A/N: Twilight is Meyer's. No copyright infringement intended.

Thanks for reading, and for reviewing.

BPOV

My pencil moved rhythmically over the paper. It usually was an absorbing process; I would become wrapped up in whatever image I was sketching, to the point of not hearing when someone spoke to me. Everything in me focused on the dark lines that skimmed the page under my movements. The regular motion was soothing, the image produced, while not perfect, satisfying. Somehow, replicating reality – either accurately or with a twist to suit my mood – allowed me a break from it.

But not this time.

I caught my lower lip between my teeth and gnawed on it as I angled my sketchbook slightly to shade Jasper's hair. "I hit Edward Cullen with my backpack," I mused absently, narrowing my eyes and bending my head closer to my work.

Alice snickered from her place on the couch. "I can just see the Bree-mail now: Bungling Bella Swan bruises Edward Cullen's buff belly."

"With my backpack of doom," I agreed.

Even Jasper grinned then, shooting me an amused look from where he lounged in the armchair opposite mine. When he resumed surfing through the cable channels, I sighed and turned back a few pages in my sketchbook, returning to an image of Alice I'd begun two days before. My subject typed something furiously on the laptop she had balanced on her folded legs. A second later she frowned at the screen and aggressively clicked the mouse.

I really hoped it wasn't a Bree-mail.

I added a few frills to the shirt in my sketch, then worked a little more of a smile on the mouth. Alice would be happy in such a terrifyingly girly outfit. She had been happy the day I'd started the sketch. Happily oblivious to my vigorous refusals to ever borrow that shirt or any like it.

Alice clicked a few more times, then glanced over at me. When she noticed what I was working on, she grinned and struck a pose, propping her head in her hand and tilting it back dramatically. She fluttered her eyelashes at me. Jasper chuckled quietly as I simply smiled and turned to a blank page to begin a new sketch.

I had moved to another new page and was adding a nice set of fangs to a drawing of Victoria when Alice said, "Hey, check this out."

With my sketchbook still open to my current work, I stood and moved to the couch beside her. When I sat with the book open in my lap, she shot a fast glance at the sketch and giggled to herself. I smiled and leaned into her side to see her computer screen. "What is that?"

"It's a newspaper article from when Carlisle Cullen adopted Edward. Look at him."

The headline on the screen proclaimed "Popular Local Doctor Adopts Orphaned Teen." It was dated two years ago and gave a very vague account of how Dr. Cullen had come to adopt Edward, who was fifteen at the time. But the picture that went with the article detailed much more than the words.

Edward looked almost fragile. He was thin, his face worn and exhausted. His hair hung limply in his eyes, which were… haunted. Pained.

Even then, I had to admit, he was handsome. It hurt to agree with my stepsisters, even internally. But somehow, it hurt even more to see Edward the way he looked in that picture.

I pulled my eyes away and lowered my gaze to my sketchbook. Before I could comment, I noticed Esme Brandon, Alice's mother, wandering through the room behind us.

Esme was my "adopted" mother. She had become the maternal force in my life from the day I'd met Alice last year, when I was missing my mother desperately. Esme had seemed to understand my predicament immediately, even though I never explained it to her explicitly. She was everything I missed. Everything Victoria was not.

Where Victoria had fangs in my sketches, Esme had wings.

Even though she was still dressed for work in a skirt and heels, carrying interior design magazines and a coffee mug, she slowed to greet us. But she was distracted by what she saw on Alice's computer. She stepped closer, tossing her wavy, caramel-colored hair over her shoulder to get a better look. Her face changed. "He's cute."

Alice made a high-pitched sound of disgust. "Mom! That's disgusting."

"Not him," Esme responded in the same tone. Her eyes were focused on Carlisle. "Him."

Despite the fact that her mother was and had been single for quite a while, and had every right to find men her age attractive, Alice wrinkled her nose at Esme's conclusion. "Dr. Cullen? Ew. He's old."

