I do not own Twilight.
Okay, two-parter because otherwise, the chapter would have been too long.
The shrill ring of my cell phone wakes me up in the morning, before either of mine or Mike's alarms, and I reach blindly for the device.
Mike is groaning beside me, burying his face further into the pillows. It's Thursday: neither of us has class until noon. Being woken is really going to upset him.
Through blurry eyes, I make out the name on the caller I.D., half expecting to see Emmett for a strange reason, but I am disappointed when my mother's house number flashes across the screen. I tumble from bed and tiptoe out to the living space, closing the bedroom door quietly behind me.
"Mom, do you know how early it is?" I start on a harsh whisper, glaring at the clock over the stove that reads half past four, but she cuts me off before I can lay in.
"Isabella?"
The frantic tone to her voice has me in panic mode. "Yeah? What's wrong?"
"Oh, Bella, honey," her use of my old nickname and the slight hysteria to her voice makes me reach out for my shoes, "it's Charlie."
A blind panic takes over.
"He's been hurt…I don't know what happened. The station called a few minutes ago, and then the hospital afterwards. I think he's been shot, Bella."
My fingers are too numb to mess with the ankle boots sitting beside the door.
"Where?" I gasp, the tears already choking me from the inside out. My question holds two meanings, but I'm not sure which one I was going for.
"He's at the Medical Center in Port Angeles. Can you make it there okay?"
"Yeah," I practically yell, fumbling around the kitchen for my car keys. I always keep them in the bowl on the counter; why the fuck are they not in the bowl on the counter?
"Honey, drive save, don't rush, please," are my mother's last words before she hangs up.
I'm a mess as I let my phone fall to the carpet, trying to see through the tears that are beginning to build up. I'm in a strange halfway world between silently numb and maniacally anxious and I think Mike sees that as he opens the bedroom door.
"Bells—" he starts, but changes his tune when he takes in the scene before him. "Babe, what happened?"
He's walking towards me, picking up the dropped phone on the way, and the single boot I hadn't managed to shove on my foot.
"My dad was shot," I answer quickly, still looking for my keys.
The ride will be three hours at least, so if I leave right now I should be out of the University area before the morning commute really begins.
"Shot?!"
My keys are hidden underneath a napkin and I scoop them quickly and bend to force my foot into the other shoe. I realize, as an afterthought, that I am still in my pajamas, but I could care less.
"On the job?!"
I'll just take a jacket, even though it's mid-spring. There's no time for a bra.
"Isabella—"
"WHAT?"I turn on Mike, an unnecessary anger coursing through my veins. This is not the time for questions, can't he see that? Mike's eyebrows raise, like he doesn't understand my tone of voice.
"Is he okay?"
I groan, my shoulders falling.
"I don't fucking know, Michael. I need to get to Port Angeles."
The keys are taken from my hand before I have time to run out the door and I'm looking from my suddenly empty fingers up to Mike.
"I'll take you," he says, his voice softening and I'm shaking my head.
"Give me the keys; I have to go."
"No," Mike argues, his voice stern. "You can't drive like this, Bells. Come on, I'll take you."
And despite my desperate desire to drive myself, to give me something to occupy my mind for the long ride, I relent and storm out of the apartment. Mike takes an extra minute, probably to grab shoes, and I am wickedly impatient, already hurtling down the staircase.
In the car, I bite my nails and finger my hair and stare out of the window, trying to ignore the pit in the depths of my stomach and the growing traffic along the route.
Mike doesn't try to talk, for which I'm grateful, and an hour into the ride I'm also grateful he insisted on driving, because I can't stop crying.