A big thank you to Writeontime & Ciaobella27, who edit and preread this for me.
I don't own Twilight.
I don't remember whether or not we knock before entering a room in this house. Are we formal? Informal? Does Mom just barge in when she feels like it, or does she wait by the door until I tell her to come in? What does she expect me to do? I stand outside my bedroom door, not taking the necessary steps down the hallway to her room because she'll hear the creak, creak, creak, and then I won't be able to change my mind. I'm nervous. I don't know how to talk to her right now. I don't know if she's still angry. Maybe she'll greet me with another one of her kind smiles.
I move around a little. I stare at the wall. There are pictures of me everywhere. Bella at a ballet recital. Bella's ninth birthday. Bella at the science fair. Bella graduating from high school, and then college. Jasper's hand is on my waist in the last picture, but he's been conveniently cropped out. I'm looking up at him, one eyebrow raised, my bottom lip between my teeth. In my own little world, almost oblivious to the camera and the "Bella, smile, honey" that was being repeated to get my attention. Mom hates this picture, but it's the only one I had time for right before the graduates' reception. I was too busy with his family, then with my friends, then with professors—everyone but my own parents. She begged me for months to send her the commencement pictures I had ordered from the photographers, but I don't think I ever did. I don't remember what I did with those pictures. There was one I liked of me shaking Dean Waterbury's hand right after I had been awarded my diploma, but I never got around to sending it to her. I'm sure I have it stored somewhere. I'll surprise her with it when it turns up.
A door slams shut downstairs, and I know it's time to go into my parents' room and tell her she doesn't have to cook, that we should go out. I'm strangely excited about it, almost giddy. I'm not in Jasper's apartment. I'm not sitting around ordering the same meals every day. I don't have to wait for someone to walk outside with me. I can just go eat somewhere with my parents, and I'll be safe and people won't be rude. The people in this town are too nice to say anything that would upset them. I feel like everything's going to be okay, and I'm calm, and something warm bubbles up inside me, and I'm ready to do this. Happiness is right outside this house. If I stay inside these walls for another minute, I'll scream. Maybe I can convince them to drive to Port Angeles and eat there. I can listen to music on the way over, put my feet up on the back seat and stare out the window. Maybe we can walk around a little and maybe there are random stores we can walk into, and I can act like a tourist. I look down at my outfit. Casual, like a local, except nothing that a local could afford. I imagine walking around and smiling, my hands in my pockets, because it's still a little chilly. I almost look like a little girl, but then not at all, these jeans are so hot. And I'm getting distracted by stupid things again, and Mom is probably popping Xanax in her room. I need to go in.
Once I'm sitting beside her on their old bed, I realize that I didn't knock. I walked in and sat down, and I guess that's how we do things here. It was natural and felt right, and she didn't seem to notice anything wrong with what I did. Now her hand is resting on my knee, gently patting it, then flicking away imaginary things, patting again, and giving it a little squeeze.
"Let's go downstairs and get you something to eat," she finally says.
"I want to go out to eat."
"Dad just came back with the groceries. I thought you wanted to stay in."
"I changed my mind. Let's just go out. Maybe go somewhere where we can walk around?" I'm like a kid again, too shy to tell my parents exactly what I want. They should just know what I want, and know that I'm never actually going to come out and say it.
"We're tired, Bella. It's been a long day. I don't think Port Angeles is a good idea."
"I didn't say… We don't have to go to Port Angeles," I whisper. My face is warm and everything is a little sadder, and it's like the time they told me we were going to celebrate my birthday, and I told all of the girls in my class, but then it turned out they meant celebrate with our family and Uncle Billy's family. No friends. It's like that time because she knows I want to go to Port Angeles, just like she eventually knew I wanted to have a real birthday party. And she also knows it's not going to happen, just like she knew then that I wouldn't be getting my party. And both times, she could have changed her mind, or maybe she couldn't, and I've always been a little brat.
"We can go to the Coffee Shop."
"You mean the diner with creepy deer heads hanging?"
"Don't be difficult," she says. "I like the food there."
"Okay." I shrug.
"Did you really want to go all the way to Port Angeles? It will take us over an hour to get there, and you were on an airplane all day."