"One day, honey, you'll be forty, and you'll look back on this conversation and wonder, 'Why was I such a little—'"

"Mom!"

Esme shrugged and walked away with a smirk. "That's a very nice drawing, Bella," she said as she headed for the dining room. "And anything but the History Channel again, please, Jasper. I can't stand another afternoon of guns."

Obligingly, Jasper changed the channel from the show he'd been watching about the Civil War and began searching through the sports broadcasts. As Esme moved out of the living room, I called, "Thank you, Esme."

"You're welcome, Bella," her voice floated back to me from the next room. She sounded slightly amused, and I was sure she knew that I was thanking her both for her compliment and for requesting a change of background noise. Living with Charlie, I was used to sports clamor; living with Victoria and the spawn, I was a little tired of war.

And speaking of… I sighed and closed my sketchbook on my fanged stepmother. Time to face the much more frightening reality. "I have to get home and make dinner before Victoria wonders where I am."

Alice perked up as I stood and slid my book into my backpack. "What are you making?"

Esme's voice was sharp from the dining room. "I heard that!"

I grinned. Esme wasn't the best cook, and Alice loved my food, so the three of us had a running mini-rivalry over dinner. "I was thinking stir fry."

Alice groaned, and Jasper made a quiet humming sound. Esme yelled, "We're having pot roast!"

At my friends' expressions, I snickered and whispered, "I'll save you some."

Jasper looked relieved. "Thank you."

"No problem." I slung my backpack over my shoulder. Just then, Jasper landed on the Military Channel, which, as ordered, was not the History Channel. I had no idea why Esme and Alice even had those channels, but I did know that I had to get out of there. I grabbed my keys off the end table and gave a fast wave just as I heard the beginnings of grumbling from Esme. Before the battle could make it to the living room, I slipped out the front door and walked through the gentle mist to my truck, my safe haven between war TV and the hostile takeover waiting for me at home.


EPOV

I had to get out of here.

Being in Forks was like being trapped in enemy territory. The army holding me hostage was aggressive and plentiful.

Were there no males in this town?

The entire day, I had been stuck in the office with Carlisle and the nurses as they went about their training. The girls of the school knew where I was and surrounded the door every chance they got. I could hear them giggling during class changes. Lunch was ridiculous. I was reduced to asking an office aide to bring me a candy bar and cursing myself for not bringing provisions. Several times during the day, I'd had to hide in the back to avoid the crafty female with a hall pass.

There was one particular blonde who had caught sight of me before I'd made it to the back, and she'd sidled up close before I could escape. I'd gotten an eyeful of her cleavage, barely concealed by her extremely low red V-neck, when she'd aimed it purposefully at me. She had seemed pleased with herself even though I had only muttered a hello and made a run for it. She was the last girl I'd seen before I'd given up on leaving the back office.

After the final bell, they had swarmed the door again.

I couldn't understand it. I wasn't famous. I wasn't a movie star or pop singer. I wasn't even rich. Carlisle was. But it had to be because of the money. Their misplaced notion that I was wealthy, too. There was no other excuse for this.

Maybe if I had a girlfriend… if I'd stuck it out with Tanya…

I shuddered at that thought. It had only taken one date with Tanya for me to know that I wasn't interested. It had taken much longer to convince her of that. But at least when I finally had, and I'd politely refused to date for the next several months, the girls of my school had left me alone. I wasn't a novelty to them anymore. And I truly didn't care. I didn't deserve the attention, and I liked being left alone.

But not run away from.

I shook away the image in my head of the girl running away from me that morning, her long brown hair streaming behind her. I had no idea why she had done that, or why it bothered me.

Or why I couldn't get rid of the memory of her scent.

I heard Carlisle's voice in the little hall between the back rooms. I'd been secluded in the farthest room in the farthest corner for most of the day, while he'd been moving between the other two. When his voice grew clearer, I stuck my head out into the hall. He was speaking with the head nurse. His gaze landed on me, and he gave a small nod.

