Chapter pic: bit(dot)ly/sotpm03-pic

Chapter music: bit(dot)ly/sotpm03-music

Welcome to Bella's introductory chapter. She'll seem very out of character at first, but I promise she's got a strong canon background and reasons for turning into the person she has.

"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN"
CHAPTER 03: BALANCING ACTS FOR THE GRACELESS

"Anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment."

Finagle's Law of Dynamic Negatives

ISABELLA SWAN
September 13, 2008

"Well, folks, it's one of those rare, sunny Saturdays here in Port Angeles, so come on down to Steve's Lawn Care Center for our big, annual autumn sale. We've got everything you could possibly want for your garden and backyard—from plants, to outdoor furniture, to lawnmowers and grills, we've got you cover—"

I slammed my hand down on the snooze button. Again. Steve and his "lawn care center" could go to hell.

I tried to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but my head was pounding. It was like I was hung over but hadn't had the pleasure of an awesome night to warrant it. I groaned and pressed my cheek into the pillow.

The past few months had taught me that a lack of sleep, copious amounts of coffee and the occasional Adderall could do this to you. I cracked an eye open and looked back at my offending alarm clock.

I froze against my pillow.

Twelve.

As in 12:00 p.m.?

Shit! I'm late! Really, really late!

I jumped out of bed like it was on fire, dragging sheets with me. They crumpled to the floor with a soft, fabric sigh that made me want to grab them back up and bury my head in them.

Sometimes having the attic room sucked. Now was one of those times as I stumbled down the stairs, tearing through the house in only my baggy sleep shirt and underwear. I, of course, took the opportunity to harm myself by stubbing my toe on the doorframe to the laundry room. I just wouldn't be Bella Swan without some daily self-injury. "Goddammit!" I shouted as I bounced around on one foot. I tried to suck down a deep breath, but struggled to do so.

Why was it when you needed to take deep breaths, you never felt you could?

One of my housemates and closest friends, Lauren Mallory, came to stand in the connecting kitchen. She eyed me in alarm, a bowl of steaming oatmeal balanced in one hand. She was a late-riser and was just getting out of bed herself, but she looked so put-together standing there. Sure, it was put-together in that skinny, punk rocker I'll-kick-your-ass-if-you-wrong-me sort of way, but it was more than could be said of me.

The tables had turned. There had been a time when I didn't think anything in Lauren's life would be functional. Now look at us. She was practically a CEO to my hobo. And Lauren was still in college this semester, even if it was just at Port Angeles Peninsula College. More than could be said of me. "Are you okay?" she asked, her pretty hazel eyes large.

I stared at her. Did she really have to ask?

"I am so not okay," I answered in my high-pitched, hysterical voice that made me sound just like my mother Renée. I wobbled unsteadily, favoring the leg with the stubbed toe, as I dug through the massive pile of dirty clothes that belonged to me. Overflowing from my laundry basket, they had essentially taken over the room, starting in June. We were in the middle of September now.

It was a wonder that Lauren and Angela Weber, my other housemate, could even get to the washing machine, and an even greater wonder that they'd not chewed me out for being such an inconsiderate slob. I'd have to apologize to them on behalf of my fucked up life later. Again.

I looked over at Lauren who was still watching me interestedly while spooning oatmeal into her mouth. I couldn't blame her, really. I knew watching me was like that car crash you inevitably slowed down to see; you felt guilty as hell, but damned if you didn't slow down, just the same, all the while telling yourself that it was just about checking to see if the people involved were okay. We all know the truth, though.

I turned back to the green t-shirt clutched in my fist that had Forks' Finest in cracked and faded white across its front. I was about to do something very disgusting with this shirt and didn't really want an audience.

Fuck, I was late.

Fine.

Whatever.

Lauren had put up with all my other shit.

I shoved the shirt up to my face and breathed deeply. It hardly smells! Yes! My day is turning around already! I had learned to count my blessings—dirty, yet miraculously non-smelly clothing and all.

"Did you really just smell your shirt?" Lauren asked me. She sounded amused and appalled, all at once. We kind of felt the same way, really.

God, I'm a train wreck.

