Spoiler-free spoiler: You will most likely ABSOLUTELY hate the way this chapter ends; it's split into two parts. I won't make you wait as long as usual for the next part. Promise ;)
Katie
When I get the call that Emily is in labor, I'm coming home from Port Angeles on Monday after my shift at the paper. It was a day.
My boss at the paper is very no-nonsense. When deadlines aren't met (and no matter who doesn't meet them), he likes to gather us up and keep us from working to make sure we know that deadlines are important. If it sounds counterproductive, that's because it is.
Either way, it's much too much drama for a Monday, and I had been looking forward to going home and getting a head start on my homework (and also maybe that bottle of wine that's been sitting dusty in the back of the pantry).
But when Seth calls me with the "Great news, Katie!", I reroute to Jacob and Nessie's cabin. It had been Jacob's idea for the pack to meet up, so we weren't overtaking the hospital.
What it ends up meaning for me, though, is that I overtake Jacob's kitchen table with my school things, and I can't concentrate long enough to read a single paragraph of my philosophy textbook.
Claire slides into a chair across from me, grabbing for her previously deposited backpack. "Is this the homework table?" she asks as Quil pulls out the chair next to her.
"Join the club," I say, smushing some of my papers in my textbook to make room. Philosophy homework probably isn't going to happen tonight. I'm not feeling all that philosophical.
I take a break to stretch my neck, and spot Seth on the couch next to Embry, still shoveling the pasta Nessie had made into his mouth. I make a mental note to give her some extra cash the next time I have extra cash to give.
"Who is this?" Claire asks, pointing at one of the photography stills on the table. I can tell she wants to grab it but doesn't know where.
"This is Leslie," I say, turning the photo by the corner so she can see it more clearly. "She's in my group."
Claire's button nose wrinkles. "You have group projects in college?" Claire is twelve, I think, and right in the throes of middle school. You couldn't pay me to go back to middle school. And that's saying something.
I nod, correcting the alignment of my engagement ring on my finger. "Yeah, they never go away. It kinda sucks." Quil bristles as my choice language, but I just roll my eyes. She's twelve, not two. "What are you working on over there?" I ask, peering over as Claire pulls out a notebook and a textbook that has a clingy fabric sleeve over the cover.
She sighs deeply. "Math. I hate math. But Quil helps me when he can."
"Must be nice," I murmur under my breath, turning back to my laptop.
For the portrait photography class, Rich is requiring us to write an introduction to the work, detailing what we've gotten to know about our partners over the course of the class and how our perception has shifted the way the portfolio came out.
Technically, we have to have two portfolios per partner – one is chronological, and the other is up to us. They're allowed to be digital proofs, but I work better with the material in front of me, being able to hold and move the photos as my mind works, as opposed to shifting stills around on a computer screen. Thus, the mess that is my office, and also currently Jacob's kitchen table.
Eventually, I'm able to find a rhythm for my work, until Leah and Nessie move to stand at the kitchen island over my shoulder.
Their voices are barely above a whisper, soft enough that none of the ears in the room can pick up what they're saying. I even glance to Seth, seeing if his face gives anything away. He catches my eye, tilts his head, and shrugs. Nope, me either, he says.
Eventually, Leah slips out the back patio door, and Jacob follows shortly after. That doesn't necessarily mean anything weird. She's his Beta. Maybe she wants to ask about patrol schedules or something. Once again, I catch Seth's eye, and he gives me a gentle shrug and a half-hearted smile.
I try not to let my imagination get the best of me. So naturally, by the time the phone on the counter rings and makes the room go momentarily still, I've come up with about twelve worst-case scenarios instead of doing my homework. I am, after all, the girl who was convinced her future husband was a serial killer.
"It's Jared!" Nessie says, holding the phone to her ear. She's only listening. The buzz in the room is enough to vibrate my seat.
Embry yells for Jacob and Leah, who are still outside (surely it's nothing). Once they reenter, Nessie clutches the phone, and we all hold our breaths.