That was my cue. As soon as he finished speaking with the woman, we were heading home. If we made it out alive.

I strode past him and grabbed his bag from the floor in the hall. Before moving into the front office, I paused to listen. It was silent, so I headed for the door. It was quiet there, too. After three girls had come in after school had ended and not seen Carlisle or me, the female students finally seemed to have given up and gone home. Or at least moved their search to another part of the school.

Still, I checked the hall before stepping out. At the door to the parking lot, I stuck my head outside and looked around. It seemed clear. Carlisle's BMW was sitting amidst the employees' cars, clearly out of place in the middle of the minivans and sedans, but no one was around it.

I Mission Impossibled it across the lot with my eyes locked on my destination. No one stopped me. I darted into the passenger seat and sank down low despite the heavily tinted windows. For the first time, I was glad I was in the BMW and not my Volvo.

When the door of the school opened again a moment later, Carlisle stepped out. He waved good-bye before strolling casually toward the car. His comfortable gait annoyed me.

The line of nurses standing in the door to watch him leave annoyed me even more.

I sank deeper into the seat and groaned. A minute later Carlisle slid his work into the back seat and got in beside me. "I think that went well," he commented as he buckled his seat belt.

"Fantastic." I watched his windshield wipers clear the day's worth of moisture from the glass and finally began to relax as we pulled away from Forks High School.

A small smile curved Carlisle's lips. "I do apologize for your predicament today." When I snorted, his expression grew more serious. His eyes remained carefully locked on the windshield. "I also apologize for any of your predicament that was my fault."

Ridiculously polite. Ridiculously formal. Ridiculously guilt-ridden. Carlisle always took blame on himself when he had no reason to. "It's not your fault," I muttered.

He nodded slightly as he slowed for a red light. "Thank you for your help today."

Guilt bubbled up inside me. The man, a single forty-three-year-old doctor with no other kids, had adopted me and given me everything I possibly could need. But he doubted himself and wondered if he'd done the right thing because I couldn't open up to him. I liked him. I liked him a lot. And I was polite and tried to be helpful however I could. But I just couldn't interact with him in a way that would ease his mind. So he second-guessed himself and wondered if I resented him for stepping in and becoming involved in my life.

I didn't. And when he thought I did, I hated it. But I couldn't show him, and he sensed that I couldn't and changed the subject. Hiding his hurt to protect me. And I hated that, too.

"You're welcome," I replied quietly, keeping my eyes on my window.

In the silence that followed, the other engine's roar was doubly loud. I squinted through the water on my window to see the blur of rusted metal moving slowly but surely toward, then through, the intersection in front of us. It was an ancient red Chevy truck, faded almost to a dull orange. I wondered who would own a relic like that. Who would be patient enough to drive the slow speed its engine allowed? To listen to that monstrous engine all day? Someone older, I decided. I didn't know a single person my age who would be able to stand it.

I tried to see the driver, but the truck's windows were fogged from the rain. When it was past, our light turned green, and we left the noisy vehicle behind.

Something in the echo of the roaring engine continued to vibrate in my mind the rest of the drive home. Carlisle didn't speak again, so I was free to let my thoughts go. The roar mixed with something else, becoming a soft humming. I couldn't wait to get home, and I didn't know why.

When we pulled into the garage, I grabbed Carlisle's bag and hurried into the house. He stayed outside to gather the rest of his work. I dropped his bag on the counter and headed straight for the living room.

Straight for the piano.

I stood in front of it for a long moment. Staring. Humming.

It was my piano. My mother's piano. I'd brought it when I'd moved in. But I hadn't touched it since.

I took one step forward. Then another. I let my hand drop to the keys. I struck one chord. Then another.

Freesia. Strawberries.

I smiled and turned away, heading for the stairs and humming.


