With her purchases of a few days ago stowed in the Volvo's trunk, Bella was on her way home, Edward at the wheel. They were ten minutes past Discovery Bay and several hours into their journey towards Forks when looking out into the clear view of the bay, Bella said, "Can you pull over?"
"Do you need something?" Edward asked.
"Just some air," she said, trying to smile and then letting her features relax. She'd been trying to break herself of the habit of concealing her true feelings. It hadn't been safe to be honest about such things near Demetri, and now it was almost natural to smother any emotion with a fake smile and an "I'm fine." It was not an easy habit to break.
But she wasn't fine at the moment, and she wasn't sure what she needed. Yet, she did know that she wanted to hear the ocean she'd so come to love after living near La Push.
Edward pulled off to the shoulder, the water a distant and dull sound against the infrequent rumble of traffic.
Bella stood by the guardrail and stared out towards the waves, straining for the familiar, watery song. It was there but weak and faint, not like the feisty roar she'd become accustomed to further out on the peninsula.
A roar. She huffed out a breath at her description. Most people referred to ocean sounds as that—a "dull roar." She'd seen the depiction in books many times, but it wasn't accurate. It was, if one listened carefully enough, a song.
The last of several cars whizzed by, leaving silence in their wake. And there it was, the soft boom of a wave starting its melody. Bella closed her eyes, hands on the guardrail, focusing her attention on what she knew would be the hiss of bubbles on the shore, the slow and achromatic lift of the soprano notes pulling the drowned-out altos and baritones behind them.
She didn't have to turn or open her eyes to know that Edward stood slightly behind and beside her. She trusted him to leave her to this private ritual.
For it was a ritual, this listening. A stilling of discord inside herself that needed silencing so order could be heard. The tethering of oneself to the place called home.
Home.
She wiped at her now teary eyes. She would soon see Charlie, and she hoped, Jacob, people she loved. That she loved them was clear. What her reception from them would be was far less certain.
"Are you nervous?" Edward finally asked.
How her heart betrayed everything she felt. The revelation by her body of all her feelings was something she'd have preferred to have left in Volterra.
Part of her wished it was that easy to read Edward.
"Yes, about going home," she replied.
"Well, it's the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in," he said, quoting Frost. "He wasn't wrong. I don't think anyone is going to be anything but happy to see you."
The weak smile returned to her lips. Maybe. She wasn't so sure. Charlie had been so relieved on the phone, but relief was often the precursor to anger. She knew that well, too.
The baritones and altos were warbling again, lost between the boom of fresh waves and overwhelmed by the hiss of the high voices bubbling into the sand and rocks. She felt a surge of empathy for those inner registers, so ruthlessly ruled by the percussive beatings of the ocean tides. The large swells overwhelmed the lighter voices, only ever directed by the pull of the moon. This lunar mistress was partially visible now, a pale orb against the less pale sky.
And though it was only the sounds of this ocean that had touched her, they were cleansing in their own way, beginning to soften the months of gritty fear and anxiety that had gripped her.
With this natural music in her ears, she let herself think of the few instances she'd heard other melodies in her time in Volterra. A violinist on the street, the opera—she shuddered with that recollection—and then the faint strain of piano notes trailing through the Volturi's stony hallways. She'd strained to recognize them then, but there was no difficulty now. "Did you play the piano in Volterra?" She blurted out the question, turning to face him.
His eyes widened slightly. "You heard me?"
She shook her head a little, for it was hard to say. "I think so. Was it—?"
"Your lullaby. Yes." His voice was husky, and she watched him swallow.
He couldn't even think of me there, she reminded herself. She could see it was hard for him to acknowledge that grievous memory. Still, he'd tried-and knowing what they'd gone through, she knew how much that meant.
"Thank you." She swallowed, too, her voice barely more than a breath.
The corner of his mouth turned up in the beginnings of a crooked grin. This was now, she noted again, not then. Turning her gaze back to the ocean, she pulled in a deep lungful of salty air and exhaled, the scents evoking thoughts of Charlie and Jacob. They were home, and she was ready to be there.
When the turns in the road became more familiar, the unease in Bella's body became more noticeable. She fidgeted in her seat, hands and legs restless with anxiety.
Edward glanced at her. "Do you want to stop before we get there?"
"No," she said. "This is going to be difficult. It's probably better just to get it over with."
"I was actually wondering if we needed to stop for something else, if you were experiencing any symptoms."
Ah. "No." She smiled a little. "These are just plain old my-dad's-probably-going-to-be-angry-as-hell nerves. I just haven't had to deal with them in a while."
"I'm sorry, Bella," Edward said.
