A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at (the artists formerly known as) WArehab and they can do whatever they want with him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all your kind words and encouragement!

I remembered how I once imagined what my life would be like following my one year milestone. I knew the first year would be the worst. I knew I'd feel like giving up more often than not. I knew it'd be a total bitch. But after that first year?

Well, I can't say why, but I'd had this vision of normalcy. Like that first year was my sentence, and then I'd be free, and I could wiggle back into the skin of the person I'd been before, just... better. Happier. Things would be right. I'd have completed my list and would be on good terms with everyone. My family would play a constant role in my life. I'd have an awesome job. Maybe I'd even be taking courses at the college in Seattle, or... I don't know. Maybe I'd have a girl and a dog, and a home of my own to put them in. I'd have a car—a really fucking nice car, too—one that drove fast, looked sleek, and wasn't approved for a soccer mom.

Don't get me wrong. I didn't have any illusions—not totally. I knew these fantasies were just that—fantasies, but I'd dreamed them up against my own will, and somewhere along the way, I'd begun driving toward a finish line that turned out to be nothing more than a flimsy paper ribbon.

I still hated my life. I was just sober enough to realize it.

"She told me this would happen, but I—Goddammit, Cullen, are you even fucking listening to me?" Mike seethed from across his tiny desk, fists all balled up and pressing into the wood.

"What do you want me say, man?" My exhale was weary as I tossed my hands in the air, but they landed in my lap with a limp flop. I couldn't even muster the energy necessary to feel offended.

Mike answered, "I want the truth," and I could see his weariness, too, in the push of his sigh and the drop of his shoulders. Age hadn't been kind to him. I could already see his hairline receding, despite all his efforts to comb over it. If I looked hard enough, there were the beginnings of a definite weight situation, too. This was what thirty years as a resident of Forks got you.

"I'm telling the truth. I tagged the hockey sticks, and then I left. I never went anywhere near the register. You have the cameras, Mike." At the familiar indignation evident in the flaring of his nostrils, I corrected myself, "Mr. Newton."

Jesus, I may as well have gotten down on my knees and opened wide.

He took half-a-moment to stare down at the register balances, fiddling with the corners of the papers before he fell back into his chair and scrubbed a palm over his face. He began, "Someone's gotta take accountability here. Karen's been with us for five years. Mr. Milton doesn't even need this job. He's got like... millions of dollars squirreled away. I know I didn't do it. I know my mom didn't do it. If you were in my shoes, who would you be pointing the finger at?" He stared at me, expectant, helpless.

I sucked in a deep, cleansing inhale, before releasing it into the space between us—slowly, smoothly. "How much was it?"

Mike answered, "Five hundred, twenty three dollars, and seventeen cents."

My fingernails pressed angry crescents into my palms. "Take it outta my check. Whatever."

"I was taking it out of your check anyway," he said, eyes following me as I stood. His voice halted me before I could even make an appropriately melodramatic exit. "Look, I—I wanted to see this work, but honestly? My ass is on the line here, too. If I can't handle the store, then my dad'll never let me live it down." He appeared almost embarrassed as he averted his eyes and swiped at his nose, feigning coolness.

I figured that was it. He'd fire me, and I wouldn't be able to say a fucking word about it, because really? Who would blame him? Karen didn't take the money, I knew that much. I also knew Mr. Milton only kept this job as a hobby. I was the only logical suspect, and I understood.

But it didn't make it right.

"One more chance," he finally said, expression solemn as his eyes held mine. "You're a good worker, and I wanna think you didn't take it, but I'm not a moron, Cullen."

And then came the twist of the knife. I could see it coming from miles away in the rigid set of his shoulders and the fact that he'd just complimented me in the most condescending way possible. I knew what he was gonna say before the words even left his mouth, but I just stood there and took it.

"People don't change."

On the way home, I passed ABC Liquor, and though my eyes flickered to the little glass door, and though my foot hovered over the brake pedal, I kept going. I was having a really bad week—one of the worst—but it wasn't enough to merit that sort of sacrifice. On the inside, I realized that's what I'd be doing: throwing away my sobriety, which was the only little nugget of fucking accomplishment I've ever earned. At the end of the day when I was alone and miserable and broke, I still had that. No one but myself could take that away from me.

