s where we remember things differently. You permitted me to call on you here—at the All-You-Can-Eat buffet at your place of employ. You didn’t agree to let me take you anywhere.”

“I thought it was obvious.” When she continues, her voice isn’t much louder than a whisper. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

The scent of her arousal increases, but it’s punctuated by the smell of her fear and Edward can’t help but wonder if she knows what she’s offering. And if she is, he would be unable to resist. She wouldn’t be the first, nor would she be the last. As far as he is concerned, vampire-assisted suicide is dietary staple. In Bella’s case, it would be a waste, but if she truly wants to die, his refusal to cooperate won’t stop her. Still, he won’t bite her unless he’s sure.

“I want to have you for dinner.”

Her eyes narrow as she considers his invitation. “At your place, I assume?”

“Yes.”

He studies her face, and though she’s certainly afraid, her eyes don’t possess the terror of a woman facing the death, they exhibit the anxiousness of a young girl on the precipice of the unknown. Since it was now obvious to him that her permission to do whatever he wanted with her does not include eating her, it could only mean one other thing—she wants him to fuck her.

“Okay,” she says, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

It no longer matters that he can’t read her mind—there’s no longer any doubt in his that Bella is a virgin. What he can’t figure out is why she wants anything to do with him, and why a young woman of virtue would have his name on her lips as she masturbates herself to orgasm.

He knows only that he wants to keep it there.