Ch. 10 "Banana Cream Pie"

"W-what?" I stuttered at barren, lost for words.

My hand was locked so securely around Jake's, to the point of loss of blood flow and whitened knuckles, that it was the only thing halting me from running away. From pushing through the door and away from his subtle command to…to—

"I want you to read them with me, Bella," Jacob repeated softly and slowly, sensing my fragility from the simple statement. His free hand lifted to stroke his fingers in assurance along my jaw, up my chin, across my lips that were parted in awe, terror, dread…

The blood fell from my cheeks, leaving me to look ghostly pale and nauseous, "Jacob—" I tried to protest, but his finger to my lips stopped the lack of words stinging them, consequentially numbing them from all but the fire of his supple touch.

The bittersweet look in his eyes – of understanding, but with the need of something a bit stronger – was enough for me to curtly nod my head and agree. I was sure my expression looked frightened with a sense of knowledge, but still frightened nonetheless.

Even getting myself here, to this point, and handing those letters to Jake was hard enough, excruciating enough. Having to read them again, look at them again, well…that felt like torture. It was more than just words written on paper.

It was the darkest secrets of my life. And not everything is meant to be shared.

I didn't want a fresh memory of what was written in them when I tried so hard to forget. Because that was entirely the point; to transfer them from mind to paper, from tormenting thoughts to scribbles on lines, so that they wouldn't invade my mind any longer.

I could remember Renee once preaching to me about this; 'venting with no harm' as she put it. It was her 'technique' to relieve tension and the pent up emotion and anger inside of her. If someone was bothering her – most of the time it was her co-workers who 'couldn't keep their mouths shut' – she would write them a letter, pour all of her evil thoughts eating away at her into the paper addressed to that individual.

She would never actually send it. And that was entirely the point; to take a load off, to rid yourself of those 'demons' without having to face the person. I never saw the point in it. I even referred to it as childish. But, overtime, my mom's preaching was right, and actually turned into an opportune thing.

Yet even with my hesitance, how could I say no with the risk of him thinking that this – us – wasn't that important to me? It was just another trial in his test, and hopefully the last one at that.

It was better than the alternative.

My earlier encouraging words of Just suck it up scattered through my thoughts as I nodded my head once more, this time more vigorously. To prove my stamina wasn't waning.

Involuntarily a shudder ran down my spine as Jake's fingers left my lips, moved down my neck and to the back of head, mixing in with my hair. His lips were on my forehead a second later, lingering too lightly, yet weighing too heavily. The feeling of his rich, evergreen breath rolled down my face, satiating the hungry pores of my skin.

And then, without my mind so much as processing it, I was following after Jacob into the living room, abstracted with the aesthetic morning light pouring in through the full wall windows. He sat me down on the leather couch, briefly asking me if I wanted anything to drink. I replied quickly with a shake of my head, though now that the offer had passed, my mouth was a bit dry.

And then the empty spot next to me was taken. And then there was the sound of paper being ripped. I flinched.

His hand found one of mine in my lap again, drawing me from my dazed thoughts. He pulled me closer into his naked side, finding my gaze as his other hand held a neatly folded piece of ivory paper. His thumb burned circles along my knuckles, holding my gaze only inches from his.

"I'm not going to force you to read these, Bella. I can see the fear in your eyes, though for the life of my I can't figure out why you're so scared…," he murmured in a deep grumble, somehow chilling my body with its richness.

"But I want you here," he finished, the furrow of his eyebrows making the bare honesty in his eyes look more scarce, as if he was trying to hide and shield himself. But I knew better.

His fingers laced through mine, providing me with a tender squeeze. I nodded yet again, licking my lips in preparation of an explanation to which he didn't ask me directly, "I'm scared of what they say, what you'll think…." I shook my head, breaking his gaze to bring my knees up to my chest, "And I'll stay…I already told you I'd do anything to fix this," I whispered, my lower lip trembling.

"Anything," I repeated with no purpose. The word just lingered heavily, like the humidity on a hot day.