As I steered the car toward Bella's street, I decided that it wasn't bad enough that I wanted to give up, but it was bad enough that I embraced the bitterness and resentment that consumed me the second I saw her face at her door. She looked me right the eye and I couldn't fucking stand it. She represented my every failure, both old and new.

With my gaze trained above her shoulder, I explained, "Just need to install the new lock." I jingled the bag of hardware I held, flitting my eyes to her face just in time to see her bite her lip.

"Oh, okay," she replied, shuffling aside and allowing me entrance.

I hadn't told her I was coming. I didn't even have her phone number. She probably wouldn't have answered anyway, and there was no way I could sleep at night knowing that someone likely had a key to her new-old backdoor. Her footsteps followed behind me, and my muscles, coiled and tense, ached more and more with every thump of her feet.

She began, "The backdoor is... amazing, Edward. Really. Nicer than the front. Actually, I think the front's a little jealous." Her laughter seemed strained, and I caught her yanking at the hem of her sweater through my periphery. Normally, this type of awkward atmosphere would have weighed on me, but today, it didn't. It just really, really annoyed me.

I hurried through the motions of unscrewing the hold hardware, getting myself out of her hair. "I can change the front, too," I offered, terse, no matter my efforts at keeping my frustration at bay.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that!" she insisted.

I offered no response as the old knob clattered to the ground with a strange, punctuating rattle. The stifling silence swelled long and large enough to fill the entire room before the sounds of her retreating footsteps eased my posture. It was easier to concentrate when she wasn't standing there, fidgeting.

The new hardware didn't exactly sit flush, seeing as how I'd avoided the extra trip over to measure. Instead, I spent the next hour using my flat-head screwdriver to shave away the wood, shaping the surface into a beveled square. I had the door held open, and the stagnant air of the old house, mixed with the muggy air from outside, eventually dampened my clothes and hair with perspiration. As I was hunched over my toolbox in search of a level, miserable in the sort of way that only unappreciated, sweat-inducing labor for no reward can make you feel, Bella's voice startled me. "I have some lemonade."

I declined with a flinch, "No thanks," and was anticipating the relief that would come after she made like a tree.

But she wedged herself between me and the door and crossed her arms over her chest. "This is unfair," she said, and because I was still crouched over my toolbox and she was rigid and pissed off, I had to peer upward to see her scowl.

"Unfair?" I could have impaled the doorframe with the screwdriver.

"However it is you're acting," she clarified. "I don't deserve it. I can't control my feelings, Edward." And then, for the briefest second, she dropped her eyes to the floor.

I couldn't tell if she was looking for reassurance that she hadn't completely crushed me days prior or if she was looking for an easy confrontation, but I had no plans of giving her either. "I'm not acting like anything," I lied. "And I told you to forget about that." In a perfect world, I could have erased that entire day. But it wasn't a perfect world, it was a shitty world, and all I'd asked for was a little fucking avoidance.

Of course, Bella had no plans of giving that to me. "No, actually—you know what? This new attitude of yours is great. It makes it easier," she said, finally stepping away. The softness of sympathy that I'd seen in her eyes when I'd first arrived was all but gone now, replaced with the same cold stare she'd given me for so long.

I asked, "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

But she was already giving me what I wanted, and the sounds of her retreat were loud and clamorous. When she answered, her voice spanned the distance of the kitchen and living room, bringing with it a soft detachment. "It means that you almost had the wool pulled over my eyes, but I get it."

She was looking for a confrontation, and I still refused to give it to her. Instead, I shoved the new knob into the door. I tightened every screw in such a way that the splintered wood around them raised and split, and then I began the task of hurling each tool and spare piece of hardware into my toolbox as loudly as possible.

If I'd just left out the back door, I probably could have avoided the sight of her at the kitchen table, nostrils flared, skin flushed, tap-tap-tapping her oh-so-special pen against the tabletop. But I didn't. Because I'm a fucking masochist, and because I wanted to know, "What, exactly, is it that you get?"

She wasn't one bit surprised that I'd fed right into her plan to start a shit-storm, despite all my evasion. She just supplied a stiff lift of a shoulder. "That whole 'friend' act for the sake of crossing me off a list, or getting in my pants, or—hell, I don't know, maybe both. I almost bought it." And then she rolled her eyes, and—goddamn derisive is what it was.

I exploded.