I shake my head and tell her "no."
"Are you sure? We can go if you—"
"No, it's fine. Maybe this weekend. It's cool."
"Okay, I just want to make sure you're happy. I'll go let your father know, then."
It's so stupid, but I want to cry. In the span of, like, three minutes I decided I really wanted to get out of this house, go to Port Angeles, visit stores, have a nice dinner, look cute in jeans, and take deep breaths outside, and then I was told none of this is going to happen, and now I'm really disappointed, but I don't want my parents to know, so I'll just suck it up and have dinner in Forks, except I just want to stay in now. I don't even want to eat. I want to turn on my laptop, send some emails, stalk people I no longer talk to on Facebook, and chat with Peter. Then I want to text Jasper and see if he's around to talk. And it will be the best conversation, and I'll be in the best mood, and he'll promise to come visit and take me back with him, and we'll make plans for the Fourth and Labor Day, and I'll fall asleep exhausted.
None of this happens. We're in the car and driving to the diner after a lecture on not wearing sunglasses in the dark. They were just sitting on my head, and it's none of their business, but I shrugged and took them off anyway. I replaced them with the hood of my jacket, which my mom immediately pulled off. It's not dark enough, I'm too old for hoodies, there's no smoking here, pretend you recognize everyone even if you don't.
Fine.
Except I do recognize the first person we see as we're walking in, and I almost want to pretend that I don't. He looks the same. His grin does something to my insides. My next couple of heartbeats are so loud and fast, and my chest explodes. It's like I know what to do, and I do it even though it's stupid. I give him my best smile. I work my lashes and my eyes and my brows and my lips and teeth and hair, but it's all so subtle, and he loves it, and he almost jumps, and his eyes are huge. My parents are stupid and blind, and my mother knows him, and my father knows him, and this town is too small. Cullen. Cullen. He was so good that night. And warm and sweet, and I made up all those stories in my head. We're inside now and he's long gone, and I didn't even notice him smiling back at me, because it was all so quick—but just the split-second of almost-flirtation, and being able to smile like that, and knowing how he's definitely thinking about me and my mouth and hands and how good I was… It feels so… good. I feel a pride that I associate with all conquests, big or small, even though all I did was try to smile. But I wanted to, and I wanted him, and this is really stupid, but it's the first time since…
Since I saw him standing around drinking with the really tall man at the party last year. I saw him and thought holy shit, is this what I've been missing by not coming back to visit more often? And I walked over and I was so confident, and he was so easy, and then it turned out he was funny and smart, too. The last person I flirted with, unless Jasper counts, but he really doesn't count.
We're seated so quickly. I make no eye contact with anyone. I look straight ahead and I know I should let my jaw relax, let my face relax, but it almost hurts; I'm making an effort to look strong, to look not sad, to just look like me. But I know I don't, and I know exactly what my face looks like, and how it scares people away, and how I look like I think I'm better than this, and better than them, but this is what happens every time I just try to look straight and not at the floor. Maybe the floor would be better. Maybe I should look and act more humble, maybe sweet, maybe make them feel sorry for me. I swear all of Forks is here. I think for a second maybe this is the stupidest thing ever, but maybe my parents are smart. Maybe they're not as naïve and dumb as I think they are most of the time. They knew this needed to happen, and the sooner, the better. I wonder what they're feeling now, but I'd rather not know. I'm hungry, and maybe I'll eat meat. I feel weak and lightheaded all of a sudden. And then we're sitting down.
"It was nice running into Edward, even if we didn't get to chat. He's such a good kid, isn't he, Charlie?"
"Wouldn't call him a kid anymore."
"He's the pride and joy of our town. Bella, maybe you remember him from school. He was on the football team, and president of…"
She goes on and on. Of course she thinks he's perfect. And if my mom thinks he's perfect, the entire town probably thinks he's perfect, too. I wish I could tell her just how perfectly he fucked me last summer. Maybe then she'd shut up. I mean, knowing how her mind works, he can't be perfect if he slept with someone like me.
"The school board loves him," she continues, deliberately making eye contact with everyone who passes by our table, giving them each a winning smile. We're all good here. We're doing awesome! "We just don't want to lose someone who is so great with the students—"
"I slept with him," I blurt out. And I think I just killed my father.
