This look into Edward's thoughts is dedicated to my dear friend, Belynda Smith, on her birthday. Thank you for all the incredible support you've given me and this story over the last year. You've always been my cheerleader, and you were right all along. I hope your birthday is as wonderful as you are! Oh, and I owe you EPOV of another chapter, but we can't talk about that here … yet. You know the one I mean.

EPOV outtake of Come Back Tomorrow, Chapter 2:

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

I stare at the clock over the doorway, counting my too-shallow breaths as I watch the second hand click toward twelve. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven … Fuck, that's way too fast! If I could just slow down enough to take a full breath—

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. For a moment, my heart beats faster, then I remember no one knows I'm here. Who the hell could that be? The nurses never knock.

"Come in," I call, attempting to raise my voice, but it sounds weak and breathless even to me. I have to take a few quick breaths afterward to catch up, making my belly twinge painfully. Dammit, that hurts!

The door opens slowly to reveal … a woman. Dark brown hair cascades over her shoulders in waves, framing her too-pale face, and—wow, look at those eyes! I've always been a sucker for brown eyes, and hers just might be the most amazing I've ever seen. She's … beautiful.

Fuck, what am I doing? She's just someone who works here in the hospital, and I have no business thinking this way about anyone … not anymore. That thought brings me back to my unfortunate reality, and although I smile at her for politeness' sake, it's forced. But she looks … familiar somehow.

"Hello again, Edward," she says, smiling at me.

Again? What does she mean, again? I frown, trying to remember if I've ever seen her before. I was so out of it last week when my fever was so high. I could have had a lap dance from Jennifer Lawrence and I wouldn't remember.

"I'm going to guess by the look on your face that you don't remember talking to me yesterday?"

Yesterday? I was high as a kite yesterday from morphine. I think a little harder. There was an angel, and she smiled at me and sat with me until I fell asleep. She had brown hair and the most amazing—oh, shit! "That was you?"

She nods. "I'm Bella."

I close my eyes as my heart sinks. I think she's beautiful now, so I must have thought the same thing yesterday—what the hell did I say to her? This can't be happening. "I was in a lot of pain … yesterday … so they pumped me full of morphine," I babble, my thoughts suddenly scattered. "I didn't realize … you were real. I thought …"

"You thought?"

"I thought you were an angel," I blurt out. I can feel my cheeks heating, so I turn my head to look out the window. Why did I tell her that? What's wrong with me? Why does this woman have me so off-balance?

And suddenly, I'm angry. I turn my gaze back to her, narrowing my eyes. She knows nothing about me, and I don't owe her anything. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing. I came to see you yesterday, but as you said, you were a bit out of it, so I told you I would come back today to visit you."

"But … why?" I press. She can't just be here to talk to me, unless … "Do you work … in the hospital?"

"Yes, I do," she answers, and I have to blink to clear my head as she pins me with those incredible eyes of hers. "I'm a clinical psychologist—"

"Oh, God!" Fuck! She's here to examine me. I knew her little Good Samaritan routine was too good to be true! "This is because I tried … to refuse treatment … isn't it? Now the doctors think I'm … not right in the head. I have the right … to decide … how I want … to spend … what remains of my life! No one … can take … that … away … from me!"

Dammit, I can't breathe! I try to take deep breaths, but I just can't slow down, and I clutch at my belly in the grip of excruciating pain. "Fuck!" I swear, grunting as tears sting my eyes.

After a minute, the pain begins to slowly recede, so I open my eyes and am shocked back to the present as my would-be angel moves toward me, her beautiful brown eyes wide and panicked.

"Do you need me to—"

"I'm … all right," I pant, raising a hand to stop her as I struggle to get a handle on my pain and my breathing. She may look like an angel, but she's here to try to talk me out of what I'm doing. She's the enemy. But her eyes are filled with compassion and not pity—just like Alice's.

"Mr. Masen, please, I'm not here because of anything you did, and I'm not here to interrogate you! Please, calm down. No one is going to take anything away from you." She slowly moves closer to my bed like she's approaching a frightened animal, her hands raised in surrender.

"I didn't mean to upset you. Please, just let me finish."

I close my eyes again, too consumed by trying to get ahold of myself to argue with her.

"I'm a clinical psychologist here at the hospital, but I'm not here in an official capacity. Someone brought your … situation to my attention, so I came to see if you might want a little company."

I bristle. "My … situation?"

"Yes. Your cancer is terminal, and you've been here for a week and have had no visitors."

Don't think. Don't feel. I repeat it in my head as her words plunge into the sea of my emotions and create little rippling waves on the already choppy surface. It's the mantra that's been my constant companion since I recovered enough to be aware of what happened. It's done. I've made my decisions and I just have to see them through. Stay in control. You can't go back.

"Is that a crime?" I snap, glaring at her. I want this conversation to be over.

"No, but no one should have to die alone."

The familiar ache blooms in my chest, and I can't stop the wave of utter loneliness that washes over me. "Everyone … dies alone."

"Yes, in the strictest sense, we do. But until that last moment, no one has to be alone, and I don't really think anyone should be."

"So that's why you're here? Pity? Or am I some sort of … psychology project?" I have no reason to lash out at her—she's done nothing wrong—but I'm just so fucking angry, and she's pushing all the right buttons.

She sighs, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "No, Mr. Masen, you're not a project, and I'm not here to pity you. One of your nurses, Alice, is a friend of mine, and she's concerned about you. The nurses know me, and they know I've befriended certain patients, in my free time, and that I've … been there for them when they really needed someone. She asked me to come and meet you."

Alice. Little Miss Sunshine set me up. I should have known she'd never be able to just leave me in peace. "What if I want to die alone?" I ask, but suddenly, I'm exhausted. This infection has me so tired all the time, it's like I'm only living half a life as it is. I just want to sleep—no, not sleep. I want to be in that space between awake and asleep where I don't remember that I'm sick, and for a fleeting moment, I can be happy.

"I can see that you're tired, and I've upset you. I'm not going to ask you any questions, but with your permission, I'd like to come back to see you again. Think about it, please. I'm not asking anything of you other than to tolerate my company, if you're up to it. Can I come back tomorrow?"

She seriously wants to come back? She has to be here to examine me, and she's just not telling me the truth. But as I look into her fathomless brown eyes, I think I see honesty there. And suddenly, all my loneliness and bitterness and rage come to the surface and it takes all I have to contain them. No, she can't come back. It's hard enough to do what I have to without anyone watching—I can't have those beautiful eyes on me as I suffer through this. I just can't.

"Please?" she whispers, and my head snaps up. Jesus, there are tears in her eyes. My anger evaporates, and all I want to do is comfort her. It scares the shit out of me. I can't afford to care about her, and there's no point in her caring about me. But I know in that moment, I'm not going to say no to her, no matter what I'm feeling. I'll just have to keep her at arm's length. God, I'm tired.

I nod at her, unable to keep my eyes open, and I hear the door close a few seconds later. I focus on my breathing, again trying to slow myself down enough so I can rest. As I drift on the edge of sleep, it occurs to me: except for when I got upset, the whole time she was here, I didn't once think about how hard it is to breathe. Huh.