A few of you told me that you never received the alert for Chapter Three. In case you didn't, you might want to go back and check it out. For those of you who read the chapter, thanks so much for your kind words. You guys rock.

Poor Writeontime had to add an unprecedented number of commas to this chapter. I felt so bad, but not really, because I'm selfish. She's an awesome beta. Ciaobella27 read this, I think, or she just read Mockingjay and ignored it, which is cool, because I love that book.

I don't own Twilight.

Jasper convinced me that flying coach and making two stops on my way to Seattle was a bad idea. I knew this, but at the time the decision was made for me to go home, it was all my father could afford. I told him I could afford to buy my own ticket, but he insisted. Mom said that he felt it was his duty as a father to bring his little girl home. He can be incredibly stupid sometimes.

I know I hurt his feelings when I told him I upgraded to first class and was taking a nonstop flight. Telling him that I intended to pay him back for the nonrefundable ticket he had purchased didn't help. He's sensitive. And he doesn't understand why I'd accept Jasper's help over his. Or why first-class on a nonstop flight from New York to Seattle means so much to me. It just does.

I made the right decision. It was a comfortable flight. I took something Jasper had placed in my hand as I was getting into the cab and promptly fell asleep. Did people stare and whisper and wonder throughout the flight? Probably, but it didn't matter, because I just slept and slept. Then I put on the sunglasses I had purchased on my last trip to Barneys—the ones Jasper and Peter thought looked 'cool' and 'sophisticated'—and walked out, still a little drowsy, oblivious to the people around me. It was great. I felt good. I felt like this is it, things are going to be different here. No one expects to see me here. I have blonde hair, and cool shades, and I won't have to hide as much.

My smile was big when I saw dad waiting for me outside the gate. I waved at him, and he nodded. No smile. Looking tired. Long drive. Poor guy. When I reached him, he patted my shoulder, twice, and said, "Let's get out of here."

Well, okay.

We're walking to the car now, and of course he parked as far away from the building as he possibly could. He's walking ahead of me. Just a few steps, but enough to put a small distance between us. I don't remember the last time we walked like this together, so I don't remember if this distance always existed. When I was younger, he held my hand. When I was a teenager, I avoided being seen with him at all costs. Did it hurt his feelings? Probably not. Teenagers are expected to behave that way. It wasn't about him. I just wanted to be cool. He had better things to do.

I clear my throat once, twice, in some lame attempt to get his attention. Maybe start up a conversation. He looks back and slows down.

"Bella, stand up straight. And take those… glasses off, the sun's not out."

I really don't need this. I didn't come here for this. There's nothing I hate more than being told how to stand, how to walk, how to look. I ignore him, and continue walking behind him and beside him all the way to the car. He doesn't say anything as he places my bags in the trunk. But just as we're pulling out of the parking lot, he turns and tells me, "Don't be difficult. I say these things for your own good."

"So I should stand straight and only wear sunglasses when it's sunny? Is that your advice?"

"Bella…"

"No, really. You've had nothing to say to me for months, and this is what you think is important?"

"You're always on… the news, looking… miserable. Maybe if you—"

"If I'm slouching, I'm sloppy and miserable, or just sad and poor Isabella. If I stand up straight… how dare I stand up straight? Look at her, proud of everything she's done. No shame. She's not even embarrassed. Slouch, hide, look straight ahead, hold your head up high. It makes no difference what I do. So please, keep your opinions to yourself."

His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. His face is red. He'd say something and respond to my outburst if he actually had it in him to do so. But he doesn't; he never has. I learned on my first trip back home from college that I could take advantage of that. I wasn't living under his roof, he didn't help me out financially. He had no power over me. Except now, maybe he does. But not for long. I'll be on the next flight back to New York.

Maybe I overreacted, but it's not like this was the first time someone told me to act differently, because then I would be perceived differently. Because being perceived differently in this case would be a good thing. Anything is better than the real me. But no one understands that no matter what I do, it won't be received positively. Because people don't want to receive anything I do positively. I'm no fun if there are good things to say. And they want their fun. And they want to comment, scrutinize, talk, talk, talk about how and what and who and why.

So dad thinks that by standing straight and not wearing sunglasses when I don't need to wear them, this will make people… like me? Be kinder about what they say? It's probably either wishful thinking on his part, or he doesn't understand people. I realized a while back that every time I chose to gossip, bring someone down, judge or mock someone, I did it because I could, because it felt good. It gave me some power. Sometimes it was jealousy, but jealousy is a better excuse than having no reason to act that way other than just plain meanness. And people love to judge, and they love to be mean. It makes us feel so good. Like we're high on something. And the words pour out. And it's sick. But we do it all the time.

