Five Times They Never Met

Summary: In the transition from human to vampire, Edward walks alone over the course of seventy years. Or does he?

Rating: M. (For language and suggestive situations.)

Acknowledgement: HollettLA: exquisite, witty, flawless. As always. xo

A/N: This will be a quick one: five chapters posting over five days. Enjoy! xo

The First Time (May 1915)

Edward doesn't much care for New York. He'd never tell his father, who thinks that the city is the "pulse of the country, the heart of the business world," nor his mother, who enjoys the glitz and the glamour and the Biltmore bellhops with their white gloves, but he much prefers Chicago, with its State Street and its Oak Street Beach and its grandiose Comiskey Park.

Though he'd never admit it, part of him has decided to dislike New York purely out of spite; his requests to be left alone in Chicago while his parents traveled to the East Coast for his father's business trip were scoffed at, and while he is very nearly fourteen, they far too often insist on treating him as if he were still in short pants. And yet, there is a part of him that simply thinks that New York is too grandiose, too big, too glamorous to ever be a place one might actually feel comfortable.

Perhaps the only truly interesting thing about New York is its harbors and the city's proximity to the ocean, and Edward finds himself wandering from his hotel to the easternmost edge of the city, gazing out over the East River, which he knows eventually finds its way to the Atlantic. Chicago is on the shore of a lake, but ultimately, lakes have nowhere to go. Rivers lead to oceans, which lead to the rest of the world, and even if he doesn't like New York, the rest of the world is something Edward finds fascinating.

Despite his enthrallment with the nearby ocean, it isn't until he sees the warning printed in a week-old edition of The New York Times that it occurs to him that there's an entirely different river, an entirely different port, on the opposite side of the island, a mere two miles from the eastern side. The warning that brings this truth to his attention is issued by the Imperial German Embassy and sits adjacent to the advertisement for the return voyage of the RMS Lusitania from New York to Liverpool.

"May I see that paper?" he asks the man shining shoes in the hotel lobby, who has a stack of outdated papers near his tools.

"Keep it," the man says, and Edward nods his thanks, picking up the paper and scanning both the article and the warning. The ocean liner is set to depart from Pier 54 the following day, and as Edward refolds the paper, he decides that it's about time he explored the western part of the city.

The following morning, he makes his way west, along the city streets to the pier, where the majestic liner sits like a floating palace. Edward can vaguely recall the excitement and commotion surrounding the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic a few years prior: the assertions that it was "unsinkable," the people's descriptions of the sheer size and glory of it as it sat in its slip across the ocean. He gets a glimpse of what they meant just looking at the Lusitania; it is magnificent, despite the fact that the name has evidently been painted over with some sort of darkish dye and the hull itself shows signs of the fact that it has traversed the ocean already. Still, it is grand, and there's a not-so-small part of him that wishes he were destined to cross the ocean, to explore the seas and the world beyond this one.

Wanderlust, his father calls it, and blames his mother for reading him too many fairy tales as a child.

Curiosity, his mother calls it, and swears it will be the trait that serves him best.

CUNARD LINE, the pier advertises in large white letters, and Edward watches as people bustle about: women with parasols, men dressed in their finest business suits, children with nannies. Some are clearly here for the same reason he is – curiosity – while others are laden with steamer trunks and various assortments of luggage.

"Are you traveling?" he hears and spins to find a girl who looks to be about his age, long dark hair pinned away from her face and a small sunhat perched on the back of her head.

"No," he says, eyeing the girl warily. "Are you?"

"Oh, yes." Her dark eyes find the massive ship behind him before resettling on his face. "Father has an ailing relative in Ireland."

"Oh." He eyes her as she once again glances up at the ship, wondering if it's possible that this slip of a girl has seen more of the world than he has. "Have you been across the ocean before?"

"Once, but I was just a baby. Too young to remember." Dark eyes find him again, and he feels oddly unsettled. "Have you?"

"No. I'd like to, though."

She seems surprised by this admission. "Why?"

"Why? Why not?"

"It seems…an odd sort of thing to want to do. To want to spend days on end in the middle of a vast ocean with no contact with anyone on either side."

He frowns. "Perhaps. But once you get there, you're in a different part of the world. Surely you find that at least a little bit exciting?"

She seems amused, suddenly. "I forget how fond boys are of adventure."

"Boys?" he echoes, feeling mildly insulted.

"Of course. Tom Sawyer. Huckleberry Finn. All of the boys in the books are just desperate for an escapade of some sort. What's wrong with appreciating what you have, and letting it be enough?"

"As opposed to the girls in Little Women who spend all of their time making up plays and stories and throwing tantrums?"

To his surprise, the girl giggles. "Yes, I'll defer to you on that. Jo March isn't quite the ideal heroine for a young girl, either." Her easy agreement and obvious amusement erase any defiance he may have felt, and he finds himself oddly intrigued by her in a way he has never been by a girl before.

"What's your name?"

"Isabella Andrews," she replies. "And you?"