"Congratulations, Bella! You figured me out! Which was real cunning, considering my brilliant scam. Break my fucking neck for two months, for nothing but the gift of your kindness. At least Mike Newton usually signs my paycheck after he reminds me I'm a useless sack of shit." The volume of my voice registered to me a moment too late, because Bella had already shot out of her chair, knocking it to the ground.

Her voice was low and utterly calm—a complete contrast to the expression she wore. "That's the last time you'll ever raise your voice to me in anger, especially in my own home."

Frustration. Because my anger had some fucking merit, and I couldn't even show it. I couldn't show it because I had this… history, and I was stuck with it. Forever. And I'd always have people like Bella and Alice and Newton to remind me of it the second I reached for something I wanted.

My anger faded, exposing a primal ache that seized my chest. The kind of ache a kid feels when spending their last dollar on an ice cream cone, only to accidentally send it tumbling to the ground. Like I could have had something really good, but I ruined my only chance, and now I had to watch it melt into the dirt.

Every day.

I suddenly decided, "I can't do this anymore." I think I hadn't known just how exhausted the thought of earning her forgiveness made me. Now, it made my bones feel like iron, my skin feel like granite. I was dragging too much weight and only just now realizing it. I admitted, "I just—I just wanted to help you out, and yeah, it was about forgiveness at first, but then… then I wanted to do it because you're a good person, and you deserve to have someone who'll do these things for you, but—"

She lowered her gaze to the table when her stance withered, and I think she believed me, but I knew it didn't make a damn bit of difference.

It was important to me that she understand, "I want to be your friend, and when we're close, and it's good, it's… amazing. But I can't feel this..." Struggling to find the words, I pushed a palm to my chest, "…this way you make me feel when you say shit like that—when you think the worst of me. Friends don't do that, Bella."

Eyes still glued to a random stack of files on the tabletop, she remained silent. It was probably better that way.

I added, "I'm sorry you think I've had some kind of hidden agenda—and for raising my voice—and for not finishing—and for—" With a deep breath, I concluded, "Well, I'm just sorry, period."

I laid the keys to the new locks on the table before I left, and if I didn't know better—if I didn't know that cold and resentful stare of hers like the back of my hand—I could have sworn I heard a sniffle as the door closed.

I wish I could say the next month of not seeing her made life easier for me, but it didn't, because I had this habit beyond Bella Swan of surrounding myself with people who hated me.

I drove to go see Alice, because I could pick my friends, but I couldn't pick my family. My mom's once bright, laughter-filled Sunday dinners were replaced with two empty seats and soft, "Please pass the gravy's." Since I no longer had any right to beg Bella's forgiveness, I pledged to put the effort toward mending fences between Alice and Jasper.

Not surprisingly, the door to Alice's studio apartment remained closed as I pounded endlessly. After so long, someone was sent to ask me to leave, and I did so with a resurgence of the anger I'd left in Bella's kitchen.

This situation was getting ridiculous.

That night, I all but strong-armed Jasper into coming to Sunday dinner. By "strong-armed" I mean detailing the taste of mom's roast beef and the devastated expression she'd be wearing when I informed her he'd declined a formal invitation.

I just had to regain some of the normalcy I'd destroyed the night they'd split up. Jasper was pliable in some ways, in his depression and pessimism. But Alice was never pliable. She was the kind of person who held grudges, the kind of person who'd eaten at the Forks Diner for ten years, but hadn't stepped foot in the place ever since the cook got her Philly Cheese Steak order wrong. She was a brick wall. Jasper was a thin sheet.

They were perfect for each other.

I was in the backyard filling the bird feeders when he arrived. The sun was setting and I was dangerously close to telling my mom where to shove her birdbath. Every minute of every day, I was someone's bitch, in one way or another. The frustration it caused merged with other frustrations—Bella-related frustrations—and festered inside of me, made my tongue sharp and my actions stilted.

"Gotya doin' all the manly chores, I see," Jasper greeted, standing below our largest oak, staring at nothing in particular. He still had a residual tension in his shoulders that meeting my parents had likely created.

I grumbled a response. "She guilt-tripped you into coming to dinner without even having to open her mouth. Imagine that but every day."

He mused, "Don't seem to work much on Alice," and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

I flung the bag of bird feed aside and propped myself against the trunk of the tree. "Alice is immune, like… a guilt-trip-Jedi or something. Knows what to avoid." Which was, easily enough, any and all contact.

