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Disclaimer: Twilight and all its inclusive material are copyright to Stephenie Meyer; I do not own any aspect of the series nor do I make that claim. Also, this Disclaimer was borrowed from Leon McFrenchington, an awesome-tastic writer.

Original creations of this story, including, but not limited to, characters, settings, and plot, are copyright to me.

The Final Melody

Abstract

"I don't date sociology majors," she said immediately.

He shrugged. "Lucky for you, I'm undecided."

"About what?"

"Everything."

--Remember Me, March 12, 2010

June 23, 2010

She came over every day.

It wasn't like I wanted to notice or anything, but her presence was just too hard to ignore. She'd come into the house, all energy, loquacious enough to get even my mother to shut up and listen to someone else for once. Sometimes I eavesdropped, learning little bits and pieces about my childhood home that had changed. Other times I locked myself in my room, staring out at the slow moving creek until I heard the front door shut, and that ancient truck of hers drive back down the gravel.

Bella Swan had to be the most complicated woman I had ever had the pleasure to meet. She loved to bake, but told my mother that she was never very good at it. She hated sports, claiming that she was a hazard to people on two legs, and yet I'd caught her in more than enough jerseys and sweatshirts that said otherwise. There was never a self-conscious vibe springing from her when I was in the room; rather, she seemed too relaxed, almost as if she couldn't care less if I saw her with wild hair and ratty sweatpants.

She was a puzzle I couldn't figure out.

If anything, I'd learned over the years that I—maybe a little too subconsciously—have a habit of becoming obsessed with difficult problems. Maybe that was why I'd never given up my rather large amount of schoolwork while I was doing the internship—I'd convinced myself that it wasn't impossible. That I could do it, no matter how few hours there seemed to be in the day.

Therefore, I recognized it when I found myself glancing out the window as Bella's truck rolled to a stop outside the garage. This had to stop, I told myself. It wasn't rational, or even normal for me to have such an incessant need to understand a teenage girl whom had probably lived in Forks—tiny, insignificant Forks—all her life.

I could hear them talking, laughing, and her voice drifted up to me in my room as I stood and paced, tugging at my hair. I would go insane from living there, I knew I would. Nothing—not even my stack of CDs—could help drown out the voice in my head that kept screaming at me Get out! Get out! Get out! I knew that it was a terrible idea to come visit my mom—I'd told my father that he should have paid for her to go down and visit us. But Liz was adamant that she would do no such thing; especially if it involved my father.

My feet dragged me from wall to window, my eyes flickering from the tree line down to her rusty, orange truck and back again. I had a headache, the dull pounding making it hard to concentrate on anything except the odd itch of my fingers. They tapped against my sides, irritated, as if they had a mind of their own. As if they longed to write out their own frustrations, something I hadn't let them do in four years.

I sighed, running another agitated hand through my hair. I couldn't comprehend why this was having such an effect on me; it was only a few months to spend with my odd, harebrained mother, and then I was back in Chicago, where I was supposed to be.

So why, then, did the thought make me internally cringe?

--

I took a nap, my mind leaving me too weary to adventure out of the house that day. Mom hadn't really cared the past few days where I went, as long as I came back in time to help set out dinner, and clean up afterwards. To be honest, I didn't really do much, except to stick the dishes into the dishwasher and rinse out a few pots and pans, leaving them in the sink to be cleaned in the morning. It's what I did, and mom never complained about it. Despite that fact, every time I did so, I walked away with a guilty conscience, like I was somehow cheating myself or my mother.

I glanced at the clock, finding it hard to believe that I'd merely slept for an hour and fifteen minutes. It felt like a lifetime, my mind wandering aimlessly inside the confines of my dreamless state. It was peaceful there, uninterrupted by the plagues of real life.

Stretching, I rolled onto my stomach, turning my head away from the window. There was a vent on the floor by my bedside table that ran along through the house, connecting with the kitchen and following that along to the basement. Therefore, it wasn't that hard to hear what my mom and Bella were still talking about, even an hour later.

