Recommence ° Edward Cullen[Rewriting]

[006]

Chapter Six | Things We Don't Say

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The school parking lot blurred past the windows in streaks of grey as Edward's Volvo ate up the distance. He hadn't spoken since she'd begged not to take her to the hospital. His hands were rigid on the wheel, the tendons standing out in pale relief. The only sound was the low, angry hum of the engine and Alex's slow, uneven breathing. She sat slumped against the passenger seat, trying not to wince at every bump in the road.

Her ribs ached, but worse than that was the sharp edge of memories digging at her. The white coats, the straps, the brightly-lit rooms she had only escaped in dreams. Alex stared at the passing trees and swallowed hard, fighting the rising nausea. The ride stretched on in a taut, almost electric silence. Edward's grip on the wheel hadn't loosened; Alex could see the tendons in his hand flex and tighten every time he changed gears. His knuckles were stark white against the leather.

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window as every breath came shallow and careful. It would have been easy—comforting, even—to let him keep assuming she was just an unlucky human girl with a few fractured bones. But that wasn't fair, not after she'd dragged him into this. As much as Alex wasn't on board with the idea that she was something otherworldly, it was a little harder to hide now with her insides crushed by a van and Edward a witness. At the very least, the boy deserved to know.

Her fingers curled into her palms. She'd never said anything near the truth out loud before, and just thinking it brought forth a flash of steel tables and bright lights. But she wasn't a child anymore, for as little of it as she remembered. She sat up a little, hissing at the movement. "Edward," she said quietly. He glanced at her, that same unreadable expression still on his face. "You're. . . worrying about the wrong thing." His brow furrowed. "You were pinned under a van. How exactly is that the wrong thing?"

Alex almost smiled at that. "Because," she murmured, taking care in unzipping her jacket. She was unconcerned with any exposed skin as she lifted her shirt until the underside of her bra peeked through. Her tanned skin was unblemished, unbruised, and unbroken. "I don't. . . bleed." The car slowed a little as his foot eased off the accelerator. His eyes flicked between the road and her torso. "What do you mean, you don't—"

"I mean," she cut in gently, "I don't get hurt the way you think I do." Edward's fingers tightened once on the steering wheel before he flicked the blinker and eased the Volvo to the shoulder. Gravel crunched under the tires as they rolled to a stop. He turned the engine off, but left the headlights burning twin circles of white into the trees ahead.

"Say that again," he said, voice quiet. Alex let her head fall back against the seat. "I said," she drawled, though her tone lacked any real bite, "I don't bleed. Not like you think, anyway." He pivoted toward her fully, eyes a deep, molten gold. "Explain." She rolled her eyes—or tried to. It came out more like a squint and a huff, followed by a grimace as the movement jarred her ribs. "Okay, okay. Fine. I can be hurt.