Here's a very humble author's note from me. I have been blown away, not just by the number of reviews that this story has had so far, but also by the very nature of them. I have no idea what it is, but there is something about this story that has touched many of you. I have had such long, detailed and emotive messages from people; a lot of you are truly invested. Which is wonderful…but also very scary for me! Everybody has opinions on what they want to see happen here, and I know for a fact that I won't be able to please all of you, but I hope you'll bear with me.

In the meantime, please continue to read and review. I love reading them and reply whenever I can.

Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

Chapter 3

I know I look as though I haven't slept all night, probably because I haven't to speak of, but even as the doorbell rings, I don't care. I have bigger problems than my appearance, right now. I pull my robe tighter as I walk to the door, wondering if it will be him. If it is, I'll be pissed. I told him I'd call him when I was ready. We're on my terms now.

I peer through the spyhole in the door. Oh. This should be interesting.

"Hi, Esme," I greet my mother-in-law, opening the door and standing aside to let her through. I have a feeling she hasn't had too much sleep either from looking at her. I close the door and turn back to her. She embraces me hard.

"Bella, sweetheart. I'm so very sorry," she tells me.

Somehow I know that when she says sorry, it's an apology for what her son has done; not simply an expression of regret for my situation.

"It's not your fault. He made his own choices," I tell her as we break apart. I actually forget about my own misery long enough to feel sorry for her.

"I know, Bella, but we can't help but feel responsible in some way." She's wringing her hands in front of her. I watch for a moment, until I can't stand it any longer. Reaching out, I put my own hand on hers to stop the movement.

"Stop," I tell her. It's an ambiguous order, intended for both her hands and her psyche. "You can't think like that. You did a wonderful job of raising him, you must know that. If I can be half the mother you are, someday…" My voice fades as my words catch up with me.

I can't help but wonder what my chances of being a mother are, now. I'd been thinking about it a lot recently, thinking that maybe I was ready to take that next step. I wonder what Edward would have said if I'd gotten around to mentioning it? Would he have gone along with it despite what he was doing with my best friend?

"Bella?" Esme's voice brings me back to the moment. She's looking at me, concerned.

"Sorry," I say. She smiles sadly at me. There's pity in her expression, too. I guess I'd better get used to it; she won't be the only one looking at me like that when word gets out.

"Have you eaten?" she asks me. I shake my head, no.

"I'm not hungry," I tell her. My appetite is just another thing on the list of what he's taken from me.

"That may be, but you still need to eat."

"Maybe later. I could use a coffee though. Join me?" I ask her, turning to make for the kitchen.

"Sure," she says.

I'm having a hard time not rattling off questions for her: What time did he get to their house? How was he? What exactly did he tell them? What did they say? Where is he now? Does she think he's been in touch with her? I can't even bring myself to think the name.

"How is he?" I ask, allowing myself this single indulgence. Except the term 'indulgence' suggests something satisfactory, and her reply fails to satisfy any part of me.

"Not good. I've never seen him so quiet."

We're pretty quiet ourselves, as we sit at the kitchen table with the coffee maker sputtering on the counter behind us.

"Bella, what do you think you'll do?" she asks suddenly. "Is there any chance you can take him back?" She's pleading a little, and while I understand completely why she does, I also resent it. It's not fair of her to put me in a position where I feel I'm letting her down.

The coffee maker beeps and I get up to pour it, glad of the excuse to not look her in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Esme. I really don't think I can." There's silence while I pour the coffee. When I come back to the table and place the mugs down, I see with dismay that she's crying.

Anger flares in me again. Does he even have any idea at all of the pain he's caused? Of how widespread it is? He adores his mother. I'm pretty sure if he saw her now, he'd be devastated. He should see her now.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I know I shouldn't have asked, but…" She sighs. "He's my son. He may not be able to see how good you are for him, Bella, but I do. I see what he's throwing away."

"Thrown away," I correct her. Nothing is in progress here; it's a done deal.

I hunch over her, my arms around her shoulders. How typical of me to wind up in this situation; comforting when I should really be being comforted. Esme obviously thinks the same thing at the same moment, as she makes an obvious effort to compose herself. I return to my seat and cradle my mug between my hands.

"I hope you understand…" I begin. Damn, this is hard. I swallow. "I'm breaking up with Edward; not you and Carlisle. You've been like parents to me, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," she tells me. Her eyes are glistening again.

"I hope that our relationship can continue," I tell her. "If it's not too awkward, that is."

She smiles. It's small, but it's definitely a smile.

"I really don't think Edward can pass comment." She gazes into her mug.

"I'm sorry this has to affect you, Esme." I truly am.

"Don't worry about me, Bella; concentrate on yourself. If there's anything at all we can do, or that you need, will you promise you'll ask?" I know she won't take no for an answer, so I nod my head. I really don't think I ever could ask them, but there's no point getting into an argument about it now.

We finish our coffee and she offers to stay, but I decline; her presence just makes me feel guilty for being a part of the broken union that's putting her through this. I wonder how much worse I'd feel if I was the one at fault.