The smile painting his lips was all the remaining persistence I needed. His hand left mine to run through my hair before wrapping his arm around me and pulling me to his chest, so that my head could rest over the gentle beat of his heart. I tried to accord my own racing heart beat with his, to filter his calm into me.

I was unsuccessful. I was too worked up. And maybe this was all just in my head, maybe it won't be as tormenting as I remembered it. As I remembered writing it. But that was just it; I couldn't remember what was written in them. When the mind goes through a traumatic event, it's easy to block it out and forget. For awhile. And that's what I did, and still was doing; trying not to remember those years.

But I'd do anything to be right here, in his embrace, eating up his warmth. A content sigh passed my lips.

Seconds later Jake was unfolding the letter, revealing the scribbles of my handwriting in line of both of our vision.

I stopped breathing.

The date scribbled in the corner, for what it's worth, read July; eleven months ago.

Jacob,

I moved to Sandpoint, Idaho a few weeks ago. The town is right along the border near Washington. Closer, but not close enough. That's why I chose it.

I got a job at a local café. It's right off the highway, it's called Marietta's. We get a lot of a business from travelers and tourists. Everyday I'm on edge, hoping to see you or someone from the pack walk in…just passing through for whatever reason…stopping for some coffee.

I'm so twisted, Jacob. I keep imagining that you'll show up, that everything will be fine, and that I can just go home finally once you find me. Because that would be all the reason I'd need, right?

But then again, I'm probably nothing more than a regretful memory to you. I really do hope that you're happy, like you should be, and that I was just some bump in your path.

…

I spend half my time hating you, and half my time missing you, needing you.

I have a lot of time on my hands, you see. In a way, not having anyone or anything to rely on or report to is…relaxing. I feel like I can breathe, but I'm always choking.

So yeah…I'm always thinking, lost in my head like I always used to be. Sometimes it's enough to keep me company, to keep me from noticing that I sometimes can't remember the sound of my own voice…

But there's nothing to say. The voice coming from me is a stranger's, one I don't recognize.

But I think a lot. About different things. Such as, why exactly do I need you? Why does that thought always play occurrence in my mind when I think of you? I need air, I need food, I need sleep.

No one needs a person, or a thing, or a feeling. Those are all fleeting, temporary.

One night, when I was walking back to my apartment from my nine hour shift at work, I had some weird, movie-like epiphany. I swear my eyes even glazed over and my hand fluttered over my heart, gasping with sound effects and all.

Earlier at work this girl Hannah – who in a creepy, odd way reminds me of Quil – was talking to me about how much she wanted a banana cream pie, how much she was craving for it, and as bizarre as it was… I understood what she meant.

Because you're my banana cream pie.

I was associating needing with aching for a long time, that I missed the association between needing and wanting.

I want you.

That sounds more abrasive and sexual than intended. Derogatory. Rhetorical. But me needing you sounds reliant, like I'm not my own person. Like how I felt with Edward, which turned into a complete bust didn't it? Because without him I felt like I couldn't breathe, or live…yet you changed that, replacing the ice cold lock on my heart with a soft smile and a promise to never hurt me.

I want to be with you, I want to see you, I want you. It's what I chose to want, not what I feel I need to have. Does that make any sense?

…

Sometimes I blame you, even try to hate you. Which is weak and incredibly, insanely stupid of me. But if you didn't heal me, if you stopped caring about me, then this all would be so much easier. My decision would have been so much easier.

I wouldn't be stuck here, in some small town, more a lifeless body than you had witnessed before. I could have been with Edward for forever, eternity. You took that away from me.

…

I noticed for the first time tonight that I don't have nightmares anymore. Worse than nightmares, I have dreams. Of Forks. Of La Push. Of Charlie, of motorcycles, of warm soda with no fizz, of a russet brown werewolf rescuing me…

Its 3:41 a.m, and I can't sleep. Because I'll wake up, thinking I'm lying in my bed back home, with all this reality I've gotten myself into being the nightmare, and you being just a phone call away.

