It was an odd feeling, knowing that you were about to die. I wished that I could say that it was an unfamiliar feeling, but it wasn't. I hadn't thought about it much, not before it had happened. Before I had come to Forks, I hadn't given much thought to my death. If I had had a choice, the way I was about to go would have made the shortlist for acceptable ways to perish. If I had it all to do over again, I would have, and gladly. For when life gives you something so close to a dream, how can you not be grateful?

It was dry and hotter than usual that Monday. I should have been at school, but Mom was unusually persistent. I wanted to be doing my last bit of packing, to be double checking that I had everything I needed and that my flight was on time, preparing to get to the airport ahead of schedule, but mom couldn't be herself and not drag this out as she was doing.

"Mom," I said in obvious mock exasperation, because I loved my mother to death. "We haven't gone for ice cream since-"

Since the last time I had gotten on a plane without her. Since the last time I had flown to what had once been my home, to see Charlie. I was doing that again, but this time… this time, I wasn't coming back.

"-like over three years ago."

It wasn't like I could admit that I knew the exact date of my last trip. She might think that I had been agonizing or something.

"We are getting ice cream and that's all there is to it, young lady," my mother grinned. "Don't you dare ruin this for me."

I smiled back, "I swear, I spoil you too much."

She laughed.

"But Bella!" she all but whined in a way I was quite certain I had never used in the four years since I had started being a teenager.

I sighed, "Oh, alright."

Mom bounced in her seat as I pulled us into the shop she always liked. It was slow, considering it was the middle of the day, and the middle of January.

"I liked this better when we did it in summer," I commented, whipping up a few drips of French vanilla while mom took a brain-freezing chomp out of something that had all the decadence of a layered candy bar.

"Me too," she said around her bite, once the freeze had subsided. "But a tradition is a tradition."

Then, I caught the look in her eyes.

"Mom," I said, "don't start. I mean it. I am going and you won't change my mind."

"But why?" she said.

My lips twisted, "Mom."

"I'm serious, Bella," she said, reaching a slightly sticky hand across the table to mine. I took it, used to my mother's excesses that usually require a little extra cleaning on my part.

"You are moving back in with Charlie, without me," she said. "You might as well be moving out a year early. I know for a fact that your idea to meet him in California during those summers had more to do with avoiding Forks than seeing your grandparents, so don't even try that one. Just tell me, sweetheart."

I couldn't do that. I couldn't have said that I was leaving because she deserved to be happy.

"Char-" I said then backed up. "Dad… deserves some time. With me. I mean, like you said, I will be moving out soon. I'll be off to some such college somewhere, and I'll have lived my whole life away from him. I don't want him to just feel like he knocked up his high school girlfriend and has a kid out there somewhere. He should get some time with me before its over."

Mom wasn't buying it, not for a second. Just about anyone else would have, anyone who didn't know me. But my mom did know me, in a way that was entirely her own. She could look and see better than anyone else I had ever met. I wished so much that I could do that, just look and understand the way she could. She knew that despite my words, I wasn't going to Forks, the small town that was nearly eternally overcast and housed the home I was born into, to be with my dad. I couldn't tell my mom the real reason. If I did, she would either lock me in my room, or lock herself in hers, and this time, I wasn't even sure if I was exaggerating about her reaction or if she would literally do it.

"Mom," I said, squeezing her hand. "Renee, mother mine. I am going. The ticket is bought, high school transcripts sent, Charlie will be waiting. There is no getting out of this."

I was pretty sure I was doing a better job of convincing myself than her, but that wasn't saying much.

We finished our ice cream without saying much more. As soon as I was done cleaning off my hands and throwing away our trash, mom caught me up in a slightly sticky hug.

"It's not fair," she said tearily. "I'm going to miss you so much, my Bella."

"Mom," I said, trying to wriggle free. My mother knew how I felt about public displays of affection, but she held on.

"Come on, Mom," I said. "I don't want to be late for my flight."