"It's a boy!"
A smile overtakes my face, Leah's secretive behavior momentarily pushed aside. Across from me, Quil jumps to his feet, rushing to the couch where Seth and Embry are grumbling and pulling out their wallets.
I roll my eyes, leaning across the table to Claire, who I think is trying not to pout. "Even though it's a boy, I'm sure you can still dress him up in dresses and paint his nails."
Her face lights with a smile, and we giggle as the others continue to celebrate the good news.
I think Leah's coming over to finally let me in on her big secret, but she stops short of me, murmuring something to Nessie I can't quite catch.
But my eyes flick to Seth. Judging by the way his face falls (his and Jacob's, I note), he catches every single word.
I'm leaving.
Seattle. Yes, with Adam.
Selling the house.
I don't know what I expected Leah's big news to be, but leaving La Push wasn't on the list. I think I actually expected her to be expecting over this.
She told us the weekend after Emily and Sam's baby – Levi Jacob – was born, at the same time she told Sue and Charlie.
What was to be expected, in hindsight, was that Charlie was the calmest at the table. Sue was confused; Seth was a little mad; I was holding back tears.
Leah had made it clear that it was her decision, that it was not up for debate, and that it wouldn't be finalized for another month or two (at least as long as it takes to sell a family home).
Even now, almost two weeks later, when I have a thousand other things to focus on, it rings like a gong in my ears.
It's not so much that I'm leaving La Push as I am going to Adam. I've waited so long already to find him. It's time.
Her logic is sound. I still don't like it.
It's Thursday in the middle of Finals Week, which for a photography major, means I'm up to my eyeballs in loose prints and digital copies, trying to shove them into plastic sleeves or slide shows.
Leslie and Jordan are next to me, their things sprawled out with mine in our corner of the library. We're all in the same boat. I'm not sure who's driving, but at least we'll go down together when it sinks.
I drain my second (or third?) coffee of the afternoon and toss it into our trash pile and lean back on my hands. "Are we dead? Is this hell?"
Jordan chuckles, taking a break to crack his neck. "No way you're going to hell, Katie."
Leslie coos. "Such an angel, isn't she? Honestly, she glows. She's got a halo in that backpack of hers, I'm sure of it. I don't know if I told you, Jordan, but last week she literally gave me the sweatshirt off her back because I spilled coffee on my t-shirt. Who does that these days?"
My cheeks heat, and I duck down, gathering up my loose prints. I can't do photography any more today. Time to do some last-minute cramming for my philosophy final in an hour and a half.
"Katie does, that's who," Leslie finishes, reaching for her coffee. Instead of her fingers gripping the cardboard, it bumps it, and it goes tumbling all over the prints I'd just organized.
"Shit, Katie, I'm so sorry," Leslie blurts. She shifts to her knees, scrabbling for something to sop up the ruined prints, the ink bleeding into the margins.
"It's okay, Les, it was an accident," I say out of reflex. "No big deal."
Jordan comes back with a roll of paper towels – I hadn't even noticed he'd left – and starts helping clean up the mess. "Isn't this the portfolio that's due today?"
I glance down to the prints. These are for my printmaking course. Jordan's right. This is due by five.
"Oh, no," I murmur. "I have my philosophy final at three. There's no telling how long that will take."
"Can you reprint them?" Leslie asks. Her phone dings, and she groans. "Oh, God, Katie. I wish I could stay and help. But I have a calc final in ten minutes. I need to go." She starts gathering her things as Jordan helps me sort through the prints to see if any are salvageable. "I'll make this up to you, okay? I promise. I'm so, so, sooooo sorry."
I give her a half-hearted smile and she runs off, still zipping up her bag. With a groan, I sit back on my knees, tossing down a sopping paper towel. Dread settles uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. Without this portfolio, that grade is as good as gone. I don't think I'll fail, but the scholarship board doesn't look kindly on D minuses.
"Come on, get up," Jordan says. "We'll reprint them. Do you have the memory card?"