I'm scared of dreams, not the nightmares that used to plague me. I'd give anything to wake up screaming at the top of my lungs, crying over nothing.

None of this makes sense. It shouldn't make sense, actually.

I'm starting to get a tan, if you can believe it.

I miss my pale skin on your dark skin. I miss your smile.

I miss you, more importantly. But that won't change a thing, will it?

It's getting harder to remember your smile. To remember the three freckles – or is it four? – that hide in your eyes.

I don't remember what your laugh sounds like, what your voice sounds like. You'd think it would be so easy to remember those things, those traits, in someone you love; that it's engrained in you.

But then again, I don't even remember my own laugh.

If I'm ever so lucky to see you again, will I even be able to recognize you? Each day I lose a part of you with myself. Because that's entirely the point; when he healed me, you sculpted me.

And everything begins to rust and crack away from weathering overtime. That's what's happening to me. I'm weathering.

I think about you all the time, so why are you slipping away from me? Are we connected so deeply that you're the one letting go of me, to which I'm losing my grasp on you?

I wish I had an answer. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could remember your heart beat. I wish I could remember your warmth and bear hugs. I wish I could let you go like you're letting me go, but it's all I have left, even if it's nothing.

Please don't forget me. Please forget me.

If I lose you, then I'm scared there will be nothing left of me.

I yell your name in my head every night before I fall asleep, hoping you'll meet me in my dreams. One day you'll hear me.
Meet me tonight?
I'll be waiting,
Bells x

As I read, the words didn't feel like my own. They were unrecognizable, unfamiliar…as if I was reading someone else's thoughts, their own private revelations.

But no… they were my own. They were just… forgotten, left on a piece of folded paper, having no significance until this moment.

And now…now the memories that accompanied the words hit me like an avalanche of emotion. Everything hurled itself at me; my memory of Jake slowly slipping, hating yet wanting him, my dreams of a russet werewolf coming to my rescue…

The emptiness.

Every single detail, every single ounce of what I locked away in the arcade of my brain was suddenly being broken into by the stealer of my heart.

My hand came to cover my mouth, to suppress the sobs I didn't realize had been choking out of me. I was gasping, panting, wheezing…the walls closing in around me, all splurging into a sudden panic of claustrophobia, of an overwhelming frenzy.

His arm loosened around me, sensing my distress. I was quick to escape, turning my back to him as I leaned forward to place my head between my knees in a feeble attempt to stop the world from spinning around me and coaxing forward the meal I ate for breakfast from nausea. The sobs pushing through me weren't helping.

These occasions weren't rare; I found myself in this position almost too much over the past two years as gravity mocked me. In my head I counted slowly back from thirty, willing myself to take deep inhales of oxygen – which I learned over the years helped reduced my sobs and calm the tremors immensely – while closing my eyes to allow a calm to wash over me.

Thirteen seconds ticked by, as I counted in my head, before I felt Jake's hand on my back, soothing circles up and down my spine as I remained hunched over, unmoving. I buried my face in my hands, gripping and pulling at the hair fanning across my face and over my knees desperately…for some stability, to put the shield back up in my mind.

"I'm sorry, Jacob…I can't do this, I can't read anymore," I whispered, pleaded, apologized, not having the strength to turn around and face him after I got a control on my brain, a control on my heart, and a control on the tremors shaking me.

Shame and guilt began filling me, brimming my eyes with its poisoned tears and deflating the capacity of my heart. I ached, actually ached, to turn around and let him hold me, to chase away the feeling causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up; the feeling that like my letter, Jacob would disperse into thin air leaving me with no memory, leaving me battered and insatiable to stare into his eyes and count the freckles on his irises, to hear his laugh, to memorize his smile and the dimple between his chin, to let his voice lure me into a high of satiation.

Because he's my banana cream pie.

I pushed myself back into a proper sitting position, my fingers digging into the lining of the leather cushion on either side of my legs, my knees slightly reflecting the liquid tears. Much like I had done when I told him about where I was for two years, I couldn't look at him, but I could taste his indifference.

And it tasted like parched cotton mouth and morning breath.