"You didn't see a thing," I said as I pulled off my sleep shirt and put on the dirty green one. I grabbed the deodorant from my pile of clothes and put some on; I didn't know when I'd started to let it take up residence in the laundry room, but I was thankful for it being here now. Smoothing out the wrinkles as best I could, I turned to her and jutted out my small bust. "No bra. How badly can you see the nips?" I pointed rather unnecessarily to the two tiny peaks that were poking out beneath an F and an E.

Lauren's brows rose. "Not enough to turn me on, but, uh, you know this sun won't last. So, you know…the cold…"

I shrugged. "I'll be inside, and my work apron should mostly cover it. Maybe." Or maybe I'd get better tips from men today. It was doubtful. I didn't have Lauren's looks.

I found a couple of mismatched socks and one miraculously clean pair of underwear—a yellow bikini that cheerily announced Wednesday in pretentious rainbow colors across the back. It was fucking Saturday.

Whatever. It went with Forks' Finest nipples and my dirty jeans, which would probably crawl away from my body any day now. I was past caring. Slipping on shoes and a barn jacket that had once belonged to my dad, I ran past Lauren, grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter.

"I know you're late and all, but don't you want something to eat before you go?" she asked, waving her spoon at me.

I shook my head and threw my messy bed-hair up into a bun, leaving just enough hair out of the tie to cover the large, unsightly scar that ran from my right temple to my jaw. "Nah, I'm fine." I smiled at her as best I could and waved goodbye.

I was hungry, but the truth was I was also broke after the last round of bills I'd had to pay and wasn't eating much until my next paycheck. That would be from the bookstore—next Friday. People all over the world lived on less than one meal a day, so I didn't feel too bad about it, even though my stomach was growling in protest as I hightailed it to Hal's Backyard Barbeque, which was where I had my second job. I hated working at Hal's, but it made up the majority of my income, so I couldn't exactly quit.

Hal's was your typical bar and grill. It wasn't a franchise, but it might as well have been, as it looked for all the world like an Applebee's or Ruby Tuesday, right down to the kitsch license plates and black and white photographs of people none of us knew that were plastered on its inner walls. It was a big place with big parking spaces for big assholes in big SUVs that took up a whole corner of a concrete shopping plaza.

And the biggest asshole of all?

My boss, Judy Sanders.

I knew she'd be on me as soon as I walked through the door. Judging by the packed parking lot and the fact that it was a Saturday at lunchtime, Hal's was busy today, and being short an employee always rankled Judy. But to be down an employee, who didn't call in beforehand, because she overslept? Unacceptable. Judy took this restaurant very seriously, as if it was the most important thing in her life, and to screw that up was a bad idea.

Sure enough, as soon as I got through the massive double, wooden doors, Judy was stomping right in my direction, looking just like one of the crazed bulls the news always showed from Spain's Running of the Bulls.

I didn't like to label people, but there really wasn't any better way to describe Judy other than "butch dyke." She had pitch black hair that was cropped close to her meaty head and pasty white skin that was prone to flushing when she was angry. She also had an accent from living in the Bronx that screamed, "I'm going to beat you with my purple strap-on." No one knew if she was a lesbian, in all actuality, but she did look like she wanted to makes us her prison bitches.

And Judy hated me more than all the other employees combined. On a good day.

"Swan!" she whisper-shouted, so none of the surrounding patrons would be alarmed. Her face was splotched red. "You are two hours late." She looked at her wrist, as if to check the time, even though she didn't wear a watch. "What the fuck? Do you see how busy we are?"

"Yes, I—"

"Well, good, because we're always this busy. Which you'd know, if you were ever here on time. It'd be fucking great if you could show up and do your job."

My eyes widened. "I do my job!" I protested in the same hissing whisper. "I usually come right on time. I haven't been late like this since…" Oh, dammit. Me and my big mouth. Since last Wednesday, which was the day I'd last worked at Hal's. Shit, shit, shit. How had I forgotten?

