A/N: Y'all have been happy for long enough. Buckle up for angst, angst, and more angst. Thank you to:
Writhing & Riveriver, who collectively sustain my sanity AND this story.
Dee: your reviews never fail to make me laugh. Hope you're feeling better soon!
Werewolfs-team: glad this made the Seth/Jess cut! I shall continue to hold out hope that this pairing gets popular...a girl can dream!
The piercing bleat of my alarm clock startles me from sleep for the second time in as many minutes, but I can hardly find the will to crawl out of bed. It has more than a little to do with the oversized and overheated man in my bed, his body curled around mine like a (uncomfortably warm and sticky) cocoon. He grumbles when I roll over to hit snooze again, trapping me with the lazy stretch of an arm.
"Five more minutes," he protests sleepily, burying his face in my hair.
"I'm already late," I reason, coasting my fingertips along his bare spine until he murmurs contentedly. "It's only, like, twelve hours until I see you at Emily's."
"Twelve hours," he whines, flopping dramatically onto his back.
I seize the opportunity to escape, hurrying over to my dresser to dig for a suitable outfit. "You'll live. Go hang with Brady…or is he holding a grudge?"
Seth winces. "I tried to air out his car…it probably would have been fine if it didn't rain while I was on pa – while I was out."
I give him a weird look as he stumbles over the words, choosing not to wage that war this early in the morning. The more time we spend together, the more I notice his unusual way of speaking, the unpredictable pauses that seem to truncate even the most banal of conversations.
Weekend plans? Always cryptic.
What he does for work? Totally undisclosed.
And that's without broaching prickly topics, like how exactly the Sam-Leah-Emily situation came to be, or why everyone at the bonfire had been so intense about some spooky stories.
It's an issue for another day, I think, tugging on a long sleeve tee emblazoned with the rink logo. It's at least two sizes too small - probably something that fitted me perfectly in high school - but I'm already late, and navigating Paige's laundry pile for a better option is a journey in itself.
"Are you wearing that out?" Seth asks with a frown, half-sitting up in bed to look at me.
"Am I wearing a work shirt to my place of employment? Sure am," I comment, wriggling into a pair of worn-out jeans.
Seth's eyes widen as he rushes to explain himself. "You look great, Jess, don't get me wrong. It's just a bit…you know," he says vaguely, gesturing at my chest.
"Boob-y?" I supply, giving them a squeeze for good measure. "I know. It's my best selling strategy."
Seth hums appreciatively, staring unashamedly at my chest. "It would definitely work on me."
"You're hopeless," I laugh, leaning over to kiss him on the top of his head. "Lock up when you head out, yeah?"
"Of course," Seth grins, stretching up for another kiss. "Have a great day, baby. Can't wait for tonight."
"Neither," I say, and the memory of his lazy smile, his open adoration, keeps my mood decently buoyant for most of the morning. It's not that I'm anticipating a bad day, but the last week of the month demands that I complete a stock audit, ideally without becoming entirely despondent, which is a big ask. In my totally unprofessional opinion, the rink is one minuscule calamity from permanent closure, and I seem to be the Stanley willing to acknowledge it.
Mercifully, Angela's on for the morning shift, running the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. Well, as efficiently as she can, given the incessant yammering from Eric Yorkie in the dish pit.
Hiring him on the back of his mid-college crisis was so a bad idea.
Tuning out his inane commentary makes for a surprisingly productive morning, given that I can't slack off for more than a second without him trying to make conversation. I've heard enough about college football and mumble rap to last me a lifetime, though voicing such concerns only gives Eric extra motivation to draw me in - something I openly detest, much to his - and Angela's - amusement.
"How are the figures looking?" Paige asks as she swans through the kitchen, clad in an intriguing two-piece tartan set that makes me long for a Scottish getaway.
"W-e-e-ll," I say, flipping through my red-inked stacks of paper. "Not bad on dry stock. Salad bar is passable. Meat stocks are dismal."
"Dismal? How so?" Paige queries, concern creasing her brow.
"Currently, we're in the neighbourhood of eighty, ninety dollars down. And that's without checking fish."
"Why haven't you checked fish?"
"Really, P? That's your issue?" I ask in disbelief.
"Talk to Lauren when she starts. Find out why, then do the write-up."
I groan. "Can't you do it? Lauren listens to you -"
Paige gives me a stern look that clearly says cut the bullshit. "Get it done. You can head out once the audit's filed."
My eyes dart impatiently to the overhead clock.
Two-fifteen.