"I'll be right back, alright?" He whispered in a voice that sounded…sorry for me.

The last thing in this world I wanted was to be pitied. Our positions should be reversed.

Without turning to face him, I watched from the corner of my bloodshot eyes to see him gather up the letters in his hands before making a descent up the stairs.

Good. Get them away from me.

I could breathe easier.

Only seconds later was he coming back into the living room, dressed in a pair of jeans and a white v-neck shirt that should be illegal. I, on the other hand, had rolled out of bed, swapped out my sweats for a pair of jeans and left for Port Angeles without a second thought.

Sometimes, and by sometimes I mean all the time, it became hard for me to even look in the mirror at myself. The habit developed into something well…habitual. Very rarely did I look at my own reflection, or care about it.

He came to kneel in front of me, practically making my plan not to look at him insurmountable. I stared down into my lap, pretending the hem of my shirt was interesting enough to hold the attention of my eyes.

One of his hands found their way to my knee, "There are a few things I need to take care of today, Bella," he told me cautiously, with a certain on edge his voice. The kind that resembled 'this is my way of kicking you out' but in a polite, indirect manner.

Before I could even control it, tears poured down my cheeks. They had a mind of their own, I swear. I could only duck my head lower and nod, biting down on my trembling lower lip.

He caught my chin, urging me to face him, "Spend the day with me," he murmured, and how could I possibly turn him down?

"We're not going to talk about…this?" I gestured lamely to the sofa, flopping my hand lazily in the direction where we once sat only minutes ago reading.

"We don't need to right now if you—"

"God, Jacob…stop- STOP treating me like I'm fragile. I need to know what you're thinking, I want you to tell me instead of beating around the bush just to convenience me. You don't owe me anything…," I whimpered, still unwillingly to look him directly in the eye.

In response, he let out a frustrated sigh, "I already told you what I want; to spend the day with you. There will be time for talking later…but for today, all I'm asking is to be with you…. But believe me, we'll talk…about everything, there's plenty of time for that. We both just…need a break from this shit."

I nodded my head curtly, still ducking away from his gaze that I could feel burning straight into my forehead. I knew there would come time for talking, and I wanted to get it over with…so we could move on, not having to pretend there isn't a heated friction in the hair neither of us wants to allude to.

He tugged more forcefully at my chin as I continued to look everywhere else but his eyes. Those eyes….

"Goddammit Bella look at me…it's been two fucking years, just let me see you…."

More than anything, I wanted to look at him…to memorize the shape of his eyes, the emotion hidden behind them, to create a new image in my mind that was lost over the years…

But why replace something that might just be taken away again? It would be like rehashing a mending wound, dousing it with salt and all.

Though my mind was rational, my eyes and heart possessed no argument or theory…they were being controlled by strings, the movements initiated by the man in front of me.

Our eyes met, and because of our proximity of only mere inches separating us, I could only see into his orbs and nothing else. His shone with determination, as if he was purposely allowing me to count the freckles hidden in the chocolate depths that had been lost…

Four. Two in each eye, polka dotting the white around his pupils.

Four, four, four, four, four, four.

I repeated the mantra in my mind, as to engrain it to memory.

"Don't do that," he whispered, stroking my cheek with his thumb.

I could only blink, confused with his request as I stared at him like a scared child.

"Don't look away from me, don't hide yourself…I need to see you," Jake finished, swiping away the tears on my cheeks.

I nodded. And then nodded again.

That was the easiest thing anyone could have ever asked me.

"Paint?" I eyed the metal container of the spoken item in his hand skeptically, "You really shouldn't let me anywhere near that stuff…." I murmured, holding my hands up in defense as Jacob tried to hand it to me.

He let out a completely exaggerated and sarcastic scoff, "And why is that?"

"It involves the ruining of upholstery during one of Renee's whimsical escapades. You don't want to know," I grumbled, recalling the rather large 'olive green' stain on the carpet and loveseat in the living of Renee's home in Phoenix after a disastrous evening of redecorating, beginning with the walls…ending on the carpet and furniture. I lacked any – if not all – artistic ability also.