"Yeah, so, um, we're going with the Canadian story, eh?" She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully.
She liked the sound of his chuckle.
"Okay," he said. "I'll consider myself reminded. No more apologies."
"No more," she agreed. Taking in a deep breath, she tried to recall the good things that would come with being home. Yes, there would no doubt be Charlie's anger at her abrupt disappearance or lengthy and relatively unexplained time away, but there would be a Charlie. She would have her dad, for now.
She would be home in her own bed with time to call her own. With friends.
If she still had friends.
Fearful that any ties to other lives might be considered threats to the Volturi secret, Bella had kept her correspondence to the minimum number of people required. She hadn't wanted to endanger her family or Jacob, but she had known that not communicating with them was as precarious as not. There would have been too many questions and then inquiries and then—she sighed. It wasn't something that needed to be thought about anymore.
The highway had become a major road, and soon became the street that led to her house. It was as she had left it, save for the tentative spring leaves now deepened to their summer greens. She emerged from the car, taking another fortifying breath.
Though she still couldn't bring herself to take it, she appreciated the hand that Edward extended, which he graciously turned from an invitation to a suggestion that she move ahead of him.
She mounted the stairs one slow step at a time, reminding herself that Charlie was expecting her. On top of her nerves over his potential reaction were her anxieties about how she would handle this reunion.
Her ruminations were cut short by Charlie flinging open the screen door with a loud, "Bella!" She found herself wrapped in his arms, his very warm and human arms.
She rasped out a "Dad!" her cheeks wet for a second time that day.
Charlie seemed to struggle with strong emotion, too, his chest expanding and contracting with several deep breaths. It was a long hug, but it ended abruptly with Charlie's, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Having parked around the side of the house, Edward's car had been hidden from view, and so apparently had Edward, at least until now.
"Edward helped me get home, Dad, from Italy."
Charlie's hand slipped away from her back.
"And by helped, I mean I wouldn't be here or possibly be alive if he hadn't."
Charlie's gaze snapped from Edward to her, his eyes narrowing.
"Let's talk inside," Bella urged quietly.
"Not with him, we won't." Charlie gritted his teeth as he said it.
Edward stepped forward with Bella's suitcase, putting it within her reach. "Why don't we talk later?" He eyed her pointedly.
Bella understood that he wouldn't be far. They'd agreed that he would need to be nearby for purposes medical and contractual, as it were, for the time being. Neither of them expected an impromptu visit from the Volturi, but they weren't taking any chances on that front.
If looks could kill, Edward would be dead from the glare Charlie directed at him, but he didn't say anything else to him, picking up Bella's bag. "Come inside," he said, his voice soft for Bella.
Prior to stepping inside, Bella hadn't really thought about the house itself, or rather its state, but it was hard to ignore now. Several stale-smelling pizza boxes were stacked near the recycling bin, these kept company by a few beer cans and a messy pile of newspapers inside the blue box. Dust bunnies didn't just lurk but lounged openly on the floor. She tried not to think about in what condition she'd find the kitchen.
"Sorry, work has been pretty busy lately. I didn't have a lot of time to clean up—"
"It's okay, Dad," she said. Her thoughts strayed, unwanted, to the Volturi's Lower Order. Did the guard require as much work to keep tidy as humans?
"Have a seat," Charlie said. He waved a hand towards the couch. It was relatively free of clutter. "Do you want to tell me why Edward Cullen had to help you get home? I mean, if you needed help, why didn't you call me?"
"It wasn't exactly the kind of help you could have offered, Dad." She and the rest of the Cullens had sat down and very carefully plotted out the story she would give to Charlie along with the world that would briefly continue to know her human life.
His face transformed, the one he wore as a cop plain before her. "And what does that mean exactly?"
It wasn't hard to look nervous. She was a poor liar, and she hoped that Edward's prediction—or reassurance, rather—about her performance was correct. "I got mixed up with some stuff in Italy. Some bad stuff."
Charlie sat kitty-corner to her on the recliner, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. "What kind of stuff?"
Bella pulled in a breath, deciding to avoid that question for a little while. "I know that I said I'd just gotten home when I called yesterday, and that is true. I haven't been back for long, but I've been back for longer than I let you think."
"Go on."
"I've been receiving treatment for benzodiazepine withdrawal—Xanax."
She braced herself for the angry exclamations, for swearing. But Charlie did neither. He exhaled, giving a quiet, "Thank God."
Mildly stunned, Bella stuttered over her next, planned words. "Um, I—"
"Just the Xanax?"
"Uh, yes." She hadn't expected this calm response. "Why are you . . . so calm?"
