Chapter 19- Shadows Of The Night
March 5, 2005
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Rain drips from the dark clouds overhead and lighting occasionally flashes across the far horizon. Though the weather today turned poor, the two people in Edward's backseat don't appear to mind.
When first thrown together, Ben and Angela's shyness and close proximity made them want to sit as far away from the other as possible. Fifteen minutes later, they are now excitedly making plans for next Saturday's school dance, their knees touching and eyes mutually locked. The couple sitting here are very different from the people they were before Edward's intervention.
However, the upbeat vibe in the car does very little to save my plummeting spirits once the Volvo passes by the Forks welcome sign. The dawning reality that our day is over slaps me hard in the face. Soon I will have to say goodbye to Edward. Then I'll be back at home where I will spend my evening watching Charlie spill potato chip crumbs all over himself as he cheers for whatever game is currently broadcasting on ESPN. That isn't nearly as pleasant as being held in the arms of a handsome green-eyed boy like I was earlier today. Admittedly, he only held me because I would have otherwise fallen into the tide pool, but I'm not going to fuss over the details.
Much too soon the car enters Newton's Olympic Outfitters' lot and we park next to my truck. Angela and Ben thank Edward for the ride and chirp out a goodbye before throwing open the back doors. With huge smiles glued to their faces in spite of the downpour, they jog off towards their vehicles. I angle my body to where I can easily see the boy sitting behind the steering wheel.
"I didn't realize you were a matchmaker, Edward," I tease now that we are alone.
With a cocky smirk firmly in place, he croons, "Apparently I am talented in a multitude of different ways."
"Wow. And modest, too," I mock, holding in a smile.
He playfully shrugs his shoulders. "I try."
The lighthearted moment passes and grim reality sets in again, causing my mouth to almost frown. It is time for me to do as Ben and Angela just did - get out of Edward's car and leave.
"Well. Thanks for the ride," I drawl.
"It was my pleasure."
Unable to help myself, my eyes linger on his face for a few moments more, soaking his image into my mind so it will last me until I can see him again. Slightly damp hair. Clean-shaven jaw. Piercing eyes that have a tendency to overwhelm me. It's awfully hard to look away but I manage to do it. My hand wraps around the cold door handle and I try to focus my energies on getting out of this car without falling directly into a mud puddle.
"Do you have to go home now?"
My body halts all movement. Although his question makes me hopeful that he is as reluctant to allow our day to end as much as I am, I don't want to jump to conclusions. Slowly, I peek over my shoulder. "Not really."
Long fingers drag through bronze hair and tufts of it stick up adorably. Releasing a breath of air, he stares back with a somber, half-lidded gaze. "I don't want you to leave."
His blunt honesty melts my insides. My hand immediately abandons the door handle and I swivel around to face him. "Neither do I."
The green of his eyes sharpens and his words come rapidly. "Stay with me, then. We can find something to do together in Port Angeles if you like."
My lips curve softly upwards. "That sounds nice," I agree.
While I am inwardly fist-pumping over the fact that I will have him to myself for the next few hours, a nagging voice inside of my head whispers that if I head off to Port Angeles without first giving my Police Chief father at least a vague idea of where I will be, he is liable to call in the FBI and utilize every available bloodhound in the state during the search for me. Being the child of a law enforcement officer sometimes has its downsides.
"But I think I should let Charlie know first," I add after my moment's thought comes to its end.
Edward digs out his cellphone and hands it to me. I dial in the first few digits of my phone number and am slightly surprised to see my name pop up as a contact. My cheeks flush to a light pink and I shield my face with my hair. Seeing "Bella" displayed on a device he carries around at all times somehow makes what is happening between us feel more real.
Weeks ago, we exchanged phone numbers in case we ever needed to cancel one of our daily study sessions at the last minute. I handed him my number on a torn sheet of notebook paper, believing that he would probably toss it into a junk drawer in his room and forget about it. It's nice to know that he put more value to it than I had assumed. As for his phone number, it is currently displayed prominently on my bulletin board, in the exact center, with four pushpins at each corner to keep it from flying anywhere.
I hit the call button and I soon hear someone pick up the phone at my house. "Hello," answers Charlie in his familiar, sandpaper grumble.
"Hey, Dad. It's me. It rained us out so I'm going to Port Angeles for a little while."
He says not a word for several seconds. "I see," he gradually remarks. "I figured you'd be doing something like that tonight. You and Edward gonna have dinner there, too?"
My head yanks back and my eyes involuntarily blink a few times in succession. In a slightly confused voice, I say, "Well, yeah, but-"
"I'm just gonna grab something to eat from the diner, so don't worry about me tonight. On Saturdays they have the meatloaf special. That outta be good."
"OK," I awkwardly breathe out. I am so stunned by what he said a few seconds ago that I can't even criticize the man for planning to eat at a place that fries more than 75% of its menu in pure pork fat. If he survives tonight's feast, I'll have to spend next week declogging his arteries.
"You be sure to tell Edward to have you back by eleven o'clock. And I mean, eleven sharp. If he tries to drop you off even one minute afterwards, he and I will have a talk," warns Charlie.
My inner teen recoils a little at him trying to flex his parental muscle - especially considering my pristine track record when it comes to following the rules. I've never even been outside of the confines of my bedroom past eleven o'clock let alone out on the streets. Just because I'll be off with Edward for a few hours doesn't mean that I'll suddenly be tempted to break curfew and roll joints as we cruise around town.
