A/N: Originally this was a 10K word chapter, then a 12K word chapter. Then I decided to split it up. I will be posting the next part tonight, which I hope will make up for putting this one up a bit late. Enjoy!

February 2007

University of British Columbia

Vancouver, BC

"Thank god that's over," Shalice groaned as we walked out of Dr. Carter's classroom together and threaded through the lobby.

"Amen to that," I answered with my own worn out sigh, holding the door open for my roommate as we slipped into the crisp, late winter air. "Midterms are a bitch, but at least that was the last one." We were both first-year students, but we only had one class together. When I first came here, I tested out of several freshman-level course requirements and took as large a class load as I was allowed and had money for, anything to keep my mind busy. As a result, this semester I had mostly sophomore courses and two different language classes. I studied my ass off for a solid week preparing for this round of tests.

"Oh, right," Shalice smirked, smoothing out her dishwater blonde hair, which had grown frizzy in the presence of scantrons. "Like you weren't going to ace Environmental Science. You remember everything."

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. "I should remember everything," I replied, sending the incoming call from Renee to voicemail—I didn't feel like arguing with her at the moment. "I was up for two more hours after you passed out on me during last night's review." We commiserated about our respective classes on the long walk back to the Place Vanier section of housing.

"You coming with us to Gatsby's tonight?" my friend asked me as we hurried up the sidewalk to Hamber house, our residence building. "I'll buy you a drink."

Constant exercise of the mind sounded like a great idea in my head, but even I got tired of studying after a while and needed something else to do. Field trips were wonderful, but they weren't exactly a weekly occurrence. Shalice was more than just a roommate and a good study partner—she was largely responsible for getting me out of my dorm and away from my job and the library that first month here and into more social situations. Her friends were pleasant enough, though I thought them too much like the high school kids back home I'd been trying to get away from, too concerned with appearances. Some were on their own for the first time on Mommy and Daddy's dime, with too much freedom and no sense of responsibility; I couldn't identify with them at all. The ones like me, who had to work to be here, weren't so bad, but they were anxious to fit in and I wasn't.

Perhaps it was unfair, but I tended to think of some of the events Shalice dragged me to as trite human activity designed to reinforce social mores without providing any real cultural experience, to continue the front stage façades, meant to prove to each other that we were all normal, all basically the same, all happy and fine with bright futures and nothing in our lives we couldn't handle. Like we needed to create a glamour to be acceptable to each other. But some of the things we did were community service; that took me out of myself for a while, which I liked. Sometimes my preconceptions were wrong, and I found a new thing to enjoy, like a Malaysian café. And sometimes, when Shalice asked me to go out and do something with her, it was just meant to be fun stuff. What was so wrong with that? If that's what it took to preserve a sense of unity among the students so we wouldn't be down each other's throats over our differences, did it matter so much if a particular event that someone else was passionate about wasn't exactly my cup of tea?

As long as I kept those friendships (acquaintanceships, really) strictly on the surface level, I didn't get involved in their private matters, and they didn't know about mine. Peaceful living environment achieved. Cultivating a persona was something I knew how to do—I'd learned from the best, after all—so that's what I gave, and that's what I got in return. Doing so didn't make me miserable, but it was too much work to make me happy, either. Some other day I might have said yes to my roommate's invitation, to be polite. After all, it was hard to be completely impersonal toward the person I shared a two-hundred square foot living space with, and I wasn't a total misanthrope. But tonight, especially after the week I'd endured, I had other plans.

"No thanks," I declined as we passed one of the piano practice rooms on our way to the stairwell. Many residence halls at UBC had practice rooms, although personally I felt the soundproofing was inadequate. Someone was playing "Piano Man" and had missed a few notes. "I'm going to the Chatterbox."

"Ugh, why do you still go to that dive?" Shalice scoffed, wrinkling her nose a little. "It's so…"

"Hickish?" I offered, raising my eyebrows playfully. I knew what most of my schoolmates thought about my favorite establishment, but I put up with the remarks because I knew they were just intimidated by the clientele, and it freaked them out that I wasn't.

"I was going to say 'dusty,' but that works, too," she agreed, keeping behind me as we walked up the steps to our floor. "I fail to see the attraction, Bella." Shalice had only been to the Chatterbox once to humor me. She never went back, and I didn't mind. Going was a pleasure I could only afford once every two weeks, and my pleasures were rare and few, so it was better without anyone from school to spoil it for me.