Judy openly laughed at me and the mortified expression that must surely have been plastered on my face. I felt a heated blush rise to my cheeks. "Look, Swan, I don't know what you got going on in your personal life. I don't give a flying fuck, really. But it's affecting my business, and when you start affecting me, we got a problem. Now go grab your apron and get to work. Today's your last day."

I gasped as she started to walk away and scrabbled to grab her wrist, hoping to God she wouldn't view that as harassment. "Please, Judy," I whispered fiercely as I gripped onto her thick skin. "I need this job." She had no idea how much I needed it. How much my father needed me to have it.

"Guess you should've considered that before showing up two hours late. Two times in a row. Now do the last bit of your job or get the hell out."

"One more chance," I whispered. I knew I was begging and looked ridiculous, but it didn't matter. I had to beg. I didn't have the time or money to go looking for another dead-end job.

Yanking her wrist away from me, she crossed her arms over her large bust line and eyed me up and down for several long seconds. She grunted finally and said, "Fine. One more chance. And you better be on your toes today. I'll be watching. Hal is going to be here, you know."

She still made it sound like the Second Coming, and she'd been talking about his visit for the last month and a half.

She left me standing there, then, and began making her rounds with the customers; it was strange to watch her brusque demeanor swiftly change to something akin to friendliness. I guess we all wore masks like that for money.

After that ordeal, I looked around the restaurant and saw several diners were watching me with sideways glances that I'm sure they thought were inconspicuous. Some of them just seemed curious, but others…others were looking at me with contempt, as if I was part of the problem with society. One of those slackers. The attention was humiliating, and all I wanted to do was run away and hide forever. Instead, I took a deep breath, ducked my chin and headed toward the kitchen for my apron. I needed the money. I could wait until after my shift to break down and cry.

People came and went, and I forced a smile on my face until I thought my cheeks would break from all the sweet falsities. I yes-ma'amed and no-sirred to the older customers and at least attempted to flirt with the middle-aged, fat businessmen who leered at my breasts and butt like they didn't even know I had eyes. Their tips were worth it, or so I told myself. It hurt more when they only tipped ten percent; that always made me feel like a whore.

At two, I suddenly realized it was my twenty-first birthday. I'd completely forgotten. The big two-one. It was just a blip on my emotional radar. My birthdays were always horrible, so it was just as well that I probably wouldn't be around anyone who wanted to celebrate today. I was really hoping that Angela and Lauren had forgotten, too.

Like I said, my birthdays were always horrible, but this birthday…well, it really took the proverbial cake.

I'd never met Hal Watson. Apparently he owned three bar and grill restaurants in the country, the one here in Port Angeles, Washington, where his ex-wife and daughter still supposedly resided, one in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and another in Midland, Texas, where he and his oil-rich family were from. The rumor was that he visited Port Angeles once a year to crawl up Judy's ass and make sure she was doing her job, slap a big check into his Botoxed ex-wife's grubby hands, and to take his daughter shopping with his no-limit credit card, just so she wouldn't completely hate his guts for not ever being in her life.

I knew Hal as soon as he walked in, just by his pompous looks. He had a golden, southern tan that was weathering his skin and a massive potbelly that rounded his body with a muffin-top that was barely contained by a blue, button-down shirt. Then there was the cowboy hat that he made a big show of removing. He was no cowboy, though. No cowboy could ever be so fat. It was all for show and style.

I couldn't stand people like this. It made me think of my first boyfriend, Jacob Black, and how I had been the trophy on his arm until he'd replaced me with Cindy. Sometimes I thought our relationship had all been for show, that it hadn't meant anything.

As if God himself was punishing me today, Hal took one look at me from the doorway and walked past the waitress who was trying to show him to a table. "Why hi there"—he looked at the nametag on my chest for several seconds longer than necessary—"Isabella. I own this restaurant, you know. Care to seat me, sweetheart?"

Oh, a chauvinist. Great. But I smiled, because he was loaded, and he would probably tip me like he was. "Sure thing, sir," I said in a sugar-sweet tone. "Glad to have you here in Washington." I wasn't.

I didn't make the rookie mistake and seat him at a booth. He'd never fit comfortably. Instead, I led him to a secluded table with a nice view…of our surrounding concrete. Well, it was a window, at least. Hal could soak up the sun that was quickly fading, probably much to Lawn Care Center Steve's dismay.