"I'll be home long before then, Dad," I retort bitingly.
"Hmm," he grunts. I can almost picture his bristly mustache fidgeting around as he analyzes my choice of words. "All right then. You two be careful. And call if you need me."
"OK, bye," I say quickly before he can remind me to always look both ways before I cross the street.
The call ends and I flip the phone closed. I find myself staring ahead at the dashboard, attempting to sort through my jumbled thoughts. As though in a dream, I stretch my arm and give the cellphone back to Edward without looking his way.
"What's wrong?" wonders Edward with a face strained with worry. I want to assure him that everything is fine, but I'm still too unnerved by Charlie's earlier perceptiveness to hide my own unease.
"Nothing's wrong. It's just that he told me to tell you to have me home by eleven tonight. But I never told him who I was going with," I explain.
A little crease forms between Edward's eyebrows, making him appear just as bewildered as I am. All I told Charlie was that I was going to PA, yet he seemed to already know that Edward would be with me. I'm starting to think that Charlie's detective skills are being wasted here. The only crimes he gets to solve in Forks are ones like, how did someone T.P. the trees in front of City Hall without being seen? And, who's been tossing gum wrappers every day at the corner of Main and Spruce Streets? Nothing truly exciting or even vaguely interesting happens here.
While the two of us are attempting to solve the puzzle, Lee Steven's van drives up and parks nearby - which means that Mike's SUV will likely not be far behind. Since neither one of us is in the mood to deal with him again today, Edward backs the Volvo out of the parking lot and we hit the highway. He urges me to dig through his music collection and find something for us to listen to during our drive. After a quick perusal, I stick in the latest Evanescence CD since it balances nicely between girlie ballads and alt-rock.
While the music floats in the air, I lean back in the passenger seat and feel my muscles relax. Half of my attention is fixated on Edward as his fingertips tap along to the beat, as though the steering wheel is his own personal piano. The other half of my attention drifts back to the events that occurred at First Beach today. Seeing Edward interacting with those two guys was strange to say the least. And the information Jacob informed me about Sam and Paul was even stranger.
We're a couple of miles north of Forks when I can no longer hold back my curiosity.
"Who were those guys that you were talking to back at La Push?" I ask.
The muscles where his neck meets his jaw briefly tightens before returning to normal. That's the only reaction that I see. He otherwise appears perfectly normal. "They're members of the tribe. I know one of them - though I couldn't tell you much about him. I've only spoken to him once before today." With narrowing eyes, he says between nearly clenched teeth, "As for the other man, I've never met him before today, and I hope to never see him again."
"You don't seem to like them very much."
He exhales a bitter laugh. "They haven't given me very much to like so far," he emphasizes. Then he doesn't say another word on the matter.
I pretend that I am focusing back on listening to the music, yet the truth is that his answers have only wetted my appetite. And combine that with what Jacob said about Sam, it makes me very worried for Edward's safety. Hearing that a gigantic guy is determined to lure a seventeen year old boy to live in La Push after only speaking to him once doesn't sound normal. Either Sam really is nuts and he wants to recruit Edward to his cult, or Sam is in love with him nearly as much as I am. I can't say that I blame him if the latter is the case. However, if Sam wants Edward to join his cult, I do have a problem with that. Bronze-haired idols should bow down to no one.
Edward slows down the car as we draw close to an intersection. Since there is no traffic to be concerned with at the moment, I throw out another question. "Jacob was telling me a little about them. He said that the guy you were talking to was the leader of a cult or gang or something like that. You're not in trouble with them, are you?"
He snorts another laugh and doesn't seem worried at all. "No. Nothing like that. Sam just thinks he has the right to put his nose into everyone's affairs. And, since I disagree with him, we don't get along so well."
My nerves relax a tiny bit. What he said sounds similar to what Jacob told me earlier. Sam isn't dangerous, only very bossy and annoying. Though, I still don't understand why people like Sam and Billy are so set on getting him out of the Cullen household. Why would anyone be afraid of the Cullens? Is there some new phobia out there that's causing them to fear gorgeous, extremely pale people? I guess it's not as embarrassing as being afraid of puppets, but still...
It's more difficult for me to form this next question. How do you politely ask your sort of, kinda boyfriend for the reason why dozens of people hate his adopted family without sounding rude and nosy? I should probably just keep my mouth shut. But my mouth disagrees, and it blurts out, "Jacob told me something else, too. He said that some of the people on the reservation don't like your family very much."
He drives for several seconds before he acknowledges what I have said. "That's true. But I can promise you that it is completely undeserved."
My eyes remain trained on his face when I ask the question that puzzles me the most. "Is there a reason why they don't like them?"
He breathes in deeply and holds the air inside of his lungs. Once he releases it, he glances away from the road and stares at me for as long as he safely can.
"Legends and superstitions - that's what started all this, Bella," he explains, his voice sounding abnormally tired. "Some of the tribe's elders have tried to link my family to some old story from hundreds of years ago. And now they have brainwashed some of the younger members of the tribe, like Sam and his friend, into believing that the Cullens are dangerous and cannot be trusted. But, can you see how ludicrous that is? Did you feel threatened by Esme when she offered you apple pie the other day?"
My lips lift into a smile. It's hard to believe that anyone could be afraid of Esme. She is sweet, kind, and has the poise and grace of a ballerina.
