North Star
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Four:
Paul
When Leah Clearwater calls early on Sunday morning, hungover, exhausted, and in need of someone to switch shifts, I'm pissed, but I don't refuse. More money is always good money, and I'm relieved for the excuse not to attend church with my sister and grandparents. I've never been hugely devout, but whatever dregs of faith I had possessed have self-destructed into non-existence with the death of my parents, and I've made it a habit to avoid services ever since.
The thing is, the Bible preaches that everything happens for a reason, that we are given nothing we cannot handle, and the very thought of either maxim is nauseating. It's selfish, but I can't fathom how God, or the Bible, or the Church can justify taking my and Naomi's parents from us, and the truth is, I don't want to.
John and Lani Lahote were successful, contributing members of society, were loving, devoted parents, were generous, compassionate philanthropists, and they died in a tragic accident that could have easily been avoided.
Where was God, then, when my family needed Him most?
"You're not coming, Pauley?" Grandma asks. She wears that disappointed frown of hers I've grown accustomed to, and it's enough to flood me with guilt. She's found comfort in the embrace of God where I have not, and although I can't fault her, I can't follow in her footsteps, either. Her disappointment blows, and I feel like the scum of the Earth.
"Leah needs me to cover her shift," I explain. Grandpa offers me the keys, but I gently refuse. "Don't worry about it, Gramps. I'll just walk."
Naomi hugs me as they leave, Grandma and Grandpa do too, and I make my way to the diner with my hands shoved in my pockets. Rainclouds churn overhead, but the air is cool and damp, and I'm wide awake by the time I reach my destination.
"Hey, Paul, honey," Sue Clearwater greets me. Her husband, Mr C, is nowhere in sight. Neither is Leah, but I expect as much. "Thanks for doing this on such short notice."
"No problem, Mrs C," I answer. I clock-in, don my waist apron, and gratefully accept the coffee she offers me, "I won't say no to some extra cash."
"I'm sure," she acknowledges mildly. A muscle ticks in her jaw, and I can't tell if she's more embarrassed or more annoyed by Leah's behaviour.
I've arrived just in time for the breakfast rush, and it's easy to fall into the routine of taking orders, delivering meals, and chit-chatting with the customers. As such, the morning passes in a monotonous haze, and it's only when Mrs Clearwater insists on taking one of my tables that anything truly captures my attention.
The table is host to a middle-aged white guy clad in flannel and jeans, accompanied by a teenaged girl of mixed descent, presumably his daughter. She's very pretty, unassuming and wholesome in a tank top and yoga pants, and although she hasn't grown into it completely, she's got the makings of an hourglass figure that is something to be appreciated.
I try not to stare, but I am struck, inexplicably, with the urge to paint this girl, with her lithe limbs and flushed cheeks and all the colours in her hair. I'm careful not to stare, but the effort it takes to look away is frankly absurd.
"Who are they?" I ask Emma. SHe's a waitress, but she's spent most of the morning at the counter, serving the customers there. She's 23, with a four year old son and a husband who is more absent than not, and she's insistent she spends enough time running after her son to work the tables, too.
I don't protest the arrangement. More customers means more tips, and besides,, I can't imagine it's easy to take care of a kid (practically) on your own. It's hard enough with Naomi, and I'm only a part-time babysitter.
She arches an eyebrow, surprised. "You don't know? I guess you wouldn't. That's Police Chief Swan and his daughter, Isabella. They're close with the Blacks and Clearwaters."
"Right," I acknowledge, and the conversation ends there. I'm not one to butt into business that isn't mine, and I've got more customers to focus on, anyway.
I finish my shift without further incident, but I am bemused to find Anna waiting for me when I leave the back room. As Jared's girlfriend, we're friendly, but I wouldn't necessarily call her a friend, so the fact that she's sought me out? It's weird as hell.
"What's up?" I ask.
"Have you heard from Jared recently?" She asks in turn, and I frown, bemused. Jared had said she's cool, laid back and chilled out unlike his first girlfriend, and I wonder at this unexpected descent into the realm of 'clingy' that she's previously disdained.
"Not since Thursday," I answer. He's apparently sick, so I'm not particularly concerned by the radio silence, but Anna looks as though she's barely slept for worrying.
"I went to his house to see how he's going, help him feel better or whatever, and his mom thought he was staying at your place over the weekend."
"Right," I acknowledge, tug roughly at the roots of my hair, and firmly suppress the desire to panic, "That's fucked."
It's unlike Jared to lie like that, and I wonder what he's playing at. I can't imagine he's doing anything illegal - he's too desperate to get out of La Push to risk it - but it's also uncharacteristic of him to disappear without notice, to lie about it, and to involve anyone in his drama - particularly without informing them, first.
Then again, a lot of Jared's recent behaviour isn't what I've come to expect of my oldest friend.