BPOV

Charlie's car wasn't in the driveway.

I sighed and parked along the curb. Lauren and Jessica's car wasn't there, either, nor was Victoria's. I'd made it in time to avoid an ambush.

Inside, I tossed my backpack to the floor in the corner of the kitchen and quickly began assembling my stir fry. After the vegetables were chopped and the rice and chicken were cooking, I pulled out my sketchbook and absently began a new drawing.

A minute into my sketch, the front door opened and I heard Jessica and Lauren wander in. I looked down to close my book and tuck it away before they could make it to the kitchen.

Edward Cullen's eyes stared up at me.

I blinked and froze, gazing down at the drawing in confusion. Edward Cullen. His face was outlined, his eyes done in great detail. Haunted. Pained. His fifteen-year-old eyes in his seventeen-year-old face.

What the hell.

I heard Lauren's voice getting closer, and I slammed my book closed and jammed it into my backpack almost frantically. If they saw that picture, I was dead. I yanked the zipper up on my bag and straightened just as they stepped into the room.

Lauren paused in mid-sentence to frown at me as I flew breathlessly upright. For a second she simply glared. Then she rolled her eyes as I turned back to the stove. "Weird," she muttered before dismissing me. "So anyway, I was totally right about this sweater," she said, smoothing the clingy red material of an almost obscene V-neck. "Edward couldn't take his eyes off me. Completely checked me out. And he said hello to me. He had to go, so we didn't get a chance to talk. But he was definitely interested."

She moved to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. Behind her, Jessica sighed dramatically. "You are so lucky. He didn't even see me." She perked up a little and turned her malicious gaze toward me. "But Mike did. He really seemed to like it."

Jessica was enamored with Mike Newton, who was enamored with me, which made Jessica not so enamored with me. Like I needed another reason for her to hate me.

Like I needed another reason to hate Mike Newton.

I poked at the vegetables as they cooked. Jessica seemed to sense my disinterest and turned back to her sister. "Did he smile? He's so cute when he smiles."

Lauren tossed her hair, a clear sign she was elaborating. "He is even cuter when he smiles in person."

Liar, I thought, slicing the chicken into strips. Jessica didn't agree with my assessment and sighed again. "I wish I could have been with you."

How Jessica couldn't tell the difference between her sister's stories and her truth was beyond me. The hair flip and the smug tone were clear indications of fabrication. I rolled my eyes and added the chicken to the vegetables. The popping drew Lauren's attention. "Mom will be home any second and she's expecting dinner to be ready. Why are you so slow today?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Why are you so slow all the time?"

Lauren had turned back to Jessica, but she whipped her head back toward me so fast her hair slapped across her face. "Watch it, Bella," she snarled. She rarely said my name without the aggressive sneer. "I'll get my mom to have your dad send you to Florida. You'd like it there. All those retired people. And people who should retire. Like Phil."

I gritted my teeth, and she smiled at me. "Now, let's try this again, Bella. Why are you so slow today?"

I choked down an angry retort and ground out, "All the excitement, I guess."

Lauren glared, seeming insulted by my audacity. "As if Edward Cullen would ever be interested in you."

I smirked back. "I guess I'm stuck with Mike Newton, then."

The low growl was my reward as I turned back to the stove with a smile on my face. Jessica was offended; I'd reminded her that I knew that Mike was interested in me instead of her, and that despite her helpless infatuation with him, even if he someday returned her interest, he couldn't compare to their precious Edward. But Lauren was livid, because not only had I reminded her that I had one of the most popular Forks guys all but stalking me while he ignored her and her sister, but I'd also had the last word.

My win didn't last long, though. The front door opened before Lauren could form a reply, and Victoria's baby voice boomed through the house. "Bella! Why isn't dinner ready?"

Jessica and Lauren snickered as they sauntered out to meet their mother. I quickly turned off the stove and grabbed some plates, grateful the stir fry was finished at just the right time. "I'm coming!" I called, dishing out the food.