Once I shake my head to answer his question, his shoulders lose some of their rigidness, yet his face still falls into a slight frown. "Some of the tribe refuse to go to the hospital now because Carlisle works there. They believe that he is a threat to them. And, unfortunately, they don't seem to comprehend that by avoiding the hospital that they are threatening their own lives if they don't receive proper medical care in time."
"But the tribe doesn't feel threatened by you," I press gently.
Edward heaves a long sigh and glances at me. "That's correct. They seem to think that I'm putting myself at risk by being so close to the family." The area around his eyes tightens and his voice hardens. "Sam likes to keep track of me and insult the Cullens to my face when he can. I've tried to explain to them all that their concerns are unfounded. I think I should know. I've lived with the Cullens since last summer. I have seen them at their best and at their worst. I can unhesitatingly state that they are kind and loving people. They shouldn't be persecuted based solely upon old stories and legends."
My mouth compresses at what he has shared. Now I understand why he was so upset at having to deal with Sam today. He is very protective of the Cullens and cannot get along with anyone who thinks poorly of them. Although I still don't quite get how an old story could cause a tribe of seemingly intelligent individuals to suddenly believe that the Cullens are something to be wary of. And it must be one whopper of a tale to scare people enough to keep them away from the hospital.
But I guess it doesn't take much for things to get out of control once you combine superstition, fear, and a reservation filled with people suffering from profound boredom. Heaven help them, but there's less to do in La Push than Forks. I'm sure that they are desperate to make up for the lack of excitement just like we are. People like Jessica have turned to manufacturing gossip to liven up their otherwise dull existence. And honestly, her stories do entertain even if a majority of the information is without merit. For example, I doubt the woodshop teacher committed murder - with his mallet, nonetheless - at the last school he taught at just because one of his students couldn't construct a decent birdhouse. But her story did occupy the minds of the kids at Forks High for a while. Plus, it had the additional benefit of Mr. Tadlock having perfectly well-behaved woodshop students for a few weeks.
"It kind of reminds me of rumors at school," I say aloud. "Everything gets blown completely out of proportion. And most people will believe anything that they hear - even if it sounds farfetched."
Edward's head cocks to the side musingly. "I suppose you could look at it that way."
I decide to leave my questioning at that and not press for anything else. We lapse into silence as we travel, both of us listening to the music accompanied by the sound of the raindrops pounding against the car's roof.
At the halfway mark to Port Angeles, Edward begins talking again. As he slowly runs his fingers through his hair, he mentions that he had been trying to think of something for us to do and remembered that there is a museum there that he has never been to. I smile and say yes to the idea. He may not realize it yet, but he could have suggested that we head over to the auto parts store to browse the new shipment of windshield wipers and I would have agreed. I really don't care what I do as long as I have him in the vicinity.
Roughly half an hour later, we're rushing up to a ticket booth in downtown Port Angeles. A sign on the window warns that the last tour of the day is set to begin in less than five minutes. After the family in front leaves the line, Edward yanks out his wallet and buys two tickets for us - without consulting me first to see if maybe I want to pay my own way. Right as I am on the brink of pulling out money and demanding that he take out what I owe him, I am reminded of an incident from a little over a month ago. In a small café in this same town, he sneakily paid for my brownie and claimed that it was his "duty as a host" to do so since he invited me to get something to eat. After I threw a fit, he agreed that the next time we ate something together that I had the right to pay for both of our meals. A satisfied smile curls my lips at the memory. I'll let him pay for this since it was his idea. But dinner will be on me.
The tour guide calls for our attention and everyone drifts closer to him. There are only two small families, an elderly couple, plus Edward and me on the tour this evening. The rain and generally unpleasant weather going on outside must have driven away most of the tourists.
When Edward brought up the idea of going to a museum today, I expected for the place to be your standard, small town type of attraction. I thought that I would see things like fossils found by accident in backyards, dusty stuffed raccoons and mountain lions that the passing of time has not been kind to, oil paintings from local artists, and maybe even those antique dentures Mike's ancestor once found in a salmon's belly. So I am surprised when I discover that this museum isn't quite like that. In fact, it's not even "in" Port Angeles. It's actually underneath it.
Our guide on the Underground Heritage Tour explains that Port Angeles once had a serious problem with flooding. To save their community, the townspeople decided to raise the city by a few feet - which had to be a daunting task considering the tools they had way back then. So in 1914, tons of dirt was brought in and the lower floors of the buildings in the downtown were buried and largely abandoned. Today, tourists are able to stroll down tunnels directly below the sidewalks of modern day Port Angeles and get a glimpse of what the storefronts of the town looked like almost a hundred years ago.
As we descend below ground, a shiver crawls up my spine. The atmosphere of this place has all of the hallmarks of a Stephen King novel. For one thing, it's very dark. What little daylight that comes from the occasional window high above is depressingly weak thanks to the storm raging on. Some of the areas on the tour appear so unused that it seems like no one has passed through since Charlie Chaplin was a draw at the cinema. And the sounds I hear are not comforting either. Ominous stretches of silence. Quiet breathing. Echoing footfalls. The drip, drip of falling water. It feels a bit like we have entered a catacomb. Every time we turn a corner, I half believe that I am going to run into the tomb of some unfortunate laborer who died during construction of the huge project. Or worse, I'll see his spirit floating around. Because of these things, I find myself sticking even closer to Edward than I normally do.
