Note: Many thanks to the reviewers, whom still need to be replied to. Sorry. But I shall not reply in chapters because, quite honestly, my replies are LONG. (Anyone who's received one from me probably knows that from experience.) It would be quite unfair to beef up my word count with that, wouldn't you say? ;)

Chapter Six:

Celia

Marlin and I spend the next few moments in silence, unable to voice our thoughts without sounding childish…or vulnerable. I let him pull me home, my hand immobile in his fist. In some ways, it's a comfort: a small sign of forgiveness. In others, it's a harsh reminder: this time he knows what will happen if he lets go.

Do you blame me?

I suppose we both know what I meant by that question. I suppose we both remember the way I stopped hearing his voice everyday, the way his smile vanished without a trace with Jack's proposal. I hadn't truly given it much thought at the time—I'd been preoccupied. I'd been blind.

In essence, I'd been in love.

I'm not sure what it is I've done to him; I'm not sure if it can be fixed. But I do know, as I look up at him, that I want to keep at least one more person I care about near—that I can't afford to push him away, when I feel the very fabric of my own life slipping away.

"…Marlin?"

My quiet offering earns me a quick glance, and I look away, immediately regretting my action. "Um…I'm glad that we're talking again. I did miss you when I left, you know."

He stares at me, lips forming silent words he dare not say. By now, I guess it's too late for him to reply.

"A flower for the lovely lady?"

It wasn't proper to reply—in fact, it wasn't proper for him to talk to me that way. All the same, I dared to stare into his honest eyes, to see the smile spread across his face. He and I weren't much to look at, with our hands soiled and calloused by toil and sweat crowning our brows with labor. We weren't beautiful, and we weren't lovely.

"M-me?" I stammered, cheeks reddening by the second. I centered in on the gift he humbly held before me—a Mist Moon—and found my hands moving of their own free will, taking them from his grasp into my own. "I, well, that's very nice of you. I love flowers."

My shy smile presented itself, and his deepened in response. "I'll certainly remember, then. You're Celia, correct?"

I nodded dumbly, my name sounding so much more exotic when his voice gave it sound. "And you—you're the new farmer, Jack?"

"I am." He ran a hand through his tangle of brown curls, and added, "I hope that you don't think of me as competition. I'm just honoring my father's wishes, and—well. Fulfilling a few of my own, too, I guess."

"Such as?" I asked politely.

Jack crossed his arms and let out a little laugh. "Well, Miss Celia," he grinned, "you tell me."

You know how when your heart sets itself on something, no matter how wrong it is, you can't seem to stop it? Everything sets itself into motion: that one meeting, the next that would follow, the day you'd learn just how many Mist Moons could fill one vase. The first time your heart beats so furiously you're afraid you just might die of joy.

None of that was supposed to happen. In some ways, I was never supposed to meet Jack. Everything had been planned for me, planted in rows calmly waiting for fruition. Who would have known that I'd sow the very weeds that would choke that future? That I'd let myself stray away from the field prepared for me and choose to grow on a beaten path?

But the flower that grows in the path forgets: it can be trampled upon. After all, not every blossom can survive outside white fences.

"Celia? You okay?"

I bob my head in reply, eyes fixed on the plate of eggs sitting before me. I poke it cautiously with my fork; as much as I love Vesta, she's a better farmer than a chef, and I have yet to trust her with an eggbeater as readily as I would with a hoe.

"They'd be smiling at you, but I ran out of bacon some time ago," she apologizes, placing a cup of orange juice beside me. "Marlin hasn't offered to go up to Mineral Town for me in ages; getting that boy to order a grocery list or two is like pulling teeth."

I smile at that despite myself. I could picture that argument between the two of them a little too vividly:

"Marlin, for land's sakes, it won't even take you a whole day!"

"I don't give a damn about what we eat in this house! Isn't that your job, anyway?"

"If you don't watch that tongue of yours--!"

"We having breakfast already?"

Speak of the devil. Subconsciously, I glance away from the man seating himself beside me; yesterday's conversation is too vivid in my mind for my liking, and I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to say. Even 'good morning' sounds false on my tongue.

The clink of eggs heaped upon his plate sounds as Vesta doles them out, and Marlin stares at them blankly. "Vesta, what the hell is this?" he accuses.

"Your breakfast." The redhead slams a fork by his plate, and narrowing her eyes at him, she adds, "I reckon you ought'a be grateful that I made some for you at all."