Jasper nodded. "Sorry she's ignoring y'all." The smell of his cigarette smoke reminded me of Bella, which put me on edge in the strangest way.

"Yeah, you should be. This whole thing you're doing is dumb as shit."

He shrugged.

I asked, "You know what really burns my ass the most, though?"

Cigarette filter pinched between his lips, he squinted and lowered a palm. "A flame about yay-high?"

I continued, "Here I'm crazy about someone who hates me—really, genuinely could never want me like I want her. Alice actually wants you." In fact, it didn't just burn my ass. It really pissed me off. Everything everyone did anymore pissed me off.

He just said, "Thinks she does."

"Rejection isn't the end of the world," I insisted. "I'm still here. I'm still sober." A little fucking wounded, but that's neither here nor there.

Now, Jasper curled a lip, which was about as much anger as I'd ever seen him show. It started that crackle of tension one would feel right before some shit went down. "Fuck you, Edward. You don't love that girl, and there's the proof right there. You just love the possibility of bein' good enough to beat your bad enough. Traded one fixation for another s'what I think."

"I never claimed to love her, and no one asked what you thought."

His hum was skeptical—mocking. "Mhm."

"Christ, sometimes…" I curled a fist and tried to rein in this creeping, consuming anger that had been plaguing me. "Sometimes I just wanna fucking hit something."

Jasper, whose shoulders had regained the tension he'd only just lost, responded, "You can hit me if you wanna."

I snorted.

"No, really," he persisted, back straight. He took a pull from his cigarette and taunted, "Didn't seem to mind taking a shot when I was fuckin' your lil sis. And I was fuckin' her, Ed. All the time." He laughed. "We could go for hours and hours. Remember that 'trip' she took last year? The only trip she took was the one to my bedroom. Fucked that girl for three days straight. The kinda fuckin' that leaves a girl bow-legged, know what I mean? She could barely walk after I—"

The crack to his jaw was distressingly satisfying. His head snapped back, and then forward, and all of his hair was in his face, and all I could think was… Damn, that felt good.

Sick fucker he was pushed a laugh through his nose. "Nice hook," he said.

I was still somewhat bracing for a real fight, but I knew better, so I simply flexed my fist and said, "I used to be good at this. You know, before I started filling bird feeders and driving a Volvo." I had been bottling it up for too long—separating sides of myself in an attempt to find a balance that didn't suit me one bit.

His response to this seemed to come at random while he was emptying his pockets. "Alice came into that coffee shop today." His car keys hit the dirt with a smack.

"Really?" I followed when he removed his watch, stretching our necks and rolling our shoulders.

He nodded and took one last pull from his cigarette before flicking it away. "She was with someone else."

Arms up, feet crossing in bounces, we were circling one another, since, evidently, we both wanted to beat the shit out of something, and if shady people like us were good at anything, it was having the shit beat of them during impromptu boxing matches.

I unloaded, "That Newton motherfucker took my last paycheck. He's taking the next one, too." I was hyped and ready to go, but asked, "We really gonna do this? No gloves?" Not that I really cared. This was real, but not serious. We both got that.

Jasper was lighter on his feet than me and ended up throwing a blinding, straight right to my nose, jesting, "Unless that Volvo's given ya a pussy to go with that hair."

Even though I was cradling my nose and there was probably blood, I laughed, and I kinda got him. I kinda understood that look in his eyes when I cracked my fist against his cheek. Like there was a comfortable sort of symmetry to having your outside match your inside. Like the bruises and blood were nothing new—you could just see them now, touch them and prod the tender spaces between.

Then, later, we could actually watch these heal.

"He was her age—younger than me," Jasper hissed, holding his cheek. "Had on a fuckin' polo shirt, like a little bitch boy." His fist caught the side of my jaw, snapping my head to the side.

"Fuck!" I spat, shaking it off before supplying, "Yeah, my sister's been known to run with little bitch boys." His eyes flickered before I landed a punch that made him stumble back. By now, my voice was thin, strained as I battled the pain in my knuckles. "I raised my voice to Bella," I confessed.

And I'd been feeling guilty, because she was right, and I was being a total prick about something she had no control over—something that even I couldn't even blame her for. Of course she couldn't want me like that. It was just like how Mike had pointed the finger at me. I shouldn't have expected anything more or less.