Some aspects of the tour are not as spooky, thank goodness. A huge, old mural of a mountain scene in one of the rooms is so quaint and beautiful that it makes me a little prouder to call this area home. Another room displays a wall of photographs that were taken of the downtown area before, during, and after completion of the project to raise the city. I give them a cursory glance without really studying what I am seeing.
I'm at the door, ready to move on to the next room, when I discover that Edward is no longer walking with me. He is standing immobile in front of a faded, sepia-hued photograph. I silently gasp once I get a glimpse of his pained features. Brows knitted together. Lips slightly turned down at their corners. And even from this distance, I can see a sadness - a sense of desolation - in his eyes that is hard to fathom that anyone could be strong enough to survive.
Unable to go on seeing him suffering alone, I walk back to him. I'm not normally the type of person that touches others. I have never been one to drag someone in for a hug or slap them on the back for a job well done. I'm normally reserved and prefer to keep my hands to myself. But something inside of me summons the courage to ignore my typical shyness. I slowly reach out and take his hand, prepared to give him whatever comfort that I can.
Once my fingers entwine with his, the spell he was under breaks. After a flash of confusion, he snaps his attention away from the old photographs and looks down at me.
"Are you OK?" I ask in a hushed tone.
A small, crooked smile grows on his face and he visibly relaxes - much to my relief. Simultaneously, he clasps my hand tighter in a firm but gentle grip. "I'm fine. I get a little melancholy at times when I look at photos like these."
My eyes flick to the images he has been studying and I try to look at them closer this time around, hoping that I will understand why they would affect him so strongly.
I see dirty laborers posed with shovels as they move soil from one spot to another. I see old store windows that were once exposed to rain and sun which are now buried under the ground. I notice that the town's streets at the time were made from hard-packed dirt instead of asphalt, which must have been loads of fun driving on after a good rain shower. Strolling along a wooden plank sidewalk, I spot a man dressed in a three-piece suit with a cane hooked around his arm, looking uncannily like the Monopoly guy sans monocle. I see a few women in dresses that reach below their ankles and shudder a little at how annoying that must have been the deal with. Each woman, no matter their age, wears a hat. Some are simple but elegant. Others are frilly, elaborate works of art decorated with giant silk ribbons, flowers, and so many feathers that I'm surprised that any bird species still exist on planet Earth.
That's what I see on the surface as I analyze these photographs from nearly a hundred years ago. Yet once I catch sight of a small child in the arms of an older woman, it hits me that what I am looking at is more than just proof that the town has grown or its citizens have changed in their fashion habits. I become aware that the people in these photos were living beings. It's startling to realize that each person represented in these photographs had families, hopes, dreams, and stories that very few people today would be able to recall. When I try to think of an ancestor older than my grandparents, I draw a blank. And that makes me more than a little bit ashamed.
No wonder Edward seemed so depressed just now. Looking at these images is a reminder that life is a short, fleeting thing. Sadly, it's more than likely that every one of these people passed on to the other side long, long ago. Did that small child I saw in the arms of an adult ever get to grow up and carve out a happy life? Or, did its fate end at an early age due to the lack of vaccinations available at that time? I'll never know. The photographer did not have the foresight to list any names. His task was to only capture the appearance of the buildings downtown. The people in the shots were merely there as background.
"I think I understand," I tell Edward, still studying the pictures in front of us. "It makes you think of mortality and loss."
"Yes. Something like that," he utters in a tone as soft and smooth as silk.
Now that I am paying attention, I see more things that spark my interest. Evidently in 1914 Port Angeles, they still mainly used horses and wagons as transportation. One is loaded down with wood headed to the nearby sawmill. Another wagon sits in front of a small store as its owner loads it down with bags of animal feed. I see cars in the photos only occasionally - if you can even call them that. The vehicles from the time aren't the sleek, aerodynamic cars you see today. Back then, they were mostly plain, utilitarian things that resembled a box in shape. Their tires looked like something you would see on a bicycle. And save for the windshield, I see that side windows were not common.
One car in particular intrigues me. I step forward and read that the photograph was snapped in the spring of 1914, so it was most definitely taken during the rainy season. Yet I am flabbergasted when I confirm that the car had no roof. I can see its unprotected seats and steering wheel exposed to the elements. What mental asylum escapee designed this vehicle? Did people have to hold up their umbrellas over their heads as they drove around in their cars?
I peek around at Edward and giggle at the thought I just had. Pointing towards the photograph, I say, "Who in their right mind would ever have a car with no roof here?"
He draws closer and screws up his eyes, causing his forehead to wrinkle a little. Moments later, his finger lands on the back of the car in question and moves back and forth. "The Model T has a retractable roof. See? It's right there. This was probably taken on one of those rare occasions when it's not raining like cats and dogs here."
I squint where his forefinger rests and just barely spot what he is referring to. The area he indicates is slightly raised compared to the rest of the car. If he hadn't pointed it out, I would have never noticed.
"Oh, I see now," I mumble. I turn away from the old vehicle and study the boy beside me, suddenly suspicious at something he said. "How did you know what type of car it was? They all look the same to me."
He gifts me with a smile that makes his eyes shine. "I'm something of an expert in identifying vintage automobiles - mainly pre-World War I vehicles."
Gee. Why am I not surprised that he has more impressive things to add to his resume? No wonder he was able to correct my error so fast.
One of my hands comes to rest on my hip and my head cocks to the side accusingly. "So, you're telling me that all those times you made fun of how old my truck was, you were in reality an antique car aficionado?"
