Recommence ° Edward Cullen[Rewriting]

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Chapter Eight \ A Bitter Cure

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Simon Lewis was Alex's most frequently called partner, though, at first glance, no one would've guessed she'd ever bother with him. As attractive as Simon was, he wore his obsessions—Star Wars, old rock bands, and his own questionable attempts at both—on his sleeve, and most people found that off-putting.

Alex didn't. She found his incessant talking oddly endearing, a kind of noise that filled the empty spaces she didn't know what to do with. It was part of what had kept her coming back. That, and the mind-blowing sex, of course, but more than that, Simon was an unfiltered kind of good. He didn't pry, didn't push, didn't demand explanations for the things about her that didn't quite make sense. He accepted her as she was.

They'd met not long before Alex turned sixteen, while Simon had been seventeen at the time. To him, she'd been a friend, but to Alex, he'd been something else entirely. She hadn't been looking for friendship. She'd been looking for a distraction, something that could quiet the restless storm inside her, and Simon had been there.

Edward hadn't asked questions either, but it was different with him. Where Simon's silence had been easy, careless even, Edward's felt deliberate. He had a way of seeing her without dissecting her, of catching the jagged pieces she tried to hide and treating them like they weren't something to fix. It was infuriating in its gentleness—disarming, even. Simon had accepted her because he didn't know better. Edward knew, and still, he stayed.

That difference sat heavy in her chest now, an ache she couldn't name as she stared around Simon's apartment. The clutter, the worn couch cushions, the faint smell of takeout and old guitar strings. It used to feel easy here, familiar in the way only something meaningless could be, but now, she felt out of place, like she'd stepped into a life that no longer fit.

For the first time, the simplicity of it—the lack of expectation, of depth—didn't soothe her. It felt hollow, and she wasn't sure if that was Simon's fault, Edward's, or her own for letting the lines blur between distraction and connection. Simon appeared from the kitchen, balancing two cartons of Chinese takeout and a pair of mismatched chopsticks. He set them down on the coffee table with a low hum, glancing at her sprawled on the couch rather than his bed with mild curiosity.

"You didn't call," he said, but there wasn't any bite to it, just observation. He knew better than to expect a warning from her. "I didn't think I needed to," Alex murmured, propping her chin on her fist. She'd let herself in with the spare key hidden under the loose brick by his door. She always did, and Simon never complained. If anything, he seemed quietly resigned to the fact that she came and went like the weather—unpredictable, but expected all the same.

She reached for her carton without comment as Simon dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, cracking open his own. "You look weirdly serious tonight," he said around a mouthful of noodles. "Not that you're ever not serious, but this, this is new." Alex took the chopsticks, coaxed by the inviting smell of sweet and sour chicken.