I shrugged, pushing my room key into the doorknob, already planning what clothes I would change into for the evening. Something nice and comfortable—there was no need for pretension. "I just like it there."

March 2007

Irving K. Barber Learning Center

UBC

"I'm sorry," a library aide whispered, "it's nearly one A.M. We'll be closing in ten minutes. We need to shut everything down."

"Just five more minutes, please," I asked. "I think I've found what I'm looking for."

"Well, alright. I'll leave the lights on for you." The girl smiled kindly and left me to my studies. I looked after her for an extra second, wondering what she thought, if she ever saw any other patrons here for the same reason as I.

The first time this happened to me, I thought I was having some sort of psychotic breakdown. It was about five or six months after the boys from La Push found me in the forest. The general sense of numbness had finally faded away, but I didn't feel right, either. The phantom pain of my dreams was gone, or at least it seemed that way, but that didn't feel like the relief it should have been. I lay in my bed half the night, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of a hurt that wasn't physical anymore, until finally I threw back the covers and pulled out the first book my hand touched. It was a course catalogue. Every night I read fifty pages until I dropped off to sleep. By the end of the week, I finished the entire book, cover to cover, and I was too tired to think or dream. Then I had two more weeks of relatively peaceful nights until it happened again, and I had to start all over with another printed something-or-other, that one a textbook.

Now I was at it again, and not for the first time since moving to Vancouver. I tried to go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Really, I did. It was the middle of the week, and I had to take a morning shift at work the next day. My roommate even went to sleep, and she normally stayed up watching late night talk shows (which I assured her didn't bother me). My brain, however, was completely uncooperative tonight. I tossed and turned for an hour, my mind tumultuous with activity until I was slamming my head repeatedly into the pillow, the strangest thoughts and memories sliding around and bumping into each other in their own form of chaos.

A little girl lived next door to me when I was five and Renee and I first moved to Phoenix. Her name was Luzmaria, and at seven years old, she was the oldest of three siblings and the only fluent English speaker in her house. She was the one who taught me not just the basics of Spanish, but the deeper meanings behind some of the phrases, like how madre didn't just mean mother, but implied perfect love. Luzmaria had these little red shoes that she adored, Mary Janes my mother called them, but when we translated it to her parents it came out as marijuanas and they completely flipped out. So instead, we called the shoes "las Mary Janes." We were best friends for two years until her family was deported, and I never saw her again.

My first goldfish was named Jack. He lasted a week. My second goldfish was named Jill. She lasted another week. My third goldfish was named Elvis. He lasted two days. I didn't understand—I was feeding them, exactly as the directions said, and giving them clean water. Finally my mother stopped buying goldfish. It wasn't until three years later, when I went into the same pet store just to look around, that I learned what the real problem was. A clerk showed me the different kinds of freshwater species, explaining the differences in temperature requirements, habitat environments, and diet. There were small aquariums populated with fancy goldfish being sold as pets, and then there were fifty-gallon tanks full of feeder goldfish meant to be prey for larger, carnivorous fish. Feeder fish were often diseased and weren't intended to be kept in someone's tank for very long, which is why they were cheaper. That was the tank my mother always got my goldfish from.

One time my dad took me to see Santa at a mall in Seattle. I was only six or seven, and I wished for a dollhouse. On Christmas morning there was an enormous box in front of the tree, wrapped in blue paper and gold ribbon—the wrapping was done so prettily, I knew it couldn't have come from my father, Mr. Messy Tape. My dollhouse was beautiful, in all its pink plastic glory, with little furniture sets for each room and three little figures, a mother doll, a father doll, and a daughter doll. The daughter doll went into the kitchen. The daddy sat on the tiny couch. The mommy played in the fun room. When it was time to return to Phoenix, Charlie drove me to the designated halfway point, my dollhouse right beside me in the back seat. Renee and Charlie got in an argument about not having room for my beautiful toy in her car. Charlie demanded to know what the hell kind of oversized crap she had in her car and why she brought it when she knew she would be picking me up, along with my luggage and gifts. Renee sputtered and squawked and finally told him whatever she had in her car was none of his goddamn business. While they were fighting, I popped the trunk and saw that my mother had a suitcase of her own, large enough to hold a week's worth of clothing. I moved her stuff around, trying to make room for my own clothes and books. Something in her suitcase made a weird buzzing sound. I almost called her over to turn it off, but she and Charlie looked very busy yelling at each other. Instead I heaved my suitcase into the trunk and stowed my backpack on the floor of the front seat, which smelled of strange cologne. When I was done I tugged on my dad's shirt to tell him it was alright, the dollhouse and I would fit just fine in the backseat if my mom would move her clutter to the front. Renee started to argue that we didn't even have room at the house for such a large toy, and I looked down at the dusty parking lot tarmac in defeat and started to cry. I went home to Phoenix. My dollhouse went back to Forks.