Falling back into his stance, he winced, asking. "In anger?" and at my nod, sniffed. "S'fucked up." Uppercut to my jaw. Again. Fucking dirty bastard. "Your sister? She'd invite that bitch boy home to meet your parents, and they'd like him. They'd like him and his bitch-boy-loafers."

I laughed at that. This was better than just hitting something. "I'm three hundred dollars in debt with Carl's hardware store." I went below the neck this time, barreling my fist into his stomach, which hurt my knuckles less, but drew the breath from his lungs in a wheeze.

Jasper was a brawler, but I was faster than him and gave as good as I got. There was no wrestling. No grappling. No rules, because we didn't need any. Just two dudes throwing fists and taking it. I don't know how long we boxed like this, but by the time my poor mom caught an eyeful of our sparring, we were both bloody and panting, and our laps around the invisible ring had transformed to lazy, exhausted limps.

"What on baby Jesus's green earth is going on out here?" she asked, stomping out the sliding glass door with a scowl directed at, not shockingly, me.

Jasper just braced his palms on his knees and sent her a smile, assuring, "Oh, we're finer than frog hair, Mrs. Cullen. No worries."

She sure looked worried, so we shook hands in an exaggerated way before we went inside to get cleaned up for dinner, and I guess the disturbing, yet amicable sound of our laughter as we inventoried injuries was enough to keep any major concern at bay.

Dad didn't even need to ask. "Women, huh?" he commented as we all took our seats at the table, Jasper and I sorer than shit, but hungry enough to make piling food on our plates our foremost priority.

"I don't like it," Mom said, voice stern. "No more of that. Not in my house, you hear?"

But before we could act appropriately apologetic, the front door opened, and everyone froze. If the fact that only one other person in this world would have come into this house without knocking wasn't enough to tip us off as to who it was, then the clicking sound of her high heels sure as hell was.

All the tension Jasper had just expelled returned with a vengeance, raising his shoulders and widening the one eye that wasn't swollen all to hell. He looked cornered.

But then Alice, without any flourish at all, was standing in the dining room, staring straight at him, just as shocked as everyone else. Dad was cringing, and Mom was one embroidered-pillow-saying from having an emotional moment, so I took the reins and cleared my throat, promising, "The violence was consensual this time."

She didn't even look at me—didn't even speak. She just walked to her chair, sat down, and started filling her plate, like this was any other Sunday and she hadn't been avoiding us for the last two months.

Jasper offered, "Maybe I should…" and made to stand, but my dad just placed a hand on his arm and shook his head.

As far as awkward dinners went, this one took the cake. It was pretty much just forty minutes of total silence. Whenever someone would try to break it, their words would linger in the air and trigger even more discomfort.

But there was something else. Even though Jasper kept offering to leave, and Alice barely spoke three words the entire meal, I could see the looks they kept giving one another when the other wasn't looking. Not to mention the fact that Alice never once looked at or spoke to any of the rest of us. In the moments her eyes would flicker up from her plate, she only had eyes for Jasper and his toilet-paper-plugged nostrils.

Only one thing made this Sunday dinner different from the others she'd missed, and only one out of four people at this table would have tipped Alice off to Jasper coming.

As we were clearing plates, my suspicions were confirmed. "At least she has a car," Mom said out of nowhere, just low and far enough from the others that only I could hear. I was achy and tired and confused, and not in the mood for riddles. At my expression, she hefted a stack of plates to her chest and sharply elaborated, "Wouldn't it be just so unfortunate if something happened to her car, and Jasper had to take her home?"

Many things were obvious to me then. Firstly, it'd take nothing more than ten minutes in a room alone to break these two—I mean they were practically buzzing with it. Secondly, even an idiot like me could see how much they belonged together. Lastly, my bible-thumping, Volvo-owning, embroidered-pillow-loving mother was conniving, and I'm pretty sure I inherited it from her—because I found myself outside, breaking into Alice's car, popping her hood, and stealing three of her spark plugs. I don't know how shit went down. I was too "tired" to stay up and offer her a ride myself, much like my parents.

Unfortunate, indeed.

Unsurprisingly, I had a lot of trouble getting a hold of Jasper after that night. I didn't even bother with Alice. I figured, like my mom told me the morning following with the most innocent of expressions, "These things have a way of working themselves out."