"Correct. I can never take that truck of yours seriously because it is no longer considered an automobile. Everyone at school calls it 'The Beast'."
"You're lying."
He raises his hand like we are in a court of law and his face turns angelic. "I swear. Would I lie about something as important as the nickname of the next school mascot?"
I badly want to roll my eyes. How can he be so annoying yet cute at the same time?
"Is nothing sacred to you? That truck and I are a package deal. You can't have the one without the other."
A sigh leaves his lips. "Very well. I suppose that I'll put up with you until I can convince your father to sell me the truck," he says in an exasperated tone.
Hiding my smile as to not encourage his teasing, I swipe up his hand and pull him out of the room - away from the vintage photographs that had sent him into a depression. He follows willingly and we rejoin most of the tourists who are busy looking at artefacts in glass cases.
By the time the tour is complete, it's 6 o'clock and almost completely dark outside. We walk through the now slightly drizzling rain and climb inside of his car.
"Where to now?" I ask him once my seatbelt is buckled.
"I suppose dinner is in order now. You choose the place. I'll be fine with whatever you want."
Since this isn't a metropolis that would have every cuisine available, I try to think of something basic that Port Angeles would likely have. The first thing that crosses my mind soon pops out of my mouth.
"I'm thinking maybe Chinese?" I throw out, watching him for any signs of disgust.
His eyes lower themselves and dart around randomly. "Is it something that you enjoy very often?"
"I used to. I haven't had it since moving back here."
His pink tongue slides across his lips and his gaze lands back on my face. "What is it like?"
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. That can't be right. I had to have misheard him. He's from Chicago, one of the largest cities in the country. How could he not have been to a Chinese restaurant? Heck, you can buy egg rolls at the Thriftway back in Forks and at least pretend you're eating the real deal.
"You've never eaten Chinese food before?" I ask in amazement.
His mouth pinches together slightly and he shakes his head. "No. My family did not experiment with foreign foods very often. French and English are the extent of what our cook felt comfortable making us. And, Esme prefers to make old-fashioned American classics. So, I've never had the chance really to broaden my taste buds, so to speak."
I blink at him for a short time, absorbing his explanation. He must have had a very strict, conservative upbringing to have lived seventeen years and never tasted Chinese, Indian, Japanese, or even Italian food. But I'm even more surprised that the Cullens haven't taken him to more places for dinner. Do they prefer to only eat at home or something?
A surge of determination bubbles inside of me. I sit up straighter in my seat, feeling like it's my responsibility to drag him out of his comfort zone. "OK, then. My mind's made up. Let's find a Chinese place."
Turns out that this town has only one Chinese restaurant, but it must be pretty good since it's packed. Edward parks on the street and insists on opening my door even though I have functioning hands. I grudgingly allow it and it appears to make his day. On a roll, he pulls open the polished wood door of the restaurant for me too. As we wait to be seated, he's almost grinning from the privilege I gave him. I don't believe that it's normal for a teenage boy to be this happy just because he opened up a couple of doors. But I guess there's something wrong with me too since I like the way his eyes almost paralyze me into a drooling mess. We both have our own mental kinks we must deal with, I guess.
It doesn't take long for the host to place us at a table with a huge window that overlooks the busy street. He gives us each a menu and I dig right in. A quick perusal lets me know that this place has all the standard entrées. Once I see that they serve Mongolian Beef, I close the menu and wait for someone to take our order.
Edward's brows are furrowed as he flips through the pages. He takes his time and reads each choice on the menu. Eventually, he snaps it shut and places it on the table.
"Hi, my name's Brittany and I'll be your waitress tonight," a high-pitch squeal greets soon afterwards. Appearing at our table is a woman that I would describe as being Jennifer Garner's more attractive but less financially well off sister. If I had to guess, I would say that she was a few years older than we are. She wears her dark coffee hair up in a bun to keep it out of her face as she serves tables. Her body is tall, slim, and curvy like a Victoria's Secret catalog model. But her smile feels friendly and genuine as she whips out a notepad and pencil. Her only flaw is that she has a wad of bubblegum that she smacks on like a goat chewing hay. Her mouth opens wide with each chewing motion, exposing more of the insides than I care to examine. Maybe if I was studying dentistry I would appreciate it, but right now it doesn't help my appetite.
"Have you decided what you would like to order?" she asks cheerfully, her pencil poised upon the notepad.
"I'll take the Mongolian Beef and a coke, please."
She jots it down and nods her head, her gum smacking increasing in intensity as she works. Once she is done, she looks up from the paper and her gaze falls upon Edward. Her smile goes from friendly to simpering in approximately 1.4 seconds - a new record, I believe. I watch as her big blue eyes travel up, down, and all around his face and body. I've heard the expression "undressed him with her eyes" but have never seen it for myself. Until now, that is.
Her carefully painted mouth parts open into a flirty smirk and her eyelashes flutter. "And what about you? Do you know what you want, or do you need some help?"
Edward holds his menu out towards her and doesn't return the smile. "No thank you. I'd like the Sesame Chicken and a plain water."
The waitress doesn't remove the menu from his hands, and instead flips it back open while he still holds it. Like a circus contortionist, she bends her top heavy upper body over the table and gets as close to him as she can without actually grabbing his face and thrusting it directly into her peeking cleavage.
"We have a special tonight. If you order Number Three, you'll get Sesame Chicken and a vegetable medley for nearly the same price," she coos.
