The truck is old and red. Heavy and lumbering.
It's lived a quiet life. It knows russet skinned boys and old men, strong hands gently servicing its engine.
Well, the quiet days are over.
There's normalcy, routine drives to school, the grocery store, shopping. Crackly music coming from the old radio while the passenger seat is filled with food.
A father getting up early before work to put chains on the tires, making sure his daughter is safe as she drives to school in the ice.
And then it starts.
Now the speed limit is pushed impatiently, the seats filled with inhuman passengers. There's tension and curiosity and the beginning of love blossoming in the cab. A certain smell permeates the seats, something dazzling and sweet and unique.
It's seen a first kiss, soft warm body pressed against the cab by something hard and cold, but gentle.
First love, passionate but restrained. Impatiently lips on lips trailing down face soft whispers laughter. Love.
And the truck knows heartbreak. A radio torn out, bloody fingernails, loss, abandonment.
When it's used again, because the ride to school has left, the loud engine making the driver jump sheepishly. The emotions are muted, gone. The trips are all routine, the speed limit never pushed, the passenger seat is always empty.
Then those drives up to La Push, the same dark skinned boy that used to care for it. A few smiles, a tentative bubbling of happiness.
Hugging her torso tightly in between visits, gasping for air and missing those who have left.
Where before it was icy, now it's warm in the passenger seat. Musky, foresty scent, earthy, normal.
Secrets and laughter and motorcycles in the back. The rust-and-salt smell of blood, look—a spot on the seat. Bare back on the seat because of the shirt pressed to the gash.
The week things paused, no more visits, moping, impatient.
Then anger and fear and words jabbing and collapsing on the steering wheel as things fall apart again.
The back and forth between La Push and Forks starts again. Sitting in the car talking.
Anger shakes the truck in fits of dangerous rage, calming down in the nick of time.
Noodling around the reservation with an atmosphere of fear, hiding from someone, something.
The dive, an impulse, door open in the rain and the figure at the edge jumps with an exhilarated scream. Leaving tire tracks that are followed. Wolf-boy jumping over the edge.
Safe later, wet and chilly, driving home.
A late night excursion to the white house to decide immortality, the truck lies unused in the driveway while the boy lifts the girl onto his back and takes of running.
The happy days come again, even though there isn't much driving. The sweet smell infiltrates the truck again; love saturates the air inside it.
There's a bit of conflict these days, late night excursions stopped by missing pieces of the engine. Pushing the speed racing to La Push, driving to the beach, sand under the tires, followed by silver Volvo while her palms sweat on the steering wheel.
In all its days, the truck has never been around such passion and vibrancy then now, being driven around the sleepy town of Forks.
Fear of a red-headed woman with wild eyes seeps into the upholstery, pain and annoyance and intense love for the wolf boy that never rides in the truck anymore, and the life giving passion for the sweet smelling immortal that is her soul mate.
Flecks of blood from her numerous small injuries, a pair of old shoes, Save the Olympic Wolf posters, a tattered copy of Sense and Sensibility in the glove compartment.
Bella Swan's red truck.