A/n: Heyhey! I've published this story a long time ago, and now that I've finally got some time off from college, I thought, why not rewrite it! So here we are, there haven't been made a lot of adjustments to the plot, only the embarrasingly bad ones. However, I've slightly changed chapter 2 and 3 and such, so to remember what this was all about, maybe you can re-read if you've read it before... Anyways, have fun, and let me know what you think!

It was November 2nd when I left Phoenix. Bella would finish the semester first and fly over somewhere in January. Until then, I was sure I had more than enough on my to-do list. Moving isn't as easy as it sounds after all, and as much as I loved her as a friend, Bella wasn't exactly the handiest person I knew.
"Will you text me when you've landed?" she asked softly. We were at Phoenix airport, me waiting in line for security with Bella and her mother Renée next to me. The resemblance between the two ladies wasn't much, but enough to see that they were related. They had the same brown hair (Renée's more curly), a similar heart-shaped face, and they were more or less of equal height. Renée Dwyer was an adventurous woman - Bella often stated that she was the child rather than the adult at home. Her skin had attained a golden shade because of the many sunny days in Phoenix. Her blue eyes, that were normally filled with enthusiasm, now stood serious. So much even, that both Bella and I were caught between laughing and copying her expression.
Bella herself had warm, dark brown eyes, which now smiled timidly. I quickly scanned the line in front of me, which was quickly diminishing. I then nodded, smiling.
"Of course I will. I wouldn't want you thinking my plane has crashed somewhere."
Renée then stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around me, and I found it hard to hold back the tears. "Thank you for doing this. Keep an eye on her for me, will you?" she whispered in my ear, soft enough for Bella not to hear.
"I know you're not family," she continued louder when we pulled back, "but our door will always be open for you. Don't hesitate to stop by if you happen to be accidentally passing." Renée wasn't exactly a maternal figure, but I did see her as a good friend.
"Thank you Renée," I replied from the bottom of my heart, "I definitely will pay a visit once I'm settled."
We moved several steps forward as the line moved on, and I took the remaining time to hug my best friend Bella.
"Text me when you plan to move, I'll be waiting at the airport," I promised, and Bella nodded, biting her bottom lip.
"See you in two months, then," she replied.
"I expect you in one and a half at most. Don't you dare to leave me alone for any longer," I threatened with a grin.
"Then one and a half it is," Bella grinned back. We stood there for a few seconds like that, until the woman checking passports called the next in line, which was me. I picked up the small black backpack from the floor, passport and flight ticket ready in one hand. After one last look, and a "See you," from Renée, she and Bella left. I turned and flashed a polite smile at the woman of security whilst handing the passport and boarding pass to her.
"Name?"
"Avery Lewis."
"What are your intentions in.. Port Angeles, Washington?"
"I'm moving to a village nearby."
"Olympic Peninsula huh? What does a beautiful young lady as yourself have to do over there?" The woman looked like she could use a break, and took the chance to make small-talk with both hands. I mentally sighed at the needless adjectives but remained polite.
"Not for the weather, that's a sure thing – have a nice day." Agreed, that was a bit rude. Not willing to continue the conversation and keep up those waiting in line behind me I quickly – but not too fast - took my possessions from the woman, who'd offered them subconsciously, and made to leave to security. The woman mumbled a short "Thanks", disappointed that her chance had passed.
The airport is fairly large, and since there were for some reason little people at security, there was plenty of time left before the gate would open. There were more than enough souvenir shops, but like at every airport they sold their goods for at least twice the normal price. Which I found strange, since it was a tax-free zone, wasn't it? I strolled past each of the tiny shops, watching but not buying. That jigsaw puzzle did look nice though… No, don't fall for it, keep walking. At another shop, they sold greeting cards from the city and several of its highlights. With my backpack over one shoulder, I lingered in front of it, unable to restrain myself. Perhaps I could… As a memory… It took a while, but then I shook my head. No, this was stupid, I had lots of those already. But still… In the end, I forced myself to continue, not wanting to appear stupid or draw unwanted attention from the shop keeper. No, I took out my boarding pass and followed the signs to the right terminal and gate. Unsurprisingly, it was yet empty. More sitting room for me. Not that you'll take it, that is unpolite. Oh shush.
Yes, I talk to myself.
I walked up to the rows of simple but comfortable-looking chairs and sat down on one at the end of a row, facing the windows. Outside the sun had just risen, casting its blood-red light at the distant mountain range.
