Welcome Back, Dear Readers!

Thank you so much for joining me once again. I'm so excited to get into the nitty-gritty of this story!

A real quick plug for TFMU, if you don't know what it is, it's a meet-up for our fic family! This year it's being hosted in Cleveland in July. Let me know if you will be there (We'll find each other for a hi!). I can't wait for my first one ever!

Okay, back to the story.

Thank you to Mel and Gemma.

TW: Rape is mentioned

ONE

Bella

Learning is not attained by chance, it must be sought for with ardor and diligence.

— Abigail Adams

A string of curses greeted me as I pushed the front door of the apartment open. "Oh, Phil! Watch out!"

There was a loud clatter and a second round of swearing as my mom's boyfriend either ran into something or had something dropped on him. Either was a likely possibility with my mom.

I tossed my backpack onto the sofa as I shut the door, flipping the lock automatically. I moved through the apartment to the kitchen where Phil was sprawled out under our kitchen sink, reaching for a wrench neither my mom nor I ever bought.

"What's going on?" I asked, leaning on the doorframe and taking in the scene. Mom was on the floor, picking up a box of screws that had apparently tumbled from the toolbox I was sure one of her ex-boyfriends had left.

"Bella!" Mom gasped, looking up at me. "Baby, you're home. Will you hand me those screws?" She pointed to a few near me and I squatted down to pick them up.

I could hear Phil muttering under the sink and I glanced at him.

"Is something wrong with the sink?"

Mom looked up at me then looked back at Phil. "No, I dropped my lucky ring down the drain." She sighed. I rolled my eyes, turning to pick up more screws.

Of course, she had.

"Nee, is it really worth it?" Phil grunted. I knew the answer even before Mom gasped.

"Phil, how could you ask me that? Of course, it is! You know how special it is to me!" She cried.

I finished picking up the screws and set them back in the box, looking at my mom.

"So, I take it you haven't done anything about dinner?"

It was always a shot in the dark whether my mom had made dinner or not. Sometimes she was on it, and sometimes, she didn't even realize it was nighttime.

Mom looked at me in surprise before turning to the window where the sky was dark outside. "Oh, is it late?" she asked, looking back at me.

I shrugged, climbing to my feet. It was easier to not use specific time with my mom, but rather concepts like light and dark.

I moved to the counter where the cordless phone was charging and riffled through the paper menus we had stacked there. Mom couldn't keep her phone for more than a few days without losing it, and I'd found that the apps always charged way more than calling it directly. It limited our choices, but our budget did that anyway.

"Chinese or pizza?" I asked, holding the menus up. Mom looked my way.

"What about Thai?"

Phil grunted his protest under the sink. Phil was a guy of simple tastes, and though my mom loved experimenting, especially with food, it was pizza and beer that made her boyfriend happiest.

Since he was currently tearing up our kitchen, and it was up to him to put it back in working order, I decided to throw him a bone.

I punched the number of the local pizzeria and brought the cordless to my ear. I placed my order—meat lovers for Phil, a veggie for Mom and me—before hanging the phone back up and slipping out of the kitchen. I had about thirty minutes to shower before the food arrived, and I decided to jump on the opportunity before Mom had Phil tear apart the bathroom too.

I ducked into my room, kicking my clothes off and pulling on my robe. I grabbed my towel, made sure my robe was secure, and headed back out to the bathroom. Our apartment only had the one, and though it should have been weird showering while Phil was here, these days he never left and I'd been forced to get over any awkwardness.

Our shower didn't get very hot, which was a pain in the ass, but it did get hot enough to help leach some of the stress away.

I'd been pushing nonstop for the last three years. Every extracurricular class, every advanced placement I could swing. I was a top-tier student in our school, and it still wasn't good enough.

I'd done a handful of virtual college meetings this summer in hopes of getting an insight into how the application process might go, and what my chances might be.

Apparently, my above averageness here meant I was utterly ordinary to the Ivy leagues.

Time was running out, and there was only one way to step up my game; I had to think outside the box.

The problem was, I'd become a tried and true box thinker. I couldn't think outside the box if my life depended on it.

And these days, it felt exactly that; like my life was depending on it.

I scrubbed my hair in the shower, scraping a little too hard as I thought about the paradox that faced me.

Somehow, someway, I needed to find a way to stand out when all I'd been taught how to do was blend in.

I was two days away from officially starting my senior year, though I'd already started studying for it back in June.

Two days left to somehow reinvent myself.

Two days left to change my life.

…

Though the shower helped ease some of my stress, it did little else to soothe me, and by the time I was walking back to my room—hair wrapped up in a towel and robe secured around my body—I could feel the muscles in my back starting to tighten again.

I dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt I was told once belonged to my dad. More likely, it belonged to one of my mom's many boyfriends.

Hair still wrapped, I left my room to find the pizzas sitting on the kitchen table. Phil was parked in front of the TV, a beer in one hand, a plate of pizza on his lap, and there was no major flooding that I could see, so I figured the night had been a success.