One quick drive, one fully packed bag, two confirmation phone calls, and another quick drive and I was standing in Phoenix Sky Harbor International, ready to leave. Once again, my mother was having trouble letting go.

"Are you really, really sure?" she asked, as the second long hug was breaking up.

"Mom," I said, and she could tell I was getting tired.

"Alright," she said, letting go of me with her arms but keeping our hands together. "Alright. Just remember, you can come home any time. As soon as Phil has a team, we'll send for you."

My mouth fell open.

"You knew?" I asked, my voice all but a whisper.

Mom laughed, "Oh honey, you never were a very good liar."

She hugged me once more, "Oh, my sweet middle-aged child. You get more middle aged ever year. But soon the world will see you as the adult I already know you are. You really get to make your own decisions, even if I don't agree with them, and especially when I know you are making a bad decision. But if someone had tried to stop me every time I was about to do something stupid, well, I wouldn't have you honey. You get to live your own life, no matter what. I love you, Isabella."

I hugged my mom, "I love you too, Mom."

"Now," she said, tears already streaming. "Go catch your flight before I start crying."

I kissed her cheek and lugged my single bag and my cold winter jacket, newly purchased, tag still dangling, and went in. It was a flight to Seattle, a quick change over, and a second smaller flight to Port Angeles later before it really sunk in; I was doing this.

Naturally, it was raining when we landed. The tiny airport at Port Angeles was little more than a few buildings and a landing strip, which made spotting Charlie about as hard as spotting a nose on a face.

"Hey, kid," he said, giving me his usually brusque, one arm squeeze before taking my bag. He kept my arm, which I was a bit annoyed by until we stepped onto the sidewalk and I nearly took us both down on the wet pavement, after which I was equal parts grateful and totally mortified.

Charlie mostly stifled his chuckle, "Guess I am not the only one who never changes."

"Dad," I protested and he was at least good enough to look abashed.

He put the bag into the back and we got into his police cruiser.

"It's good to see you, Bells," he said. I looked around at the institution all around me, the radio, the onboard computer, the mesh just behind my head.

"You too, Chief," I said, giving him a weak smile.

He started driving, the silence starting to strain.

"In all seriousness, Bella," he said. "I am really glad you are here. If anything, now your mother will stop calling me every two minutes in hysterics because she is so worried about you getting here okay."

I suppressed a laugh, "Dad, have you met Mom? Now, we are living in different corners of the country. If you think me simply being here will stop her…"

"Hmm," said Charlie, considering. "Noted."

We continued in silence that wasn't nearly so strained as it was before. It was a long drive back to Forks, and while watching the rain run down the window like tears, obscuring the unnaturally natural green around us, I had to say something lest I get sunk into a serious funk or, worse, cried in front of my father.

"So how far is the school from the house?" I asked. I had enough for a used car put aside, but it wasn't like I was going to be able to buy one before school tomorrow.

"Why?" asked Charlie, as though it wasn't obvious.

"I need to know how far I am walking tomorrow," I replied.

"You aren't," he said.

The very idea of my police chief father dropping me off at first school at school in the middle of my Junior year was enough to have my cheeks go pink.

"You aren't driving me to school, Charlie," I said, then immediately went beet red and tacked on a belated, "Dad."

We drove in silence for a few more minutes before he said, "You sound so much like your mother, sometimes. That's not a bad thing or anything. It's just…"

He shifted uncomfortable. I was right there with him.

"Anyway," he said, readjusting his grip on the wheel, "you won't have to walk. I found a vehicle for you."

"Oh," I mostly said but still sort of asked.

"Do you remember the Blacks?" he asked, which took me a moment to do.

"Yeah," I said, my voice perking up slightly. "Out on the reservation? B something and his kids?"

"Billy, that's them," said Charlie. "They had a vehicle for sale, and I thought we could kill two birds with one stone."

I was suddenly wary, "How so?"

I could see my father rankle and become uncomfortable.

"I just mean," he all but stammered, "they get some income and you get a car. That's all."