"…it was hard on him, I knew it would be," I could hear her say.

Bella's voice was softer, lighter. "That doesn't make it right, Liz."

"But I hadn't done anything to try and see him, or go to him—"

"You wrote to him," Bella pointed out. With a sickening feeling, I realized they were talking about me; about how I'd reacted when my parents had gotten divorced. My mother felt guilty, just as I did. The thought made the food in my stomach stir restlessly.

"I didn't try hard enough."

"Don't kid yourself, Liz. You tried, and for what it's worth, that was more than my mother ever bothered to do."

"I'm sorry, Bella, I didn't mean to bring up something unpleasant."

"It's fine," she responded. And I knew, if I had been in the room with them, she would have lifted her hand in that way that she did when she was brushing my mother off. Because that's just how Bella was: always worried about my mother, even when it wasn't her job to be.

"I just wish things had worked out between his father and I. Edward had so much fire in him back then… I'm afraid that I've burnt it all out."

I closed my eyes. I knew what she was talking about, and I really wished that she wouldn't. As much as I loved my mother, some things didn't need to be brought up again. There was too much pain in the past, too much hurt over something that I had deemed completely and utterly my fault, so much so that I never wanted to reenter those memories again. There were worse things in the world, but in my life, that period had been my darkest days. It was a time that had been blocked from my thoughts for years now, and I wasn't too keen on opening that drawer right at that moment.

"I'm sure he knows how you feel." I do now, I thought wryly, burying my face in my pillow. Stupid, stupid girl…

"Did you know he got into Julliard?" Oh, God. She knew?

"…no, I didn't. You never mentioned it to me."

"He's so talented. He had been playing since he was six years old—applied last year because his father made him. He told me he found the acceptance letter in his room."

"So he's going? That's great for him."

"…Edward's father found it in the trash, Bella."

"What? Why?" Because I can't live up to their expectations.

My mother sighed, and I heard the faint sound of glass coming down on the table. "I don't know. As soon as his father approached him about it, Edward took off, wasn't heard from for days on end. He came back looking like he'd just seen Hell, apparently."

Silence accompanied her statement.

Silence occupied my brain.

Silence screamed at me that I'd fucked up, and now I had to fix it.

I told silence to go to hell.

--

My father and mother had been happy at one time, I guessed. They used to hold hands, and kiss each other until I was sufficiently grossed out, even at the age of twelve, when other girls had started becoming appealing to me. I hadn't understood back then how great it was to have parents who were so in love with each other that it was almost sickening.

I wished I had that back, because right then, I would have given anything in the world to have them together again. To be seven years old and go crying to my mother, complaining about how dad wouldn't let me go to the office with him. To have that same mother carry me in to my father and plop me down on their bed, and then join me as we pounced on him until he gave in, laughing.

But the day that my father told my mother he didn't want to see her face in his house ever again was the day when the idea that love always prevailed died within me.

--

June 24, 2010

"You want me to what?" I snapped, turning around and almost dropping the omelet I was cooking. Mom had been humming, boiling eggs for her own breakfast, and then casually mentioned—almost under her breath—that I should get a job.

She repeated this. "You've been wandering around here like a ghost. You've always been too much of an introvert, so I'm staging an intervention."

"This is your idea of an intervention?" My eyebrows rose incredulously, slapping the pan down onto the stove with a little too much force. "You want me to get a job?"

"Nothing huge," she shook her head, pursing her lips, "Just something small that would keep you busy. I can tell you're bored enough around here, and seeing as you don't find the task of cleaning the house enough to occupy you, you'll just have to find something else. A job is a great way to meet new people, too."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, squinting my eyes in frustration. It had only been a few weeks, and already she was tired of my 'moping' around, as my father would call it. She probably couldn't stand the sight of me, especially after what I'd heard from her talk with Bella. How could she even stand to play house with her disappointment of a son?

She turned up the radio, sensing my growing irritation.