The memories sped up after that. The boy in my class who liked to play with my braids, not because he liked me, but because he liked hair. The first time I went to the movies by myself. My third grade teacher who had to retire in the middle of the school year because she made too much money to qualify for her husband's retirement benefits. The eel swimming in the tidal pool on First Beach. The Laguna Pueblo outside Albuquerque. Gran Marie teaching me to make chocolate custard pie from scratch. My itchy tutu. My last Phoenix sunset. Renee's piano.

The piano.

I was slipping into my shoes and coat and blazing out the door inside of ten seconds. It wasn't until I got to the library that I realized I didn't bring anything with me to study. So I spent nearly two hours trying to find something else, anything else, to think about.

Saudade, the computer screen in front of me said. Portuguese. 'Longing' and 'nostalgia' were the closest English words to describe the untranslatable sentiment. Someone described it as sadness for happy memories. There were discussions of tone, indicators of fatalism because the object or memory longed for would never return, a connotation of a constant desire for things that do not or cannot exist, unattainability.

"Saudade," I whispered. Close, but not quite. I didn't want Luzmaria, or my third grade teacher, or my dollhouse. I didn't want any of it. It was all gone—I accepted that. I didn't even want to remember most of it, at least not right now. I just wanted to shut down my own brain, like a normal person, so I could go to sleep.

With a yawn, I grabbed my stack of books and stood up to leave, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

April 2007

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"The usual, Bella?" Brown asked.

"You know it," I replied, slapping the strange currency on the bar. Even after months of living here, it was still odd to see pictures of the Queen of England on twenty-dollar bills. Maybe my way of thinking was still too American, but I couldn't help but laugh to myself when I looked at the purple tens in the cash register. Even Monopoly money wasn't purple.

Brown set aside my cab fare and slid over my regular order. One nice thing about living in Canada that I hadn't expected—the legal drinking age here was 19 instead of 21. "To Him," I said, raising my first glass of the night.

"To him," Brown answered with a fading smile, watching as I took my first swallow of Jack and Coke before I briefly greeted some of the regulars and headed to the jukebox.

I discovered this old place by accident last fall. My anthropology professor, Dr. West, had issued a normal enough assignment: Find a locale or event that serves as a gathering place for members of a subculture. Report on the "artifacts" used to identify the location and how the participants interact with these items and each other. Note differences in gender roles.

Most of my classmates did easy stuff, like attending activities hosted in the Korean residence hall, or venturing out to an anime convention or to one of the many neighborhoods populated by Chinese immigrants, or making use of all the excellent First Nation facilities, things like that. There really was a wealth of opportunity here.

Me? I somehow found myself following a leather-clad cluster of bearded men and hard-ass women on thunder-loud motorcycles. Shalice thought I had some kind of death wish when I told her about it later, but they really didn't scare me. They were so…human. After tailing them through the city, I wound up at what I thought might be the only bar in Vancouver with nothing but classic rock, blues, and honky-tonk music on an old jukebox against the cinder block wall, with a piece of cardboard tacked up that read: "Complaints about the music can be addressed to my foot via your ass." The tables were castoffs from an old diner, Formica numbers with ripped, vinyl-covered bench seats or beat up aluminum chairs. An aging pool table was placed off to one side—cantina sized, not pro sized, and the felt top had surely seen better days. The walls of this place were adorned with little plastic signs that threw dirty humor in your face, red and blue blinking neon beer lights, and fading posters depicting V-twin engines, a 1994 Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, a vintage 1948 Indian Chief with girder forks, and (naturally) half-naked, scrawny women with big tits and 80's-era teased hair—nothing like most of the women who actually came in here.

