THRUST

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rose is standing in front of my closet, one hand flicking through the shirts and skirts, her other hand holding a pop-tart.

"I don't think you're gonna like anything in there." I tell her as I twist the ramen onto a fork, bringing curly noodles to my mouth.

I watch as Rose slides each hanger to the side, and I'm glad that I've already got the perfect outfit picked out for tonight.

She holds up a white tank top, spinning around to me. "Can I cut the bottom half of this off?"

I slurp a few noodles into my mouth wondering where this is going. "Sure."

She walks over to her bag, pulling a black mesh crop top out of it. "Scissors?"

I hold up a finger, placing my bowl on the nightstand and head downstairs.

The faint scent of weed still laces the living room from the joint we smoked earlier. We both crashed for a few hours right after... a much needed nap. When we woke up we were both so hungry that we ate everything in the kitchen that wasn't nailed down. So, no more weed for me, it makes my appetite crazy.

As I enter the kitchen I toss a pizza box, some ramen packages and two pop-tart wrappers in the trash and then I dig through a few drawers to no avail.

After perusing the console table in the living room, I realize the only other place that the scissors would be is Charlie's office. Most likely tucked in there along with all of the memories that I've tried to avoid seeing. Like his shotgun for one. His police badge and jacket. His files. All of the things that have been put away, out of sight, out of mind.

I walk down the hall and approach the door, turning the knob slowly, taking a deep breath and exhaling.

The sun's rays filter in through the blinds, making the room bright and open. It's not a dreadful room full of dark sad things like I've been visualizing since the day I shut the door. It's just a quiet room, with white walls, filled with office furniture, medals of achievements, stacks of files, and a closet full of Charlie's things.

On my walk over to the desk, I spot a picture of a much younger me with Charlie. It touches me with happiness, bringing a smile to my face.

A post-it note falls to the desktop as I peruse the shelves above and when I go through the middle drawer, I find tons of things, none of which are scissors.

Pulling open the side drawer, I push aside a stapler, a few pens, and a San An P.D. coaster. There's a yellow notepad there and I lift it, looking underneath... my eyes landing on a large pair of scissors.

As I close the drawer I'm drawn to the writing on the yellow pad. I open it back up, enough to see the entire page.

A date is scribbled just above a name, which Charlie wrote in all capital letters, and I notice the date written in the corner is recent, just two weeks before he died.

There are a few random phrases written around the page, a large arrow pointing to another date, February 15, 1992, and a few names of places scribbled to the side.

But it's that name that my eyes are drawn to.

Written in black and underlined in the center of the page:

ESME CULLEN

I think about what this name and these dates, places and phrases mean for a moment before closing the drawer, touching the picture of me and Charlie and turning to leave.

There are only so many people with that last name, and only one set, in particular, that live in this town.

Edward Cullen and our last conversation swirl through my mind as I climb the stairs. It would be so much easier if he could just be normal. If I could just walk up to him and carry on an easy conversation. If he didn't continually put up a wall.