Midnight Sun (The Twilight Saga #5) - Stephenie Meyer Page 0,125

a portion of Scout Finch and Jo March, a measure of Elinor Dashwood, and Lucy Pevensie. I was sure I would find more connections as I learned more about her.

It was like putting together a puzzle, one with hundreds of thousands of pieces, and no depiction of the complete image to serve as a guide. Time-consuming, with many false leads, but ultimately I would be able to see the whole picture.

She interrupted my thoughts. “Somewhere in Time. I love that movie. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it right away.”

It wasn’t one of my favorites. The idea that the two lovers could only be together in heaven after their deaths rubbed me the wrong way. I changed the subject.

“Tell me about the music you like.”

She paused to swallow again. And then, unexpectedly, she blushed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, I’m… not super musical, I guess. The Linkin Park CD was a gift from Phil. He’s trying to update my tastes.”

“What were you into, pre-Phil?”

She sighed, lifting her hands helplessly. “I just listened to what my mom had.”

“Classical music?”

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

“Simon and Garfunkel. Neil Diamond. Joni Mitchell. John Denver. That kind of thing. She’s like me—she listens to what her mother listened to. She liked to do sing-alongs on our road trips.” Suddenly the asymmetrical dimple appeared with her wide grin. “Remember those definitions of scary we talked about before?” She laughed. “Until you’ve heard my mom and me trying to hit the high notes in the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, you’ve never known true fear.”

I laughed with her, but wished I could see and hear that. I imagined her on a bright road, winding through the desert with the windows down, the sun bringing out the red shine in her hair. I wished I knew what her mother looked like, and even what kind of car it was, so my picture could be more precise. I wanted to be there with her, to listen to her sing badly, to watch her smile in the sun.

“Favorite TV show?”

“I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

I wondered if she was afraid to go into detail, worried again about me being bored. Maybe a few softball questions would relax her.

“Coke or Pepsi?”

“Dr Pepper.”

“Favorite ice cream?”

“Cookie dough.”

“Pizza?”

“Cheese. Boring but true.”

“Football team?

“Um, pass?”

“Basketball?”

She shrugged. “I’m not really a sports person.”

“Ballet or opera?”

“Ballet, I guess. I’ve never been to the opera.”

I was not unaware that this list I was compiling had a use besides just learning to understand as much as I could of her. I was also learning things that might please her. Gifts I might give her. Places I could take her. Little things and bigger things. It was presumptuous in the extreme to imagine that I could ever have that kind of standing in her life. But how I wished.…

“What’s your favorite gemstone?”

“Topaz.” She said this in a decided way, but then her eyes suddenly tightened and red flushed across her cheekbones.

She’d done this before when I asked about scents. I’d let it go then, but not this time. I was sure the other unmet curiosity would torment me enough.

“Why does that make you… embarrassed?” I wasn’t sure I had the emotion right.

She shook her head quickly, staring down at her hands. “It’s nothing.”

“I’d like to understand.”

She shook her head again, still refusing to look at me.

“Please, Bella?”

“Next question.”

Now I was desperate to know. Frustrated.

“Tell me,” I insisted. Rudely. I felt ashamed at once.

She didn’t look up. She twisted a strand of her hair back and forth between her fingertips.

But she finally answered.

“It’s the color of your eyes today,” she admitted. “I suppose if you asked me in two weeks, I’d say onyx.”

Just as my favorite color was now a deep chocolate brown.

Her shoulders had slumped, and suddenly I recognized her posture. It was just the same as yesterday, when she’d hesitated to answer my question about whether she believed she cared more for me than I did for her. I’d put her in the same position again, of confirming her interest in me without receiving an assurance in return.

Cursing my curiosity, I returned to my questions. Perhaps my obvious fascination with every detail of her personality would convince her of the obsessive level of my interest.

“What kinds of flowers do you prefer?”

“Um, dahlias. For looks. Lavender and lilac for fragrance.”

“You don’t like to watch sports, but did you ever play on a team?”

“Just in school, when they made me.”

“Your mother never put you on a soccer team?”

She shrugged. “My mom liked to keep