Real women and men came to this place, all ages, shapes, and sizes, predominantly white but with a good mix of First People. Depending on what time and day I came in, most customers were dressed in whatever they'd been wearing at work, coveralls, scrubs, uniforms. But if I came in once the weekend got started, I usually saw black t-shirts proudly proclaiming that the wearers had stopped at Harley-Davidson shops and motorcycle rallies all over the continent, in Richmond Hill, in the Black Hills, in Pensacola, at Mancuso's in Houston. The men weren't all badass and muscular like bikers in the movies, and the women weren't ridiculously beautiful and fake like the posters on the walls, but the wonderful thing was that they didn't care. They weren't interested in attaining false notions of human perfection. Sometimes they made an effort to look their best, and sometimes they didn't. They just went along their way, trying to get through the drama in their own lives, sometimes helping each other through it, sometimes just causing more. And it was real drama, with arguments and financial woes and smartass kids and alcoholism and cheating spouses and how terrible the food was in jail and putting up with other people's shit. There wasn't room for supernatural bullshit here—there was a whole world of real people with real problems without complicating everything further with nonsense about eternity and resisting bloodlust.

I watched as they gathered in this place, a few of them hardcore Brotherhood types but mostly law-abiding "weekend" bikers, united by a common interest, here to laugh and shoot pool and cry into their beer and bitch about work and drool over some new part or accessory that had finally been installed on a bike after months of saving for it, and occasionally to get into shouting matches or fistfights in the parking lot, to talk shit about crotch-rockets (more commonly known as sport bikes), and to make plans to ride to the annual Boogie Bash in Rock Creek or to the big Sturgis rally in South Dakota next summer.

I think that sense of normality was why I kept coming here, even after my assignment for Dr. West was completed and handed in. There was no sense of unmet expectations, no need to hide my pain. In here I wasn't the poor little thing who got left by the rich doctor's son, I wasn't the unwanted puppy left on the roadside, and I wasn't the stupid human girl who fell in love with a vampire. It was obvious to others that I was a jilted lover, but I wasn't looked down on for that here. It was just like anything else. We all had problems, and we came here to drink them away for a few hours, or to work through them with our own form of therapy.

"Here's your beer," Brown said, bringing my usual chaser to my favorite table in the corner. It sounded silly, but Brown was the quintessential biker cliché: beard and mustache with a dash of grey, tattoos on his arms gone green with age, weathered skin, old eyes, rough voice from chain smoking, nearly always dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and leather. The Chatterbox had been his bar for twenty years, and his dad's before that. Brown had been the one to teach me the best way to avoid getting falling-down, puking-my-guts-out drunk: liquor before beer, never fear; beer before liquor, never sicker.

"Thanks," I answered, swaying a little to the music. "What are your plans for Easter?"

"Same old, same old," he replied. "My old lady's cooking a ham, and my son is coming down from Calgary. Hopefully no ex-wife drama this year, just a straight visit."

"That's good. Danny Jr. is thirteen now, right? He's getting too old to be a pawn in the divorce game anyway." How well I remembered that headache. "How's Marty?" Marty, short for Martine, was Brown's girlfriend and business partner. She was middle-aged, pale like me, small and squat, with fire-red hair that she kept in a thin braid and lively blue eyes that noticed everything. I balked internally the first time she introduced herself to me as 'Brown's old lady.' I probably would have stayed upset if I hadn't heard her refer to Brown as her old man.

"Marty's good. She couldn't make it tonight, but she said to tell you she'll see you tomorrow at eleven." And with a quick smile at my thanks, Brown strode back to his bar.

Tomorrow at eleven. Plenty of time for me to recover from a hangover, depending on how many draft beers I had tonight. I'd have a couple hours to visit with Marty and time for a quick shower before I had to head to work at the dining hall. Technically, I corrected myself, I didn't have to work there, but I had to have something to tell Charlie about what I did with my spare time during his biweekly phone calls. The wage wasn't wonderful, but it paid for the expenses my scholarship didn't cover, like tampons and Red Bull, and allowed me to come here every other week. I was rather proud that I hadn't spent one dime of the stolen cash hidden in a safe in my room. I did form some tentative plans for it, but I would wait a while, perhaps after graduation.