I nod, and he offers me a hand. But then I groan. "It's at work. I used the printer there yesterday. I left it in the computer."
"Okay, we'll go. We can be there in ten minutes. We'll be back before your final, no problem."
I don't remember agreeing; I think I'm being overtaken with a sense of impending doom. But Jordan must pack up my things and drag me across campus to the parking lot, because before I realize it, we're at my Corolla.
"Katie, do you want me to drive?" he asks, snapping me out of my haze.
I shake my head, inserting the key into the door and unlocking it. "No, I'm okay. Let's go."
The first minute of the ride is filled with me fiddling with the radio, finally setting on my favorite local radio station to try and squelch some of my anxiety. This is the station one I've found that plays The Cure and The Killers.
The song that comes on next is one I don't recognize, but Jordan hums appreciatively. "I like this song."
"I don't know it," I say, shifting forward to turn it up a few notches.
He scoffs. "Your favorite band is The Cure and you don't know The Wombats? For real?" When I glance at him, he's grinning. "They have a ton of festival shows later this year. They run with Death Cab. Neon Trees. The Struts. Groups like that."
"Oh, so just a bunch of bands trying to be The Cure but failing miserably," I say with a laugh.
"Katie," he groans. "The Wombats are not failing to be The Cure. They're succeeding at being The Wombats. They're up and coming but they're going to be big. Mark my words. The Wombats will be headlining Coachella in no time."
I giggle. "You've said 'wombat' so much it doesn't sound like a real word anymore."
He joins in my laugh, a good hearty one. After he's calmed down, he says, "Maybe we could go."
"Go where?"
"A festival," he says. "There's got to be one in Portland or Seattle or somewhere close."
"Oh, I couldn't—I'll have work and school and stuff." That's a horrible excuse. But it's also a horrible idea to agree to go to a concert in a faraway city with Jordan, who I'm not sure I'll ever see again after this semester is over. I still haven't totally decided if I want to see him again after this semester is over.
"Right." His tone is flat, if not a little skeptical.
I feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine locked straight. "Right," I repeat.
The silence that stretches now is tinged with a hint of awkwardness. It's the same one that touches every solo interaction I have with Jordan.
So," Jordan finally says. "How serious are you and Seth?"
I laugh out loud, partially to ease some of my lingering tension, but mostly because it's such a ridiculous question. "Well, we're married. I'd say it's pretty serious."
"I don't get it," he says, an unfamiliar emotion creeping into his tone. "What do you see in him, anyway? He's nothing special."
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "He's my husband," I scold. "It doesn't matter if you think he's special."
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
I hear the words forming on his tongue, and I know once he speaks them, we can't go back. "I think some things are better left unsaid."
"Katie, I just—I think I'm in love with you."
Although his admission wasn't far off from my guess, it still doesn't feel good. Certainly not like the first time Seth told me. There aren't butterflies in my stomach, and I don't feel lighter than air.
I feel sick.
"You don't know me," I hedge. My body is so tense, my muscles so tight, that I barely register when my foot presses down just a bit harder on the accelerator.
He laughs in disbelief. "Your go-to coffee is Columbian. Heavy on cream, light on sugar. Your favorite color is baby blue. When you're anxious, you balance on the sides of your feet or spin your rings. You go everywhere with your camera. You have the most beautiful brown eyes, and your smile is like—"
"Please stop." My cheeks are blazing. My knuckles are cracking from the force behind my grip on the steering wheel.
He doesn't stop. "A rainbow, that's what your smile is like. It lights a room. Launches ships or whatever. When you get a compliment, your cheeks go red like a rosebud. And you're sweet, and a good friend, and a great listener, and so, so funny. And the best photographer I've ever met."
There's a bowling ball of dread sitting in my stomach. "Jordan, I—"
"I know it sucks. I've put you in an impossible position. I know that. I tried not to fall for you. I really did," he repeats, although I'm not sure if the insistence is for my benefit or his. Because I don't really recall him trying like he claims. "But I can't help how I feel. I've never met a person who gets me so easily, who I understand so easily right back.