"Christ," I groan, hurrying to scribble the final figures into the grid lines. "Where'd all the time go?"
The stairwell door clatters open, rousing Eric from his afternoon stupor on the milk crates. Technically, I should reprimand him for slacking off, but I'm sure a lingering ache in his thoracic spine will be punishment enough.
"God, this kitchen smells like ass," Lauren complains, wafting a perfectly manicured hand in front of her nose. "What is that?"
"Probably all the wasted meat I had to dump," I say coolly, pointedly ignoring Paige's icy stare.
Lauren shrugs. "Figures," she says, continuing on her merry way to the cloakroom.
I glare at Paige, gesturing in a way that I hope says I fucking called it, but she only shakes her head, clearly irritated.
"Just do it," Paige orders, circling back to her office.
The door swings shut, effectively encasing her in her happy place - a place where the only things that matter are the likes she gets on the rink Facebook page, the influx of geotags on Instagram that come after a successful promotion. Once she's in there, settled at her ergonomic workstation that did a number on our annual budget, I know damn well that she's not coming back for another round.
Typical spineless Stanley.
I crack my knuckles, trying to find the fire for what I know will be an excruciating conversation. Trying to get Lauren to take responsibility for anything is a fool's errand, and that's without our painful history of catfights and childish quarrels.
I stroll into the cloakroom, straddling the wooden bench as casually as I can. Lauren eyes me warily in the mirror as she braids her long, white-blonde hair, almost unblinking in her scrutiny.
"What?"
"You could start with good afternoon, you know," I comment airily, holding her gaze.
She doesn't flinch. "I know. What's up?"
"What's the deal with all the waste lately? We're pushing close to three figures on meat alone this month, and I still haven't finished the count."
She stares at me coldly, her hands momentarily stilling. "I wouldn't be starting shit if I were you."
I scoff incredulously. "The fuck does that mean?"
Her lips pull into a self-satisfied smirk, clearly smelling blood in the water, and my heart sinks. Whatever dirt she has on me, it's good.
"I'm only looking out for you, Jessica. I'd hate to see you heartbroken…again," she simpers, her pale blue eyes alight with fake concern.
I cross my arms against my chest, hopelessly wishing that I'd steered away from the boob-y shirt. "What, are you going for a hat-trick on fucking my boyfriends?"
Lauren's devilish sneer only grows. "Of course not! I would never go for jailbait."
Jailbait.
"Excuse me?" I say, and an unfortunate voice crack does nothing but betray my false composure.
"Ashley Dowling's little sister saw your darling Seth at the intramural soccer game. She had such lovely things to say about him - apparently, he was the star player for the Tribal School! You'll have to pass on my congratulations."
My ears ring, drowning out whatever else spills out of her stupid mouth. For all I know, she could be explaining the meaning of life in excruciating detail, and I would miss every single word in favour of imagining her slow and painful demise.
"Lauren, you're five over - move it!" Paige bellows from the hallway.
Lauren smiles sweetly at me, sashaying off into the kitchen as if she hasn't just delivered an absolutely lethal bombshell.
I drop my head to my knees, trying to collect my racing thoughts. Seth, in high school? There is no freaking way - he looks older than I do by a long shot, and I've long since graduated. Besides, I'll be damned if he actually attends class, given the number of weekday dalliances we've had.
Dalliances…with a teenager.
My stomach lurches at the thought, and I only just manage to hold down my five cups of black coffee by thinking of puppies and the NHL and fresh banana bread, channelling positive thoughts until my queasiness subsides to a dull twinge.
Lauren must be mistaken. My six-foot-five boyfriend that sports a wicked five o'clock shadow at nine in the morning is totally and entirely legal – because if he wasn't, he would have told me, because he is honest and perfect and an all-around excellent person.
Finally, the dark spots begin to clear from my vision, and it's a little easier to breathe without a giant imaginary anvil dangling over my head. Lauren's a seasoned professional in spreading all sorts of nasty intel like the gospel and, despite knowing her tricks, I fall for it hook, line, and sinker every time. While she busies herself with bitching to Angela, I muddle through my closing duties, repeating it's a lie in my head like a mantra. There is no way that I had sex with a high schooler.
No way.
It's not until I'm shakily descending the front steps that my phone vibrates, prompting my gut to churn harder than the creaky old slushie maker in the lobby.
[TEXT] Seth Clearwater, 2.32 P.M.
Hey baby, how's your day going?
I promptly keel over and empty the entirety of my stomach contents into the overgrown garden bed, retching until my abdomen aches.
It has to be a lie.