"Thanks for ordering, baby," Mom said, coming into the kitchen wrapped in a faux silk kimono she'd found at the swapmeet two years ago. She lifted the lid on the first box. "Oh, Bella. Meat?"

I moved the box aside, wordlessly lifting the second lid. Mom nodded, satisfied, and pulled a plate out before serving herself a slice.

"Do you want to come watch a movie with us?" Mom asked. From the kitchen, I could hear Phil shout at the TV. Some sport was on, though I didn't know or care which one.

"No," I said, grabbing my own plate. "I've got work to do."

Mom hummed as she poured herself a glass of wine. "Okay, baby," she said, already distracted. I grabbed my food, and when Mom left the kitchen, I grabbed the almost empty wine bottle. I retreated to my room, blocking out the sounds of Phil arguing with the TV while my mom talked at him, trying to get him to change the channel.

The walls in our apartment were thin, so I sat on my bed, setting the bottle on my nightstand. I pulled my headphones on, grabbing my charging phone to set the playlist. Some nights I needed to focus and for that, I had a carefully curated selection of Bach and Chopin. Tonight was a night for something darker, something heavier.

I scrolled through a few playlists before finally giving in to shuffling all of Muse's music.

I took a deep breath as the heavy electric guitar and clapping of "Pressure" filled my ears.

The music spoke directly to the pressure building within me, and I took several deep breaths before opening my eyes and reaching for the wine. Taking a large swig directly from the bottle, I sat back on my bed, grabbing my pizza and settling it on my lap.

I'd let myself sit here and eat, focusing only on the music for another twenty minutes. After that, I would get back to fine-tuning my schedule.

In the living room, Phil and my mom were arguing so loudly that I could hear it through my headphones. I pushed the sound of their voices away until all that was left was the heavy thump of music pumping through my system.

Another glorious Friday night in the Swan household.

…

"You're going to go blind before you hit forty."

I looked up, annoyed to be interrupted from my laptop. Jake was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe and smirking at me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, pulling my glasses off.

He motioned behind me. "Your mom asked me to stop by and fix the sink."

Of-fucking-course.

Phil had given up last night, telling Mom he'd get to it in the light of day. Since Phil never got back to projects, I understood Mom's decision to outsource.

I even knew why she asked Jake, despite how I felt about him. Jake was handy and strong, and he worked for sandwiches or weird shit my mom liked to foist onto him.

Once upon a time, it had been great to see him around the apartment so much.

Now, it just made my stomach twist so hard, I felt like I was going to throw up.

Jake pulled himself away from the doorframe and stepped into the narrow kitchen. "How've you been?"

Jake had been our next-door neighbor for as long as I could remember. We'd practically grown up together, and for a long time, it had seemed like we were on a trajectory toward dating.

One night had changed every fucking thing. We'd barely spoken since.

Jake reached for the toolbox that was still sitting next to the kitchen table. As he bent down, his face drew closer to mine, and we both froze, our eyes meeting very briefly.

I saw his warm brown eyes darken with regret, and before he could say anything, I looked away.

"Bella," he started.

"Jake, stop."

I saw his jaw pop out of the corner of my eye. "We have to talk about it."

I snapped my laptop shut, swinging my legs out from under the table. I nearly kicked him on my way, and Jake stepped back. I stood up, pulling my laptop against my chest.

"I don't have to do a goddamn thing," I hissed.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, his eyes falling shut. His eyelashes were still the longest I'd ever seen, and they were dark against his tan skin.

One of his large hands reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as he let out a long breath.

"I miss you, Bells."

My eyes narrowed at him. "Well, I miss being a virgin."

Jake winced like I'd punched him in the gut, and I took my opportunity to slip past him. I stormed into my room, knowing he wouldn't follow me. Jake was too chicken shit for that, at least while he was sober.

I slammed my door shut, leaning back against it and sucking in a deep breath to steady my nerves. What happened between Jake and me was hazy, and for a long time, I hadn't been sure if I even had a right to be mad. I'd been confused, scared as hell, and had absolutely no one to talk to about it.

Then the anger had set in, and that was where I'd stayed.

I reached up, rubbing my eyes with my fingertips.

I still had a lot of work to do, but there was no way I'd get it done with Jake in the apartment. I turned to my bed, grabbed my backpack, and shoved my laptop in it. When I was sure I had everything I needed, I slipped out of the room.

In the kitchen, Jake was crawling under the sink. I could see his work boots toes up on the floor, his long denim-clad legs bent as he situated himself. He looked strong, handsome even, as he stretched out in our tiny kitchen.

Jake had always been beautiful, and that had been part of the problem. Beautiful people got away with too much. They were the least trustworthy people on the planet.

I forced my eyes away from him and headed for the front door, slipping out before anyone could stop me.

…

It was almost painfully hot today, and the hair that had slipped out of my ponytail was catching under my backpack straps where sweat was rapidly gathering against my bare shoulders.

