iv.


Leah isn't one to make apologies, so you know better than to expect one. The day that Leah Clearwater says she's sorry is the day Taha Aki comes out of the forest after seven hundred years.

You apologise, though. Not because you think you're a better person or because you regret what you said to her. You apologise because, well, despite everything you are glad that she is here with you. And you want her to stay. You might have given up a long time ago without her.

(You might not have even reached as far as the end of La Push Road if she hadn't packed a bag of her own and followed you, but you don't tell her that.)

When you try to make her understand how you feel without sounding like a total idiot, she brushes off your words. But you can see that it's meant something to her — that you said it.

Then, you thank her.

Leah blinks, stunned. She isn't surprised easily. "What for?"

"For coming back this morning. I didn't know if you would."

"Not like I got anywhere else to go," she mutters, turning away, but the words are half-hearted, lacking her usual heat. And they might be true, but you're still grateful that she didn't skip town without you.

"Although…" Leah looks back with a wicked smile, already returning to herself. "If you really want to thank me… maybe you could let me drive."

Before you lose your nerve, before you think about it too much (because it's the Rabbit, the coolest car in the world), you throw her the keys.

You owe her, after all.

"Go easy on the clutch. Actually, just — just go easy on everything, yeah? Please."

Leah laughs. "Jeez. Get a grip, Jake."

And just like that, things go back to normal.

Normal for you two, anyway.


You can go a week before the headaches start again. Sometimes the peace only lasts a day, maybe even less than that. But what matters is that you keep on going.

What matters is that you don't give in. You won't. You can't.

So you go to Tallahassee. Biloxi. New Orleans. Beaumont. Houston. San Antonio. And when you get to San Diego, you go all the way back again.

Anywhere but north. Anywhere that's not within a thousand miles of La Push.

Anywhere Bella is not. Anywhere Sam is not.

Anywhere but there.


At the back of a diner in Atlanta, where it's quiet, you and Leah sit opposite each other. Wordlessly you empty your pockets, your bags, your wallets.

Looking at the table you're both very nearly sick.

"What do we do?" she whispers.

You don't know.

It's early September, which means three things.

Bella is married. It's nearly her birthday (if she's even counting them anymore). And that means, after doing all you can to not think about that — about her — it's been almost three months since you left home.

Leah caught glance of a newspaper late this morning, and you tripped over your own feet when she told you what the date was. She didn't even laugh. She just pushed you towards the first place she saw, ordered two coffees and started fishing out all the cash she had. You immediately started doing the same.

You don't understand. You should, really — because of course the money was going to run out — but you just can't. You've been so careful. You thought you'd have longer.

You have less than two thousand dollars between you. And you count it again, and again, but it never changes.

Shit.

Two thousand dollars is a lot of money, sure, but with how much you're spending on gas (the Rabbit is not cheap) and on food (your appetites aren't cheap, either), you can't go on much longer. And you won't be able to sleep outside forever.

"Jake," Leah says, her voice more urgent this time. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know." Saying the words out loud are hard. "I mean, I was never going to get this far. Not on my own — I knew that. I was always going to have to go back sometime… or just try and live as a wolf, I don't know."

Leah huffs. "Well. I'll tell you right now we're not doing that. Anything but that."

You try to smile, but it feels a little awful on your face. "What part? Going back, or going native?"

"Neither, if we can manage it."

You sit back and wish you could sink into your seat. "What else is there?"

Leah hastily gathers all the money together; it's lunchtime, and the diner is slowly filling up. She's quiet for a while, obviously chewing something over in her head as she clears up.

Maybe she wants to go home. Maybe she doesn't. You try to imagine both: seeing the Reservation again – your family – or sticking it out with Leah for as long as you can manage.

You don't have to think too hard about what you know you should do and what you want to do.

Finally Leah closes her bag and leans forward. "What if we call home?"

"I'd rather ask that dirtbag in Tampa Bay for a job than—"

"I didn't mean that," she says quickly, although something softens in her face when she realises what you're planning to do. Get a job, keep this going. At whatever cost. For the both of you. "I meant call home, see what the deal is. The leeches might have moved on. Bella might be..." She pulls a face — at the name, or what might have happened. Or both. "Well, you know. She might not have come back after the wedding. And if she didn't, the other suckers might have left, too."

"And if she hasn't? If she… If they haven't left Forks?"

"We beg that dirtbag in Tampa Bay for jobs," Leah suggests with a smile. "I'd rather beg someone else, though."

You manage a real smile back.


"What about you?" you ask when you find a payphone.

"What about me?"

You put your hand on the phone, stopping Leah from picking it up and doing what you're both dreading. "You left too, you know. You hesitated about as much as I did before packing a bag."

"So?" Leah shrugs, as ready to talk about her own problems as she ever is.

You roll your eyes. "Do you want to go home?"

"Do you?" she shoots back. Smart ass.

"Leah."

She sighs and leans against the wall. "I don't know, Jake, alright? I... I miss home. I miss the Rez, but I don't miss them, y'know? I don't miss the pack. And I don't miss Sam. But I know that we can't run forever. I wish that we could, but we just can't." She looks sad. "You understand?"

"Yeah," you say, because you really do, "I know."

You relent when she bats your hand away from the phone. Instead you hold your breath and start hoping that nobody will answer.