"Blue moon…you saw me standin' alone. Without a dream in my heart…without a love of my own." She worked her way around the kitchen, wiping a countertop here, pushing the mail there, and all the while singing that damned Elvis Presley song. I grabbed the keys to the Volvo, knowing that I would have never been able to stand the summer with my mother if she acted any other way.

--

It took me all of fifteen minutes to navigate the streets of Forks and find that there was nothing of significance. The only places that would even be open or accepting applications were the Newton's store, and the local fish market. I hated fish. As far as I could tell, I wasn't going to be working with Bella or blond-haired bimbo any time soon.

I drove out to the Res, hoping to find something there.

I drove past Sue Clearwater's house, remembering Leah's tantrum and the women's discussion. It seemed like years ago that I had been there; slumping into a weary peach couch and pouting like a six year old at a childhood pest must have made it seem that way.

The roads were busy today, people moving in a normal enough fashion to make me think that there might be life inside Forks besides my mother and Bella and I. Most of the cars I passed carried middle-aged people or younger teens, just learning how to put their hands on the wheel. A few looked to be around my age, their russet skin showing off their heritage.

I took my time wandering around. It was nice enough that I could have walked, but I was reluctant to leave my Volvo again. The few times I was allowed out in it were precious to me, despite how little I wanted to go 'out' in the first place.

And suddenly, there it was. The same sign that I had first seen on my drive up to Sue's, the very one that I had laughed at, quietly to myself because it was so ridiculous. The same sign that seemed so fitting at that moment that I parked the car, yanked the keys out of the ignition, and strode up to the piece of cardboard, ready to drop to my knees in prayer at what the fine detail read:

If you're not afraid of heights, are patient and have no self-preservation whatsoever, feel free to apply for a job as an instructor.

It was written in pink sharpie, small enough that the eye couldn't read it from far away. It was quirky and demanding, but I decided that I didn't care. If they wanted someone to throw themselves off a cliff and teach others to it correctly as well, I was a willing candidate. The only problem now was trying to find out how to do that, exactly.

The shack wasn't boarded up anymore, and after a while I could see that they were open, a huddle of thirteen year olds watching, wide-eyed as a blond haired man demonstrated how to not hit the rocks that waited below them. One of the only girls in the group paled considerably when he motioned to grab a wetsuit and follow him to a low-lying cliff—low enough and far enough from the rocks that it wouldn't be any real danger to them.

A high pitched voice trilled close to me, making me jump out of my skin. "Shit!" I muttered, stumbling away from the tiny little girl next to me. I hadn't even seen her come over.

"You want a job or what?" She cocked her hip to the side, her eyes narrowing considerably at me, as if I was a snake that might hiss at her. Sizing her up, I gathered that her attitude compensated for how much she lacked in height. I bet even a snake wouldn't want to cross her path.

"Uh, yeah, sure?" Please don't hurt me.

She smiled brightly, waving her hand at me to follow. Her tiny legs moved her faster than I'd ever seen anyone move before. She had dark, dark hair, black almost, and cut so short that all she could do was gel it out in separate directions. She wore cut off shorts and a tank top, showing off how small her frame really was. Yet, despite these physical attributes, she came across clear as day when she yelled, "You're not going to get hired moving as slow as that!"

I hustled after her.

"So you got a name, or what?" she asked, pushing open a door to the shack with a flick of her foot. The inside was dark and damp, and smelled a lot like mildew. When I didn't answer, she raised an eyebrow, her lips thinning.

I cleared my throat. "Edward."

"Great. I'm Alice. So, do you have any experience with cliff diving?"

"I did it for years when I was a kid."

She nodded, searching through a stack of papers and shuffling on the sand covered floor. "Are you good with kids?"

"Guess so."

"What about elderly people?"

"Elderly people cliff dive?"

"Good answer." Alice smirked, making a small a-ha! noise under her breath when she unearthed a small packet of papers stapled together in the corner. They had small, fine point print with a lot of blanks after them. I guessed that they were application forms, and was proven right when she thrust one into my hand, skirting under my elbow and towards the counter.