With the summer came a barrage of thunderstorms and an influx of business at Newton's Outfitters. Without the task of… pretty much… trying to get my sister laid, I was at a loss regarding what to do with my free time. So I took on extra hours, even though I wasn't getting paid one fucking dime for them.

I missed Bella.

I almost went to her house once, armed with some fake excuse of seeing how the yard had held up in the bad weather. I ended up parking across the street because her car wasn't there, and just my luck, the yard looked fine.

I don't know why she'd ever come to a sporting goods store, but when I was at work, I'd stare at the doors and will her to walk through them. I didn't need much. If she just snarked me up and shot me down, I'd probably grin like a fucking moron.

Maybe I didn't love her, but it was apparent that I could have, in a different life. A life where I had a chance and our every moment wasn't tainted with my past fuck-ups. Maybe, in that life, she could have loved me, too. I liked to think so, and I liked to think about that different life a lot.

It wasn't until later that week that I finally saw her, through no fault of my own.

I was on my way home and driving behind Mike, since I'd closed the store with him, and we both lived on the same side of town. I was wondering if anyone had ever taught Mike about the five-mile-per-hour grace limit when we saw her. My reaction made me worry that maybe Jasper hadn't been so far off about my trading fixations, because just like it did when I passed ABC Liquor every day, my foot hovered over the brake pedal.

Only this time, I pressed down.

She was on the side of the road with a phone to her ear, standing next to a truck old enough to be a classic, but shitty enough to be worth exactly nothing.

Mike, ever the gentleman, pulled over to offer assistance, and I could have kept on driving—probably should have kept on driving—but she had this look on her face, like she'd been having an exceptionally crappy day. Or maybe I was just playing it up because I needed an excuse to hear her inevitable mouthing off to Mike once I heard the way he greeted her.

"If it isn't Damsel Swan." His smile was genuine and toothy as he closed the door to his sedan, striding up to her, clueless as ever.

Her hair was all frizzed from the light sprinkle that was falling, which just made the flash of her eyes appear feral and beautiful. "I'm just going by Bella now, thanks."

I exited my car, but kept my mouth shut, content to give Mike just enough rope to hang himself.

Mike continued, "Blast from the past, eh? Almost like old times. If Cullen here got a wild hair up his ass to lock you in his trunk, it'd be déjà vu." He poked me in the side with his elbow, and it was meant to be funny.

Nobody laughed.

When Bella's eyes found mine, they widened. "The hell happened to your face?"

Having forgotten about my black eye and swollen nose, I quickly dismissed, "Nothing," but was suddenly self conscious enough to catch a glance at my reflection in her driver's side window. "This new?" I asked, gesturing to the truck.

Completely ignoring Mike, she turned to me and explained, "I had to give the rental back yesterday, so I bought the Chevy this morning. It sat for a long time. Rotted the tires." She didn't seem especially upset over the flat. Just inconvenienced.

Mike piped in, "Wow, how much did you pay for this pile?" and rounded the truck, kicking the tires with all sorts of disapproval in his frown.

"I got a good enough deal," was her sharp reply.

His laughter had a condescending ring to it. I knew it well enough. "I don't know about that," he said, facing her with the eyes of a man who'd just watched a woman get swindled by a car salesman into buying a lemon. "Gotta jack?"

By now, Bella's lips were pressed into such a tight line that I could practically feel the restraint she used to answer as kindly as possible, "Yeah, I was about to change it. Myself." Her words were, to me, unchallengeable in such a way that had me producing my car keys.

To Mike, not so much. "Aw, come on, now. You know I can't let you do that." His smile was all lopsided—kind, yet… flirtatious.

Bella's magenta cheeks expanded with a puff of air. "Can't let me?"

This was definitely worth it.

"Leave a nice girl on the side of the road in the rain to change a tire? I was raised better than that."

She was about two seconds from taking off her jewelry and smacking him down when I called, "Mike," and beckoned him to the front of my car. "Let her change the tire," I advised.

His head snapped back on his neck, expression flickering between offense and incredulity. "Did you not just hear me? I was raised better than that."

Choosing to overlook the fact that he'd basically just insulted my mother, I persisted, "She can change the tire herself. She wants to." She was already rifling through the cab of her truck, preparing to do just that.

"That is Bella Swan." Mike pointed to where her ass protruded from the truck cab.

This guy was really asking for it.. "And?"