I reached up, adjusting my tank top strap as I walked along the chipped concrete path toward the library. I'd never known any other climate than Arizona, and though I knew life to be this way—hot, and then hotter—I longed for something more, something… different.

I wasn't entirely sure what sort of different I wanted; I just knew I needed some sort of change.

If I stayed in the desert, even if I was two hundred miles away from Phoenix, I'd always be too close to all of them.

My mom, Phil who was the latest in a string of boyfriends she'd been burning through since I could remember, Jake…

I needed space from all of them.

I dreamed of cold winters on the East Coast at an Ivy League… I didn't even care which one; I just needed to get into any. I wanted the experience of going away to college, forging my own path… becoming the start of my own dynasty.

One day, I was going to be important. One day, I was going to matter.

If only I could find my path there.

I reached the library, and my chest deflated as a heavy breath escaped my lips at the relief of stepping into air conditioning. I slipped past the metal detectors and headed straight for a corner of the library I knew would always be empty.

Not that the public library was ever busy.

I set up my laptop, sighing heavily as I waited for everything to boot up. Everything I'd done in the last three years had been with the goal of getting out of Phoenix. I was tired—unbelievably tired—but I couldn't give up. Not when I was so close.

My eyes flickered over my laptop screen when it finally hummed alive. My laptop was old and crappy as hell, with faded keys and a cracked screen. I'd gotten it second-hand from one of Mom's boyfriends, and though it sucked, I didn't have the money for a new one. Getting one at all had been a miracle. Before that, I'd been living out of the school library and the public library, using whatever I could get my hands on.

I pulled my notebook out of my backpack, intent on picking up where I'd left off at the apartment. I didn't have any summer assignments, but I'd set myself to reading every textbook and assigned reading book ahead of time anyway. I was now steadily working my way through learning about the various authors on my list of required readings.

I checked the next name on my list: Eleazar Cordova. His book, The Heart in the Garden, was on every self-respecting reading list, and I'd even made an effort over the last few weeks to read it in its original Spanish.

Cordova was the most contemporary writer on my list, though he was perhaps the most elusive. Not much was known about him, at least, not that I'd been able to find.

I pulled up a search engine, typing his name in and waiting impatiently for the slow library internet to connect to the search.

When the page finally loaded, I sighed as I scrolled through the links. I'd read everything on the first page, and they all said the same thing: author of the literary masterpiece The Heart in the Garden, originally from Spain, no one has seen or heard from him since his release of the book in 2003.

I frowned, pushing the search onto the second page. Links got noticeably less reliable the deeper I had to dig, and I was surprised by the amount of garbage I came across. Fan pages, fanfiction, theories on the symbolism in his book… nothing tangible, and nothing reliable.

I was about to switch gears and find a new way to search when the final web link on the bottom of page three caught my attention. Frowning, I clicked on it, praying it wouldn't deliver some weird virus onto my laptop. The page looked to be some sort of forum, terribly designed and extremely outdated. I would have left the search had it not been for the wild theory by the original poster, claiming that Cordova was murdered.

Annoyed, skeptical, and impatient, I read on, unable to look away.

starwalker714:

Help! Pay Attention! You're in Danger!

Everything Cordova wrote in The Heart in the Garden is true and I can prove it. It's not a conspiracy, and it's not a metaphor, Cordova accurately described several real-life murders and no one saw it. He's been missing since 2003, shortly after his book debuted, and it's because he was murdered by the very things he was trying to expose in his book. If you are reading this and you know anything about the recent alien abductions in New England, message me!

It was asinine and annoyingly inaccurate, but the deeper I got into the thread, the more I couldn't stop reading. Starwalker714 seemed to be primarily focused on aliens on a killing spree in New England, but other, less crazy-sounding contributors were speculating about where Cordova might have gotten inspiration from his book. One particularly interesting entry had me sitting up in my seat.

cordazon22:

He's a genius because he went to the best school in the United States. Even a semester at the Academy is a guaranteed full ride to any college or any job you could ever want. The man only had to write one thing and he's now set for life.

Nomen est omen.

I stared at the screen. I'd never heard of an academy being so prestigious it could set anyone up for life in this way, and considering how obsessive I was about research, that was really saying something.

Pulling open a new tab, I quickly typed it into the search bar. As expected, nothing came up. I considered the Latin phrase at the end of their post and typed it into the search bar next. It was an odd phrase: The name is an omen, but other than some references to Plautus, nothing significant came up. Obviously, whoever had written the post was just trying to be antagonistic. It was annoying, but what was more annoying was how I'd gotten my hopes up, even for a second. For a shining moment, there was a path, a hope to launch myself into the life I craved.

Of course, it wasn't real and it hadn't panned out. I wasn't surprised by it; nothing in life came that easily, and if it did, it usually meant you were about to get screwed.

I cracked my neck, closing the chat room tab as well as my useless search. I turned to my notebook, crossing Cordova's name off my list, and moved on to the next.

There was no use wasting any more time on him. Real life was still ticking away around me, and I had plenty I had to focus on. I didn't have time to chase down ghosts.