I'm not going to give an excuse for why I'm late posting this time, because it's the same one I gave last week and the week before that. For those of you who have never had to move, know this, it sucks! Thankfully, it will be all over soon, the place will be ours on Easter Sunday and unpacking will be a breeze compared to packing and sorting things for good will. OH! Speaking of goodwill, that place is the shit! I dropped off like 6 giant trash bags worth of stuff there yesterday and got 10 books and a pair of pants while I was there for $58! SCORE! =D Anyway, this chapter was supposed to include the fishing trip with Edward and Charlie, but I felt it needed to end at the spot I left it so maybe I'll put in the fishing trip as a flashback next chapter or something. Once again I own nothing Twilight, but I wish there was someway I could hire Dirty Edward to be my mover. Mm, how awesome would that be?

Chapter 3

Intolerable Fire

"Fire is the most tolerable third party."~ H. D. Thoreau

BPOV

Dad was right of course, Mom is not too happy about me showing up at their house in my dripping clothes, but before she has the chance to lecture me, the house fills with smoke, signaling that dinner's ready at the Swan residence.

"Not again!" Mom exclaims, rushing frantically to the kitchen as she sweeps a few strands of brown hair that have fallen out of her bun, back behind her ear.

Events of this nature have been happening as long as I can remember. Mom always forgets things like where she put her keys, or that there's food in the oven. She'd never admit to it, but I'm almost positive that she did a lot of pot as a teen or something because no one's memory is as bad as hers is. She's so forgetful and worrisome that I'm shocked her hair hasn't started to gray yet. I say as much as I shake my head and race after her. She gives me the evil eye.

"Come on, that was a compliment. I was just saying that you're as beautiful as always, and apparently, still a terrible cook," I add the last part under my breath when my mom opens up the oven and thick, black smoke billows out to reveal what I think was supposed to be a roast.

I'll be honest, my mom has never been able to cook; she can't even bake. I can't count the number of times I made food and my mom paid me to pass it off as hers with the guys down at the station. It was our little secret when I was a kid. Dad knew, but he'd never rat Mom out, he'd just chuckle at her and give me a wink whenever we showed up with a tray of cupcakes or brownies. Anyway, for the past four years, I've wondered how my parents have gotten along on Mom's cooking, and staring at the black brick of what used to be meat, I can only guess that it was the extensive collection of take-out menus on the fridge. Well, that and fried fish, the only item my dad knows how to cook. For a brief moment, I feel guilty and a little sad before I remember that I'm home now. Maybe I can cook for them, or at least find out a way to teach Mom a thing or two. I may not be a supreme culinary expert, but at least I can make spaghetti without ruining it. Mom waves around a potholder, trying to clear the smoke and I attempt to cover a laugh by concealing my mouth with my hand.

"Isabella Marie Swan, are you laughing at your mother's delicious welcome home dinner?" Mom questions me jokingly, gesturing with her potholder towards the charred hunk of meat in the glass pan sitting on the rack in the oven.

My retort dies on my tongue when the meat spontaneously bursts into flames. In a panic, Mom jumps back a foot or so from the stove with wide eyes. I suppose I'm glad she didn't cook much while I was gone. Not even the fact that Dad is a fire chief could save her from burning her own house down. Thankfully, my dad has prepared for just such an occasion. I grab the extinguisher by the fridge, pull the tab, and spray the fire, filling the oven with white foam. Once the flames are out, I shut off the heat and grab the potholder from my mom, wagging my finger at her in mock shame.

"Mm, pot roast a la death," I shout over the now wailing smoke detectors, moving the pan from the oven to the sink. "Sadly, I had a big lunch so I think I'll pass."

Mom laughs and despite the wetness in her eyes, I know she's happy and so am I. It's nice to be home.

We deactivate the smoke detectors, order pizza for dinner, and Mom shoos me out of the kitchen so she can clean up the mess. Dad will be home soon from his shift and she doesn't want to have to explain what happened. I know it bugs my mom to listen to my dad lecture her, which is why I won't spill the beans, but tomorrow, I'm definitely going to buy groceries and teach that woman to cook. Things could have gone a lot worse if I hadn't been here today. I doubt she would have remembered the fire extinguisher so she probably would have stood there in shock as the fire grew. Eventually, the flames would have engulfed the kitchen and the house, possibly taking her as well. The thought sends shivers down my spine.