I tucked the boarding pass my bag (to prevent getting pickpocketed) and took out a book. It had been published only two months ago, and it was a hit already. Being in chapter 17, I could see why. A relatable protagonist, the descriptive, humoristic and clear style of writing and a good plot. I hoped that the author would continue the series. It would be a shame if he wouldn't.
Meanwhile, the seats around me slowly began to fill and to make a long story short, I finished the book easily within time. The gate opened, we all went through to the aeroplane (it was a smaller 3-3) where I stuffed the bag in the overhead luggage space and sat down to let those behind me pass. Luckily there was one seat between me and the next person: he had the window side, I sat next to the aisle. First, we were being manoeuvred away, then after a short wait, the plane quickly accelerated and began its ascent.
When it separated from the ground it didn't take long to climb to its designated height, and so I left my former home behind.
Now, there is a lot that can be said about the places I've lived.
One example is the apartment in Phoenix that I'd left behind. It was small, compact, and consisted of a living room and kitchen in one, with one small bedroom and a bathroom. Coincidentally, it was only several streets away from Bella and Renée's house. But the part of the apartment that I loved most was by far the balcony. Since I was young, I've always loved to be outside, regardless of the weather or climate. In Phoenix, it had been the hot summer wind, the dust of the desert and semi-arid climate, and the faraway mountain range that emerged from the horizon.
But Phoenix itself was also a beautiful city, with its unique characteristics. The hustle and bustle of the nightlife, sweaty tourists with their cameras, and a shop at nearly every corner of a street.
The only thing that I disliked about cities like these was the crowdedness: I'm more of a solitude person.
Anyhow, I'd lived there for about three years, whilst Bella had spent nearly her entire life there. 11 Years, if I remembered correctly.
Her mother Renée had left Forks when she left Charlie Swan, Bella's father, taking the two-years-old Bella with her. Bella usually didn't speak of the times she'd visited her father, but when she did it, was with a bittersweet fondness.
Good memories, but no need to relive them. For a couple of years, she'd refused to go, but that action was short-lived, as she now 'exiled' herself to live with her father with a form of permanence.
And me?
Having nothing that kept me tied to Phoenix except the city itself (with a few adjustments law would even permit it, thank goodness 18-year-olds are allowed to live by themselves), I decided to keep my friend a little longer and move along. Why? Honestly, I don't know. Perhaps it was because of sympathy, or maybe fate decided to meddle with my life.
Either way, there was this bungalow several miles south of Forks; it wasn't in the ideal state but with some paint, new wooden beams here and there and a sweep over the floor it would make a lovely home.
Caroline would've loved it…
With that prospect I found myself standing at Port Angeles airport after a four-hour flight.
From there I took the bus to my destination. And it was raining cats and dogs... In Phoenix, it had been around 50°F, so I was wearing nothing more than a purple vest, jeans and trainers. Clearly, in Port Angeles, it was a dozen degrees lower. Everyone was wearing at least a jacket, most a winter coat. No wonder I stood out like a sore thumb.
With a medium-sized suitcase in one hand and the backpack slung over one shoulder I hurried to one of the few busses.
"Where to, miss?" the bus driver asked kindly. He was an elderly man, near his seventies I'd say. On the dashboard in front of him, I noticed a small picture of two young children, a boy and a girl. His grandchildren?
"To Forks, please," I replied with the first genuine smile in a long time. During the flight I'd had to be polite to too many people, most hadn't deserved it. Manners, people, manners… I gave him the money a single ticket cost.
"You need any help with that?" He nodded with his head to my luggage, but I shook my head immediately.
"I can manage, but thank you for asking." He nodded, and I proceeded to the back of the bus. There were six – no, seven people in total, some staring as I passed, except for the individual who was too engrossed in her book to notice. In the far back the suitcase was placed in the legroom – it fit exactly – by which it formed a small wall between me and the rest of the bus. I, myself, was sitting near the window. Seeing the ride would take quite a while I placed a pair of headphones on and scrolled down the playlist on a white iPod.
Let's play something positive today.

Just as the first chords of The Piano Man by Billy Joel came up – I had it on repeat - the bus started driving.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Makin' love to his tonic and gin
He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Soon after the bus hit the highway, the scenery quickly changed from farmland into deep forests, lakes and mountains. We passed by the Olympic National Park, which was truly beautiful, despite the rain.

