A/N I'm on a spree, so you get this early!
Disclaimer: Nothing Twilight belongs to me! Just messin' around.
2
Barely three months later, I'm back. By some strange twist of fate we sealed the deal and Rob, our CEO, nominated me to negotiate the contract and lead the local team. I am ambivalent - it means my bonus next year will be good, but I'll be here every other week for the next six months. Should I let you know? When did we become like this, dancing in the nether grey region between friendship and something more? I don't know what to do with you, never have since you kissed me in Billy's garage when I was seventeen and asked me to be yours. I was so young then, so foolish not to realise that what stood before me was love.
In the airport limousine on the way to the W I fumble in my handbag. Your business card is still there, in the side sleeve of my Coach shoulder bag. It's worn and creased from the many times I wrestled over whether to call you. I'm proud of you; unlike me you followed your passion and made a name for yourself in this city. The card is made of quality paper with weight and thickness, the lettering elegant:
Jacob E. Black
Director
Olympic Marine Engineers
Tel: 306-540-7890
You told me you commute regularly between Seattle, where you've set up office, and La Push, where you test and produce the submarine vehicles which have made your name. As we enter the city on Interstate 5, Columbia Center, a brick brown colossus looms before us and my eyes can't help but wander to the seventy-fifth floor. Are you at the Tower Club again, entertaining clients in your tailored suit and shiny leather? I'm a little unused to picturing you so adult and corporate, but who am I kidding, you're even more handsome full-grown, there's a chiseled edge to your features and an air of confidence to your walk. Age is unfair to the fairer sex; I no longer have my waifish figure, I feel tired all the time and no amount of concealer will hide my eyebags.
I end up chucking your business card back in my bag pocket and calling Angela Weber instead. She came here for college and never went back. We have a great time catching up, but Angela's words hit a raw nerve: it's still those friendships from school that matter most. I can't help but think of you. I don't call that night, but dawn brings with it clarity and conviction, and finally I pluck up the courage to dial your number.
The phone rings ten, maybe twelve times, but there is no answer. It's selfish thinking but I assumed you would be on standby. It's May 2012, but I'm still clinging on to the you and me from ten years ago. I'm shaken by the thought that you've grown, the city's changed, everything's moved on but my two feet are still taking me round and round in circles.
My phone vibrates rudely during my meeting and I start. It's you. Later, I sequester myself in the corridor outside the ladies washroom, returning your call.
"Hello? Jake?" There's a huge clamor in the background. Is that a baby wailing?
"Hey...Bella, is that you?" The noises become muffled, like you clasped your hand over the mouthpiece. I hear footsteps, and a door closed shut.
"Hi..uh..I called to say hi." I don't know what else to say and so I just grant you the plainest of pleasantries.
"Hey, sorry but can I call you back in a sec?" The baby's plaintive cry is loud and clear now. Your voice seems urgent, and suddenly all kinds of strange questions flood my mind. Are you married? I don't remember a wedding ring. But I didn't tell you about Edward either. So whose kid is that?
"Uh...sure...I'm in Seattle, actually." I go for broke, trying to force some answers from you.
"Oh geez, Bells." There is a long pause on the other end of the line.
Then you clarify: "I'm in La Push. Rachel just gave birth, to twins."
My mouth drops in shock but for no good reason. I'm almost thirty—supposedly at the prime of my childbearing years, but nowhere near ready to be a mom. It just seems strange that someone I grew up with is already a mother, Billy is a grandfather, and you're—an uncle?
"Oh." I'm fighting the disappointment creeping into my voice. "I guess you won't be in Seattle this week then."
"Why don't you come down to Forks?" It seems like nothing to ask of me but it is everything I have been running away from. I've not gone home since Charlie passed on and we lost our house in Forks during the crisis. I don't have any more reason to visit Forks.
"I'm flying out tomorrow morning," I answer.
"So?" Your rebuttal is swift. "It's a Friday tomorrow. Take the day off and spend the weekend here," you instruct. "Stay with me. Billy and everyone else would love to see you."
I don't think my boss would mind. But I don't want to promise you anything because I have my own life in the Bay Area now: Edward, our regular weekend crew and usual watering holes. I've more than made back the value of our old house in Forks, but it's also enslaved me to a different life. I was determined to start anew far from Washington, and in San Francisco I found a second wind. I now own a half-a-million dollar apartment in Noe Valley, a delightful yuppy community, but in return owe the bank three hundred and fifty grand. I'm so far from where I thought I would end up after college, a world apart from the adult life we dreamed and joked about as teenagers. But the truth is, I can't quit this life now.
"Besides," you then add a killer blow, "it's high time you came back to tend to Charlie's grave. I think he misses you."
I haven't been back since Thanksgiving break in 2007. I drove to Forks alone, twelve hours from San Francisco, stopping only to use the restroom. You saw the flowers a week later and were so mad I did not call. I don't understand why you still care. If you didn't, it would set me free. But I can't lie to myself - I've never met anyone else like you.
I don't give you a straight answer, but the next morning, without telling you or anyone else, I drop into Avis and rent a car for the weekend. Before I know it I'm back on 101 and heading home.
Review if you want to know what's waiting back home in Forks!