As Hal plopped down on to the dark wood chair beside the table, I listened to it squeak and creak in protest. Please don't break while I'm here… Please, please. That would just be too embarrassing for both of us—though probably more for me than him, if truth be told. He looked like he'd broken a couple of chairs in his life.

"Well, Isabella, I already know what I want, so you don't even gotta bring me a menu." Unabashedly, he looked at my apron-covered chest and said, "I want a rack. Full, of course. I'm a big boy, as you can tell."

Blech.

I smiled my best million-dollar smile. "Perfect! Veggies, fries or baked potato?"

"Fries, of course."

Of course.

"And to drink?"

"Sweet tea."

I didn't even try to tell him that he was too far north, too far west for the tea to be anything but unsweetened by default, because I knew what we'd be doing in the back minutes from now: making this man some "proper" fucking sweet tea. Judy would have no less for Hal.

I thanked him, fake-smiled again and made to move away before he grabbed me by my waist and pulled me back. If I'd not been so shocked by his brazenness, I might have said something, but as it was, all I could do was stare at him with my mouth agape.

"Bring me coffee, too, sweetheart," he said with a full-cheeked smile. "I'm jetlagged as all get out." Then he tucked a twenty in my back pocket, while I just nodded and wanted to crawl out of my skin.

For about ten seconds, I seriously considered spitting in his food. Really spitting, like an old Quileute Indian friend of mine had taught me to do—hock it up from my toes. But I wanted that tip, and I needed this job, so with a sigh I ignored the harassment, put in Hal's order and grabbed one of the coffeepots.

Judy intercepted me before leaving the kitchen. "Swan, take this one," she said, handing me a different coffeepot. "It's fresh and just for Hal."

Oh, good. The grabby-hands bastard got his own pot of coffee.

As I walked away from Judy, I felt tears building in my eyes. I sometimes cried when I was angry, and I was furious now. Furious at what my life had become, at how I had to live, and how I had to put up with annoying pricks like Hal Watson and Judy Sanders, all because of money—or lack thereof, really. It just wasn't fair.

I laughed at myself. Life wasn't fair.

Life did have a sense of irony, however.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. A few feet from Hal's table, I brought my free hand up to my eyes, to rub away my angry tears with a wrist, but doing so seemed to make me lose balance. I tripped on pure air—something I'd not done in awhile and definitely, most definitely, did not need to do today, much less here and now.

The coffeepot jerked upward in my hand as I tried to steady myself, and black, near-boiling liquid lifted out of its triangular mouth, spurting like oil from the ground. Gravity did the rest. It plunged downward, straight for Hal's lap. I didn't even have time to warn him before it was landing right on his crotch, and I was landing on my knees just before his table.

Hal screamed like a five-year-old girl and cupped his balls.

Still on the restaurant floor, I bent my head, unable to look at Hal or the people around us who were undoubtedly staring at the embarrassing display. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Watson," I said quietly.

Hal was still hissing between gritted teeth, but he managed to croak out one simple phrase: "You're fired."

I nodded, because no amount of begging would get me out of this one, and carefully rose from the floor. I stared down at my muddy sneakers, unable to look him in the eye. "I really am sorry," I repeated before trudging away with the now slightly lighter coffeepot in hand. I wasn't really sorry about boiling his nuts, to be honest, but I was upset that I'd blown this job.

I grimaced when I saw Judy in the kitchen. She'd missed the fiasco, but I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before she knew everything. Maybe I could just sneak away without her noticing… I'd even be willing to forego getting my credit card tips to avoid a confrontation. I probably hadn't made much, anyway.

Damned if I wasn't keeping Hal's twenty, though.

As inconspicuously as possible, I stuffed my jeans pockets with the cash tips I'd received and removed my burnished-orange apron to put it back on its hook. I was just about to make it out of the kitchen when Judy spotted me.

"Swan? What're you doing?" she asked, her accent thick. She narrowed her eyes at my now hung up apron.