Somehow, owing to either a miracle or the worst traffic control in the state, the drive to my apartment is entirely uninterrupted, making it a full twelve god-awful minutes to contemplate my possible statutory rape charges to the soundtrack of rain and miserable country music. I stumble through my apartment in a daze, haphazardly shedding my clothes as I make my way to the shower. My hands shake as I crank the hot tap all the way open, standing under the scalding spray until my sizzling flesh aches as much as my head. It takes Herculean strength to turn the water off, blotting myself dry with a scratchy towel. On a whim, I swipe the damp towel across the mirror, clearing away the condensation until I can see myself clearly. Despite having had a remarkably good sleep, my skin is sallow, my eyes red and puffy from rubbing. I stare at my reflection until my eyes burn and my vision doubles, wondering what exactly Seth found so appealing that he had to lie to obtain.
Eventually, I give up on the pointless task, shuffling to my bedroom with the towel heaped over my shoulders like a cape. Every inch of the room reminds me of him, enough that I can hardly stand being in the space long enough to collect a fresh set of clothing. Collapsing on the living room couch seems to be my only option, and I do my best to lose myself in some reality TV marathon, ignoring the way my hands tremble whenever something reminds me of him.
I hate it.
The loud blare of the TV startles me into alertness, and I groggily realise that I must have dozed off at some point. Welcoming me back to the conscious world is Mike Newton's sleazy grin as he rattles off information about a catalogue sale, posing in front of his father's store as if he owns it.
In a way, I suppose he does.
The TV remote gets a lashing as I violently jam the off button, casting it aside on the couch. It takes some digging to retrieve my phone from in between the cushions, the display lighting up almost immediately with an array of missed messages.
[TEXT] Seth Clearwater, 3.41 P.M.
Hope Paige hasn't kidnapped you for a clopen. Can't wait to see you x
[TEXT] Seth Clearwater, 4.22 P.M.
Let me know if you need a lift to Emily's.
[TEXT] Emily Young, 5.35 P.M.
Hi J, looking forward to seeing you tonight! Food will be done at six, I'll have Seth save you a plate if you're running late :-)
My chest aches as today's events come rushing back into my consciousness. I can't deal with seeing Seth right now, let alone handle a dinner party, but imagining his crestfallen expression gives me pause.
Could Lauren be wrong?
My shaking fingers key a curt reply to Emily as I peel myself off the futon, padding into my bedroom. I pull on the first items of clothing I can find, raking a brush through my tangled hair before I give up, settling for a messy bun. Pausing for a quick check in the entryway mirror confirms what I already know: I look like a hot mess.
Whatever.
I drive to La Push in silence, trailing a few miles under the speed limit the entire way. Even though I know that dragging out the journey won't make the actual event go by any quicker, I can't bring myself to press harder on the accelerator. The nausea is back in full force and it's only by the grace of God that I avoid puking all over the shoulder like a drunk college kid.
Emily's house appears on the horizon much sooner than I'd like; her yard is already littered with an array of cars, each parked worse than the last. I pull in beside Kim's Volvo, focusing squarely on my breathing as I reach for the door handle.
It's only dinner.
I can do this.
The affirmations swirl in my mind as I scramble up the stairs, gingerly knocking on the front door. It swings open almost immediately to reveal a shirtless Collin grinning like the Cheshire cat.
"Little J!" he crows, pausing to look me up and down. "Hungover, huh?"
"Nope," I declare, popping the p. "Totally sober."
Collin winces. "Right. Come on in," he says, stepping aside.
I edge my way into the hallway, following the sounds of laughter and chatter into the dining room. There are people everywhere - crowding into the kitchen, clustered around the long wooden table, spilling out the back door. My eyes skim across the sea of faces, searching for anyone familiar. Mercifully, Kim waves from her spot at the table, and I hurry over, squeezing between her and Embry.
Embry glances at me out of the corner of his eye but says nothing, electing instead to yell at Quil across the room.
Kim rubs my shoulder, her mouth twisted into a concerned frown. "You okay?"
I hum noncommittally. "Yeah. Long day."
"I bet. Well, at least you won't have to cook tonight! Have you tried Emily's cooking before? She has the best recipes…"
Kim's unceasing stream of consciousness style narration sets my nerves somewhat at ease. At the very least, all I have to do is sit back and look like I'm paying attention, which I consider myself to be relatively talented at. Emily's house is a flurry of activity, all chatter and chaos, and I'm more than content to fade into the background as a simple spectator. Just as I begin to relax, Kim's monologue trails off mid-sentence, her head turning towards the screen door. I turn, too, already knowing - and dreading - what I will see.