An image of a charred body, the only person that I've ever failed to save, flashes in my mind and I do my best to force it away. As a firefighter, I know that I can't save everyone, but that doesn't mean that I don't recall that day time and time again. I've gone over every detail, and I couldn't have done anything differently. I put my life on the line and it wasn't enough, nothing would have been enough to save that one. Unfortunately, just because that's the truth, doesn't mean that I don't feel sad when I think about that loss. With a little effort I'm able to let the memory go. It will surface again, but I try not to linger on it whenever it does. It's not right to live in the past. I should be thinking about the present, and at the present, I'm damp with rainwater and I smell like smoke and chemicals. The smell doesn't bother me, I'm used to it, but if I'm going to keep today's incident from Dad, I'm going to have to take a shower and change into some clean clothes.

After grabbing my suitcase, I make my way up the creaky, wooden stairs to the second floor, coming to an abrupt stop when I reach the top. My eyes drift to the right, into my parents' bedroom, and without thinking, I abandon my suitcase in the hall and step inside, seeming to be drawn into the space.

The room looks the same as when I last saw it, unchanged by my time away. The queen size bed with the blue comforter is made up perfectly neat, the old television set, that we used to have downstairs when I was really little, is in the armoire across from the bed, and sprawled out across the dresser and nightstands are a dozen different pictures. As I walk through the room, I scan each one. Most of them are the types of pictures everyone has sitting out at their house- school pictures, my first birthday party where my face is splattered in cake, and me all dressed up in my tutu for my one, and only, ballet recital. I skim past those and stop on one of my parents and me on my Dad's fishing boat when I was five. With a smile, I pick up the small brown frame and stroke the wood softly, admiring the image with reverence. I'm holding a huge fish up by a line of fishing wire as my parents squeeze me from both sides and we all have massive grins on our faces. It was the first time I ever caught something and my dad was so proud. I set the photo down gently as if I'm afraid of breaking the memory.

About half way down the dresser, I pick up another frame; it holds a picture of my Mom and Dad on their wedding day. Wedged into the corner is a small photo of me at age six. When I got caught playing dress-up in my mom's wedding dress, I was sure that she was going to yell at me, but instead she put some make-up on me, did my hair, and took a picture. Secretly, I enjoyed that day probably as much as my mom did. It was one of the only times I ever played dress-up. As a kid, I was always a tomboy and many of these snapshots prove it, especially the one on Dad's nightstand of Jake and me. With a beaming smile, I place the wedding photo down and walk to Dad's nightstand to pick up the photo of me and my best friend covered in mud from one of our epic mud fights.

My mom hated it when we got in mud fights and on that particular day, she had had enough of placing down towels for us to walk on in order for us to get to the bathroom and clean up. She refused to let us come into the house at all. The still shows Jake and me at age eight, stripped down to our underwear and undershirts, screaming as my mom sprays us down with the garden hose on the front lawn. Either my dad or his dad must have been holding the camera. I remember being so embarrassed that day that Jake and I never had another mud fight, but now that I look back on it, I find that moment in my life to be one of my most hysterical. It takes everything in me not to bust out laughing as I place the frame back down on the bedside table. I haven't felt this giddy in years.

That light and cheery feeling stays with me as I make my way over to my mom's side of the bed, in search of more of my childhood joy. It seems like every photograph in this room takes me back to some of the happiest times, times that I've nearly forgotten about, so it's a jolt to my system when I reach for a picture on my mom's nightstand that reminds me of a day that wasn't so happy. In fact, that day sucked, at least for me anyway.

My hands grip tightly to the edges of the frame as I look at the Cullen home, completely trashed. Standing on the front steps is Esme and my mom, smiling from ear to ear with their arms wrapped around each other. This photo was taken the day Edward and Alice entered my life. It's also the day that Jake and I had our first real fight and all because I stuck up for that idiot. How did he repay me? By being a complete ass. It was like no matter what I said to Edward, he took it the wrong way and our interactions have only been worse since then. At this point, there's no use in even trying to be nice when everything I say is automatically wrong. Now Alice is a different story, her and I are simply too different. She probably hates me because I'm not all girly like she is and I don't want to talk about clothes for hours on end.

Esme and my mom could talk forever about anything; they do it all the time. I sigh loudly, gazing at the two of them, looking so happy. It must be nice to have a close girl friend. It would be great for those times that I want to talk about something other than cars or how hot Jake thinks Jessica Alba is. That will never happen with Alice and me though. Our families are so close and I sometimes think it sucks that we don't get along, but were like aliens from different planets. She's from unicorn and fairy land and I'm from the dark, mysterious forest of misfits. I set the photo back down and walk out of the room and across the hall to my on space, intent on moving onto something that doesn't remind me of the Cullen twins and the fact that we will never get along.