"And?" I asked, not sure what was going on but could tell he was nervous about something. I could guess that not being around your teenager enough would leave you out of practice when it came to hiding anything from them.

"And what?" he said, focusing far more than was necessary on the road ahead, as though willing that I would look that way too. I figured the pretense was over.

"What are you trying to hide about the car from me, Dad?" I asked, not trying to sound too demanding.

"I am not hiding anything," he said. I was starting to see where I got my inability to lie convincingly. I just looked at him.

"Okay," he said. "I wasn't sure if you were going to like it."

"Why?" I asked, quietly. There was really no way I could say one way or the other without more information.

"It isn't a new car," he said. "It's a truck, actually."

I thought about it.

"New isn't so important," I said. I had never owned a truck before. Well, I had never owned a car before. "What kind of truck is it?"

"Um," Charlie hedged. "It is a Chevy. I think."

"You think?" I asked skeptically.

"Maybe," he said.

"Just spit it out, Dad," I said, getting tired of how long this was taking.

"Okay," he said, sighing. "Okay. It's an old truck."

"How old?" I asked, feeling nervous.

"Well, older than me," he said.

I laughed. I couldn't help it.

"Decrepit," I teased. But then what he was saying sunk it.

"I don't know anything about old trucks," I said. I didn't know anything about new trucks. Or cars at all. But that really wasn't the point.

"You don't need to worry about that," he said, sounding relieved. What did he expect? Screaming?

"Dad," I said. "I can't afford to buy a car off of your friends that I would just have to turn around and keep spending money on fixing."

"I said," he said, "you don't have to worry about that. The truck runs smoothly, if a little loudly."

"Wait," I said, confused. "What am I not worrying about if it runs smoothly?"

"Buying it," he said. "I already took care of that part."

I couldn't understand what he was talking about.

"You took care of me affording a truck?" I asked, not sure what was going on.

"I bought it already," he said, going a bit pink. "For you. As a welcome home present."

My dad bought me a truck.

"Dad," I said, trying really hard not to sound like I wasn't grateful, because I was. "You didn't need to do that."

"I'm your father, Bells," he said a bit stiffly. "Providing for you is sort of in the job description."

It was quiet for a lot longer than it should have been.

"I'm sorry," I said, and after he didn't say anything, I added, "And thank you."

"You're welcome," he said a bit flatly, and gruffly.

We didn't speak for the rest of the trip back to Forks. Dad pointed out a few of the landmarks I barely remembered; the station, the community hospital, the school, the post office, the bank. There looked like there might be a few places in town I might get a job; a couple of coffee shops and restaurants, a flower shop and a few clothing stores. There wasn't a lot of options, but there were options. I wasn't against groveling if it meant adding to my meager college fund.

Finally, we rounded the corner, finding the house that had been my father's home for longer than I had been alive, the house that, if he had had his way, my mother and I never would have left, evidenced by the fact that it had not changed in the slightest since the last time I was here, save for one thing.

He was right; the truck was old. It was red and rusted and full of life and character. It could have been fifty years old for all I knew, but it looked like it had lived more than most in those years. I found myself oddly moved by it.

"What are you thinking?" asked Dad, since I realized that we had stopped and I was just sitting and staring rather than doing more important things like getting out. I jumped out of the car and walked around the trunk. Every bit more of it I saw, I was more in love with it.

"This is mine?" I asked, feeling a little teary for some reason.

"That's the idea," said Dad.

I hugged him. It wasn't a long hug and we both sort of coughed and stepped back rather quickly, but I was still smiling.

"Thanks, Dad," I said sincerely. "I love it."

He looked pleased but embarrassed. He took my bag from the cruiser and walked me up.

It wasn't a large house, or a locked one, which I was scandalized by.

"You don't lock your door?" I asked.

He looked at me, "Should I?"

I shook my head, "I am just used to locking up when I leave. I don't know. I am just used to doing it. It feels safer."

Dad sighed.

"We don't have to," I said.

"No," said Charlie. "Okay. I want you to feel safe here."

"I didn't mean it like that," I protested. "It's Forks. What could go wrong?"