Jared lopes in, his booming laughter carrying across the packed room as if he is using a megaphone. Seth trails a step behind him, equally shirtless and glistening with sweat. Oddly enough, nobody seems surprised by their state of semi-undress, an observation that I find quite baffling. Either way, I drop my gaze as Lauren's words swirl through my mind.
Kim elbows me in the ribs, whispering quietly in my direction. "Seth's here." Then, more loudly, she calls excitedly to Jared, leaning back in her chair for a kiss.
I keep my eyes on the table as they make out as if they haven't seen each other in years.
"Wanna trade seats?" Embry asks, taking a swig of his beer.
My heart pounds erratically, and I start to wonder (for what feels like the millionth time) why I even came. "You were here first," I say quietly, pushing my chair back. "Stay. I should go and help Emily."
Carefully, I weave my way into the kitchen, deliberately taking the long route to avoid Seth. I can practically feel his eyes burning holes into the back of my head, and it doesn't take a genius to realise that he is not the only one watching. Thankfully, he's smart enough not to follow me, a fact that I am immensely grateful for. The kitchen is blessedly empty, sans Emily, who is bent at the waist, wrestling with something lodged deep in the fridge.
"Here, let me," I offer, reaching over to help.
Her head whips upwards. "You came! I almost thought I'd have to send an escort."
My smile doesn't quite touch my eyes as I fight to tug the oversized salad bowl out of the fridge. "Potato salad?"
She presses her hand against my shoulder blade, and I swear I could cry then and there. "What's going on?"
I shake my head. "D'you want this on the table?"
Emily sighs. "Sure. That would be lovely."
Now that I've started moving, others follow suit, collecting bowls and dishes and sides from the kitchen with remarkable efficiency. There's ten people, maybe more, packed into the homely bungalow, but they all seem to know exactly what to do without words being exchanged. One by one they take their seats at the table as if there is a secret seating chart that I am not aware of. Kim settles beside Jared, Sam with Emily, Jacob and Leah. Embry waves Quil over, and soon there are only two seats remaining - one between Collin and Seth, and another between Jacob and Quil. I keep my head low as I slot in beside Jacob, my discomfort sharply spiking when the group hushes.
Collin clinks his butter knife against his longneck. "I'd just like to make a toast -"
"Is it to yourself, for learning to mind your own business?" Leah says pointedly, her eyes never leaving his as she reaches for a breadstick.
"Well, actually -"
"Don't, Coll," Seth mutters, his voice almost inaudible across the table.
It physically hurts to upset him like this, but I don't have a choice - if Lauren is telling the truth, then I am taking the only acceptable course…independent of the fact that all I want to do right now is to follow my gut and snuggle in beside him.
"Salad looks lovely, Em. Is this Mom's recipe?" Embry inquires politely, and it's enough to break the ice.
People finally begin to relax, starting to pass food around the circle. I take a serving of each dish as Jacob passes it to me, handing them on to Quil silently. Though I keep my mouth firmly closed, others begin to chat, conversation blooming in little clusters around the table. My mouth is full with some baked pumpkin concoction when Quil clears his throat, eyeing me contemplatively.
"You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"
It would be rude to say he looks identical to every other man in this room - he does - and so I purse my lips, trying to think of some explanation.
"You skate?" I ask weakly.
"Nope."
"Ever dated a Paige?"
"No."
"Been to any Forks parties?"
"Nah." He pauses for a moment. "Do weddings count?"
"I guess," I concede, biting into a bread roll. "Whose wedding?"
"Cullen and Swan."
I choke on my mouthful, and it's only after a few hearty slaps on the back from Quil that I can breathe again.
"I'm guessing that's a yes?" he asks curiously, a strange look crossing his face.
"If you're thinking about the chick that got kicked out for starting a fistfight, then yeah - that's where you know me from," I say blithely, taking another bite.
Quil guffaws loudly as the table quietens with obvious interest in our conversation.
Leah leans around Jacob to high-five me, a brilliant smile brightening her face. "God, I can't believe I missed that."
"You didn't even go!" Jacob points out, and she shrugs.
"True. Would've gone if I knew that was gonna go down."
Jacob rolls his eyes, though he does smile when he looks at me. "What's the story?"
I take a sip of my wine, wondering what exactly they know - and what I should even share. The wine's tasting a lot like not giving a fuck, and so I swallow, setting my glass down on the wooden table.