"I'd rather stay with my original order, please," he mutters, moving his face away from her free peep show.
Just a few short hours ago, Edward confronted humongous, muscular guys that look like they take a hit of steroids along with their bowl of Wheaties every morning. He did not appear frightened at all of Sam or Paul. However, right now his eyes are wide and his face is paler than the bowl of rice at the next table over. Who knew that insanely forward girls scare him more than the threat of being pulverised?
Instead of taking the hint and backing off, the waitress doesn't move an inch and keeps her cleavage on display. A few seconds pass by. Edward's face unexpectedly morphs into a large smile and he looks over at me. "Money is no consequence tonight," he announces in an abnormally perky tone. "We're here to celebrate. I'm turning sixteen in a couple of weeks and I finally got my learner's permit yesterday."
The contortionist waitress pops up into a standing position and steps back a step or two. Now it's her turn to be frightened. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
"Oh. Congratulations," she says flatly while glancing around the room for anyone that may have just watched her coming on to a "fifteen year old" boy. She buttons up her shirt until she appears professional again and adds, "Your food should be here shortly." Then she takes off like a rocket to the restaurant's kitchen.
I return my attention back to Edward and see him serenely sitting there with perfect posture and his hands clasped together - looking as though a young woman didn't just throw herself at him a minute ago. A tiny part of me wants to be jealous at what went down and be angry that she openly flirted with him in my face. But a larger part of me had been too entertained by his lame excuse to be too mad - especially considering that he looked to be suffering from debilitating embarrassment during the Breastgate incident.
"She was very helpful to you," I deadpan, making sure to keep my expression devoid of a smile.
He fidgets in his seat and scowls in annoyance. "Is that what people are calling it these days? I would say it was more like impropriety."
Dragging out the fun, I take my time in opening my napkin and setting it on my lap. "I didn't realize you weren't at least sixteen," I remark nonchalantly. My brow cocks up and I try to keep my lips from curling into a smile. "Maybe I should rethink being seen with you so often - it might damage my reputation at school."
His head tilts a few degrees as he thoroughly examines my face. "I wasn't aware that you were concerned over what others thought of you so much."
My mouth rises into an amused smirk. "I'm not, but I don't want anyone to think that I'm trying to take advantage of a fifteen year old," I mock.
The green of his eyes seem to amplify, drawing me powerlessly in. "Is that what you were planning? To take advantage of me?"
My smirk disappears and the room heats up. Before my cheeks can erupt in flames, I take a break in staring at him and pretend that I am too busy to answer his question right away. Slowly, I shove my jacket off of my shoulders and hang it on the back of my chair before I speak. "No," I reply eventually.
"That's nice to know," he purrs, still watching me closely. "I was anticipating that we would have something much more substantial than that."
Again, I am thrown by the words which easily flow from his lips. "How do you do that?" I say after a long, drawn out sigh.
"What?"
"How do you turn the conversation around like that? I was teasing you about your little stunt with the waitress, and you turn it into a serious conversation about us. I just want to know how you do it."
"It's simple really," he answers. He leans forward a little and entraps my eyes. "You're easy to talk to."
While he works to put me into a trance, our food arrives and the distraction helps me to look away from probing green eyes. Brittany the waitress sets down our plates and glasses with barely a smile. She won't even look at Edward. The poor thing. I wonder if she was in the back trying to find out if shoving your breasts at a fifteen year old is illegal?
With our food delivered and Brittany gone, I sip at my Coke and idly fiddle with what she gave us. Along with our forks, spoons, and knives, she left a couple of packages of plastic wrapped chopsticks upon the table. I pick one up and casually study it. Although I have tried many times, I have never been able to eat with chopsticks. They usually either make me appear as advanced as a toddler as food dribbles across the tablecloth, or they fly out of my fingers and land somewhere across the room. Both are traumatizing when it happens in public.
Across the table, the sound of ripping plastic catches my attention. I glance up and see Edward opening his set of chopsticks and pulling them out. My forehead crinkles confusedly as I watch. He said that he's never eaten Chinese food before. So, how does he know how to use chopsticks?
While this question stumps me, I covertly keep my eye on him. With great care, he places the two sticks between the fingers of his right hand. Next, he moves the top chopstick up a little bit. Both chopsticks immediately fall on his plate. He picks them back up and the same thing happens again and again. On the fourth or fifth try, they stay in his hand when he moves them. He then targets a small piece of Sesame Chicken on his plate and attempts to pick it up. It drops off before it even makes it an inch above the plate.
A smile blossoms on my face. I've gotten used to seeing him do everything flawlessly. He has impeccable manners, perfect coordination, and so many talents that I can barely keep track of them. But seeing him bumbling with those chopsticks is something that I never expected. I think I have finally found something that the great Edward Masen cannot do.
I have to give him credit, though. He doesn't give up easily. His face is scrunched up in determination. Every time that piece of chicken falls, he picks it right back up. My eyes begin watering as I hold in my laughter. Somewhere around two minutes into his attempt, I'm impressed to see him lift the chicken to nearly his mouth before it falls out of the chopsticks' grasp. However, instead of landing on his plate, it falls directly onto his lap.
I try and fail to suppress my giggles. After it escapes, I lock my lips together and attempt to appear casual. But Edward's face pops up and meets my eye. I notice that his eyebrows are still knitted together in frustration. Seeing the look on his face triggers more giggles inside of me.