Charlie ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not—well, I am. I just—I'd—your brain goes places when your kid disappears on you. God, Bella, I—" He stood up, pacing towards the fireplace and then walking back, sitting again. "How long have you been in recovery?"
"Just over a week."
His "ooo-kay" was more air than word. "Where did you get treatment? And how come I haven't heard about it? You're still on my insurance —"
This was where things were likely to get sticky. "Dr. Cullen treated me."
His face became cool. "I see." His lips twisted a little. "Was he treating Edward, too?"
"No. Edward's not—Edward's fine."
"He didn't seem to be fine when you left the country."
Oh yes; there it was—the anger.
"He was suicidal, Dad."
It wasn't quite a begrudging grunt, but it was close enough. His voice was flat with disinterest when he asked, "Is he all right now?"
"Yes."
"How'd he help you?"
"Well, he got me home, but before that, he made sure that no one would . . . come after me."
"Do I need to make a call to Interpol?" Charlie asked.
"No, it's nothing like that. There was no police involvement."
"Then who did he make sure wouldn't come after you? And how did he manage that?"
"I think you would call them 'unscrupulous sorts.'"
"Don't fuck around with me, Bella. Who and how?"
Charlie didn't swear easily, and the obscenity threw her a little. She swallowed before continuing. "He paid off some people I owed money to for . . . black market prescriptions, nothing that you need to worry about now."
"And how the hell did he get the money for that?"
"Edward's family is wealthy, Dad." This was true. It didn't make it any easier to say. Her skin crawled, knowing just how indebted she was to the Cullens. It would be easy to succumb to that sense of insecurity again.
"How much?" Charlie asked.
"About ten thousand dollars," Bella said quietly. Edward had given her the number. When she'd questioned the value, he'd assured her that it was accurate. His tone had conveyed a resigned sadness that spoke of familiarity with the squalid ways human lives were so easily traded or sold.
"I can pay that back."
"No," Bella said firmly. "I will pay that back, and I've already made an agreement with Carlisle to do so."
As she'd expected, Charlie frowned, but he nodded too.
She listened to Charlie sigh, watching him smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles on his jeans. "You're here, and you're okay. I'm really trying to focus on that, but I'm worried. Drug addictions don't just go away, and people don't become addicted without reason."
"They don't, no. You saw how I was before. I—I didn't tell you, but I was already taking Xanax when I went to Europe. I meant to stop when my prescription ran out, but everything didn't just go away even when I saw Edward. Things are much, much better now—"
"Are you two together?"
She nodded, watching him close his eyes and inhale, letting out the breath slowly.
"He's not good for you, Bella."
This was the part of the conversation that she'd dreaded. "I love him, Dad. That's not changing. Neither will our being together."
"I don't want him in my house. You're always welcome here, Bella. It's your home. But him?" He shook his head. "You're eighteen. You're an adult. Who you're with is your business, but don't expect me to help you resume a destructive relationship."
She opened her mouth to protest but then closed it. There was nothing to be gained in arguing about this. Not now. "I love you, Dad, and I'm really glad to be home. I hope that I—that we—can show you that we are good for each other." She added "soon" in her head because later wasn't really an option.
Charlie pulled her into a second and much more awkward hug. "You have no idea how happy I am to have you back." She could hear the tears in his voice, which grew gruff as he patted her back, releasing her. "But I should let you go unpack. I'm guessing you're probably still pretty tired from jetlag and . . . uh, recovery."
"A bit," she said. She wasn't at the moment, but she should be. It was better to play along.
As they both stood, Charlie's hand swung over to grab her bag. By instinct, Bella flinched, her face tightening with fear. It was only momentary, but Charlie's glance told her he'd seen it.
It was as if the expression melted off his face. She watched frustration, then confusion, then something she couldn't name move over his features. They stared at each other for what felt like a long time before he spoke. "Bella, honey, I'd never hurt you."
"I know." And she knew she'd said it too quickly to be believable.
But Charlie only eyed her, nodding slowly, carrying her bag upstairs. As she followed him at a distance, she wondered at the wisdom he possessed not to confront her about it and how she hadn't had the maturity to appreciate that wisdom before.
A/N for 2020-08-31: School starts next week here in BC with our Corona Virus cases higher than they've been before, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous as heck about returning to my high-school teaching work. The good news for you, dear readers? I channel my anxiety into my writing.
The other good news? I have amazing betas in Chayasara and Eeyorefan12. They are both gracious, insightful, and utterly hilarious with their commentary, and I am very grateful that they give so much time to this story.
- Erin
DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.