My father took a long look at me.

"We are locking the door from now on," he said, walking to a high thin old bureau where he set his gun and pulled open a drawer. He took out a key then added it to a simple ring with another key, which I presumed belonged to the truck. He handed the ring to me without a word. Something about his expression gave me the idea that he was thinking about getting a security system put in, or maybe thinking about taking me down to the range and getting me my own firearm.

"Okay, thanks," I said, knowing better than to say anything more. I was not going to fire a gun, even if my life depended on it.

He took me upstairs, still carrying my bag, past the one and only tiny bathroom in the house. I wasn't the sort to keep endless bottles of product and makeup that completely take over bathrooms, but I was just grateful that I wouldn't have to walk down a flight of stairs at night to get to one.

We entered the room that had been mine since I had been born, even after Mom and I had left. The bed was bigger, a twin, like my bed back home. The bedding looked new, and was harshly feminine, but that was just fine with me. The desk was new, as was the computer. Or, it was a new addition to the room, because it looked like it might just be the oldest thing in this room other than my dad. He set down the bag and look rather awkward for a moment, like he had been working from a checklist and now that it was done, he wasn't sure what to do next.

"I will come down for dinner," I said, if only because it was slightly better than, "You can leave me alone now."

He looked relieved, nodded once, then walked out of my room, closing the door behind him.

I lay back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Dinner would be in less than an hour, but still, I needed a moment where I didn't need to face anyone. I listened to the rain, a quiet, constant hush against the roof, which it wouldn't always be. It was inescapable, and I gave some serious consideration to buying earmuffs. Looking up at the empty plaster of the ceiling above my head, feeling cold despite being indoors, feeling the almost oppressive constant sift of rain, I just let go.

The tears played themselves out quickly. I had no idea what was going to happen now. It had been an escape for my mother, leaving this place, and from how she spoke of it, I felt like I had just purposefully stepped back into a bear trap my mother was once stuck it. I didn't care for cold, or wet. I was a desert girl, liking the need for AC, lemonade in the shade, blue skies, soft browns, and open spaces with an entire lack of trees in abundance. Forks might as well be my own personal hell.

But what could I do? Leave Mom stuck with me while her new husband Phil traveled to find a minor league baseball team that would have him? I couldn't do that to her, even if she wanted me to. Like she had said, this was my choice.

I wiped away my tears.

She was right. This was my choice. There was no point in crying over it. It hadn't been an easy one, but there was no other good options for me. If I was going to grow up, I needed to come to grips with the fact that not all decisions were going to be good options. I could cry or I could move on.

I opened my bag. Books went on the old bookshelf, clothes went on hangers in the closet, the extra blanket I found in the hall closet went on the foot of my bed, the desk already tidied was reorganized how I liked it, more like my desk at home- at my mother's house, and I washed up for dinner.

Dinner, it turned out, was made by me. Looking at the fish that my dad had likely caught himself and the single shaker of salt for seasoning, I felt my face fall. I looked through the cupboards and in the fridge and quickly realized that if I wanted any food that had things like seasonings, ingredients you put together yourself, and more complex steps than "Add water" and "place in microwave", I was going to have to do the cooking around here. It was nothing new to me. I worked it out with Charlie and he agreed to allow me a trial run on shopping and meals, after which time, if it worked out, he would agree to have those become my usual chores. It was what I did at mom's already, so I was happy to do it. Luckily, he let me season the fish with what he had on hand, and seemed much more willing to allow me to cook after that. It wasn't great, but it could have been worse.

Dad insisted on dishes, so I went up to shower. I was glad that I had picked up sweatpants to add to my usually sleep t-shirt, but was seriously considering a sweatshirt as well when I crawled into bed. Luckily, the blankets were thick and I wasn't entirely freezing to death after a few minutes. Taking a deep breath, I decided that tomorrow was going to be a good day, aside from going to a new school here in Forks with small-town kids who had less kids in the whole school than we did in our Junior year back in Phoenix. But really, what was the worst that could happen?