My parents' room isn't the only one that remained the same. Everything is just how I left it. In the left-hand corner is my old, twin-size bed covered with the purple comforter I had in my teens and folded at the foot of the bed, is the afghan my grandmother made me before she passed away. Next to the bay window, on the right-hand side of the bedroom, is my bookshelf, overflowing with works by dozens of different authors from Stephen King to Shakespeare and everything in between. Just to the left of that is my oak dresser, marked up with permanent marker graffiti of Quileute tribe symbols and some of my own. Across the top, carved with a whittling knife, is Jake's name and mine, a sign of our handiwork. The walls are white, or at least they would be if they were visible, lining the room from floor to ceiling is a sea of movie and music posters, and some sheet music for my favorite classic composers like Debussy.

My eyes wander across the images of my favorite musicians and films that line my bedroom walls- Green Day, Metallica, Queen, KISS, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Temptations, Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra, Dracula, Interview with the Vampire, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, The Princess Bride, Tommy Boy, Black Sheep, The Shining, Dawn of the Dead. There are times that I forget how diverse I am, but looking at these walls, I can see it all too clearly. Why is it that I can like almost everything, but Edward and I can't find one thing that we agree one? The thought pops into my head with no effort on my part and once again, I find myself thinking of the worse of the two Cullen twins. Edward and I like a lot of the same music, Debussy for example, but we'll argue over stupid things like what compositions better, 'Reverie', or 'Clair de Lune'. What I don't understand is why. If we both like Debussy, than why do we have to argue over it? Damn it…why do I care? So what if Edward doesn't agree with me on anything or that our parents get along and we don't? It doesn't fucking matter; he hates me, Alice hates me and no matter what I do, they're never going to change and neither am I. With a groan, I toss my suitcase on the bed and head into the bathroom. So much for the Cullen twins not ruining my day.

The next morning, I'm up at the crack of dawn, who the hell knows why. I blame it on the fact that I've been a light sleeper ever since I started working as a fire fighter. Whatever, I'm up so I use the extra time to my advantage. I leave a note with my parents and drive out to Port Angeles, arriving in the nick of time for the opening of the Verizon store and a bubbly young girl proceeds to tell me that I'll have to buy a replacement phone because water damage isn't covered under insurance. No, really¡ I'm sure she notices me rolling my eyes at her because she's not nearly as bubbly after that. I end up walking away with a cool smart phone though. It does internet and gives me the opportunity to check out my Facebook and e-mail. Yippie¡ Not only do I have no new friend requests, or posts on my wall, but I also have nothing in my e-mail inbox except junk mail. I hate junk mail. I'm not going to send $20,000 to some guy in a far away country, I have no need for a drug that will enlarge my non-existent penis, nor do I intend to meet a girl named Tiffany for a hot date tonight. I wonder if anybody ever falls for that crap, probably. I mark all the e-mails as spam and trash them.

"Well, what do I do now?" I murmur to myself, checking the time on my phone.

It's only nine o'clock. Oh! Jake should be opening up shop right about now. I climb into my truck and dial up one of the only numbers I've ever bothered to memorize. A familiar voice answers on the third ring.

"Thank you for calling Black Automotive, this is Jacob Black. How can I help you today?"

"Uh, I'll have a club sandwich and a tea," I say, and I'm unable to keep the smile of my face as I hear him say the next line of the famous SNL skit.

"No club, no tea. Cheeseburger."

"Okay, I'll have a cheeseburger, well done," I reply.

"All right, cheeseburger," he agrees. "What to drink?"

"Ah, no tea?" I ask.

"No tea. Pepsi."

"Ah, do you have root beer?" I question him.

"No. No root beer. Pepsi."

"Grape. Do you have-?" I start the line and he cuts me off perfectly, shouting into the phone.

"Pepsi!"

We're both barely able to contain our laughter as I choke out my reply.

"I don't think I want anything to drink, thanks."

"Okay, tea."

As soon as he says the last line, there's no stopping the hysterics. It takes nearly 5 minutes for the two of us to calm down enough to speak again.

"God, I'm so happy you're home, Bells. We should do that skit at the diner. Waylon runs the place now. I'm sure he'd go for it. Oh, speaking of you being home, if you have some free time, you should come by the shop today."

I look around at the practically empty parking lot and put the truck in gear.

"Hell yeah," I declare. "I'm out in Port Angeles right now, but I'll head over once I get back into town."

"Sounds good, Bells…Oh, a customer just walked in. I'll see you when you get here."

We both say goodbye and I hang up the phone to make the long drive to La Push.

When I pull up in front of Black Automotive, I already feel welcome. It isn't a real fancy place, just a large tin structure painted red and black, but Jake is extremely proud of his shop and rightfully so. Everyone, who's anyone around Forks, comes here to get work down on their cars. I walk into the front door and the smell of burnt metal, and dirt hits me. It smells like Jake, or I guess Jake smells like it.