I bit my lip and felt myself blushing under her scrutiny. "Um…I-may-have-spilled-coffee-on-Hal," I said in a rush.

Judy paled. "You what?" Her eyes were bugged out as she asked, "I'm assuming he fired you?"

I nodded.

"Good. Get out," she said icily.

Fuck my life.

I sighed. I'd never even tried to make friends at work, so there wasn't anyone for me to say goodbye to. I left immediately, using the exit that was farthest from Hal and the waitress who'd come to his rescue after I'd wreaked havoc on his pants. As I wove through tables to the exit, I could hear her apologizing to him and explaining that I was always "like that." She was telling the truth. I'd probably broken more plates and dropped more food in this restaurant than all the others combined. I was a terrible waitress.

Outside, it was cloudy and cold now—bitterly so—and I folded my arms close to myself, rubbing my hands up and down either side of my jacket as I sat in my car, waiting for the heating to kick in. The clouds hung low and dark in the sky; it would rain soon, as it so often did in this part of the world. It would fit my mood.

"Well, shit," I said with a hollow laugh that had that hysterical edge to which I was becoming so well acquainted.

I still had my job at the little bookstore that was in the more touristy area of Port Angeles, but it was a part-time job and only paid just above minimum wage. There was no way I was going to make rent, pay for gas and help my father Charlie with his bills if I couldn't replace my income from Hal's—fast.

The car was warm now, so I reclined my seat and rested for a moment. I brought the collar of Charlie's old barn jacket to my nose. I'd had it for a while now, but I could still make out the scents of trees, his old (now deceased) friend Harry Clearwater's fish fry and what could only be described as Charlie if I tried hard enough. I'd never washed the jacket, and I didn't plan to; it often grounded me when I was upset.

Shutting my eyes tightly, I tried to let the smell comfort me, but it was no use this time. Still, I just kept thinking that if I perhaps closed my eyes tightly enough, I could drift away, or at least lessen the weight of the world I felt I was carrying on my shoulders. I knew I had one big option that could save me money—move back to Forks and live with Charlie—but I just didn't think I could take the emotional toll that would come with living with him right now. He also didn't know that I hadn't returned to college this semester or that I was helping pay his bills. He'd be furious if he found that out. So I guessed moving back with him wouldn't work, anyway.

I had many secrets I was keeping these days. I'd erected so many walls to protect myself and Charlie from the world that circumstance had given us, even though I knew that was never what he himself would want. Am I bad daughter because of all this? I didn't know, but I was doing the best I could. I hoped.

All I knew was I needed a private place I could cry at night, a place where I could let the hard shell melt away. My attic bedroom in the house I shared with my two best friends afforded me that, even if it came to the tune of $270.00 a month. A space to call my own was the one thing I gave myself and tried not to feel too guilty about.

As much as I wanted to go back home and just crawl into bed, I drove to a nearby supermarket and spent ten dollars on ice cream, cookies and a newspaper. I didn't give care what was going on in Port Angeles, but the classifieds were now immensely relevant to my life. Fucking Hal. Fucking Judy. Fucking clumsiness. I began eating my store brand cookies as I made my way back home, already wishing I'd spent Hal's dirty money on hard liquor. After all, I was twenty-one today. It was legal, for once.

I groaned when my home came into view.

The three balloons tied to our mailbox were the first sign that my bad day was about to become worse. I parked in the driveway, turned off the ignition and let my forehead fall against the steering wheel. "Please, no birthday surprises," I said. "Please, please, please." The last thing I needed today was a surprise, particularly one where people would expect me to be cheerful.

Ice cream, cookies and Peninsula Daily News in hand, I entered my home as quietly as possible. Maybe I could sneak past the birthday well wishes.

But then the strangled-goose sound of a party blower came from the living room. "Happy twenty-first birthday!" Lauren and Angela chorused loudly as they skipped into the small foyer from the living room.

I forced a smile. "Hi, guys."

Lauren rolled her eyes and walked over to throw an arm around my shoulders. "Come on. Try to act a little more cheerful. And hey, you're home early! We can get the party started!"

Oh, no. Party?

