You guys are the best.
Thank you to my extremely talented beta, WriteOnTime. And thank you, ciaobella27, for reading this and being awesome.
I don't own Twilight.
April 2010
"I don't think this is a good idea," I tell him, looking up at the short flight of stairs in front of us.
"It's just my family, Bella. No one's going to say or do—"
"Which is just as bad. I can't do the weird silence thing. They're going to stare and act polite, and pretend they don't know me."
"But they don't know you," Peter says, looking a little impatient and annoyed.
"Right, they don't, but… you know what I mean."
"It's just my family."
"And they know I'm coming."
"They know you're coming," he assures me.
"And they didn't ask you why you're bringing me to dinner."
"Bella…"
"No, seriously, I want to know how that conversation went."
He sighs. "They want to meet you."
"Of course they do."
"These people aren't monsters, Bella. They're my parents. Are you coming in or not? My mom has been cooking all day."
"I feel so bad now," I tell him.
"Don't feel bad. You needed to get out of that apartment. Staying in there for days like you do, it's not healthy."
"What am I supposed to do? Every time I leave—"
"Eventually, they'll tire of it and stop. If you don't make it a big deal to have your picture taken, a picture of Isabella Swan won't be such a hot commodity. You need to relax. Then they will relax."
I've heard him say the same thing at least twice today. I think he's wrong, but I'm not about to test out his theory. Going through all of that on our way here turned me into a mess. My waterproof mascara really isn't so waterproof. Visine doesn't clear up my eyes anymore. I mean it does, but then I cry again. I'm sniffling and searching for a tissue in my pocket, and Peter looks panicked. Shaking my head, I tell him I'm fine. I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself. Bursting into tears randomly isn't my thing. It's just these days, the tip of my nose is almost always red, my eyes are almost always tired and watery, and realizing that just makes me sad, and the tears flow before I can stop them.
"Bella, come on," he says, tugging on the sleeve of my trench. "There's a feast in there. You're going to love my mom's cooking."
"Fine, fine."
"You're not crying, are you?"
"No! Allergies. Cold."
He pinches my cheek and immediately wipes his hand on his coat. It's disgusting, and we laugh. Peter isn't the type of guy who carries around handkerchiefs. I'm lucky if I find a stray tissue in one of my pockets. I ask him if my face looks okay, and he tells me to wipe off some 'black stuff' from under my eyes. Then we make our way up the stairs.
My hands are shaking around the bottle of wine I asked Peter to pick up on his way over to my apartment. I still need to pay him back. He's sweet, trying to get me to go out and do things, but I think it's too soon. I don't want to face anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't care how nice his parents are. They still probably think I'm disgusting. But they probably love me. Democrats really love me.
It's strange being introduced to new people who aren't about to ask me hundreds of intrusive questions. It's strange being introduced to new people, period. I haven't been social in so long, I feel like I'm watching this happen to someone who looks like me—not really here experiencing any of it myself. I smile, I shake hands, I thank them for having me. I don't bother telling them who I am. Neither does Peter. It's just "hello, dear" and "welcome" and "can I take your coat?" If you want to know more about me, I have my own Wiki page now. Google me and you'll get tons of hits. Dozens of private pictures. Transcripts of private telephone calls. Testimony. These people know me. If they turn the volume up on their TV, we'll probably hear my name when the news comes on. Peter notices how I quickly glance over at the flat screen, and it's turned off immediately. I smile at him. He winks back.
"Bella," his mother calls me, to my immense joy and relief, "Peter tells me that you don't eat enough. I hope you like pork chops. I also made some mashed potatoes and asparagus. Sit down, dear. Make yourself at home."
"Thank you, I love pork chops. You shouldn't have gone through all this—"
"It's no trouble at all," she insists. "You must have lost ten, fifteen pounds at least. Your cheekbones and—"
"Mom…"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I get carried away with these things. I'm trying a new diet now. Weight Watchers. Bella, it's the most convenient thing! As long as you can count, it works. So it's all I think about. Forgive me for not minding my own business."
"It's fine," I assure her. She's all flustered now. Upset. She's never 'seen' me before, but she brought up my weight loss like she's known me forever. It's not her fault. I smile a little harder at her, hoping she understands that I'm not offended.
She returns to the kitchen with a small, uncertain smile on her face.
"Sorry about that. But she's right," Peter says.
"I know. Especially since everyone's seen those pictures from when I was fat."
He scoffs. "Hardly."
"I mean, of course the media picked those pictures to use over and over and over—"
"What did you expect? You're flipping off the world in one of them, and looking like sex in the other."
"I…Peter!"
"Positively indecent. Young schoolgirl pretending to be all grown up, working at—"
"Ugh, shut up. Shut up."