"Are you having trouble eating?" I ask amusedly, chewing my lips to keep from grinning.
He sets down his chopsticks and sighs wearily. "I'm afraid I'm not cut out for this. Apparently, over a billion people on this Earth are intelligent enough to eat with this contraption just fine, but I've just discovered that I am not one of them."
It hits me that he saw me playing with my chopsticks and may have thought that everyone is expected to use them while dining on Asian food. An idea soon brews in the back of my mind. He has poked fun and teased me at every opportunity. It's time for me to deliver payback.
I try to stop giggling at what happened to him. "I'm sorry about that. Would you like for me to show you how we eat Chinese food in Phoenix?"
"Yes."
He watches me closely as I take my time setting the scene. I know that he expects for me to wow him by showing off my chopstick skills, but I would probably just wind up poking myself in the eye with them. Instead I neatly place my unused chopsticks on the table, straighten my posture, pick up a fork, and start eating my food in the same way I do every day.
His brow arches as it dawns on him that I am just as clueless as he is when it comes to eating with anything more complicated than a fork and spoon. "Is this your way of telling me that you set me up to look like a fool?" he questions.
I keep my mouth relaxed instead of grinning as I would like. "No. I would never set you up, Edward. All I did was watch you eat."
A corner of his lips cocks up and he picks up his fork from the table. "I never realized how sly you were, Miss Swan. I suppose that I should watch you more closely from now on," he playfully growls.
We soon shift from harmless jokes to concentrating on eating our food. Once our waitress notices that we are done, she brings over a tiny tray which holds our bill and two fortune cookies. She sets it down in the very middle of the table and runs off. While Edward takes a drink of his water, I grab the bill and begin checking for any inaccuracies.
"What are you doing?"
My head snaps up to find him staring at me with suspicious eyes. In response, I give him my sweetest smile. "Paying our bill."
His eyes enlarge and he swallows roughly. "You're not supposed to do that."
"And why is that exactly?"
"Gentleman do not force their dates to settle their debts, Bella," he retorts, utilizing his perfect diction.
My arms fold themselves across my chest and I stare back challengingly. "Oh? Is that right? Well, what do they say about gentleman who don't keep their word?"
His brows pucker in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Exactly one month ago, we ate at that little café. You claimed that since you invited me there, that you were responsible for paying. I told you that I would pay the next time we ate together, and you agreed. So, here we are. Time for me to fulfill my word."
"Bella," he moans as though he is in pain.
I flash a large smile and continue to hold on tightly to our bill. "Edward," I say, matching his whining tone.
He leans forward, his face and voice now serious. "I truly appreciate the gesture, I really do. But I don't believe that it's right for you to have to pay. Besides, I don't recall actually saying the words 'I agree' to you that night."
"Maybe," I allow with a half shrug and smug grin. "Though this time I was the one that invited you for Chinese tonight. And, going by your logic, that makes me responsible for the bill."
His broad shoulders droop in defeat. I bet he didn't realize that I still remembered that excuse he used on me. "You aren't going to give up, are you?" he asks resignedly.
"Nope," I confirm, popping out the sound.
He falls back in his chair and an adorable pout puckers his mouth. "I'll have you know that by doing this, that you are tarnishing my status as a gentleman," he mutters.
My eyes rotate around in their sockets. Just because I am paying for our meal doesn't mean that it will reflect poorly on him.
"No I'm not. I'm just helping you upgrade it. You're going from outdated gentleman to a modern and fair minded gentleman. So, no more complaining."
He quietens down and I resume looking over the bill. Just as I think that he has accepted the fact that I will be the one responsible for paying for our dinner, he says, "Will you at least let me take care of the tip?"
I frown and shoot him a frosty glare that freezes him into submission.
Twisting his mouth, he backs off. "I'll take that as a 'no', then," he breathes out.
I pull out my cash and set the money on top of the tray. Feeling a sense of pride, I look over at him and smile. Not only have I not humiliated myself during my first ever date, I had the opportunity to pay part of our expenses. This night has gone perfectly. Well, except for the near lap dance our waitress tried to give Edward. That wasn't so great...
I shake off the negative thought and refocus on the fact that she at least left us with one of my favorite things on the planet. "Time for fortune cookies," I proclaim, snatching one up from the tray.
"The what?"
I push the other plastic package over to him. "This is the best part of Chinese food. In each cookie is a small piece of paper with a fortune written on it. It's fun to speculate on what it may mean."
In restrained excitement, I rip open the plastic and break the cookie apart. Squinting my eyes, I read the fortune out loud. "In order to get the rainbow, you must endure the rain."
My face collapses into a near scowl. What was that? I wanted a fortune, not a weather forecast.
I toss the strip of paper down in disgust and look up at Edward. "I'll never escape the rain. It follows me everywhere," I grumble irritably. "Your turn."
He swipes up his and cracks the cookie open. As he reads, a tiny smile appears which grows by the second. I wait and wait for him to share what's on the piece of paper, but he doesn't utter a peep. Then, he digs out his wallet and shoves it deep inside.
"What did yours say?" I press curiously.
All he does is shake his head and keeps on grinning like it's heaps of fun to keep secrets from me. As he returns the wallet back to his pocket, I add, "I read mine to you."
"I know, and thank you, too. However, I cannot return the favor. I don't want to risk ruining my fortune."
My eyes slightly narrow at him. "You're not being fair, Edward."