He sent me a wrinkled, disgusted look. "Poor girl just lost her dad, man. Give her a break."

"She's not a damsel. If she says she can do it herself, she can. If she says she wants to do it herself, then trust me, she wants to do it herself." I liked how that made me feel. I like that I knew her better than Mike, despite how low he thought of me.

The fucker actually had the nerve to straighten his back in an attempt to stand taller than me—to step to me. "This front she's putting on… it's what she does. 'I'm fine, I can take care of myself.' Next thing ya know, she's being stuffed into a locker by the same guy she made goo-goo eyes at all year, and I'm the one crushing my fingers to clean up your mess." I could have knocked his teeth out—would have if his words hadn't rendered me frozen and puzzled. He concluded, "Some people are just too proud to ask for help."

"Goo-goo eyes?" I had no logical reason to believe whatever skewed version of high school Mike remembered. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, or maybe it was just the sick sense of irony the idea of it created. But I did believe him, and it fucking horrified me.

His snort was triumphant, in a bitter sort of way. "See my point?"

Through the sounds of him approaching her truck and removing his jacket, I was pretty much stupefied. It wasn't until I could hear the reoccurrence of their bickering that I finally snapped out of it long enough to decide that enough was enough.

Loudly, I pondered, "How long you 'spose it'll take you to change that flat, Mike?"

He was knelt in front of the deflated tire, eyeing the jack and lug wrench cradled possessively in Bella's arms. "'Bout fifteen minutes."

I sidled up to where she stood, all tense and pissed off at someone else for a change, and challenged. "I bet you money she can change it in ten."

Bella's curt response was unexpected. "Five."

"Five," I agreed, nodding appreciatively.

Mike laughed, and I'm sure he thought he was just playing along when he asked, "How much money?"

I grinned. "Five hundred, twenty three dollars, and seventeen cents."

Bella cut me a curious, sideways glance, wondering, "Pretty particular amount."

"I already earned every cent of it," I promised.

His eyes darted back and forth from mine to hers, bewildered. "You're serious?" His face held no small amount of shock.

We shared a glance before nodding.

Maybe Mike was finally beginning to realize how stubborn Bella really was, or, more likely, he'd been fostering a gambling addiction ever since he'd spent a college weekend in Kentucky. Either way, he agreed, "Fine, you're on. Not even a pro could change this thing in five minutes." I wasn't nervous about it. In fact, I already felt the weightless relief that came with knowing my debt to Carl would be paid.

Watching her set to work as Mike and I rested against the hood of my car was familiar and comfortable. She rolled the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows, twisted her hair into a tight bun, secured it with her pen, and turned to us, ready.

"Go," I timed.

She was really nothing like she was in high school. Age had granted her the gift of grace, making it possible for her to heft the spare tire from the back of the truck, and roll it with ease to the front. Time had also granted her the gift of craftiness, which was evident when she planted her boot to the lug wrench and used all of her weight to loosen the bolts. But the most significant lesson she'd probably learned with time, was the one that made all the difference.

She knew where to place the jack and she knew how to use it, because anyone who knew Bella at all knew that she'd never buy a truck with such clearly defective tires without inquiring about these things first.

Time and experience had given Bella a wise kind of cynicism.

She'd probably expected those tires to go flat the second she paid for it—had probably drilled the seller on how to change them—had probably made certain every tool required was included in the deal—had probably worn that flannel button-down in anticipation of changing them in the rain. And she'd probably haggled that sorry motherfucker down a few hundred because of it.

She finished with a satisfied nod, needlessly tightening the last nut before turning to face us, dirty and wet and smug and perfect.

I exclaimed in mock awe, "Well, look at that! Damsel Swan didn't need your help, after all." With much more self-satisfaction than entirely necessary, I said to Mike,"I guess people can change."

Mike was floored. "What, did you take a class or something?"

She dusted her hands on her thighs before lowering the jack, replying in all seriousness, "Yes, that's exactly it, Michael. I took a class on how to change a tire—you know, because I have this annoying disadvantage of owning a vagina. Really holds me back."

Before Mike could manage to accidentally insult her once again, I cleared my throat, palm out. "Four minutes and fifty two seconds. Pay up."

Disgruntled, he wrote me a check, and I couldn't contain my smirk as Bella stood by and watched him sign his name to it. Before allowing me to take it, he warned, "Next time money goes missing from my store, I won't be taking it out of your paycheck. I'll be calling the cops."