Peter chuckles as he lightly punches my arm. "I mean, really, you were probably going for the naughty librarian or secretary look, but your face was too young to pull that off."
He's wrong. I wasn't going for any look. I was just excited about the Theory dress that bitch had let me borrow. I wore it, and it made me look stupid. Slutty. I guess perfect, because that's the day it all started.
"Was, yeah. It was," I say, more to myself than to Peter.
"Still is."
I point to the lines around my eyes. "Sure."
"You just need to take better care of yourself. You're twenty-three years old, Bella. Still young, still beautiful."
"Peter, you're awesome."
"Just looking out for you, kid." He smiles that warm smile that reminds me of my father's.
Sitting here, in Peter's parents' living room in Queens, I can't help but think about my parents, who are probably sitting in their own living room back in Forks. Scratch that. It's too early for them to be sitting around like this. Dad's probably at the station, and Mom's getting dinner ready, or watching one of those court shows. I wonder if they still watch the news together, followed by Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I mean, it's what they've done for years, ever since I can remember, but now? What's their every day like now? I don't like to think about it. I certainly don't want to think about it, ever. But I feel like I owe them that much. The very least I can do is wonder how they're dealing with everything.
Maybe it's not so bad anymore. I mean they must be used to it by now. But who am I kidding? Bill Maher refers to the whole thing as 'Hoovergate'. There is no way my parents will ever get used to hearing that. It's probably just as bad now as it was the day everything came out, if not worse. Unless, maybe, they haven't heard about 'Hoovergate' because they don't get HBO. Maybe they don't hear all the jokes or details because they avoid everything having to do with the 'incident'.
I love how Mom calls it that. I never correct her. What am I supposed to say? "Actually, Mom, it was several incidents. Several encounters. A little over a dozen, to be exact." The shame would probably kill me. My mother and I haven't discussed sex since I was nine years old. She told me what happens, told me not to do it until I found someone special, told me to be careful. Fourteen years later, I still cringe and feel sick to my stomach when the word 'sex' is uttered in my parents' presence. It's actually hilarious. Isabella Swan blushes at the mere mention of anything sexual in front of her parents. A lot of people would think that's just so funny.
I'm a little startled when a young girl walks into the living room, a shy smile on her face.
"Bella," Peter says, "meet my niece, Claire. Claire, this is my friend, Bella."
"Nice to meet you," Claire says, her eyes on her feet and then the wall behind me. Poor kid. They probably told her not to stare, but half an hour later, when we are all sitting around the dinner table, she can't help it. She stares at me every chance she gets.
I listen to an argument between her and her grandmother. Claire wants highlights on her dirty blonde hair, but her grandmother thinks she's too young.
"I want my hair to look like Bella's," she says, her cheeks growing pink.
"Bella isn't a teenager. She gets to make her own decisions," her grandmother tells her.
"Believe me," I say, taking a strand of my hair between my fingers, "you don't want to ruin your hair. Mine used to be so soft, now… not so much."
"But you did it anyway. I just want to make my own decisions."
Bratty teens will always be bratty teens. If she wants to ruin her hair, she should be allowed to do just that. I wasn't allowed to wear nail polish until I graduated from high school and left Forks. Makeup? Dad would just scrub it off my face. Still, I managed to sneak some mascara and lip-gloss, and my nails would be a bright, tacky pink every time I was allowed to sleep over at Angela's.
"When you're Bella's age, you'll make all the decisions you want," Peter says. It makes me laugh, because he makes it sound like I'm ancient.
"Well, for what it's worth, I think you look great as a blonde," Claire tells me.
"Thank you."
No one comments on how red my face is. Direct references to my physical attributes freak me out, even when they're just about my hair. I'm sure no one is thinking about it, but to me it's pretty obvious why I went from my natural dark brown to this… I don't even know what this color is. I know it was expensive, and it looks good, and that I'm less recognizable as a blonde.
Conversations continue around the dinner table, and I'm once again wondering if I was wrong. Maybe they're all thinking about why I dyed my hair. They're probably all thinking about me right now. There's no need to panic. It's fine. I'm just so naïve, thinking that maybe these people aren't bursting with questions they want to ask me. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I cleared my throat, got everyone's attention, and said, "You can ask me anything. I'll answer all your questions for the next twenty minutes." What would they ask? Would they blurt out questions they've been dying to know the answers to and then sit back, embarrassed, shocked that words like that could come out of their mouths? Shocked to admit that they actually have thoughts like that, and that they just admitted to thinking them in front of other people?