We only stopped a few times, but nearly the entire Olympic Highway was driven in one piece. Not that I'd mind the extra time though. Over my life, I'd come to love wild nature, especially mountains and forests – and this place had those abundantly. It was far more green than Phoenix – true, there were some trees, cacti and lots of bushes, but in my opinion, it couldn't tip this in greenness. That reminded me of my promise to Bella and Renée, and I took out the small Nokia that was my phone. I lingered a bit over the text – eventually I hit the 'send' button.
January 2nd, 2005, 11:07 AM
Hey Bella, Renée, I am sorry this message comes so late.
But, I have arrived safe and sound, and am now underway to Forks.
Do you perhaps have time for a phone call at say, 7:30 PM?

And the waitress is practising politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone

In my mind, I made a note to go out hiking someday soon – that is, if the weather would allow it. The prospect of calming down in the woods after a long and busy day at school was certainly appealing. Clear your mind, with no-one around besides the birds and other small animals.

Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well we're all in the mood for a melody
And you got us feeling alright

"Last stop: Transit Center Forks," the bus driver announced too soon, which was after little less than two hours. The forest made way for a small town. We went over what seemed like the main street, and on the left, if you watched at the right time, you could catch a glimpse of the local high school. In two weeks I'd be attending. There was one big advantage, however: it was much smaller than the high school in Phoenix.
My train of thought was interrupted when the bus parked, and I took one earbud out.
"Have a nice day, miss," the bus driver said to me when I made my way to the door.
"Thank you, and same to you. Be safe!" I told him with a smile and took out an umbrella before stepping out in the rain. Yes, I'd taken precautions back in Phoenix.
I sighed deeply and looked around. Forks, Washington. Here I was again. Earlier this year I'd been here already one time to see the house. Now I only needed to get there. It was some miles south of Forks, in the middle of the woods. By car, it would take around 20 minutes, but which car? I had made a deal with one Weber, he had recently bought a new(er) car and was now selling his old Mustang. Now, where did he live again? However unpleasant the prospect of having to wander through Forks was, in a jacket (I did have to dig through my suitcase after all) in the pouring rain - standing still would not improve the situation. Let's get walking, Ave. At least it would give me some time to get to know the town.
In the end, I got to know more about Forks than I had initially taken into account. Somehow I ended up crossing the same road three times. The fourth time I decided to cover my jet black hair and face with my hood to hide my embarrassment. Around the big cities like Phoenix, I could find things in no-time, but this small town was my weakness. For a town named after cutlery, it wasn't as simple as it sounded.
Eventually– fortunately- I bumped into a familiar face.
"Oh, have you lost your way, miss?" The old man from the bus resorted his fisherman's hat, unlike me, he didn't have an umbrella, only a long, heavy coat.
"As a matter of fact, I have, it seems. I am looking for the home of Mr Weber, do you happen to know where he lives?"
The man rubbed his white moustache and snorted lightly, but without disrespect. "I assume you then must be the southerner who bought his mustang placement, eh?"
"That is me, I fancy."
"Well then, I suppose I could walk you there," he offered, "It's only a few blocks away."
"That'd be wonderful, thank you. But only if it isn't too much trouble."
The man shrugged, drops of water rolled down his shoulders. "I wanted to visit him soon anyway. Might as well do it now. This way, miss..?"
"Lewis. Avery Lewis."
He extended a wrinkled, callous hand from one of the deep pockets of his coat, which I shook.
"Owen Hudson."
He then motioned for me to follow, and I began walking next to him. Behind me, the suitcase rumble and now and then splashed as it rolled through a puddle – fingers crossed that it was waterproof. I silently had offered Mr Hudson to walk with me under the umbrella, but he politely declined. "No, my coat and good old hat have never let me down, and they won't now."
"I see. I myself prefer a hood, but a coat might be a good investment." A short silence. "Tell me, do you live here in Forks?" Where I had turned left we now went right, quite literally.
Humble pride filled Mr Hudson's voice when he spoke: "Yes miss, born and raised here. Was born in the same street I now live in. This is a close community, and people like me seldom leave." He cleared his throat. "Now you tell me, why is it that you have decided to come to live here? As much as Forks is unique in its own way, I wouldn't say it is the most attractive place to move to. Especially for a young lady like you."