"You're hired. Fill that form out and leave it on that stool right there. Your first day starts tomorrow and our manager will meet with you to fill in the details. She's relatively easy-going, so don't be afraid." Alice moved back around me, snatching a pair of flip flops from the corner and throwing them out onto the sun-scorched sand in front of the shack. Promptly after that, she leaned out the window and yelled in the loudest voice, "Keep your shit out of my shack, Jasper! That's what the lockers are for!"

"Right," I said, nodding and backing out the door. To say that this Alice frightened me would be an understatement. From what I could see, she had no problem with making her views known or her position on matters clear, had an extremely odd temperament, and managed to get me a job in less than ten minutes. She—obviously—was a force to be reckoned with.

Her brilliant smile flashed back at me as she grabbed a purse hiding in a discreet corner. It looked designer, just as I figured it would be. "Be here at ten. Good luck, see you tomorrow, Edward." She started past me, then stopped, and turned. "Oh, and if you see Jasper put his shoes in there again, tell him I'll castrate him, alright?"

I swallowed thickly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Awesome," she grinned.

I almost ran back to my car with the application form still in my hands.

--

That night, I slept restlessly again. I dreamed about a movie, one I had seen a theatrical trailer for months ago when I was still in the city. It was about a troubled guy trying to get his life back together when he met a girl who was the daughter of a cop who had arrested him. She taught him how to love again, how to live life. But one thing stuck in my head, the one thing that kept repeating itself over and over as the movie trailer played in my head again and again.

At the beginning of the scene, the guy's voice comes out loud and clear. He says, with a certain conviction, "Gandhi said that whatever you do in life will be insignificant. But it's very important that you do it." He stops, and I can nearly see my father and I, arguing over college, and my mother and him fighting over life, and Bella arguing with me that I'm worthless. That I've done nothing but destroy my mother and her relationship with my father.

And then he continues.

"I tend to agree with the first part."

Finally, someone who understands…and he's a fictional character.

Damn it.

--

August 5, 2045

"He uses cuss words," the boy pointed the obvious out, frowning at the page before him. His mother had always taught him that it wasn't polite, nor accepted in their household to use the words that some adults use when they get angry. He'd said them once, and that was all it took for his mother to nearly blow her gasket and yell at him for using such ugly sayings. He'd never done anything like that ever again.

His sister, however, rolled her eyes. "He's nineteen. He can do whatever he wants, stupid." She, of course, wasn't one to always abide by her mother's rules. The cool kids at school all said words like crap and damn and if that's what it took for her to get Tommy Brandon to love her, then she would do it. No need in pretending that she was the good girl any longer when boys like him were out on the prowl, she thought smugly.

"I like Alice, though."

The girl thought about it, then shrugged. "Yeah, she's cool, I guess. Kind of bossy, if you ask me."

"I think that's the point."

"Whatever. I just hope she keeps Bella away from Edward."

The boy smirked, sitting up from his position on the couch. "Why? You got a crush on a guy that's probably dead by now?"

"No," the girl denied, but her blushing face gave her away. "I just don't like her, that's all. She's too nosy."

"Liz was just telling her that because she has no one else to talk to. I bet everyone shuns her because of Edward."

"He's not that bad," she argued, throwing a haughty look at her brother and snatching the journal away from him. "He's just misunderstood. He doesn't want people to tell him what to do anymore."

"Or maybe he needs to suck it up and grow up. He's just like Carol when she doesn't get what she wants. And she's five."

The girl pouted, caressing the spine of the leather delicately. She ignored her brother's jabs and focused on Edward, wondering how it was possible that someone so perfect for her could have existed in another time. She sighed longingly.

"I feel bad for him though," the boy said suddenly. His sister quirked an eyebrow in a what are you talking about? sort of way. "Sure, he's got his mom," he explained lightly, staring at the ceiling, "but what happens to him when she goes away, and he doesn't have anyone to love him—just because—anymore?"

The girl really didn't know the answer to that question.