"Edward. Masen." Suddenly, he remembers his manners. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he adds, holding out his hand as he has seen his father do, and the girl blushes prettily, hesitating briefly before offering her own. Once he's holding it, though, he isn't quite sure what to do with it – not kiss it, surely – so he sort of half-shakes it awkwardly before letting go. Still, the brief contact is long enough to feel the warmth of her hand through the thin white cotton of her glove, and it makes something in his chest thud heavily in a new, strange way. He watches as people file past them, and he glances at her again. "Shouldn't you be boarding?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Though there's been a delay, so we're not in a rush quite yet. Father told me to wait here for him."

"Oh." He looks over his shoulder at the floating ship, its boilers painted a dark, dull gray, and he wonders if the new cosmetics have anything to do with the warning he had read the day before. "Are you nervous?"

"Nervous?" she repeats.

"About the war. Sailing into that part of the world."

"Oh. No, not particularly. After all, we're not flying under any flag, and the Lusitania is considerably faster than any submarine. Honestly, I'm more concerned about falling overboard than coming to harm."

"Falling overboard?" he echoes, amused, and she blushes again. He feels another flip in his chest, and he can't decide whether he likes it or not.

"I can't swim," she admits, peeking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

"You can't swim?" he echoes, incredulous. "You're getting on a boat to sail across the ocean and you can't swim?"

"Don't be rude," she scolds him. "I haven't had the opportunity to learn."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, though he's oddly pleased by her admonishment. He's about to offer to teach her when he realizes that he has no idea where she lives. When he asks, she blushes again.

"It's a very small town in Indiana. Wheatfield?"

He grins before he can stop himself. "I live in Chicago."

At this, her eyes widen. "Oh, I've always wanted to see Chicago." As if realizing the frankness of her admission, her cheeks redden again. "I've, um…heard it's a lovely city."

"You should visit. If you do, I'd be happy to teach you to swim." Suddenly, he's assaulted by the idea of seeing her in a swimsuit, and the mild flipping in his chest becomes a gallop. He swallows, and when he glances at her face, it's the color of a strawberry. He's strangely pleased by the effect of his words, even if they embarrassed him nearly as much as they did her.

"That would be lovely," she says so softly he's convinced he imagined it, but when she peeks up at him, he can see the hope in her eyes. Suddenly, he's seeing everything he hadn't cataloged before: the strands of her hair that glow auburn in the sunlight; the pristine white of her ankle-length dress; the deep eyes the color of dark chocolate.

"May I write to you? When you come back?"

"Yes, of course." She smiles, and he clears his suddenly dry throat, tries to discreetly wipe his suddenly-clammy hands on his trousers. "Do you have a pen?" He is patting his pockets fruitlessly when a broad-shouldered man appears behind Isabella, very nearly blocking out the sunlight. "Oh, hello, Father," she says, glancing over her shoulder before returning her focus to Edward. "This is Edward Masen. Of Chicago."

"Pleasure," the man says, holding out a hand; accepting the handshake, Edward hopes that the man will assume his sweaty palms are a result of the warm spring sunshine. "John Andrews. Thank you for keeping my daughter company." He tilts his head toward the ship. "Are you traveling as well?"

"No, sir. I was just coming to watch the ship depart."

"Edward has a bit of a traveling spirit," Isabella tells her father, giving Edward a shy, private smile that makes his throat go dry.

"Is that so? Well, Edward, 'The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.'"

Frowning, Edward glances toward Isabella, who's rolling her eyes. "Father is a literature professor. He's going to be at the new university this fall – Ball State?"

Edward nods. "Of course."

"Father, do you have a pen?"

"A pen?"

"Edward would like to write to me. I was going to give him our address, but neither of us appears to have a pen."

Mr. Andrews' shrewd eyes find Edward, who squirms beneath their combination of amusement and wariness. "Of course," he says finally, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit coat and handing the pen to his daughter, who suddenly realizes she is also without paper. Her father has turned to speak with one of the porters directing people toward the gangplanks, and she meets Edward's eye, blushing again. "Give me your hand," she murmurs, and he's confused for a beat before he holds out his palm. Isabella casts a quick glance at her father's back before pulling her gloves off carefully and holding them with her teeth. When the soft skin of her hands touches his, it takes all of Edward's willpower to keep his hand from shaking.

He can feel the warmth of her skin against his in addition to the small puffs of her breath against his palm and the brush of her long hair against his wrist as she bends over his hand, carefully inking her information into his skin. "There," she says finally, letting his hand go and holding the pen out to him so that she can slip her gloves back on. She smiles shyly up at him, roses blooming once again on the apples of her cheeks, and he's never met a girl who blushes like this one. Perhaps that's why no other girl has ever made him feel like this one. "You'll write to me?"

He nods. "I promise."

Her smile turns faintly mischievous. "And you'll teach me to swim?"

This time, he's the one blushing. "If you'd like."

"I'd like."

"It's time to board, Isabella," her father says, and she nods without looking at him.

"Well. Goodbye, Edward."