"Jake!" I call out his name, expecting to see him pop his head into the office through the door that leads into the garage. I get quite the surprise when it's someone else entirely who walks into the doorway.

"Seth!" I run towards the tall boy with the kid-like face, short black hair, and tan skin. He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me hard. Holy crap! It's like hugging a statue. This boy is ripped. The last time I saw him he was 13 and scrawny. I laugh. "Whoa, you're buff. What are you, like 16?"

I tease him and ruffle his hair.

"17 next month," he says, pushing down his hair with grease-coated hands.

"Why aren't you in school? Ditching? I don't care what anyone says, it's healthy to ditch class now and then."

"Graduated early," he replies with a wide grin. "I'm just working here until I can start UW in the fall."

"Wow! That's amazing, Seth. I bet your parents are proud."

He blushes and changes the subject.

"Are you here to see Jake?"

"Yeah, actually, I am, he was expecting me, but he probably forgot or something. Is he busy?"

"I'm not sure, but I think I saw him go into the stockroom." Seth tells me, pointing towards the garage as if I don't know where it is. I smile at him knowingly and he drops his hand. "I forget sometimes that you used to basically live her. Well, I should get back to work, I'll see you later."

"Definitely," I say, walking towards the garage. I make my way through the large open space, avoiding tripping over tools or knocking over the stereo that Seth has blaring and open up the door to the stockroom to find more than what I was expecting, a lot more.

There are hands all over bodies, and mouths on mouths. I think there's some sort of squeaking noise, but I'm doing everything I can to tune it out. I can't make myself move. I feel my breakfast attempt to come back up, but I won't let it. I choke it down and clamp my eyes shut, thanking the dear, sweet, lord that there were still clothes on the two people entangled together.

Unfortunately, even with my eyes closed, I can still see her fake-permed, mousy brown hair and my best friend's lip on hers. Of all the rotten, horrible people…Jake is shacking up with the dumbest, most uninteresting, shallow girl in Forks. He could do a thousand times better. This doesn't make any sense. Most of the time, I could give a fuck less who he fucks, but come on! Even Lauren Mallory would have been a better choice, and she's a total bitch. At least she has some fucking intelligence.

"Shit, Bells," Jake stammers and I hear a bunch of clattering, but I refuse to open my eyes.

"Yeah, I'll-, uh, come back later," I murmur and turn to leave. Now that I'm able to open my eyes again, I rush back through the garage, the office, and out the front door with a speed I didn't know was possible.

I seriously cannot believe I just saw those two making out like horny teenagers. I feel dirty. Jake grabs my arm as I'm about to get into the truck and a shudder runs through me. No more than two minutes ago he was rubbing his hands all over some girl. GROSS! I don't care if they both had clothes on and his hands were only wrapped around her over her shirt. It's still nasty, he's like my brother.

"Whoa! Bells, hold up,"

His voice is so full of nervousness that I stop trying to pull away. I force myself not to throw up or wipe down my arm the moment he lets it go.

"I thought we were going to hang out," he says, bewildered.

"Well, I forgot, I have to go to the store and I promised my mom I would teach her how to cook some things," I ramble, trying to ease out of this awkward situation.

"If this is about Jessica, she just stopped by to say hi."

"It looked like a lot more than saying hi…I can't believe you're fucking her," I cringe and his eyes go wide.

"Wait, no one told you?" he asks. "I mean, I told no one to tell you, but I didn't think they would seriously not tell you. I wanted to wait and talk to you about it myself, in person."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demand. "Why in the world would anyone care about telling me that you're fucking Jessica? I don't intend to fuck you myself so what does it matter? I just figured you'd do better than Jessica Stanley. What happened to that chick-, um, Maggie? She was nice."

"Maggie got some posh job in Seattle. Besides, I'm not fucking Jessica…well, I'm not just fucking her. Bells…Jessica and I have been dating for four months."

OoOo! Jessica, you skank! Moving on, I have a question for you all. Could leaving me a review really make my day? Does a former drill sergeant make a terrible therapist?

Patient:And that's why yellow makes me sad, I think.

Former Drill Sergeant Therapist: That's interesting, you know what makes me sad? You do! Maybe we should chug on over to mamby pamby land where we can find some self confidence for you, you jack wagon!

What? It works for Geico, I figured it might work for me. Alright...if you don't like that, how about this. I'm an author who's teetering on the edge of sanity and my imaginary bff, becky, just told me that Dirty Edward's not real. Now I'm emotionally compromising. *Kicks you* WHOOPSIE! I'm all 'OMG! Becky's not even real! How the hell would she know!' If you don't leave a review you may end up with an even more emotionally compromised author who will continually kick you. So leave a review and be protected from mayhem, like me. LMAO!