The drive is long, and there's nothing on the radio. I take out a book, but I'm soon reminded that I get carsick when I read in the car. I wish I had something else to take, but Jasper was so stingy with his pills. I need to make an appointment to see someone for sleeping pills and other nice things the minute I unpack my bags. For months, I was so opposed to them. I refused to take anything that was prescribed to me. But these past few weeks, seeing how calm and collected Jasper was, how long he was able to sleep and how rested he looked when he finally woke up… I realized I was being stupid.

"I'm stopping for some coffee, in case you need to use—"

"I'm fine, thank you."

We don't speak again until I'm in my parents' house, sitting with my mom at the kitchen table. He tells us he'll be in the living room if we need anything. Once he's gone, mom keeps smiling at me, reaching out to touch my face, telling me how pretty I am, how sweet my smile is, how I should do it more often. I love it, but I hate it. Who doesn't want to hear 'you're pretty' 'you're the best' 'your smile makes me smile' all the time? I mean, my need to hear those things all the time, and by people who mattered, was exactly what got me into this mess in the first place. But I don't want to be told to smile more often than I do these days. I've heard plenty about my demeanor. From the depositions, to the grand jury, pictures of me on the street, people are always commenting on how I don't smile.

She wasn't smiling. She never smiles. Why would he risk it all for such a miserable little thing? She must have smiled for him. Seduced him. Manipulated him. Now she's famous. Watch her get book deals and a reality show, and then she'll have to smile and thank us for making her who she is.

And if I smile, like I did a few times because—I don't know, I think I'm a nice person who smiles to be polite?—if I smile, I'm a fame whore who loves this. I went after the president to become famous. A household name. Disgusting. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, are you proud of the adultery you committed? Is this a joke to you?

The worst part, the part that really gets to me—most of these people are women. Some call themselves feminists, even. They spend their days on the internet, radio, TV, wherever, bashing another woman. I made mistakes. Huge mistakes. I had an affair with another woman's husband. I lied. I loved almost every second of it while it was going on. But those aren't the things they talk about. It's my demeanor now, or a gesture I made in a picture, or a comment I made years ago. They take apart your life, your personality, everything about you, without knowing a thing.

Because what do they actually know? They know that on about fourteen different occasions, I let a married man, who happened to be the president of this country, touch me inappropriately. Or I touched him inappropriately. He bought me presents. I bought him some, too. We had countless conversations over the telephone, intimate ones, dirty ones. They know the content of these calls, of the emails we sent, they know all of that. And you can argue that they're allowed to judge me for the things I did, but everything else? I refuse to just take it. And if that makes me a bitch, a whore, a bad person, so be it. I'm not going to spend my entire life smiling sweetly, looking sad, and apologizing for being human, for messing up, for doing something stupid.

And yet I continue to do it. I apologize everywhere I go, with everything I do. I don't know how else to handle things. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Because if I don't seem apologetic, and remorseful, and sad, I'm automatically thought of as a bad person. And who wants that? Who wants a whole lifetime of that? I want to be strong, not care, walk to my dad's car happy and proud, sit with my mother and enjoy her sweet words, and not go into a deep funk, analyzing every word that comes out of her mouth. But it's like I've been conditioned to feel bad about being happy and normal and not ashamed of the things I've done. And the way my father had his eyes fixed on the ground, looking uncomfortable and stiff earlier, didn't help. He told me to stand up straight, but he was too ashamed of me to do it himself. And I know that if it was anyone else's daughter on the news, smiling for the cameras, my mother wouldn't be commenting on her sweet smile or pretty eyes. She would be telling us just how she'd like to wipe that smirk right off that face.

"Bella? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Lost in my own head. Sorry."

"I was wondering whether or not you wanted to go out to eat tonight," she says, taking my hand into her hands.

"No. Um… I'd rather eat here."

"Well, I guess I can put something together. I'll send dad to the Thriftway…"

"No, I mean. I don't want you to have to cook. It's just… I'd rather stay in," I tell her.

She brings my hand up to her lips and kisses it. For a second I'm weirded out, but she has always been affectionate. Too affectionate. Kisses and hugs and touches that I was more than happy to return. I'm just too… tired, and unwilling to do little things like get up and give a hug these days. But I let her do what she wants, because if I deny her these little things, I'll hurt her feelings.

"Anything you want, sweetheart," she says. "I'll make your favorite. Now go take a bath. Relax. I'll bring up some tea, if you'd like."

I have a favorite? But I don't ask. "You don't have to spoil me."

"It's my job. I'm your mom."

"I love you."

Her eyes light up. I smile at her, and she squeezes my hand so tight. "You're such a pretty girl. Your hair looks beautiful."

"Thanks. Yeah… I found a place in Seattle where I can go for touch ups. You know, get my roots done. I asked Rosalie's guy for some recommendations."