I could hear Victoria ranting in the other room. "Honestly. I just expect her to help out a little. Is that so hard? Have dinner ready when I get home? It's not like she has anything better to do."

Her daughters began agreeing loudly. I could picture them with their heads turned toward the kitchen so I could hear them better, but I tuned them out. Victoria's voice broke through again. "I just want to teach her to be productive. She's so lazy. Always laying around reading when we first moved in. Reading won't get you anywhere. You have to work. I'm helping her learn that."

As Jessica and Lauren piped up again, I drew in a steadying breath. I'd all but run this house since I'd moved in with Charlie. He'd needed me here, and I'd been happy to help. Cooking, laundry, cleaning… I'd done it all without complaint. I was used to doing it for my mom, who was a little scatterbrained and needed my help since my personality always had been much better suited for managing the house than hers. I had taken on the same role here, and I loved being able to take care of my dad.

I didn't love "taking care" of my stepfamily.

I drew in one more deep breath and picked up the plates. In the dining room, I caught sight of the shopping bags Victoria had dropped next to the table. She'd been spending my father's paycheck again.

At that thought, my gaze skipped over her to land on the chair at the far end of the table. It hadn't been used in months.

I suddenly felt painfully alone.


It was nearly midnight when I heard a car outside, then the front door opened and closed quietly. A rustling began in the kitchen, and I crept down the stairs. "Dad?"

Charlie jumped where he was digging around in the refrigerator. "Bella! You scared me. What are you doing up?"

I shrugged in the light from the open door. "The rain kept me awake. I was reading." I didn't mention that it was the only time I had to read anymore. As he closed the refrigerator and turned to face me, I flipped on the light over the sink.

His face looked haggard. He hadn't shaved for a day or two, and his curly hair was mussed. He looked tired and worn. I hated seeing him like that. And he was thin. I hated that even more. "There's stir fry. If you're hungry," I offered.

"Yeah, I am. Thanks."

He started to search the refrigerator again, but I stepped around him and opened the door myself. He smiled gratefully as I pulled out the container of leftovers and began to prepare him a plate. "How's the case going?" I asked quietly as I started the microwave.

"It's… You know, it's going. Rough." Charlie ran his hand over his messy hair, knowing that he was caught in a lie but still unwilling to admit it. He perked up a little as the food began to heat and the scent reached him. "Smells great." There was an awkward pause. "Missed your cooking, Bells."

I shifted my weight. Neither of us was comfortable with affectionate displays, so for Charlie, that short comment was anything but simple. It was about as emotional as he could be. And while it was unusual to hear, I understood it perfectly for what it was… and it was pleasant but painful at the same time.

"Thanks." I hesitated. "Um, Dad? Billy called. Earlier," I told him. Jacob's father, Billy Black, was Charlie's best friend, and he'd been getting a little frustrated with my father's "work habits" lately. "He wanted to know if you would want to go fishing this weekend. I told him you'd call him."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. I may do that."

"If, um… If you do? I made turkey two nights ago. There's some in the fridge if you want to make sandwiches. To take with you." I almost cringed at how self-conscious I felt. I could barely get a sentence out. I hadn't been this uneasy around Charlie since my first month living in Forks.

He seemed to feel the same way. His hand ran over his hair again in a nervous motion. "Yeah. That sounds good. Thanks."

"Sure." I opened the microwave before it could beep and wake the she-demons. "Um… Dad?"

"Yeah?"

I stirred his food distractedly to check its temperature. "I was just—"

"Charlie? Is that you?"

Charlie cringed at his wife's grating voice. "Yeah, it's me." He looked at me apologetically. "Sorry, Bells."

"It's okay. I'll talk to you later." I handed him his plate and fork and watched him leave the room. As he headed up the stairs, I turned out the light and stood alone in the dark kitchen.

"Night, Dad."