Angela stood off to the side, eyeing the items I'd brought in with me. Her light brown eyes met mine as she frowned. "Why are you home so early?" she asked. She was perceptive, and I suspected she already had a good guess.

I sighed and shrugged away from Lauren's embrace. "I got canned," I said flatly, while walking to our claustrophobic little kitchen to grab a spoon for my ice cream.

"Judy fired you?" Lauren asked in surprise as they trailed behind me.

"Well, I did pour lava-hot coffee on a guy's nuts."

Lauren barked a laugh. "He probably deserved it."

In spite of myself, I smirked a little. "I know you're a man-hater and all, but he was my manager's boss. It was Hal." At their wide eyes, I nodded. "Yes, the Hal and all that," I said with a tired laugh. "So, technically, the owner of the entire business fired me. He did deserve it, by the way, but still…"

"Awkward," Angela said with a wince.

I nodded and shoved a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into my mouth. It gave me a painful brain freeze on the way down, but I was too hungry and annoyed to care. I didn't even bother trying to being nice and offer Lauren and Angela any. This was my dinner, as far as I was concerned. "Yeah," I said after swallowing, "so you can see why I'm not all hip-hip-hooray."

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Angela. "Well, considering her day, I think we got the birthday girl the perfect present, don't you?"

"I don't want any presents," I grumbled. I just wanted this day to be fucking over. Scratch that. I wanted the nightmare that had been my life for the last four months to be over. Can I wake up yet?

Angela reached out and touched my arm gently in the same way that her mother always did when she saw me. It was some patented Preacher's Wife, slash Preacher's Kid thing, I was sure. Cue touch and look of pity. "You've had so much going on," she said, "and we wanted you to be able to get away a bit." She smiled slightly. "We know you don't like parties and stuff, so we pooled our resources, and… We're going to spend the night in Seattle!" She let out a girly squeal that seemed incongruous with her pole-skinny, six-foot-tall figure. "We found a really cool bed and breakfast online."

"Angela's leaving out the best parts," Lauren said with a playful sigh. "We got booze. Lots of it. And B-grade movies."

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Dead serious," she said. "You can drink your weight in Bloody Marys tonight. I'll even hold back your hair later."

I sighed then. "You guys don't need to spend money on me." We were all college students, after all. Or, well, they were. I was…well, I wasn't working two jobs anymore, that was for sure.

Angela smiled knowingly at me. "It's already a done deal, so you have to accept this. And, no, before you ask, there's no way we're letting you pay us back for anything tonight. It's all on us." Lauren nodded in agreement as Angela continued, "If we leave in a little while, we'll get there just before seven. We can grab a pizza and start the night."

I looked between my two friends and shook my head as I felt a smile creep up on me. "Thanks," I said. "I—well, I really could use the break."

"We knew you'd see things our way." Lauren grinned. "And don't even think of doing anything until we leave. Relax. We already washed all your clothes—"

"At least the ones we found," Angela said.

"—and we've packed an overnight bag for you," Lauren finished.

My voice came out as a whisper. "You washed everything for me?"

Angela nodded as Lauren joked, "It was as much for our sakes as it was for yours."

"Thank you," I said, feeling almost teary-eyed. I'd taken care of people my whole life, and now in my second decade of living, it was starting to weigh on me heavily. Having friends do something special and tangible for me felt wonderful, but it also made me feel a little guilty, especially when they already had to tolerate my craziness of late. Why couldn't things be more stable?

Afraid that I might inhale the whole carton of ice cream—container and all—I tucked it away in the freezer. I smiled at Angela and Lauren. "Really, guys, thanks. Um…I guess I don't need to pack," I said with a laugh, "but I should call Charlie. I need to make sure he's okay and tell him where I'll be."

Their smiles faltered for just the briefest of moments. I probably wouldn't have even noticed the changes in their expressions if I hadn't been witnessing that same sort of slip for months now. It was an awkward look of pity.

I went up to my attic bedroom, tossing the Peninsula Daily News down on my work desk before falling face-first onto my bed. Birthday celebration in Seattle or not, I'd need to pick through the classifieds soon—tonight or tomorrow—preferably tonight.