"Suck it up, Princess. We've got a busy day ahead of ourselves," he winked, plopping the ten pound can in my arms, causing me to stumble under its weight.

I tried to pout my way out of it. Jake only chuckled, sending a shudder through me at the melody of it, which I had every intention of rememorizing. He walked back to the counter he was just at before, producing two more cans of paint – rust red, which was seriously the name of the coloring of the paint – before making his way back to the long cart, to which a heap of wood of all different sizes were stacked.

I watched from a safe distance – Jake not quite believing my 'I'm not a klutz anymore!' confession – as he and some worker from Home Depot wearing one of those orange, bright colored aprons stood, sizing up the long planks of wood and cutting some with a sharp and rather scary looking saw for a special 'project' I'd be helping him with today.

It wasn't hard to piece the two together; wood and paint. We were clearly painting something. Well, it was clear I would be painting something, since it looked as if Jacob would be building something…or rebuilding.

He seemed so at ease, his body looking completely relaxed doing this sort of thing. Maybe rebuilding cars had been Jake's true passion, but it seemed as if building up anything did the job of satisfying him. Fixing and rebuilding was what he was good at, I knew firsthand how well he did that.

Not just from watching him rebuild two motorcycles from scratch in record time, but because he had operated his powers on me, fixing my insides without even the use of his hands.

Occasionally he'd find my glance from where I stood near our cart down the aisle, locking onto my eyes before offering a warm smile, the kind that was contagious enough for my own lips to mimic the weighted gesture and create a surge of butterflies in my stomach.

Ten minutes and another load of wood later, Jacob finally had all he needed for this 'project' – which he continued to refer to it as every time I asked.

"Will you pleeeaaase tell me what we're doing now? If it's something for your work, you really shouldn't let me anywhere near it. I agreed to spend the day with you…not-not to be your little Bob the Builder, handy man –woman –…person!" I grumbled as we walked towards the parking lot, Jake pushing the oversized cart loaded with planks of wood and the three cans of paint.

He only chuckled at me, yet again, before coming to a stop once we reached the truck, "Get in," was all he replied with, rounding the cart to pop open the passenger's side door.

I crossed me arms stubbornly over my chest, trying to muster my 'either tell me or I'm not moving face'.

"Fine, fine. I'll tell you," he sighed, still gesturing for me to get in, "Let me just get this shit loaded into the back, alright?" He motioned towards the long cart filled with today's buys. "And stop pouting," he finished, flashing me a grin.

Well, I guess that explained why we took Embry's truck today instead of Jake's camaro.

I did as ordered, climbing into the too tall truck, smiling indignantly to myself.

Five minutes of silence later, my patience was growing thin, transparent, "We're going to Forks?" I asked as Jacob turned onto the highway leading west.

"La Push," he corrected, beginning to toy with the Embry's old, static radio.

My fingers tapped along the arm rest, coaxing him into a further explanation.

"My dad moved in with Sue a few months ago. He still visits the house occasionally, but it's just…sitting there, practically empty. He wants to sell it, maybe make some money off of it. It's pretty much a piece of shit though, I don't know who the hell would want to buy it…but he wants me to fix it up, make it look 'presentable'. The man's very persuasive…."

Well that explained the 'rust red' paint.

"I told him I'd have it all finished up and ready to go sometime this week…." He murmured, sounding forlorn.

"You don't want him to sell it," I stated rather than questioned. I could tell by the way he avoided my gaze and preoccupied himself by messing with the radio. It was in the little things.

A quick shift in his seat confirmed what I already knew, "No, I don't," he agreed, giving me nothing more.

"Well, I doubt anyone will want to buy it after they see the paint job I'm about to give it…," I smiled slightly, hoping to ease the mood by bantering my lack of artistic touch.

He chuckled, relaxing back into his seat with a grin, "Maybe that's why I brought you along."

I scoffed, looking appalled, "Like you could do any better than me! I happen to remember that god-awful picture you drew to somehow 'represent' Quil and Embry, stick figures and all."