Gentle humming pulsed in the back of my head and the warmth spread from my chest to my arms as the whiskey began taking its effect. I'd tried a number of other drinks over time, but this was hands down my favorite. Shalice said it was unusual for a girl my age to like Jack Daniels, which was why I never ordered it when I went out with her. At Gatsby's we had Irish Hot Chocolate, something made with an ounce of Bailey's. Weak shit, but purposely so; we could loosen up but not get too drunk to know what was going on around us if any "predators" were watching. I never had to worry about that here. I always arrived and left in a cab, and always alone. It would have been different if I'd gone to a bar where no one knew me, but Brown and Marty looked out for me that way, more so than they did for the other customers. At first I thought that might be because I was so young, but Marty said it was because I reminded Brown of Celeste, his estranged 22-year-old daughter in Manitoba. Her snapshot was hanging from the wall behind the cash register. She didn't look like me at all, but I recognized the dejection in her face from my reflection.

Marlboro smoke from the other tables curled upward and dispersed, fogging the air around me. I never did like smokers, or smoking, but it was unavoidable in a bar. After a few months, I didn't care. Honestly, it wasn't exactly the most dangerous thing I'd ever faced. It wasn't even the most poisonous thing I'd ever smelled, when I really thought about it.

I heard Him then.

Don't do anything reckless or stupid.

Like what? What could be stupider than falling in love with a vampire and thinking I'd be welcomed and cared for by his family?

I finished off my highball and placed it on the other side of the table, in front of the empty chair. Brown wouldn't pick it up; he knew this part of my routine by now. We had signals, he and I. When I sat at a barstool, there was people-watching and more conversation. When I sat here…that was something else. Blinking twice, I started on the draft chaser.

"There's a rundown bar across the railroad track. I got a table for two, way in the back, where I sit alone…"

The empty seat across from me slowly began to fill with my jumbled memory as Brooks and Dunn floated through the dark room. Smoke kept me from remembering that intoxicating scent so that I wouldn't give in, and the liquor and rounds of beer erased the taste of his skin. So armed, I allowed myself this one indulgence.

You're not good for me, Bella.

I felt myself grimace as my thumb stroked the suede jacket on my lap.

I'm sorry, Edward. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for your kind. I did try to change that, but you wouldn't let me.

Of all the things to apologize for.

What the hell was I supposed to apologize for?

For very nearly taking yourself away from me forever.

You didn't want forever with me any damn way. Why make me apologize for that? You took yourself away from me. You took forever away from me. You took my sister away from me, my brothers…

They love you too, you know.

No, that was just another lie. One of Them, any of them, would have come back to find me if they cared enough. They knew I loved them, and they walked away. If they had to go, they had to go, and I couldn't entirely fault them for being loyal to each other instead of me, but the least they could have done was say goodbye. Did they even think about me anymore? Why did I want them to miss me?

I could see His face across from me, beautiful and frozen, speaking the words I wanted to hear. Oh, Bella. I'm so sorry.

No, you're not. Not that way. You're sorry you let me invade your life, maybe, but that's all. If you were sorry in the way I needed, you would be here for real.

I'll be right here as long as you need me…as long as it makes you happy…as long as it's what's best for you.

What the hell do you know about what's best for anybody? Smug bastard.

You are my life now.

"Eat shit and die, asshole."

I felt a hand pulling my glass away and a strong, warm arm around my shoulders, lifting me to my feet. "Up you go, Bella. Your cab is here."

Warm raindrops slid down my face, to the corner of my mouth…oh. Not rain. There wasn't salt in the rain. "I miss Him so much."

"I know you do, honey. Time to go home and get some sleep."

"Thanks, Brown." He always knew when it was time for me to go.

A/N 2: In modern-day Vancouver, waitstaff are required by law to monitor patrons who consume alcohol, which isn't a bad thing, but the waiters can be held legally responsible for whatever the intoxicated customer does after leaving the establishment. My understanding is that this, along with a series of highly restrictive (and ridiculous) alcohol and anti-smoking laws, is strictly enforced for reasons of public health and safety. (And yet BC's medical marijuana grow-houses are not monitored for building code safety violations or fire hazards.) HOWEVER, I'm not writing about a Vancouver like that. In my story, Bella is prearranging to get in a cab because she wants to be safe, and Brown is cutting her off and putting her in that cab because he cares, not because he's afraid of legal action. Why do I mention this? Because I don't want my Vancouver readers to say "Hey wait just a darn minute," and because it's important to any story to know what the rules are. But also to remind you not to rely on your bartender or waiter to decide when you've had enough or to see you home safely. Please drink responsibly.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.