With a sigh, I picked up the cordless phone that was in my room and dialed Charlie's number. He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice rough and ragged as he said, "Charlie Swan speaking."

"Hey, Dad."

"Bells!" he exclaimed, and even though he coughed a little afterward, I couldn't help but smile. "Happy birthday, kiddo!" he added.

"No birthday talk, please," I said with a laugh. "I'm getting old now, you know."

"Pshaw! Twenty-one's the golden age," Charlie replied somewhat wistfully. "I'd give a lot to be twenty-one again, Bells."

Frowning, I tried to redirect the conversation. "How are you, by the way?"

"Doing fine"—I knew he wasn't, but didn't correct him—"Esme just brought over some fancy-looking casserole. Brought dessert, too!" He directed his voice away from the phone slightly as he said in a louder voice, "She spoils me, you know—think she's trying to fatten me up or something." Musical, female laughter sounded in the background, and I smiled.

Esme Cullen, the wife of Forks' town doctor, Carlisle Cullen, and her daughter Alice, who was actually my age, were my own personal angels. It seemed that the second Charlie was diagnosed, they were there all the times I couldn't be. Esme kept a near endless supply of healthy but tasty food coming Charlie's way, and Alice often entertained him and was there when he began losing his hair, beanie cap in hand. Dr. Cullen made house calls at times, and he was actually the one who'd found Charlie passed out on his desk at the police department in June. He diagnosed Charlie's small-cell lung cancer soon after. The Cullens had been there for us from the start, and I couldn't be more grateful to them.

"What have you got planned for the big day, kid?" Charlie asked through a mouthful of food.

I smiled, feeling even more thankful for my friends and this little break. "Well, Lauren and Angela surprised me, and we're going to spend the night in Seattle at a bed and breakfast—a girls' night out sort of thing."

Charlie hummed through his food before asking, "You got that new can of pepper spray I put in your bag last you were here?"

Yeah, I'd found it, and it was in the top of my closet, with about a half dozen more. I always wondered how often Charlie thought I would be in need of such a thing.

"Dad…"

"Well?"

I rolled my eyes and looked up at the slanted ceiling of my bedroom. "Yeah. I've got it."

"Good. You kids be careful in Seattle at night. It's a big city, and you never know who you might meet." Being the retired police chief for Forks, he didn't mean that in a positive way. To Charlie, you needed to be prepared for the Boogey Man at every corner. It was okay advice, if you wanted to be paranoid for the rest of your life.

"I'm sure we'll be fine," I said as reassuringly as I could.

"Humph," he grunted. "Call me when you get in tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'll probably come over, like usual."

He coughed loudly away from the phone. "Okay, then. Well…"

As close as we'd gotten in my senior year of high school, we still couldn't always keep a conversation going for more than a few minutes. We were just quiet people—too in our heads to be talking beyond them.

"Yeah… I gotta go, Dad. I'll see you soon." I swallowed hard to remove the lump that always came to my throat at the end of our conversations and said quietly, "I love you."

Charlie's gruff voice was soft as he replied. "Love you, too, kid."

A few hours later, Lauren, Angela and I were locking up the house, bags in hand. Though we were just staying one night in Seattle, it looked like we were staying longer, between two backpacks, a duffel bag, a laptop carrier and three plastic shopping bags of various types of alcohol. Lauren hadn't been kidding; they'd bought a lot of liquor.

Sounds good to me.

"There are three bottles of vodka here!" I exclaimed, while loading my bag into the trunk of my old Honda Civic.

Lauren put her backpack beside my duffel bag and rolled her eyes as she cushioned the glass bottles between our clothes-filled bags. She pointed a finger toward the front of my car, where Angela—having insisted that she drive—was already seated behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors like the attentive driver she was. "The PK was in charge of the booze when I had to go to a spur of the moment group meeting this afternoon." She shook her head, her fine, blonde hair flying on the wind. "Trust me. Never again. On the upside, you and I are set for when she's getting drunk on Jesus." Smirking, she nudged my side with her elbow playfully. "I'll be able to take the edge off on Sunday mornings when her fucking alarm goes off for church."

