North Star
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Sixteen:
Jared
To maintain the guise of a volunteer for the Quileute Tribal Council, I've been tasked with spending a few hours a week working at the community centre. I don't complain much - it gets my mom off my back, gives me a reason to avoid the house, gives me something to add to my resume and college applications - but it's boring, mindless work, and I spend most of my time twiddling my thumbs behind the front counter.
On one such afternoon, I'm diverted by the appearance of Kim Carter, the hand of a small child clutched in her own. Kim's scent washes over me, floral, but also yeasty - she's ovulating, and my wolf takes notice - and the ensuing small talk is awkward. Her brother is checked into his after school program though, and Kim doesn't pay me any heed beyond the obligatory pleasantries.
I can't decide if I'm disgruntled or relieved by her disinterest, but she leaves before I can figure it out, and I busy myself with homework in order not to brood over it. I still haven't told her about the imprint, and actually, I still have no desire to do so, but my awareness of the connection is a perpetual, enduring thing, and I can't escape it for the life of me.
"I don't know what to tell you," Sam tells me later. I've just come off my patrol, he's just about to start his own, and we've been chatting idly over burgers and salad on the back porch of the house he shares with Emily. I'd not intended to bring it up - Spirits know he and Emily aren't exactly sunshine and rainbows - but he'd called me out on my preoccupation, and it's not as though there's anyone else I can talk to about it, "Even if she doesn't need anything from you though, I don't think you'll be able to avoid it forever. The wolf…"
I grunt my acknowledgement. I've been a wolf long enough now that Sam's words need no further explanation: The wolf, sometimes, has a mind of it's own.
I'm not remotely comforted, of course - quite the contrary, actually - and I hate the Cold Ones for putting us in this position.
"Do you pay attention to her at school?" Sam wonders.
"More than I care to admit," I reply, chagrined. SHe's become something of a keystone of my awareness, her scent, heartbeat, the sound of her laugh. I don't know her personally, I don't have any particular attraction to her beyond the physical kind, but I'm perpetually cognisant of her presence, and I might lose my mind before I ever decide to approach her.
Sam sighs, and offers me a sympathetic clap on my shoulder. He offers no words though, instead instructs me to clean up my mess before I head home, and then he leaves for his patrol without anymore words.
I find I'm grateful for the lack of pity, and I do as he bids without protest. Emily isn't home - she's spending a few days with her family on the Makkah Reservation - and the lack of tension in their home is a welcome change.
And clearly, I reflect ruefully, I spend far too much time here.
With that in mind, I gather up my things, and make my way home. Mom and Dad have given up on monitoring my movements - which, actually, sort of makes me want to cry if I think about it too much - and I delude myself into believing that it's because they trust that I'm not rebelling, or acting out, or whatever. In any case, they've set aside some dinner for me, and comfortable after the burgers at Sam's, I sit at the dining table alone, and I savour every bite.
-!- -#-
Bella
After another day in the same vicinity of Edward and Alice Cullen, I tell Charlie. He's not happy, and rather determined to have words with Dr Cullen and the man's youngest son, and I am relieved. Relieved that it's on the table, that the Chief hasn't dismissed my concerns, that maybe I've seen the last of Edward Cullen's pursuit, and the realisation leaves me oddly dazed.
I'm at a loss of how to proceed, I guess, adrift after weeks of juvenile countermeasures and truly expert avoidance. I need time to regain my equilibrium, I think, to establish a new routine, to grow accustomed to a school day without the constant attention to Edward and Alice's movements, and I haven't the foggiest idea of where to start.
Rather than try figure it out, however, I instead gaze idly at the note passed to me by Alice - Charlie had wanted to take a look at it, to ensure it hadn't contained an overt threat to my wellbeing - and I frown, puzzled. In a spidery, slanted hand, Edward had written out the latter half of Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare, and somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, I am perturbed by the contents. More so than a corny love letter should warrant, that is.
"… Thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou ow'st in his shade,
When eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."
As I read the sonnet (part of it, anyway) once more, discomfort makes my skin prickle with goosebumps, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I question the significance of Edward's choice. I can't imagine it's something he'd have selected lightly - people don't reference Shakespearean sonnets casually, after all - but I don't understand the significance. Shakespeare writes about youth and immortality and the undying beauty of his unknown subject, and for a love letter, it makes no sense.
"Did you think of something else, Bells?" Charlie asks. He stands in the kitchen doorway, just returned from his paranoid examination of all of the house's entry points, and he's still frowning. He's deeply unhappy about my revelations, but his voice is soft, and I try not to bristle. He speaks to me like I'm a victim - like I'm fragile, liable to fall to pieces at a moment's notice - and I bite my caustic tongue.
"No," I say instead, "I'm just wondering about Edward Cullen's taste in Literature."
Charlie hums, and remarks idly, "I don't know many kids your age who'd voluntarily read Shakespeare."
I nod my agreement, brows furrowed in thought. "Neither do I."
"Well, I'm going to give Dr Cullen a call," Charlie informs me, "Are you going to eat your dinner?"
With my stomach still churning from nerves and adrenaline, I don't have much of an appetite, but I nod my confirmation anyway. As a means of allaying my anxieties, I'd cooked earlier, - roast chicken and vegetables, gravy, fruit salad for dessert - and I'm not about to allow my efforts to go to waste.
And so I eat, and Charlie calls Dr Cullen, and I determinedly avoid eavesdropping. Instead, I spend my meal once more contemplating the sonnet, and I wonder how it relates to myself, or to Edward Cullen.
By the time I've cleared my plate, however, I still have no answers to show for my efforts.