"It was very classy," I say slowly, deliberating over my wording. "I told Lauren if she breathed in Mike's direction again, I'd break her nose. She did more than breathing in the Cullen's bathroom, and I did more than break her nose. Emmett was kind enough to let me finish my drink before kicking me out."
"Jesus, Little J. Didn't know you had it in you," Collin says, punctuating his statement with a low whistle.
"It's all the hockey," I say, taking another sip. "Still, not my finest hour. I'm still banned from Outfitters."
"Outfitters sucks," Brady announces, raising his beer in my direction. "We should -"
"No," the table choruses in near-perfect synchrony.
Brady scowls playfully. "Fine. I'll be good."
Emily stands, ruffling his hair as she passes. "I think you're giving Sam some premature grays."
Sam nods. "I feel like a forty-year-old father of five."
"Five?" Collin exclaims. "Do we have to fight it out?"
"Collin, if you were my kid, I'd return you," Leah jibes, cackling when he frowns. "God, you make it easy."
Sam rises to help Emily clear dishes, soon retreating to assist her in the kitchen.
"I'm moving before they start being gross," Brady announces, quickly depositing his plate on the counter. "Anyone up for a scrimmage?"
Quil leaps up excitedly, dinner long forgotten. "Get ready to lose."
"As if," Collin scoffs, trailing outside behind the pair.
The group disperses almost as quickly as it assembled, disppearing into the kitchen or the yard or other rooms of the house until only Seth and I remain at the table. Avoiding his gaze is no longer an option, and when I finally turn to look at him, he is already watching me, his expression coloured with something entirely unfamiliar.
"Want to go for a walk?" he asks quietly.
I nod, scooting my chair backwards.
He leads me out the front door, and it's impossible to miss the way his hand reaches for mine only milliseconds before he drops it back to his side. As we walk, I can't help but think of how familiar this all is - how we have ended up back in the same position as not even a month before, changed and yet the same.
This time, I speak first.
"I know," I mutter, refusing to look at him. If I see him frown, it will make me cry, and I have more to say before I can succumb to that.
"You - wait, what?" he stutters, aghast.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, fighting the bitter edge that threatens to creep into my voice. "Why did I have to hear it from someone else?"
Seth comes to a sudden stop, only a hundred or so yards from the bungalow. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, seemingly stunned. "Who told you?"
"Why does that matter? Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? I could go to jail!" I exclaim, wondering if it would be acceptable to shake some sense into him.
His hand curls around my shoulder, trying to make me look him in the eye, and I all but leap away to avoid his touch.
"Jess, please," he begs. "Look at me."
"Don't," I growl, stepping backwards. "Don't make this worse."
Seth trembles as he watches me, his eyes glossy. "C'mon, Jess, let's talk about this -"
"Talk about what?" I yell, borderline hysterical. "How I had sex with a fucking child?"
Seth's jaw drops, and it only makes me more incensed.
"I had to hear it from Lauren," I hiss, fury bubbling hot in my chest.
"Hey, um, I hate to interrupt," Embry calls, his head poking around the siding, "but I think the entire neighbourhood can hear you guys."
I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to find a scrap of inner zen. "Thank you, Embry," I say curtly.
He nods awkwardly, disappearing back into the yard. Seth stares at me, still trembling, and I appraise him blankly.
"I'm twenty-two, Seth. Can you see my issue?"
He nods jerkily, rapidly clenching and unclenching his fists. "Would you believe me if I say I didn't even think about it?"
"How old are you, really?"
He swallows. "Eighteen. My birthday was a month before we met."
"You're a senior?"
Seth's head bobs. "Yeah. I only have to go twice a week 'cause I do work on the Rez with Sam."
Slowly, I sink down until I am resting on the wet dirt, putting my head between my knees. Seth sits cautiously beside me, making sure to give me a wide berth.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I've been saying that way too much lately."
My head stays firmly between my legs. "I need to think," I say finally, the words burning as they escape my lips.
Seth makes a noise low in his throat, continuing to tremble in place. "How long?"
"I don't know," I say honestly, hating the way it makes his distress even more evident - I have never seen a person convulse like this, but his reaction makes me think it's typical, somehow, for him.
"Okay. Can you at least text me when you get home?" he pleads hoarsely.
I swallow. "Of course. Can you tell Emily I said thanks?"
"Yeah," he mutters, brushing the dirt from his shorts as he stands. "Get home safe."
My eyes track his figure as he strides towards the treeline, still shaking like a leaf. I watch until he disappears into the darkness, until I have no reason left to stay.
And then, only then, do I leave, driving until La Push is nothing but a tiny dot in my rear view mirror.