It was difficult, but I managed to suppress my laughter as I went around the car and slid into the backseat. Though we all cared for each other, Lauren and Angela sometimes butted heads, both philosophically and just from general personality differences. Playing Switzerland in it all, I often got to hear the unfiltered trash talk they sometimes had for each other. Whenever Angela's religious upbringing came up, which had largely encouraged a sort of naïve innocence, Lauren (who was about as far from innocent as one could be) would start calling her PK—short for Preacher's Kid. It was good-natured ribbing, so long as Lauren didn't make Jesus jokes or start on the theory of evolution and Angela didn't try to convince Lauren that abortion should be illegal.

The drive to Seattle was relaxing and accompanied by an alternative rock station whose music selections blended into the background of our intermittent conversations. For a while, we talked about Lauren and Angela's classes, but I eventually withdrew myself, feeling more than a little sad that I couldn't participate in them, as I'd thought I would be doing. I didn't mind listening to their stories—I enjoyed their happiness—but I didn't like trying to act like everything was all right by contributing to the discussions. It was just too uncomfortable.

I sighed a little and closed my eyes. At least they weren't talking about Hal or Judy or the fact that I might be late on my rent this month. Shit. I still couldn't believe that I'd been fired today. Thoughts of black coffee, Judy and Hal swirled in my head as the car rose and dipped over highway-covered hills…

I stood in the middle of an expansive clearing that was fenced by ancient pines and hemlocks. The sky was darkly oppressive, veined by silver-white slivers of lightning and accompanied by rolling drums of thunder. I felt small in the clearing, beneath the bowl-shaped sky that seemed to be closing in, as if I was but a mote of dust on the face of the planet; the heavy storm gales would sweep me away. The rain came, and I remained in the clearing, too afraid to take shelter in the shadowed woods. Hairs rose on my arms and the back of my neck.

Lightning clawed through the sky and struck down trees until one so rapidly caught fire that the rain seemed unable to extinguish it. The trees around the clearing grabbed hold of the flames and spread them, as if they were dry California brush, until all that remained was a solid ring of fire where they had once been. The fire closed in around me; the clouds hovered lower, roiling dark and grey with the storm. The water flooded up to my ankles, my knees, my waist, and up and up and up. I had nowhere to run, and my feet were stuck deep in a slowly sinking, sucking mud.

"Help me!" I cried out, hoping someone was near.

My mother's face appeared to me in the low-hanging clouds. Her heart-shaped face that I knew so well from my own reflection was set passively. She watched me flounder and flail my arms in the rushing waters that would surely drown me.

"Please, Momma," I whispered, calling her by the name I'd used only as a very little girl.

Her eyes turned away from me before her face disappeared completely.

"Wait! Come back!" I spluttered. The cold water was at my chin, which bobbed up and down with the incessant chattering of my teeth. Water flowed past my lips. I spat it out and struggled harder, to no avail.

The water flowed up under my nose, and I took in a deep, life-preserving breath. I knew it was my last.

"Bella?" Shake. Shake. "Bella? Wake up. We're here."

My eyes snapped open, and my hand shot out to grip Angela's where it lay on my kneecap as she shook my leg.

"You okay?" she whispered. "You've been talking a little—random stuff." She smiled, but I could tell that my sleep-talking had unnerved her.

I swallowed hard. How was it that my throat felt so dry when it seemed that only moments ago I was buried in an ocean? "Yeah, I'm okay," I answered, my voice hoarse.

She nodded, still looking uncertain. "Okay." She looked out the front windshield toward a two-story house that I assumed was the bed and breakfast. "Lauren's just taking in some of our bags and meeting the owner. You ready for your birthday night?"

"Sure, sure," I said with a fake smile. My arms and legs felt cold, and the brilliant red and yellow flames were still there when I closed my eyes.

That was the first time I dreamed of dying.

Author's Notes (June 22, 2010): Special thanks to Project Team Beta, specifically gotellalice and souplover9. Thanks should also go to nowforruin and tiffanyanne3, who set me straight on waitressing, because I was completely clueless about how certain things worked.

Author's Notes (January 24, 2011): Cleaning house / editing.