I've never seen his face so red before. I've never seen his eyes this angry before. I want to ask him, Daddy, are you mad because I slept with the perfect boy who's the most perfect boy Forks has ever known and ruined him in your eyes? Or are you mad because I have absolutely no shame in telling you, over dinner, that I had sex? Does it undermine your authority? Do you just not want to hear it? Have I ruined this sad excuse for a restaurant for you? I want to ask, but that would upset Mom. She'd look shocked and surprised and she'd apologize for me. She's tired. She's not thinking. She's so stressed. And I'd make my eyes big and make you feel bad for being mad at me, but I'm not even sure you're capable of that at this point. Maybe I'd just say no, I'm not tired. I'm thinking. I'm not really stressed. I want red meat and a salad, and then maybe we can stop somewhere and get a bottle of wine for me, because I know we have none at the house. And then I'll take little sips, watching your favorite shows with you, knowing how it annoys you that I have absolutely no problem drinking in your living room. How disrespectful. I should act like the child I am.
"Bella, this isn't the time…"
"Sorry, that just came out. I didn't mean to blurt it out like that," I tell her.
"Let's just order something to eat."
"So wait, he works at the school?" I ask.
"Charlie, let's get an order of the onion rings to share. Bella loved them when we used to come here after dance practice."
"Um, I just asked a question. And I don't eat fried things."
"They're just onion rings, sweetie."
My mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned my distaste for fried foods after reminding them that I had a question. She's excellent at ignoring everything you say if she doesn't want to deal with it.
"Well, I don't want onion rings. I'm ordering a steak and a salad."
But the onion rings are ordered. I don't touch them. I want to touch them, I want them in my mouth. I love juicy, fat onion rings. I love onions. I love fried things. I love them, but can't have them. I swear my hand is shaking, dying to reach over and grab one, so I look at it, but it's not really shaking at all, it just knows where it wants to be. And it wants to be grabbing an onion ring. My mouth even waters. Give. Me. An. Onion. Ring. But they're taken away, and I focus on my salad, and the steak isn't good, and we go back home, no wine, and I go straight upstairs to my room. Still hungry. Forcing myself to think of Edward, and how I smiled at him, and how good it felt. I need to remember just how it felt when I smiled, because I don't know when I'll get to feel that good again. I don't want to forget. I want to replay it a million times. So stupid. All I did was smile at someone, and want to flirt, and want to disappear with him, and God, I try to pretend that I remember his grunts and face and hands on me, and it's so vague, but I remember a little—definitely not the grunts themselves. But I guess I know there were grunts, because why else would I remember grunts? And there were orgasms, and waking up in his arms, and kissing on my neck, and "it's Sunday, people don't do anything on Sunday, they just lie in bed all day." Yes! He said something like that, and I really had to go, but not before I lay back and he lay on top of me one more time. Maybe I'm making all of this up, or maybe it all happened and was as sweet as I remember it to be.
Except for weeks right after, when I was crazy frustrated and losing my mind and dealing with a million things, I thought back to that night and let myself get lost in it, thinking about how hot it was. How hot he was. I didn't focus on the sweetness. Was the sweetness even there? I just want to find out. Because hot, anyone can do. But sweet? It's rare. And seldom done well. It comes off as insincere, or he's so incredibly boring, or he's trying to compensate for something that you can't really compensate for. But I think Edward was hot and sweet, and it was really good. Jasper good, but better. Jasper good, but different.
"Bella?"
She knocks once, so I guess we do knock before entering a room in this house.
"Yeah."
"Am I bothering you?"
"No, come in."
I smile at her and move closer to the wall, making room for her on the bed. She lies down next to me on her side, and looks so young right now. Just like me, but maybe prettier. Her eyes are so blue. I used to be so jealous of her eyes.
"So…"
"Yeah?"
"How was it?" she asks.
"How was what?"
"Your first day back."
"Um… it was fine."
"You're a terrible liar," she tells me, gently stroking my hair.
"Well, next time don't ask. You were here for the entire thing. You saw how it went."