"I was trying not to show off!"

"Oh please…."

He smiled warmly at me as the conversation died down, both of us retreating to the memory of a younger Jake, trying to explain ruefully to me about the 'very homo position' Quil and Embry had ended up in one night after wrestling. After unsuccessfully conveying his words to me, he snatched a pen and paper and began drawing the silly image to create a clear picture in my mind.

It looked like nothing more than a blob on paper, greatly resembling a squashed bug.

The rest of the drive back to La Push was filled with ease, the kind that was so natural between us. It had been lost there for awhile, but it was slowly making an appearance, seeping back into the foundation of our relationship.

We arrived at Black's small red house around noon, clambering out of the car with stiff limbs.

"Head around back, you'll see the spot of the house that still needs painting. I'll be right there," he murmured, handing me a can of paint, a paintbrush, and a tray to pour it in.

I could see the part of the house not yet painted like Jake had told me. It was about a ten foot area on the left side if the house. The color was rusting away, chipping away, weathering away like I once was.

The rest of the house was painted freshly, as if Jake had gotten around to doing it overtime but missed all except this spot. The spot framing right around the window of his room. His empty room, I noticed.

I took to work silently, pouring the red paint into a tray and dabbing the thick paintbrush in it. I bit my lip hesitantly, unsure of where to begin. At some point later on, Jake came around back balancing the planks of wood in his hands, a belt looped around his waist adoring a hammer and nails.

For the good part of the time during the oddly sunny day in La Push, I would watch Jake out of the corner of my eye. He was kneeling on the porch, replacing the creaking and unstable pieces of wooden steps with the fresh, new ones bought today at Home Depot.

There was a thin line of sweat coating his naked torso as his eyebrows were furrowed in contemplation, in deep thought as he worked continuously, prying and nailing. Having the same expression he used to wear when working so adamantly on rebuilding cars.

My weak arm was becoming restless with each stroke it took, coating the already rust red with a new shade. I bent to dip the brush into more of the goo, feeling a wave of hair behind me, consequentially making the hair on my arms and neck stand on edge at the presence of something or someone behind me.

I turned quickly, the brush still held in my hand as a defense, my breathing hitching in my throat. My eyes widened at the sight; Jake stood directly behind me, so close that as I spun around, the brush had drawn a straight and thick line of red paint horizontally across his naked chest.

A hand fluttered over my mouth to suppress the giggles at the sight of the incredulous look on his face as he looked back and forth from his chest to me, looking quite shocked. I backed away, trying to hold back more laughs.

I caught the devilish look in his eye; the mischievous Cheshire Cat grin that told me he was up to something. He eyes flicked to the tray of paint a few feet to my side, his eyes lighting up.

"Don't you dare, Jacob Black," I demanded, knowing exactly what he was up to.

In the blink of an eye, Jake lunged for the paint with his hands, flicking it across my own ratty shirt, the one I had worn to bed last night without bothering to change. My eyes were wide and alarmed as I took in the sight of my splattered clothes and arms.

I turned to run away from his outstretched hands coated in blood red and yelped once I was encircled in his embrace, his hands smearing the paint along my naked arms . I continued to shriek and squirm from his embrace until I was on my feet. Immediately I went for the can of pain, dipping my own hands in it before flicking and throwing some in Jake's direction.

All the while Jake had somehow managed to pick up the tray and dump the load of paint in there on top of my head, leaving me briefly stunned. I retaliated quickly, continuing to toss handfuls of paint from the can in his direction, coating his jeans and torso.

He managed to get a hold on my hands, stopping my attack. I was caught inches from his embrace, both of my hands locked by the wrists in between our bodies. He was laughing, which cued my laughing at our childish behavior. I stood on my tip toes, breaking his embrace to push my slimy hands through his hair for payback as I could feel the paint dripping in mine.

I placed my hand to his chest to steady myself, pulling back to notice it left a hand print. Transfixed at this, my laughing slowly died down, though Jake was continuing to grumble out laughs, as I placed both my hands on his abdomen, creating handprints along his sculpted stomach.