She leaves, with a promise to be in touch.

I consider going back to bed. I even get as far as standing beside it with the duvet pulled back, but then I decide I won't mope. Not at the moment anyway.

I look at the smooth bedding on what had always been his side. The first thing I'd done after he left was change the sheets. The tears had flowed as heavily as ever as I stuffed the dirty ones into the washing machine. There had definitely been something cathartic about the act though, I'd decided later, when I eventually slipped beneath the crisp, laundry-fresh replacements.

I can keep going, so I decide that I will. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look ghastly. First stop: shower.

Some of his bathroom items have gone, whilst others are still there, mocking me with their presentation of normalcy. I look away, deliberately tilting my head upwards in defiance. I realize I'm being ridiculous, and berate myself for acting up in front of inanimate objects. I really need to get a grip.

The water in the shower feels good. If I were in a film, or a book, I think to myself, this water would take on magical properties, ridding me of the worries and the pressures of the situation.

I have a flashback of Nellie Forbush in South Pacific, washing her man right out of her hair.

"Waste no time; weep no more, show him what the door is for," I sing half-heartedly, hoping it will make me feel a little more empowered. It doesn't; I still feel like crap as I twist the handle round to stop the water. Not really any surprises there.

I dry my hair, get dressed and decide to put on a little make-up. I need to visit the store at some point, there's no need to go out looking like hell. My one concession to the situation is waterproof mascara. That's the thing about grief. The tears have a habit of making an appearance when you're least expecting it. I remember it well from when Gran died.

I'm actually feeling pretty together for the moment. Or maybe it's more of the numbness. Whatever, it feels like a window of opportunity for getting the store visit out of the way. I have no idea how the rest of the day could go; for all I know I may collapse this afternoon. Best to do what I can, when I can, I decide.

I wish I had someone I could call to just bring the groceries to me. You know, like a best friend or something.

The good thing is that it's Saturday so I don't have to call work and make excuses for being absent. The bad thing is that it's Saturday and from my vantage point at the edge of the parking lot, half of the population of Forks has converged on the Thriftway.

I give myself a quick pep-talk and jump out of the truck. I grab a basket and put my head down, determined to be back home as soon as I can. With chocolate, ideally.

I've never done such efficient shopping. Usually I stroll around the store, taking my time; today I'm a woman on a mission.

My hand closes around a pack of deli ham in the refrigerator.

"Hey, Bella!"

Mid-way through the air to my basket, it falls to the floor as the voice causes my grip to falter for a moment.

"Shit," I whisper as I bend to retrieve it. I'm not cursing my clumsiness.

Shit? Even I'm questioning why, in a moment such as this, 'shit' is my strongest reaction. I come to the conclusion that everything else is too complicated. When all's said and done, 'shit' does, after all, sum it all up pretty well.

"On your own today?" she asks. I stand, my eyes drawn to her smiling face as her eyes dart around the store behind me. Well, of course she'd be hoping to see him.

My heart begins to thump in my chest, and I really want to slap that smile off her face and tell her what a lousy cheating whore of a best friend she is. But then two thoughts enter my head.

One, she doesn't know that I know, which means he hasn't been in touch with her.

Two, I can't do this. Not here. Not now.

I set my basket down on the floor at her feet, turn and walk away, my head spinning. I walk right out of the store, hearing her bewildered voice as she calls after me. I ignore her. She'd better get used to it.

I'm in the truck, out of the parking lot and five minutes down the 101 before I realise the waterproof mascara was a wise decision.

I haven't made a conscious decision about where to go, but somehow I find a destination. I reverse into a space at the back of the parking lot at First Beach, facing the sea. A van full of teens is parked up opposite me. I watch the girls giggling as they cast glances at the boys, who play it cool as they zip up their wetsuits.

I wish I could warn them not to trust the boys and to choose their friends carefully. I wish someone had warned me at that age. Not that I'd have listened of course, especially not to some crazy woman with tears streaming down her face.

I wonder how many of their friendships will stand the tests of time and temptation? I'd been sure that mine and Angela's would have. We'd been best friends since she moved to town at the beginning of high school. I thought of the hours that we watched Edward together, both of us captivated by him. We giggled like typical schoolgirls, but we only ever watched from afar.

Years later, I graduated college and returned to Forks. I went out to a party to catch-up with some old friends, and that was where I ran into him for the first time in four years. I'd felt I'd known him so well, that it was strange that he didn't know my name; didn't even recognize me.

Angela wasn't there. She wasn't due back for another couple of weeks, but she listened and squealed in all the right places, as I called her with an excited guess who I saw last night?

She never made the slightest suggestion that she might still be into him. I wondered if she really was, or if she just wanted what I had?

She'd been there every step of the relationship: the flirting, the first kiss, the fooling around, the first time we had sex, the arguments and tears, moving in together, the proposal. She was even maid of fucking honor at our wedding. Could I have chosen anyone made of less honor? I was doubtful, looking back.

How on earth would I ever survive this? Having the two people I cared for most – who I thought cared for me – ripped away on a tide of betrayal.