"Sweetie, you need to calm down and just…"
"What?" I ask, because I really want to know what I should do. Calm down and…
"I don't know. I don't know what to tell you," she says. "I have no idea what I would do in your situation. I think about it all day, sweetheart. I've been thinking for months. Every time… every time I see you on TV, I wonder 'how does she do it?' 'How can I make it better?' I almost wish I could go back in time, do everything you did, learn how to cope, what to do, what to say, just so I can come back and tell you, and teach you… Or I even thought, this is so silly but I'll just say it… I thought if I were younger, I'd just pretend I was you, but the thought of going through it all… it made me sick and I didn't know if I could handle it. But I would, Bella. I just want to take all of your sadness and…"
I'm crying so hard. I bet he can hear me downstairs. I'm trying to breathe and it's hard. It's all wet and disgusting, and I think maybe I'll die because my heart will stop. My face, the pillow, her shirt. Wet, wet. She's holding me and rocking me and promising to make it better. And I'm asking her to please, please stop thinking about it. Please, please stop wondering how to make it better. Please forget it, I'll be okay. Please don't be sad for me. She's shushing me and kissing the top of my head and rocking and covering me in tissues. Where did they come from and where has she been this entire time? Why didn't she fly out? Why didn't I beg her? Why didn't she sleep next to me all those nights I spent in hotel rooms, waiting for the morning to come, and the questions and the answers and the cold bathroom tiles and the panic attacks. I push her away because I'm angry. She didn't come, and no one even brought it up, and for months he didn't even ask if I was okay. But she's warm, and I'm so tired, and she's mom.
"Go wash you face, you'll feel better."
I shake my head.
"At least blow your nose, and let me pull back your hair. There we go. So pretty."
"Mom, I'm not pretty right now."
"You're always pretty," she says. "You've always been the prettiest."
"Only in your eyes."
"I bet Edward Cullen thought you were pretty."
My face is burning like I'm fifteen and my crush on someone has been revealed.
"Did you know him back in high school?" she asks, now caressing my gross cheek with her thumb.
"No."
"Oh… I thought that's what you meant."
"Last summer. I met him at that party I went to with Jake," I explain.
She looks genuinely shocked. "That… wow. You left just a few days after that party. When did you see him again?"
"I didn't. It happened at the party. Well, right after."
"Edward? Really? I just can't see…"
"Wait—is he married or something?"
"No! No…" Is she blushing? Oh. I bet all the women in Forks have a thing for him.
"So you're surprised that perfect Edward Cullen had a one-night stand? That's really funny."
"Funny?"
"Yeah." I nod. "Most moms would be like… my little girl had sex with a stranger?"
"Oh sweetie, I wish—" and she's laughing hard. I think she's laughing because of the absurdity of the situation. She wishes she didn't know that her daughter is a whore. She wishes she could actually be appalled by the idea that her little girl had a one-night stand. It's kind of funny, so I laugh, too.
"I'm sorry, Bella. I don't know what came over me."
"No, it's fine," I assure her. "Are you okay? Are you going to cry a little over Edward's lost virtue?"
"He just seems like such a nice boy!" She's still laughing, and it's cute.
"I'm sure he is! He was really sweet, I promise."
"I probably sound so naïve and old fashioned, but Bella, you know your father was the first—"
"Gross, Mom. I don't need to hear that."
"I'm just saying, I never dated anyone else. It was never like that. We met, fell in love, got married, had you. Sometimes I wish it was that simple for my own daughter."
I never wanted simple. I wanted to go to the best liberal arts college in the country and then go to grad school, and be the best and smartest, and do great things and work at great places and see everything and everyone. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it, and the ride would be so much fun. Lately I think about simple, sometimes. Something about it is just so attractive when you really give it some thought. But I guess simple doesn't work for me. I have to think about it so hard that it's no longer simple. Nothing ever is, in my head. And I think she knows this, and I think that's what she means. I try hard to stop my brain for just a few seconds as she kisses me goodnight. It doesn't, but my body is tired. I fall asleep, wishing for simple dreams.
You guys make me so happy. Thanks so much for reading and letting me know what you think about this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter—it was a particularly difficult one to write. Anyway, I'll update again early next week.
xo