I sigh, weary, and already over and done with this shit, "I guess I'll call him when I get home."
Anna looks grateful. "Thanks, Paul. If you get in touch with him, can you tell him to give me a call?"
"Sure," I acquiesce, privately relieved that she doesn't ask me to keep her updated. I'm not even sure if I have her number, but in any case, I'm not about to ask for it.
Blessedly, Anna doesn't linger to chat, and I make my way to the door as she approaches the counter. As I do, I catch Isabella Swan's eye, struck, once again, by the way the light brings out the colours in her hair.
She blushes, her olive cheeks tinged the slightest shade of pink, and I leave before I do something stupid, like ask if I can immortalise her in canvas and acrylic. Given that we're complete strangers, I doubt that would go over well.
One can dream, anyway.
Jared
It's difficult not to stare at Emily Young's scars. They are stark against her coffee coloured complexion, pale pink and jarring, and I wonder - morbidly - if they hurt. Despite this, however, I wrench my gaze away from the imprint's face and all it's implications, and instead focus on the food she's prepared.
"Thank you, Emily," I say, and make a valiant effort to look her in the eyes. As I do, I offer her a forced smile. It's only the second time I've met her, and I wonder if she's as reluctant for me to be in her home as I am to be there. "This looks great."
"It's not much," she excuses, "But I figured you'd be hungry. Sam always is."
Sam grunts his acknowledgement. He's already halfway through the omelette Emily's prepared for him, eating with a single-minded sort of intensity that should not be reserved for food. At least, not unless you're Jamie Oliver, or one of those other white trash celebrity chefs all over the place these days.
I follow his lead, slower and less intent, and the silence that accompanies our meal is excruciating. It's not just that I'm a stranger in their home, at their table, and in their lives. It's also the matter of Emily and Sam's strained relationship, a house of cards built on a fraught, intangible foundation. It makes the meal awkward and uncomfortable, and by the time I've cleared away my plate, I'm desperate to leave.
Evidently, there is trouble in paradise, and if this is what I have to look forward to with an Imprint, I pray it will never happen to me.
"What grade are you in, jared?" Emily asks.
"Uh, I'm a Junior," I answer, fiddling mindlessly with my cutlery.
"Do you like school?"
"It's school," I shrug, nonchalant. I endure it for the sake of my future, but that's about it. "Paul makes it a little more interesting, but not by much."
Sam lifts his head from his sixth piece of toast. "Paul? Paul Lahote?"
"Yeah," I confirm, "Do you know him?"
It's a weird question to ask in La Push, but it's justified. Paul's spent his summers here, yes, but he doesn't know everyone, and in turn, not everyone knows him. It's a state of things that have started to change with his job at the diner, but since neither Sam nor Emily go there, I can't fathom where he's had the opportunity to learn of Paul.
"No," Sam denies, "I was just told to watch out for him, same as you. He's a descendant of Levi Uley, apparently."
I grimace, even as I am unsurprised by the revelation of my friend's ancestry. Paul's going to hate the very thought of phasing, never mind all that which goes with it. Admittedly, I'm not particularly fond of any of it either, but my best friend's life has become a series of upheavals over the last year, and the whole 'wolf' thing would just be another in a growing list of them. Even as I hope he doesn't join our ragtag pack, I'm selfishly comforted by the thought that I won't be enduring this fuckery alone.
"Are you two close?" Emily pries.
I shrug. "I've known him forever, you know? He's like my brother."
"Yeah," Emily says. Her expression is wistful, "I get that."
I'm careful not to pry. La Push is a small place, and as such, I'd seen, peripherally, the fallout of Sam and Leah Clearwater's explosive breakup a year prior. I have heard Paul bitch about his coworker on more occasions than I care to recall, and, more recently, I've seen snippets inside the pack mind (which is a fucking trip in and of itself), and I don't want to hash it out over the breakfast table, too.
Sam doesn't want to talk about it either, apparently, because he shoves his chair back from the table, takes his plate to the sink, and roughly scrubs it down with a washcloth. When he's done, he approaches the back door, and curtly gestures for me to follow him.
He doesn't acknowledge Emily at all.
I share a glance with the young woman, small and scarred and lonely at the hand-carved dining table, rinse my plate in the sink, and acquiesce without protest. As I do, I look forward to the moment I can leave their house and company, because I'm quickly growing to dislike Sam Uley, and I'm fairly certain the feeling is entirely mutual.
As I leave the house, the sound of my cellphone blares from the kitchen counter, loud and shrill with my newly sensitive hearing, and more than I can deal with right now. It's Anna, probably, or perhaps my mom, but either way, I have no idea what to say to them, no idea how I can and/or will explain the rapid physical changes I've just endured. As such, I pretend not to hear, and Sam, who thinks I should isolate myself from everyone until I'm in control, doesn't call my bluff.
For now, whoever is on the other end of the line can wait. The wolf will not.