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Edward. She scooped up the two packages, one half-opened, and my camera from under the piano, and pressed them into my good arm. "You can thank me later, when you've opened them."
    Esme and Carlisle both said a quiet goodnight. I could see them stealing quick glances at their impassive son, much like I was.
    It was a relief to be outside; I hurried past the lanterns and the roses, now unwelcome reminders. Edward kept pace with me silently. He opened the passenget side for me, and I climbed in without complaint.
    On the dashboard was a big red ribbon, stuck to the new stereo. I pulled it off, throwing it to the floor. As Edward slid into the other side, I kicked the ribbon under my seat.
    He didn't look at me or the stereo. Neither of us switched it on, and the silence was somehow intensified by the sudden thunder of the engine. He drove too fast down the dark, serpentine lane.
    The silence was making me insane.
"Say something," I finally begged as he turned onto the freeway.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked in a detached voice.
I cringed at his remoteness. 'Tell me you forgive me."
That brought a flicker of life to his face–a flicker of anger. "Forgive you ? For what?" "If I'd been more careful, nothing would have happened."
"Bella, you gave yourself a paper cut–that hardly deserves the death penalty." "It's still my fault."
My words opened up the floodgate.
    "Your fault? If you'd cut yourself at Mike Newton's house, with Jessica there and Angela and your other normal friends, the worst that could possibly have happened would be what? Maybe they couldn't find you a bandage? If you'd tripped and knocked over a pile of glass plates on your own–without someone throwing you into them–even then, what's the worst? You'd get blood on the seats when they drove you to the emergency room? Mike Newton could have held your hand while they stitched you up–and he wouldn't be righting the urge to kill you the whole time he was there. Don't try to take any of this on yourself, Bella. It will only make me more disgusted with myself."
    "How the hell did Mike Newton end up in this conversation?" I demanded. "Mike Newton ended up in this conversation because Mike Newton would be a hell of a lot healthier for you to be with," he growled.
"I'd rather die than be with Mike Newton," I protested. "I'd rather die than be with anyone but you."
    "Don't be melodramatic, please." "Well then, don't you be ridiculous." He didn't answer. He glared through the windshield, his expression black.
    I racked my brain for some way to salvage the evening. When we pulled up in front of my house, I still hadn't come up with anything.
    He killed the engine, but his hands stayed clenched around the steering wheel. "Will you stay tonight?" I asked. "I should go home." The last thing I wanted was for him to go wallow in remorse. "For my birthday," I pressed.
    "You can't have it both ways–either you want people to ignore your birthday or you don't. One or the other."
    His voice was stern, but not .is serious as before. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Okay. I've decided that I don't want you to ignore my birthday. I'll see you upstairs." I hopped out, reaching back in for my packages. He frowned. "You don't have to take those."
    "I want them," I responded automatically, and then wondered if he was using reverse psychology.
"No, you don't. Carlisle and Esme spent money on you." "I'll live." I tucked the presents awkwardly under my good arm and slammed the door behind me. He was out of the truck and by my side in less than a second.
    "Let me carry them, at least." he said as he took them away. "I'll be in your room." I smiled. "Thanks." "Happy birthday," he sighed, and leaned down to touch his lips to mine.
    I reached up on my toes to make the kiss last longer when he pulled away. He smiled my favorite crooked smile, and then he disappeared into the darkness.
The game was still on; as soon as I walked through the front door I could hear the announcer