"Jacob, it's not your job -"
He raised a hand to cut me off. "I'm working on a volunteer basis here. Now, where is the intruder's scent the worst?"
"My bedroom, I think."
His eyes narrowed. He didn't like that any more than Edward had.
"I'll just be a minute."
I methodically scrubbed the plate I was holding. The only sound was the brush's plastic bristles scraping round and round on the ceramic. I listened for something from above, a creak of the floorboard, the click of a door. There was nothing. I realized I'd been cleaning the same plate far longer than necessary, and I tried to pay attention to what I was doing.
"Whew!" Jacob said, inches behind me, scaring me again.
"Yeesh, Jake, cut that out!"
"Sorry. Here -" Jacob took the towel and mopped up my new spill. "I'll make it up to you. You wash, I'll rinse and dry."
"Fine." I gave him the plate.
"Well, the scent was easy enough to catch. By the way, your room reeks."
"I'll buy some air freshener."
He laughed.
I washed and he dried in companionable silence for a few minutes.
"Can I ask you something?"
I handed him another plate. "That depends on what you want to know."
"I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything - I'm honestly curious," Jacob assured me.
"Fine. Go ahead."
He paused for half a second. "What's it like - having a vampire for a boyfriend?"
I rolled my eyes. "It's the best."
"I'm serious. The idea doesn't bother you - it never creeps you out?"
"Never."
He was silent as he reached for the bowl in my hands. I peeked up at his face - he was frowning, his lower lip jutting out.
"Anything else?" I asked.
He wrinkled his nose again. "Well . . . I was wondering . . . do you . . . y'know, kiss him?"
I laughed. "Yes."
He shuddered. "Ugh."
"To each her own," I murmured.
"You don't worry about the fangs?"
I smacked his arm, splashing him with dishwater. "Shut up, Jacob! You know he doesn't have fangs!"
"Close enough," he muttered.
I gritted my teeth and scrubbed a boning knife with more force than necessary.
"Can I ask another one?" he asked softly when I passed the knife to him. "Just curious, again."
"Fine," I snapped.
He turned the knife over and over in his hands under the stream of water. When he spoke, it was only a whisper. "You said a few weeks. . . . When, exactly . . . ?" He couldn't finish.
"Graduation," I whispered back, watching his face warily. Would this set him off again?
"So soon," he breathed, his eyes closing. It didn't sound like a question. It sounded like a lament. The muscles in his arms tightened and his shoulders were stiff.
"OW!" he shouted; it had gotten so still in the room that I jumped a foot in the air at his outburst.
His right hand had curled into a tense fist around the blade of the knife - he unclenched his hand and the knife clattered onto the counter. Across his palm was a long, deep gash. The blood streamed down his fingers and dripped on the floor.
"Damn it! Ouch!" he complained.
My head spun and my stomach rolled. I clung to the countertop with one hand, took a deep breath through my mouth, and forced myself to get a grip so that I could take care of him.
"Oh, no, Jacob! Oh, crap! Here, wrap this around it!" I shoved the dish towel at him, reaching for his hand. He shrugged away from me.
"It's nothing, Bella, don't worry about it."
The room started to shimmer a little around the edges.
I took another deep breath. "Don't worry?! You sliced your hand open!"
He ignored the dish towel I pushed at him. He put his hand under the faucet and let the water wash over the wound. The water ran red. My head whirled.
"Bella," he said.
I looked away from the wound, up to his face. He was frowning, but his expression was calm.
"What?"
"You look like you're going to pass out, and you're biting your lip off. Stop it. Relax. Breathe. I'm fine."
I inhaled through my mouth and removed my teeth from my lower lip. "Don't be brave."
He rolled his eyes.
"Let's go. I'll drive you to the ER." I was pretty sure I would be okay to drive. The walls were holding steady now, at least.
"Not necessary." Jake turned off the water and took the towel from my hand. He twisted it loosely around his palm.
"Wait," I protested. "Let me look at it." I clutched the counter more firmly, to hold myself upright if the wound made me woozy again.
"Do you have a medical degree that you never told me about?"
"Just give me the chance to decide whether or not I'm going to throw a fit over taking you to the hospital."
He made a face of mock horror. "Please, not a fit!"
"If you don't let me see your hand, a fit is guaranteed."
He inhaled deeply, and then let out a gusty sigh. "Fine."
He unwound the towel and, when I reached out to take the cloth, he laid his hand in mine.
It took me a few seconds. I even flipped his hand over, though I was sure he'd cut his palm. I turned his hand back up, finally realizing that the angry pink, puckered line was all that was left of his wound.
"But . . . you were bleeding . . . so much."
He pulled his hand back, his eyes steady and somber on mine.
"I heal fast."
"I'll say," I mouthed.
I'd seen the long gash clearly, seen the blood that flowed into the sink. The rust-and-salt smell of it had almost pulled me under. It should have needed stitches. It should have taken days to scab over and then weeks to fade into the shiny pink scar that marked his skin now.