The thing is, I've always wanted to be the center of attention in one way or another. Even when I had the biggest secrets to keep that I could never divulge, I secretly used to wish everyone around me knew where I was going. The confidence I felt when I walked down those hallways, when I flashed a smile and my badge—I've never felt that before, and I likely will never feel it again. I was carrying the biggest secret with me—and I'd die if anyone ever found out—but inside I was dying for everyone to know. Like I was proud of it. Like no one was as powerful as me. Like no one had ever been wanted like I was wanted. I'd pass by the sweet older woman who cleaned up after everyone was gone for the day, and I'd wish she knew. Sometimes I just wanted to stop people in a corridor and say, "Do you know why I'm here? I'm that awesome."
The sick thing is, sometimes I still feel this way. If I'm buying coffee and the girl behind the counter gives me that look that tells me she recognizes me, sometimes I want to cry and run away, but then there are times I look straight into her eyes and silently ask 'What?' You make the coffee. No one would ever risk everything for you. I'm better than you in a million different ways. I'm relevant. I was wanted, and cherished, and people still talk about how I brought down an entire presidency. So go ahead and judge me while you make my coffee. Fuck you.
It's like I'm two different people. Ninety percent of the time, I want to hide in my apartment and pretend the world outside doesn't exist. I want to read my books, watch my favorite shows on DVD, and lie around on the floor. I want to hide under the table because I'm convinced that these perfectly nice people are thinking about me. But then there's that ten percent, where I want to put on my shoes and walk down the street with my head held high. Like, how dare you judge me? Every one of you has done something that you're not proud of. During that ten percent, I fantasize about saying 'yes' to all the offers I get. I'd dance with the stars. I'd go on a show to find the man of my dreams. I'd write a tell-all and let them take pictures of me looking like a very, very expensive hooker to use on the cover. Or maybe a sweet, misunderstood girl with big brown eyes, looking sad, explaining and apologizing and explaining some more. The thought of that makes me sick, but I can't stop thinking about it. What I'd say, how I'd phrase things, the words I'd choose. I write paragraphs and paragraphs in my head all the way back to my apartment, with Peter sitting next to me in the back of a cab.
"Have you decided what you're going to do when the Hales return from their trip?" he asks me as I'm punching in the tip on the screen.
"They said I'm more than welcome to stay, but it doesn't feel right."
"You can always stay with us, if you need a place."
"That's sweet of you, but I don't see how that would work," I tell him, climbing out of the cab.
"Well, then we need to go apartment hunting."
"Yes, that would be great, except I can't really afford anything right now."
"Bella, don't get mad, but maybe you should consider some of the offers…"
"I can't do that," I say before he has a chance to continue. He always makes the offers sound hundreds of times better than they actually are.
"No one's around," he points out.
"Yeah. I can't find my lighter, though."
"Here."
"Thanks."
"Nice night, huh?"
"I love being outside. Enjoying a cigarette. I love how cool it is out," I tell Peter.
"Did you have a good time tonight? I know Claire was—"
"She's just a kid. I had a good time."
"I'm glad."
"It's just… weird. I've always felt different from most people. Like I was observing, not really taking part in anything… And now, it's like I'm even more detached from things, except I'm the one being observed, and I'm sitting there, just letting them..."
"Did you feel like you were being observed tonight?" Peter asks.
I shrug and think about it for a second. "Not really. I mean, just the normal amount. I really liked your parents. And Claire."
"You're welcome to have dinner with us anytime, Bella. I mean it."
"Thanks. You're such a good friend. Like, the only friend."
"That's not true. The Hales let you stay in their penthouse for six months. I think you can consider them your friends," Peter says with a grin. He loves the apartment.
"Okay. But you know it's only because Jasper feels bad about how big of a c—" I stop myself for I can say that word I hate so much.
"That's not true. He feels bad about what Alice did, but he really loves you. I think he mostly feels bad about introducing you to Alice in the first place."
"I'm just glad she's out of his life. He can do better."
"Much better," Peter agrees.
"She's living in some small town now, selling dolls, or something lame like that." I laugh.
"Yeah, sad."
"Tragic."
"Alice." Peter sighs.
"And she thought this would, like, help her career."
"She just wanted her fifteen minutes."
"Maybe."
"I think you should stay, even when they're back," he says. "The place is big enough…"
"We'll see." I stomp on my cigarette butt and do a little dance over it, making Peter laugh.
"The doorman loves you."
"I put on a little show for him every time I'm out here. Free entertainment on the sidewalks of New York."
"Do you like New York?"
"I guess." It's not like I've actually seen New York.
"Ever consider going back to Washington?" Peter asks as we're walking inside. His words make me stop and look up at him.
"You're joking, right?"
"Not that Washington." Oh. We both laugh.
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
I wave at the doorman and smile before turning back to Peter. "I can't do that to my parents."