He drove away in a spray of mud and frustration, and left us standing there in the drizzle, awkward and mute

Bella broke the silence by guessing, "He held your paychecks because he thought you took money from the store." When I turned to face her, she had her arms bunched around her chest, and her chin ducked.

In a desperate way, I swore, "I didn't take it." Mike could think whatever he wanted, but I couldn't bear the thought of Bella believing him.

Her response was matter of fact. "I know." She finally raised her eyes to mine then, and if I didn't think it'd just make shit worse, I would have hugged her breathless.

Faith.

She believed me, without even needing to ask. A line in the sand, and her on my side of it. It'd been so long since I'd had someone take my side without familial obligation that it sort of took my breath away.

All I could say was, "Thank you," and turn my head, wait for the tightness in my chest to dissipate. I cleared my throat into my fist, asking, "So… new truck?"

She nodded, spinning to face it in all its dysfunctional glory. "Yeah, it's no fancy rental, but… it was cheap and it has character, don't you think?" She spread her arms into a welcoming gesture, and the sight of her wide, almost childlike grin signaled my own.

I agreed, "A very rusted, barely dependable character, but character nonetheless. Really brings a whole new meaning to I Can't Drive Fifty-Five."

She pish'ed. "It has a lot of leg space and a working air conditioner."

I decided, "I like it," because, for one, it made her smile, and for another, I could understand the way she looked at it—like it was independence and something to call her own. "Got a good deal, huh?"

She perched herself on the tailgate and excitedly informed, "Talked him down to fifty dollars and a macaroni casserole."

It felt good to laugh again. "Shit, Bella, I'd give you the Volvo for some macaroni casserole." I spent a moment admiring the body of the truck until I was satisfied that it was solid and durable.

She lifted a shoulder, replying, "Isn't worth a whole Volvo or anything, but… maybe—" She paused, but didn't turn to face me as she concluded—"Maybe I'd settle out of court for a game of Scrabble."

I took a moment to observe her, hands grasping the tailgate at her thighs, legs swinging idly. I wanted to ask her why she even wanted to spend time with me anymore, what it was she wanted from me, why she said those things, and why she could believe me when it came to Mike's accusations, but not her own.

She answered without even needing to hear me ask, "You're the only friend I have here, and you were acting so different after…" A hand waved wildly in the air before she explained, "I panicked, but I didn't really believe any of that stuff." She turned her head just enough to catch my gaze, and I could see the remorse they held.

With a sigh, I confessed, "I shouldn't have made it weird." It'd never been my intention. I'd thought I could handle rejection, thought I could face her afterward without feeling the anger it created within me. But that anger had reached the surface now, coloring it with tender bruises and split skin, swollen knuckles and aching muscles.

It'd already begun to heal.

I sighed. "Game of Scrabble, huh?"

Her answering smile was wide and cheesy with expectation.

I eventually agreed, "You're just hell-bent on taking all my dignity, aren't you?"

"Absolutely."

I then asked, "Mind if I get this?" and gestured to the flat tire. Because unlike Mike, I knew to ask Bella if she wanted help, not to insist that she needed help.

After I'd lifted the tire into the truck bed, she closed the gate and asked, "Wanna take a ride in my new truck?" She was so excited over this piece of junk that she was bouncing as she traveled to the driver's side, which she had to practically climb a ladder to get into.

As if I could have said no when just twenty minutes with her had made my whole day better. I didn't know how she did that—how she could turn my lowest lows into my highest highs, with no more effort than it took for her to just… exist.

I'd been right about one thing.

When it was good, it was amazing.

A/N: Epic love to PastichePen, who beta'd, ERA and TK for doing the feedback thing, and you, for still being here, even though I suck at update consistency and review replies.

Your comments have meant the world to me. I promise to try to get the next chapter out sooner. I've already started on it. You can bug me about it on my Twitter, if you wanna. I don't mind one bit. XD

If you want recs… Pastiche wrote this uhmazing NM AU oneshot called Motorcycles if you're looking for something downright angsty and beautiful. You can find it under my favorite fics on my profile here. Also, And with Thee Fade Away. (As if everyone hasn't already read it). For All Human, The Sound of Your Voice. For Slash, Uncomfortable.

Miss you guys. [heart]