"Goodbye, Isabella." He holds out his hand before he realizes it, and when Isabella slips her small, gloved fingers into his, he lowers his head and presses his lips to the back of her hand, feeling equal parts ridiculous and grown-up as he does so. Releasing her hand, he steps back, and sees Mr. Andrews fighting a smile; when he meets his eye, the older man nods, as if in approval.

"Pleasure to meet you, Edward. Safe travels back to Chicago."

Edward nods. "Safe voyage to you both, sir."

The man nods again and turns, a gentle hand between his daughter's shoulder blades as he guides her through the crowd toward the ship. She peeks over her shoulder once and meets Edward's eye, giving him a small smile and a half-wave before she is swallowed by the crowd.

Edward stands on the pier, watching, trying to spot her climbing the gangway to the ship, but there are too many people, too many young women in white dresses and hats, too many men in suits, and he watches as the ship lifts its gangways and, eventually, sails out of the port and into the harbor. He watches until it is a silhouette, the people all but invisible, before turning and heading back toward his hotel, feeling infinitely more fond of New York than he had when he set out that morning.

He spends the subsequent six days silently penning drafts of his first letter to Isabella in his mind; he realizes, on the third day, that he doesn't know how long she is staying in Ireland, that the has no idea when she will be back in Indiana and will be able to receive his letters. He decides he will wait until the end of the month to send one and will then simply await her to reply. Still, by the sixth day, the letter has grown to very near novel length in his mind, and he realizes that perhaps he should put pen to paper, lest he return to Chicago and wind up writing her a rambling, multi-page missive that will make her think him a lunatic.

He never gets the chance, however, as he wakes to hushed voices in the parlor of the hotel suite on the morning of May 7 and emerges to find his parents in a state of agitation over the breakfast that has already been delivered. Lowering himself into one of the straight-backed chairs, he reaches for a coffee cup, surprised when neither of his parents is paying enough attention to divert him to the pitcher of juice instead. He's just congratulating himself on procuring his first cup of coffee when he spies the morning edition of The New York Times at his father's elbow.

"Lusitania sunk by a submarine, probably 1,260 dead; twice torpedoed off Irish coast; sinks in 15 minutes; Capt. Turner saved, Frohman and Vanderbilt missing; Washington believes that a grave crisis is at hand"

"What?!" he almost yells, dropping the white china coffee mug onto the tray before him, scalding brown liquid seeping across the pristine white linen napkin, his mother and father's panicked eyes flying to his face. "It sunk?" He reaches for the paper, which his father hands to him.

"Torpedoed," he says unnecessarily as Edward's green eyes fly across the type.

"Some dead taken ashore."

"Several hundred survivors at Queenstown and Kinsale."

"Only 650 were saved."

"Is there a list?" he demands, flipping frantically through the pages, and when he glances up at his parents, they are sharing a concerned, if confused, look.

"No, son," his father says carefully. "Not yet. It will take some time for that. A few days, most likely."

"Edward?" His mother's voice is soft. "Edward, darling, what is it?"

"There was a girl," he says before he can stop himself, flipping through the remaining pages despite his parents' assurance that he won't find any details about Isabella's fate. "On the ship. With her father. She was from Indiana."

"Oh," his mother says, and when he looks back up, she's looking at his father with concern in her eyes. "Oh, dear."

"She couldn't swim," he says pitifully, and he can feel the foreign sensation of tears pricking the backs of his eyes. His parents are staring at him in shocked silence, and he stands suddenly, his chair tipping to the floor behind him. "She can't swim," he corrects, as if he can right the wrong, and he flees back to his room, dressing as quickly as he can before escaping out into the city streets.

It takes two days for Isabella Andrews' name to appear on the page one list of 102 American cabin passengers lost whose bodies could not be recovered. Her father's name is listed right below hers, and Edward hopes with his broken heart that her father was at least holding her hand as she slipped beneath the surface of the frigid North Atlantic. That night, he sits at the small desk in his hotel room and writes his one and only letter to Isabella Andrews; when he signs it – Affectionately, Edward – it is seventeen pages long. He folds it, places it into an envelope, and tucks it between the pages of his favorite book, which he had brought along for the considerable Broadway Limited train journey between Union Station and Penn Station.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

In the weeks following the Masen family's return to Chicago, Edward becomes a voracious reader of newspapers; his parents believe he is hoping for a miracle, for a front-page story about the miraculous survival of a fifteen-year-old Midwestern girl, but they don't know the truth: that he isn't following the ship disaster coverage, but the political aftermath.

The escalating rage among Americans that more than one hundred American lives had been lost in a war in which the United States was officially neutral. The increasing swing in popular opinion that the United States should no longer resist joining the fight.

For two years, Edward becomes a devourer of political news, of wartime reports; in April of 1917, the United States officially joins the war, and sixteen-year-old Edward becomes enamored with the idea of joining the Army.

While he never admits it aloud, when he imagines himself fighting, it's always to save a brown-eyed, pink-cheeked girl who's already been lost to a watery grave.