Jake slowly stopped chuckling as my hands continued to imprint themselves on his skin, raising from stomach to chest in slow and sensual movements, my eyes following their trail as I moved to his biceps, stopping once I reached he wrists, leaving him covered in my small marks.

I noticed each and every time his muscles flinched under my touch.

The sight of him caused me to laugh once more for good measure, not wanting the built up heat from the moment to create an awkward tension. His arm was around my waist seconds later, pulling us down.

We both fell onto our backs onto the patch of grass, trying to catch our breath and contain ourselves. Two cans of paint were overturned, dripping into the grass and staining the dirt.

"Shit," Jake muttered at the sight of the wasted paint, but still laughing nonetheless.

"I told you not to let me near paint," I protested, both of us falling silent. This house spoke of a thousand memories and ghost of our relationship; it was almost too overwhelming to bear as a tension built between us.

I was the first to break it.

"Is paint toxic?" I panted breathlessly, rubbing my arms over my face to smear away the paint that managed to mix in with my hair and drip down my face, afraid to inhale it and get lead poisoning.

"Only for you," he chuckled, equally as breathless, "But I wouldn't worry about it," he grinned, turning on his side to face me before his hands found my sides, tickling the tender skin of my ribs from memory as I burst into another round of giggles and squirmed in an attempt to get away from him.

Not much work got done the rest of the day.

Four hours later, once we tried to no avail to clean up the paint staining the grass and dirt and let the sun dry the paint coated on our skin as to not get it in Embry's truck, we were headed back to Port Angeles.

I tilted my head to the side, resting against the headrest to let my tired eyes settle on the man next to me, silently driving the winding roads back to Port Angeles with a look of…contentment on his features.

The sun was casting its last rays of gold light through the window, illuminating the cabin of Embry's truck with a surreal glow, the kind that seemed picture-esque and movie like. It chiseled Jacob's cheekbones and jaw line even further, revealing a man.

The car came to a stop at a light, Jacob turning his head to at me from behind thick lashes. There was only silence as our eyes roamed greedily.

"I like your hair longer," Jake murmured appreciatively, his hand leaving the wheel to run along my matted hair before cupping the side of my face. I leaned into his touch, my eyes closing at the affection.

"I like yours longer, too," I whispered, opening my eyelids to see a modest smile on his lips.

"I've been meaning to cut it soon. Too much of a hassle…," he trailed off as I frowned. His thumb ghosted over my lips, his eyes following intimately before he turned his attention back to the road, taking off into the sunset over the horizon.

"You look ridiculous," I grinned before bursting into a fit of giggles seconds later as I took in the sight of him from our earlier encounter; dried, crusted red hair, smeared cheeks, hand prints matching the size of my hands along his torso and his russet toned arms.

He appraised me for a moment before taking in my own state of being which I could figure looked just as ridiculous. And then he was laughing with me, his head thrown back with howls of laughter from how extremely and absurd, yet hilarious, we looked.

It was carefree; our laughing, that coincided into a beautiful sound.

"I can't believe you did that!"

"It was an accident! You started it!"

"It was payback!"

"Billy's gonna kill you once he sees that mess…," I trailed off, concentrating on breathing and forcing away the giggles.

"Does paint even come out of grass?" I added on at the last second, gripping my aching sides.

"No idea. Either way, no one in their right mind would buy that place," he beamed, still struggling to contain his own laughter.

"Mission accomplished."

He shot me a stunned expression, "Embry's rubbing off on you."

I laughed yet again at the truth in that statement. Embry played too many military video games, I was sure. He was always remarking something as a 'success' or 'mission accomplished and/or adverted'.

This sent us into another wave of laughs, tears beginning to sting the corner of my eyes.

I never felt any happier.

A/N: There's a link on my profile for a banner for this story (: I love it! Big thanks to Majesta Mionet who made it for me! Everyone should go check out her story Zenith 'cause it's rockin'.

Happy reading!

-Mae