"I suppose you are right," he concedes, stroking his jaw. "How about this - I promise to show you this once I know for certain that my fortune has come true."
I release a sigh and flop back in my chair. "Well, since I have no other choice, I guess I'll have to agree... Cheater," I throw in as a disgruntled whisper. He hears me and laughs with gleaming green eyes while I narrow mine. He's lucky that he's so handsome that I am reluctant to leave a handprint on his face.
With the meal paid and my change safely inside of my pocket, we exit the restaurant and find that the rain is gone. The streetlights shine down through the light mist hovering above the ground. It is much cooler now than it was earlier, so I zip up my jacket as we wander back to his Volvo.
"What time is it?" I ask midway there.
He stops and pulls out his pocket watch. "7:03."
Continuing on our journey, I map out a schedule that will maximize as much time with him as I can - hording each minute that I can have with him like a miser. It takes roughly an hour to go from Port Angeles back home to Forks. Since my curfew is at eleven, that means that Edward and I will need to be on the highway by ten. That leaves almost three hours for us to do whatever we want.
He unlocks the car door and I slide into the seat. I strain my brain to come up with something we can do. I guess the movie theater is an option but I'm not in the mood. I would much rather talk with him than stay quiet for two hours.
While he strides around the car and enters on the driver's side, my brain conjures up the memory of a conversation I once had with Jessica. As a self-described guru when it comes to dating, she wished to impart her "wisdom" to me since I was (and still am) an amateur. She gave insight into every place she has ever visited and graded it on a scale from one to ten on how romantic it was. Coming in at a respectful seven was the City Pier, a place I have yet to see.
"Since it's not raining anymore, do you want to go to the pier? Jessica said that it's kind of like the highlight of the town," I elaborate, drawing in my lip between my teeth.
"That sounds all right to me," he agrees as he sticks his car keys into the ignition. "But before we go there, I'm stopping for dessert. There's a place a few blocks away that sells the best ice cream in town. We can eat our ice cream on the pier. But I'm buying," he emphasizes, cockily arching his eyebrow in preparation for any possible argument on my part.
My eyes roll and I cross my arms. "Fine," I heave out.
We drive to the place he spoke of but it's lights are turned off. A sign on the door declares that it is closed for the evening. The second shop we find is closed too. On the opposite side of town we finally track down an opened ice cream shop. And it unfortunately appears that every family in town has decided to take the kids there tonight. Many cars, trucks, and minivans line the quiet street. As we pass by the huge window, I spot a dozen or so people waiting to order.
Edward parks at the first vacant parking space available, but it is still a good walk away from the ice cream parlor. He shuts off the engine and purses his mouth ruminatively.
"Would you like to stay here while I run inside or do you want to come with me?" he wonders.
I look behind us at the distance we would have to cover. I'm not thrilled with the idea of having to walk from here to there and then back again - all while balancing an ice cream cone. That can only spell disaster for Bella Swan. I would more than likely trip over a crack in the sidewalk and end up with the cone landing in my hair. Looking like a unicorn with chocolate sauce dripping down my forehead would not make this evening magical.
"Umm... I think I'd rather wait here. Just get me something simple. I don't care," I tell him.
He leaves the keys in the car when he steps out. Before he jogs off, he presses the automatic lock button and all of the doors lock. I watch him in the side mirror until he disappears into the fog.
A minute turns into several. Several become much longer. When I estimate that he's been gone ten minutes, I squirm in my seat. It feels like each minute that he is gone is a minute wasted. I should have just gone in with him. What was I thinking? I could have asked him to carry my ice cream instead of waiting here forever like a moron.
I can't go on just sitting here so I slide out of the car to go see what's holding him up. I stretch out as I stand by the open passenger side door and give my surroundings a quick peek. This side of town isn't as bustling as some parts. Most of the shops on this street are closed either for the night or until Monday morning. Passing vehicles are few and far between.
My feet are prepared to walk towards the ice cream parlor when I catch a glimpse of a book inside of a display window. My interest instantly percolates beyond control. Without being able to resist, I slam the car door and wander over the twenty feet or so feet that separates me from the store. The interior is dark, but the muted streetlight illuminates the window just enough for me to browse.
It isn't long before I am disappointed by the window display. I see titles like From Auras To The Zodiac - Your Spiritual Guide To Life. And, Numbers Are Your Friend And Numerology Will Prove It. Once I see a sign which claims to have crystals for healing your chakras - all for only $35 dollars a piece - I decide that I have seen enough. They probably wouldn't carry the types of books I prefer. Mom would like this place though. Maybe I can buy her one of those dreamcatchers they have hanging in there and send it to Florida for her birthday.
I rotate around and take a couple of steps right as a dark, shadowy figure emerges from the fog. My face lights up since I assume that Edward has finally returned. I stop in my tracks and wait for him. But, as the person comes closer, my smile abandons me. At the same moment, my body breaks out into goosebumps - as though in an attempt to warn me of impending danger.
That's not Edward, I realize.
As the figure stalks towards me, only one thought enters my mind.
I should have stayed in the damn car.
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A/N- Dun, dun, duuun!
Reviews keep me writing instead of doing chores that my kids can do for themselves. I would much rather tell them that I can't vacuum today because I have to answer all these awesome reviews. I don't like to lie to them. Please don't make me. ;)
Next Chapter- A life hangs in the balance. And a secret begins to unravel.
Thanks for reading! :-)