"Like how you don't know whether you like Leslie or are just her friend because it's easier than being alone on campus. You hate talking about money. You don't want kids."
"That's not true," I say slowly. Jordan may know me well (he's certainly proving that right now), but he doesn't know everything.
Jordan sighs heavily. "I just… Why were you so quick to settle down? You're so… special. I wish we'd met sooner. You should have explored your options more."
The bowling ball is on fire now. I push the accelerator down again. The needle pushes sixty, sixty-five, then seventy. I've never gone this fast when I'm not on an interstate; I might be more nervous if the road to town wasn't straight and smooth. And if I get pulled over, that works, too.
"I don't need options," I say. My eyes flick to the hot pink mace keychain dangling from my ignition. There's no way I can get it off the key ring right now, and even then, there's no way I can spray it without blinding myself, too. Seth and Charlie (and Shelby) always told me I should keep it more easily accessible. I should have listened. "I'm perfectly happy with Seth."
Jordan laughs, but this one is darker than the other ones I've heard before. My eyes are locked dead ahead, but I feel his hand come to rest on my knee. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." I'm squeaking like a mouse. I kick myself internally for how pitiful I sound. How scared. "Can you, um, please take your hand off?"
He doesn't respond, and instead of taking his hand off, it slips an inch higher, then two. If he feels my muscles clench under his hand, it doesn't deter him.
"I'm crazy about you, Katie." He sighs deeply, and then continues. "I can't get you out of my head. I know you feel this." He squeezes my thigh. "This thing between us."
My fingernails dig into the underside of the wheel. I try to remember that 'fight or flight' thing that Ashley was always telling me about. Right now, I'm frozen, which is the worst thing. Ashley froze in the frat house so many months ago. And she'd almost paid dearly for it.
My heart aches for Seth to come rescuing me like he had rescued Ashley, but I don't think he's going to. "There's nothing between us," I try. "We're friends. Please, Jordan. Let's just get to town and get back for our finals. We'll forget this ever happened."
Jordan's hand creeps higher on my thigh, and my blood pumps thick and slow in my veins.
"Yeah, right. You're unforgettable. Come on," he says, hand on my upper thigh now, traveling toward the center. "I know you want me, too. Why else would you have been so nice?"
For a guy who just proved he knows a lot about me, the way he's speaking now proves he knows absolutely nothing. Like that women can be nice to men without wanting to—
His hand slips firmly between my thighs.
"Please, don't." God, Katie, this is not the time for manners. "Get off," I snap, grabbing his hand and shoving it away roughly.
"No." He grabs my wrist so hard I yelp, and he reaches with his other hand to forcefully grab my chest.
They say in stressful situations, time slows down, and your senses become hyperaware. Your brain thinks faster, and you recognize details you might not otherwise.
For example, the radio has just switched over to a popular song, one I do know. One almost everyone knows the chorus to, but nobody knows the title of or the band who sing it. It's featured in at least three different movie montages.
I'm not going to sit back and just let this happen to me, especially with this stupid song playing as the soundtrack. If Jordan won't take no for an answer, I'm going to have to get creative.
I can't push Jordan away without taking my hand off the wheel, because he's still holding my wrist (ow). I could stop the car, but what good would that do? That'd probably make him move faster. If I managed to get away, he'd surely follow me.
We haven't passed a single car on this entire ride. It's raining. This is the part of the forest where cellphone reception is spotty. I'm basically screwed. What are my options? Let him grope me—or worse. Get out and run. Jump out of a moving car going seventy. Crash my car going seventy.
This entire thought process takes less than two seconds.
Seth, I love you. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me. God, I love you, too. I'm sorry. Please don't let me die.
I pull the steering wheel hard to the right.
I crash my car.
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You're gone from here
Soon you will disappear, fading into beautiful light
'Cause everybody's changing, and I don't feel right