"I'm sure your parents would love to have you around."
"My dad can barely form a sentence over the phone. He's… he's embarrassed."
"Bella…"
"Dude. Small town cop. Everyone knows him. Everyone knows us. I'm probably the laughingstock of the entire town, and they're really nice people, and I'm sure they don't do it in front of my parents, but, like, sometimes I can't stop thinking about what it's like for them. Mom and Dad are good people. Private. If I go back, they'll be in the spotlight again, and they'll hate it."
"You're their only kid," Peter says. "They haven't seen you in almost a year."
"Stop trying to run me out of town!"
Peter stays for a drink and we force ourselves to watch The Daily Show, because I feel better knowing about every little thing that's said about me. Jon Stewart. Funny guy. They use this picture of me taken by another intern where I have the biggest grin on my face. It's sort of flattering. I look like I just won something. On this particular show, the jokes can get mean, but they love me. I bet I could go on and Jon would give me a hard time for a little while, but it would go well. They hate him so much. The scandal was the best thing ever for Democrats. Once, when I was out with Peter, Jasper, and Rosalie—one of the rare times I agreed to go out to a crowded restaurant—a pretty drunk guy walked over to me and thanked me for taking one for the team. It made no sense, but then it also made a lot of sense. I wanted to laugh, because in a sick way, it was hilarious, but I was just so embarrassed. We left pretty abruptly, after Jasper kindly told him to fuck off. The guy was nice about it, he apologized and went back to his group of friends, who pretended they weren't watching the entire time. People don't usually do that. I mean, that's the only incident I can think of where someone actually had the balls to come over to me and say something like that to my face. But that was enough to get me to ask Rosalie for the name of her colorist. We went together the next day, and we walked out looking like we could be sisters.
"Bella, that was actually pretty funny," Peter says.
"Hmmm… I wasn't paying attention."
"Just another Ahmadinejad joke."
"Awesome."
"Come on, you love those."
"He just looks like such a sweet little man!" I exclaim.
"You keep saying that, and I'm going to start to see it one of these days. Anyway," Peter says, finally getting up, "I should get going."
"Thanks again, for everything."
"Anytime, kid."
Once I'm alone again in this huge apartment, I think about my conversation with Peter. When was the last time I spoke to my parents? Mom called twice this week, but I didn't even bother listening to the messages she left on my phone. It's only a little past nine in Forks; maybe I should give them a call. I really hope they're out, that the phone rings and rings until I get the answering machine, but I hear her voice after two rings, and she knows it's me.
"Bella?"
"Mom, hey."
"Sweetheart, where have you been?" Don't be annoying, Mom.
"Here…"
"I miss you, baby, you need to call us more often." Stop breaking my heart.
"I know. I will."
"Bella, I remember you telling me that your friends will be back soon. Do you know where you'll be staying once they return?" she asks. It's like she's written down things to ask me in case she gets a hold of me, and that's the first thing on her list.
"No, I don't. New York is expensive…"
"We can send you—"
"You guys can't afford to send me anything. And I'd need, like, a lot of money to continue living here."
"Any job prospects?" she asks in a scared, shy voice. Great. My parents are afraid of me.
"There are lots of prospects. I'm thinking maybe, you know, a TV thing, those pay—"
"Absolutely not," a voice booms from the background.
"I was on speaker?"
"It's just your father, Bella. Calm down."
"Forget it. I'm going to bed."
"Bella?" he says. "Bella, you're not on speaker anymore."
"Daddy."
"You can't do that. You're not going to end up on some trashy—"
"It's just some dancing, or—"
"No."
"I know it's too soon," I say calmly, "but it could help a lot, financially, and I can pay for school…"
"No," he repeats.
"I'm twenty-three years old. It's not your decision."
"You sound like you're thirteen right now, Bella. My daughter isn't going to end up—"
"Seriously, it's too late for your daughter now. I might as well take this as an opportunity to make some money, go to grad school, have my life back."
"Bella…"
"I mean, what am I going to do? Stay at strangers' apartments and rely on their kindness forever?"
"You can come back home," he says.
"Yeah, sure." I laugh. It sounds awful and very wrong.
"We're your parents, and we want you home. Please think about it, Bella."
"Really? I mean… you want me there?"
"Just come back to Forks, kiddo."
And suddenly everything falls into place. This will probably be the dumbest decision I'll ever make—going forward, of course, because nothing will be dumber than those other decisions I made in the past—but I'm going to do it. When the Hales come back, I'm moving to Forks.
So, as you can tell from the dates, this takes place around ten months after the events of chapter one. Let me know if you guys have any questions.
Again, thank you for all the feedback, support, etc. I'm pretty nervous about this story, and I love hearing from you guys.
xo