The corners of my lips curled slightly upward. "Why, this is a close-knit community indeed. It would not surprise me the entire town knew about our arrival," I mused.
"Our?" Then his frown turned into a knowing look. "Oh, you mean Charlie Swan's daughter?"
"One and the same."
I did not continue the conversation for it seemed we had arrived at our destination.
The house had been built with blue wood and white decorations. Rectangular windows provided plenty of sunlight, and there were three of them on each side of the door, which was in the middle. As far as we could see the building was also shaped like a rectangle, with a Jerkinhead roof covered with black slate tiles. It had only a small front yard, but from the outside, it appeared common, and cosy.
Instead of ringing the doorbell like any other individual, Mr Hudson walked up to the door and knocked loudly.
For a long while, nothing happened. A part of me suggested that there might be no-one at home, but the opening of the door ended my doubt.
"Good afternoon Reg, how are you doing?"
Dumbfoundedly, 'Reg' looked from the man in front of him to me and back again. He was a middle-aged man, with short brown hair and glasses. He looked like he had just rose from his bed, or hadn't had enough sleep last night.
He sort of mumbled a response, still trying to comprehend the situation: "Good, good. We're all doing fine."
The rain was still pouring down at my umbrella and Mr Hudson's hat. At length, Reg seemed to realize that. "Ah yes, would you like to come inside?"
Mr Hudson smiled amusedly. "That sounds like a plan. However, the main reason why I came here is to show this young lady the way."
With one hand he motioned for me to come closer. I had been standing at a polite distance, and now left my suitcase behind as I approached Reg and extended a hand.
"It is a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr Weber."
For a moment he frowned, but then realised something and shook my hand eagerly. "Of course, of course. Lewis, isn't it? Pleasure is all mine."
Mr. 'my friends call me Reg' Weber turned out to be kind man, with not too much knowledge about vehicles. Luckily, the purchase had been made over the telephone, and the car was running effortlessly, so good enough for me. Mr Weber appeared to be in a kind of hurry - or at least he claimed he was because strangely enough, he did have time to invite Mr Hudson in – so he handed me the keys fairly quick, and I was left on my own outside. In the rain, with one suitcase, a black backpack and an umbrella, while the wind blew through my hair and clothing. Windproof jacket? Nope. Not the slightest.
Mr Hudson turned to me with an apologising gesture when Mr Weber had returned inside. "Reg is very fond of this car-" he patted the hood of the grey car, "-his wife sold it in his place. Hence he doesn't like you much, but he's a good fellow, you'll see once you get to know him."
"Ah. Well, I cannot blame him for his logical bias, now can I?"
He chuckled, and from the house, a voice carried to where we were standing: "Owen, would you like a coffee?"
"In a minute, Reg," he replied, and turned back to me.
"Before I take my leave, I wish to thank you for your kindness, Mr Hudson. Without your help I'd still be wandering on the streets," I told him, fiddling with the car keys.
"It was my pleasure, milady." He would've taken off his hat had it not been raining. "Call me if you need something – anything."
"I will." There was a short awkward moment, then he walked back to the front door and I got in the car after I'd dumped my belongings on the back seat and the soaked umbrella somewhere it wouldn't cause any harm to the interior. Mr Hudson waved when I left, and then went out of sight as I rounded a corner.
The moment I left Forks I breathed a sigh of relief. Stupid, stupid! No making friends, you promised yourself! Don't be so careless, you don't want a repetition of- No more of this, I interrupted myself when the familiar mixture of.. certain feelings began to surface. Guilt, regret, fear…
Focus on something different. Will the movers have done their job properly? What will Bella think of this car? It surely is a beauty despite its old age. The steering wheel feels smooth, I can see myself driving it for the next few years.
Until Bella goes to college and you have to move again, you mean.
Mentally I flinched.
Nope, the exaggeratedly positive voice replied. How about this; the house doesn't have a garage, you should make some space to park the car. The former owners of the house didn't have one, so I might have to do something about the ground, don't want to get stuck in the mud after a rainstorm like this…
My mind shifted to the question of what soil type the Olympic Peninsula had – sand and mud probably?
Slowly but steadily, the unsettling emotions dissipated as I tried to distract myself by planning ahead and noting birds and trees that sprang out from the scenery.
But even now the positive side had won, the feelings and memories lingered in the subconscious, ever-present, as always awaiting the right time to strike back.