Please read in 1/2 setting.

The Road is a Minefield

Chapter 1:

Aimer à première vue?

My arms get cold,
In February air.
Please don't lose hold of me, out there.

And I know you're near me.
I know you understand.
Say that you're with me.
Say you know my face like the back of your hands.

February Air by Lights


"Honey, can you grab the last few packages from the moving truck?"

"Sure dad."

"Can you put these in my room?"

"Sure dad."

"Nicoelle? Can you make dinner?"

"Of course, dad."

"You have to cook for 13, okay?"

"Sure. I'll make as much as I can."

"Can you make your spaghetti? It's so good."

"Sure dad."

"How ya holding up, kiddo?"

"Fine."

This was the just of the conversation between my father and I as we unpacked and prepared for the dinner, which I soon found out would consist of a bunch of dad's old friends and their kids, who were all Quillette. It's not like we didn't get along well. Actually, people always mistake him for my brother, because of how alike we look and the way we joke around. My mother used laugh and to say that I inherited my father's genes, and I only got her eyes. My father and I had that natural Quillette tan skin, silky black hair, soft facial features, and small build. However, I'd taken from my mother her purple eyes.

Even though I had the same purple eyes, they were different. My mother's eyes would sparkle when she laughed or smiled. My eyes used to too, but not anymore. They were dull and filled with sadness, if anything. After she passed away, everything seemed to fade. All the things I used to enjoy with my mother was now so unappealing that I cringed at the mere thought. Although he wouldn't say it, my father felt the same way. That's why he moved us out here to La Push. He didn't want to admit it because he's stubborn. He's named after my grandfather, Taran, after all. And if you knew anything about grandpa Taran, you'd know he was the strictest, meanest, crabbiest old man born. But anyway, the reason I'm now in La Push, Washington.

After my mother died a few weeks ago- 2 weeks and 3 days, exactly- we shut down. Despite my frantic cries that night, God didn't listen. He swooped down and stole her from me, from us. For days we didn't eat, we didn't go anywhere, and we didn't even talk. The devastation of my mother's death overwhelmed us. Levi, my mother, had been the kindest, gentlest woman on the earth. She was my best friend. It was cruel for God to take her away from us. She'd never done anything wrong in her life.

"Dad, spaghetti's done," I called, after an hour or so of chopping ingredients and cooking them. The house was empty. Usually, whenever I cooked, mum was sitting on a stool near me, laughing and telling me old stories of her and dad. Occasionally, I'd be the one telling her stories, but never was the house quiet. Mum hated long silences. 'Every second of silence is a waste. Plus, it creeps me out!' I couldn't help but frown remembering what she used to say. It was one of those things made me laugh before, but now made me want to cry, because she wasn't here to say that to me anymore.

Dad yelled back from down the hall telling me to leave the stove on low. I answered him back with same, "sure, dad," and left the kitchen.

"La Push," I muttered.

I stood outside my front door, taking in my surroundings. When we'd first pulled up in the moving truck I was too upset to care what was going past us. All I'd been thinking was that it was an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people. None of them knew me. I wasn't planning on going out and making friends. A summer spent in doors, was fine with me. But now that I stopped to really see what was around me, I was in awe. It rained a lot in La Push; there was hardly a day that wasn't wet. Because of this, the greenery was amazing. There was hardly a patch of dirt on the lawns, the forest was the greenest forest I'd ever seen, and a strong woodsy smell floated through the air. It was calming. In a sense it was a familiar but completely new scent, if that made sense. Which it probably didn't.

I stayed outside by myself for a while longer before dad came to call me in.

"They're all coming in a few minutes."

"Twenty minutes, maybe?"

He nodded his head. "Right on the nose, kiddo."

I wanted to tell him not to call me kiddo anymore, but I didn't want to break his heart anymore than it already was. Instead, I forced a smile and after giving him a quick peck on the cheek ran to take a quick shower. As I lathered the vanilla scented shampoo into my hair, I thought about my dad. I had to give him credit. He was trying to get things back to the way they were. In the weeks after my mum's death, he hadn't even spoken much to me, and when he did, he never called me kiddo. Dad used to call me that all the time. Mum used to think it was cute. I was "daddy's little girl," according to her.

I slid down the shower's wall, choking out a sob. This was the first time in weeks that I'd thought about mum and dad from before. The memories brought strong pangs of pain and grief. My arms wrapped around my legs and hugged them close to my chest. I let the tears that had been building up in me flow out. Dad couldn't here me crying; I didn't have to keep it together.

I was brought back to reality when I heard a knock at the door. "Kiddo, they're arriving."

I cleared my throat afraid that my voice would betray me. "Alright dad. I'll be out in a few minutes."