It's downright fucking cruel, and…

A pain rips through my chest. I think my heart just cracked right down the center.

I'm alone. I wonder if there will ever be anybody – without a familial obligation – standing by my side again. There's nobody here to hold me upright now. Nobody to save me from drowning in my tears.

I know what the saying means, to be hurting inside, but holy shit, I have never known pain so excruciating. I curl in, trying to hold myself together.

A sudden knock on the passenger-side window startles me and I jump. Reluctantly, I lean across and unlock the door, wiping my face on my sleeve as surreptitiously as possible.

"Hi Embry," I hiccup, greeting the guy as he opens the door. He's a friend of a friend really. Nobody of consequence.

"Are you ok?" he asks, sticking his head into the truck.

No.

"Yes. Just having a bad day," I tell him. I now know it was a mistake leaving the house at all. I'm not up to this; to the questions and explanations.

"Oh, right." I know he wants more. I know he knows he's not getting it. I also know he'll be busting a gut to tell Jacob about this. What was that about consequence? Crap.

He's silent. I'm silent. An awkward atmosphere descends. I can guarantee he'll break before I do.

"Ok, well, I guess I'll see you around then," he says, although he doesn't move. I don't look at him; I keep my eyes fixed firmly forward.

"Yep."

Another moment and then he slams the door closed.

I see him walk away through my peripheral vision. As soon as he's out of sight, I let my head lean against the steering wheel. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.

I need to get out of here.

I think about going home, but there's one thing I really need to get out of the way first.

"Hey, Dad," I call as I unlock the front door. He insists I still let myself in.

"In here, Bells," a voice calls from the kitchen. I'm dreading this; have been dreading this since last night when the realization I'd have to break the news of my marriage breakdown to my father, hit me. "I'm just trying to fix this damn leaking u-bend again," his voice informs me from the cupboard below the sink. "I just can't seem to get it…right." His voice tails off as he emerges from the cupboard, pulls himself to his feet and gets his first look at my face. "Bella?"

I take a deep breath. I'm already sick of saying it, even though this is the first time I've actually said it out loud.

"Edward and I, we…split up." My voice is hoarse from crying. I don't recognise it.

He looks at me and I stare steadily back. I can tell he's processing the information.

"You split up?"

"Yeah."

He winces and I know that it's come as a shock to him, much as it did to me.

"But how…I mean, I only came over on Wednesday. The two of you seemed pretty happy then?" It's a question. He evidently doesn't trust his own judgement of the situation.

I just want him to understand and accept things, without me actually having to go through any of it with him. Neither of us is going to be comfortable with the truth.

"So…"

"So…?" I echo.

"Ah, come on, Bells. What happened? "

I think about lying. For some stupid reason, I actually think of keeping the truth from my own father, to protect Edward. The thought is a fleeting one.

"Edward's been having an affair. With Angela."

I'm half expecting my dad to go straight for his shotgun and hunt him down. Relief floods me when he proves me wrong.

"Oh, Bella. I'm sorry, Honey," he said, his eyes filling with emotion. I close the space between us then, and wrap my arms around his waist. The moment I'm safe in his embrace, the tears begin again.

"It hurts, Daddy," I choke out between sobs.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." And he does. He knows because he's been there. My mom wasn't having an affair, but she ended a marriage that he wasn't ready to let go of. So, yeah. He knows.

Eventually he calms me down and leaves me wrapped in a blanket on the couch watching TV, while he goes to make me a Charlie Swan special hot chocolate. It's been years since he did this. I can't wait.

I wonder what the time is and pull my phone from my pocket.

3 missed calls – Jake

I knew it. I can't deal with him now; he'll have to wait.

"You know, Bells. If you want to stay here for a couple of days, I don't mind," my dad says as he walks back in with a mug for each of us.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, genuinely grateful. I consider being brave and decide that it's just going to mean lonely. "I think I will." He smiles at me.

"I'll drive you to grab your stuff before dinner," he promises.

We're quiet for a moment, both of us with our eyes fixed on the TV, neither of us really watching it. I can tell he wants to ask something, even before he manages to actually form the words.

"Just say it, Dad. Whatever it is," I say eventually. Honestly, it's getting kind of painful watching his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"I'm sorry, but…did you say…" He turned to look at me now. "That Edward was having an affair with Angela? As in Angela Weber?" I nod.

"Yeah."

"But she's your best friend!"

"No. She was my best friend, Dad. I think that ship sailed the moment she started having sex with my husband."

There's a flash of anger across my dad's face.

"When I see that cheating little son of a—"

I'd been waiting for this reaction, although I had expected it a lot sooner.

"Dad," I say, the warning heavy in my voice. He got it.

"I never liked him anyway."

I smirk.

"I knew that," I tell him. Because I have kind of always suspected as much.

"I'm a cop," he says, shrugging. "We have these hunches."

We're quiet again. I'd forgotten how easy my dad was to be with. A line from Grease pops into my head.

The only man a girl can depend on is her daddy.

Wasn't that just the truth?

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