"I'm sure we can find a place in town. Or in Port Angeles."

"No, I'm not taking any risks with my hair."

"You know best," she says. "I bet the place in Seattle is expensive."

"I have money."

"Not Jasper's, I hope…"

I free my hand and use it to play with a strand of my hair. I roll my eyes. "Oh, yeah, Jasper just gives me money…"

"You let him buy you a plane ticket…"

"He spends more on a fun night out," I snap. "No big deal."

"Being around people like that… Bella, you've become a different person."

"From what? The kid I was in high school?"

"You were smart, sweet, responsible. I didn't raise you to accept gifts from men and—"

"Yeah, okay. I should've stayed in Washington, visited you guys more often, found a nice job in Seattle, and none of this would have ever happened."

"No." She shakes her head back and forth. "I think you made the right decision. We were so proud of you."

"But you're not anymore."

"I didn't—"

"Mom, I'd be shocked and disappointed if you still were. It was the ultimate form of rebellion, really. I probably wanted dad to find out."

Big, round eyes filled with sadness grow smaller and colder. I feel like I've done something bad. I look down at the table and trace the ugly pattern of the tablecloth with the tip of my finger.

"It's time for you to take a bath. I'll start dinner."

I look up at her. She avoids eye contact.

"You don't want to talk about this?" I ask, grabbing her arm to make her look at me.

"Let go. Go upstairs and take a bath. I'm going to have to take my Xanax early, just to get through the rest of this meal. I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Mom, I…"

"Dinner will be ready at around seven. Take your time."

"When did you start taking—?"

But she's gone. Presumably to find my dad and ask him to make a trip to the supermarket. Once I'm sitting in the tub, the numbness that was so characteristic of the days right after everything came out returns. Everything is quiet. Still. My hands are shaking. I feel nothing. Then it starts to come. It starts deep, deep in my chest. And it's a little difficult to take real, complete breaths. So I make an effort and breathe in and out, deeply. I squeeze my hands between my thighs, wanting to stop them from shaking, because they freak me out. I can't control them, and it freaks me out. I'm crying, and loud, and if anyone's around, they can hear me. I cover my mouth with my hand, but it's still shaking, so I cover that hand with my other hand, but it's no use, so I just cry out and act like the baby I am. I want to scream so loud. I want to shriek and scare everyone, and make them come and wrap me up in towels and take care of me.

I made my mom sick. She's taking pills for anxiety? Is that what it is? Is she having panic attacks? When did this happen? What did I do to her? Why am I here making their lives even more difficult? Sometimes, at the beginning, I'd think about how awesome it would be to just disappear. Be gone. Just the idea, for that short, tiny, tiny second, would make me smile and almost cheer and squeal. No more Bella. No more questions. No more sympathy. But then I was better, and just the thought of that short, tiny, tiny second of clarity made me shake my head back and forth, fast, just to get rid of it. Life is good. It's worth it. Things get better. I have to think about the future. The good past. The great past. Delicious food. Amazing trips. Beautiful cities and sunsets, and warm lips, and awesome sex, and people laughing, and old friends, and good movies and great books, and everything that makes you want to get past the worst times.

Am I that shallow? Good movies and books and awesome sex and world travel? Whatever. Whatever. It's what I want. It's what I love. It's all I asked for. And they're all things within my grasp. Things I can have. Things that won't be denied to me. I think about Jasper, and those last few days, and orgasms and screams and sweat, and I just want to lie here and have some more, quietly, because my parents are downstairs, and it's funny how easy it is to forget trembling hands and mini panic attacks interrupted by stupid tears just by moving my fingers a few times between my legs. And thinking about Jasper. And maybe I'm totally fine, and not sad at all, and not feeling guilty in the least bit, because look at me, I'm totally fine, and I feel good, and the tears are drying on my face, and I make myself smile and touch and forget. Stop being dramatic, Bella. Mom's going to be okay—just be nicer and she won't need the Xanax. Dad's always been an asshole—nothing you can do about that. Jasper will visit whenever you ask him to—and you'll meet him in Seattle, and let him fuck your brains out. And Peter will listen to you complain all night—and you're so good at whining and complaining. And just stop thinking and let this happen, and go downstairs before dad's back. Tell mom to stop worrying about dinner. The diner's fine. We'll go together. Clear your head. Clear your head. Everything is okay. Everything feels good. Stop moving like that. You're getting the floor wet. But you're almost there. Almost there. Imagine him like that. And like that. Excellent. Quick. Better. Now wash your hair, put on something cute, and most importantly, put on that big smile.

So I realize that Bella's head isn't the most fun place to be right now. And Edward's not around. It gets better? Edward shows up? I think?

:)

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