He hesitated. "Alright." I could tell from his tone that he wanted to say something else. He knew I was crying.

Sighing, I finished my shower. I grabbed a pair of Victoria's secret PINK shorts and mum's favorite top. The shorts were short, but decent enough to wear in public and the shirt-that mum gave me before she left- hugged my body snuggly. The shirt was a regular T-shirt, but the bottom of the back had rips, with strings connecting the fabric, exposing my lower back.

I went into the kitchen to check the spaghetti, making sure it hadn't burnt or gotten cold. After setting out a stack of plates and cups, I left to go to the back yard where I could hear laughter. Standing on the porch, I studied the scene before me. There were chairs scattered around the lawn, tables, all under a large tarp. A few of the guests, a beautiful girl, who had a large scar along the side of her face-she was sill pretty, I thought- standing next to a tall, Quillette man, who was bent towards her telling her something that made her smile happily. Next to them was a man sitting in a wheelchair. He was smiling, laughing at something the others were doing.

My attention drifted to a group of six boys-more like men, tall, monstrous looking men- goofing around, striking random poses. Shifting my glance over to my dad, I couldn't fight the smile that formed on my lips, and I smiled the first real smile in a while. He was holding his old photography camera that he let me use on occasions, snapping shots of the boys. He was grinning the biggest grin I'd seen him bear in a while, and I could tell he wasn't faking it.

No one had seen me yet, so I stayed where I was enjoying the scene as it played out before me. It was a few minutes before I realized someone had noticed me. At the feeling of someone watching me, I turned to see one of the boys staring openly at me. He was tall, though not the tallest and had the beautiful skin that every Quillette there had, but-if possible- more beautiful than any of the others. I could see perfectly, from where I stood, the dark black color of his hair and his dark brown eyes.

His eyes locked with mine and I gasped. Suddenly, I wasn't so sad anymore. I didn't feel like I needed to force myself to keep it together because with him there, it was just natural. I wanted to walk the space between us and feel his arms wrapped around me, holding me close to his chest and bending over me whispering like I'd seen the other boy do. A large smile soon replaced his confused look. Following suit, a large grin made it's way onto my features. I don't know how long we both stood there, staring at each other with silly grins on our faces, before the others turned and noticed me. I was too focused on memorizing everything about him, in case he was a dream and decided to disappear.

"Kiddo!" He smiled brightly. "Why don't you join us," he asked, motioning towards the boys.

"I'm fine, dad," I told him, still smiling, my words laced thickly-for some reason- with my old French accent that I thought I'd lost.

The man in the wheelchair and the couple next to him exchanged a few words, before falling into silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the boy who first saw me, making his way to me. I felt my heart speed up. Suddenly, I was nervous.

Stopping in front of me, he held his hand out for me to grab. "Hi. I'm Paul."

Paul. Paul. Paul.

What a wonderful name. It rung over and over again in my head.

I was too distracted and nervous to formulate a reply, so I stood there gaping at him. "Hi, um, I'm Nicoelle. But call me, uh, Nikki."

Smooth.

I reached out and grabbed his hand. He was hot! Literally, he was boiling hot! But I didn't move my hand. His fingers intertwined with mine and he brought me over to the other boys, who were smiling at me, knowing looks on their faces.

"Smile for the camera, Kiddo!"

Still holding Paul's hand, and surrounded by five other gorgeous Quillette boys, I turned to face my dad. I was laughing when he took the first picture. By the time he stopped, he'd taken a good twenty pictures. And after all that time I was still holding Paul's hand.

I didn't plan on letting go so soon.

It didn't look like he did either.

When my dad announced it was time to go inside and eat, I looked up at Paul. He stared down at me, smiling. I was about to speak when my dad interrupted me.

"Nicoelle, aimer à première vue?"

I blushed.

"Dad!" My hand slipped out from under Paul's grip. "J'irai mange!"

And without another word, I ran ahead of everybody into the house. Safely inside the kitchen, I thought of mum and what she'd say about everything that was running through my head. I wondered what she'd think of Paul. A small frown appeared on my face.

"Je souhaite que vous étiez ici, mama."

Bonjour! This is just a new story that I decided to write today, because I've been in the mood for some Paul. Haven't you? Don't worry, next chapter will have more of the "paul anger". This was sort of a filler chapter, just to get the main character introduced and for you to know where she's coming from. This isn't going to be my main story, I'm stilling working on OTH. But I will try to update this evertime I update OTH, one after the other.

A little French lesson: aimer à première vue? Love at first sight?

J'irai mange! I'm going to go eat!

Je souhaite que vous étiez ici, mama. I miss you, mama.

There's a chance that there is going to be a lot of little bits of French scattered in the story. I'll always have the definition down here, just in case.

I hope you liked it. Review!