With her eyes set upon him, Marlin's cornered into picking up that fork and stuffing some of the food into his mouth—something he no doubt wouldn't be doing if Vesta's glare wasn't as intimidating as it was. It sits in his mouth awhile, and he gazes back at her, an unofficial staring contest ensuing.

Vesta crosses her arms. "Eat it. I ain't going to wait for you to spit it out behind my back, if that's what you're thinking."

He blanches, plans foiled, and for some reason I will never fathom, Marlin shuts his eyes and takes a frightened swallow. The contorted expression on his face is almost comical; apparently he shares my plight of rubbery eggs and fully functioning taste-buds. His hand reaches for the closest drink in sight—in this case, my orange juice—and gulps it down furiously, as if his throat is caught afire.

"God! I swear, Vesta, you get worse and worse with each dish you butcher," he gags, pushing the plate away.

"Stop your whining and be a man, why don't you?" she snorts. She's frowning, but deep down, I can tell she's secretly pleased. It's a well-known fact that a surefire way to make Marlin frown is to stuff some of Vesta's food down his throat. I cast my own plate a wary look, and briefly consider suggesting we make the meal fertilizer for the season's crops. No sense wasting it.

"Besides," Vesta continues, "if you don't like my cooking, why don't you get someone else to do it? You could get off that bottom of yours and whip something up for us."

Somehow, the image of Marlin cooking seems more than a bit amusing, and I chuckle softly to myself. That poufy chef hat wouldn't balance atop those unruly black curls, and there was no chance of catching him in an apron. And as for the actual cooking—who knew if Vesta's difficulty was a genetic fault?

"You know, I wouldn't mind cooking for us again," I offer. I'm somewhat surprised to hear myself speak, turning from Marlin to his sister imploringly. I can see the lines around Marlin's face relaxing in relief: "Thank God we're spared." Vesta studies me a moment more, then when she sees my proposal is genuine, she nods.

"Alright then, missy. From now on, you'll be the one fussy-britches over there has to see to complain about his food." She swerves towards Marlin, and barks, "But I better not hear one smartass word out of you, ya'hear?"

His blue eyes flicker my way, then center on Vesta. "Why the hell," he said finally, "would I do anything that might make me choke on one of your God-awful eggs again?"

For a moment, there's a moment of chilling silence as they stare each other down. Then, the unexpected happens:

I start to laugh.

Giggles erupt from my throat against my will, and covering my mouth in embarrassment, I close my eyes against Vesta and Marlin's questioning stares. How serious they both look: Vesta's determined and almost bear-like scowl facing Marlin's blank deadpan expression—and all over eggs, really! I'm not sure why I'm laughing so hard over the whole thing, but tears are springing to my eyes as I double over, clutching my sides until they hurt with laughter.

"Celia?" Vesta asks me at length. "You alright?"

I tell her I'm fine. What I don't tell her is that I haven't laughed this hard since Jack was alive, and there's a part of me that's ashamed it's only taken three weeks for me to do it.

In some ways, moving back to Vesta's home had been like stepping into an old pair of shoes; you can feel the familiar imprint you've left behind, but something's different and doesn't fit quite right. There are mornings I sit awake in bed, holding my breath as I view my old bedroom walls and actually wonder if everything had been a dream. For a few minutes, I can trick myself into believing that I'm still a girl, that I've never left this house and faced the trials of the outside world.

Then I blink, and the dream shatters.

It's another night like those as I sit awake in bed, this time awakened by a sharp kick from the child slumbering within me. In this room, this beautiful sanctuary of the past, I can feel who am I slipping, day by day, into who I was all those years ago. I'm dying to be that girl, but I can't be: I have to be the woman brave enough to handle her responsibilities, to take the blame, to raise a child.

Already, I'm laughing. Already, I'm calling this place 'home.' Am I overcoming the past, or merely…immersing myself in it?

I sit up. The covers are flung from my bed as I dash to my nightstand drawer, fingers groping for a pen and the book lying at its bottom. I carry it to my bed, and flipping through the pages, find a new page. Fresh ink bleeds onto the page as I taint its surface, writing in the moonlight. The words are different now, slanting downward when before they had threatened to tilt off the top of the page. What to say now? How to begin, after all this time?

Dear Diary, I begin, biting my lip. I guess even 'forever' has its end.

End Note: Argh, it's so disjointed! I'm sorry. T.T Next chapter will be better. Promise.