Chapter Two: Shadow of a Doubt
I trudged into Biology II after lunch that day; my teacher, Mr. Banner, signed the slip that Ms. Cope had given me, and, of course, gave me a seat beside the infamous Edward Cullen. It took all I could not to roll my eyes at the cliché, although I did readily admit to myself that I found his actions offensive when he covered his mouth in disgust. Perching upon my chair beside him, I found myself inhaling the scent of the strawberry shampoo that my dad had bought for me; I mean, he could've had an allergy to strawberries, sure, or maybe he had a bad memory of some kind associated with them. God knows I had a bad memory smell—James's breath mints; his heavy panting above me had wafted their scent into my mouth, so whenever I smelt or even thought about breath mints—spear mint, to be exact—it made my skin crawl.
I managed to get through the next hour of class and kept my mouth shut; if a guy that knew next to nothing about me—other than my name and, likely, my father's job—and he chose to give me death-glares while in class, that was his problem. I left the class after Edward; he had literally flown from his seat as soon as the bell rang, and accepted Mike Newton's invitation to walk me to my next class, just to be nice. We ended up in English together, where the assigned reading was Wuthering Heights; I had to admit, I had to try very hard not to smirk when I showed the instructor my own copy, lodged in my bag, the cover bent and a good sixty-percent of the pages in dog-eared condition. I made a mental note then to somehow find a book store; I needed one in better condition, given the look my English teacher had given me.
Once English class had ended, I declined Mike's offer to help me find the front office and made my way there directly. Pulling on my black raincoat, I stepped inside, the heat of the room immediately making me flush from the coldness the hallway had borne. I felt my eyebrows raise automatically then, when I saw Edward in a hushed conversation with Ms. Cope. The nerve of that guy—he hadn't even said two words to me, less than that, even—and he was attempting to transfer out of biology!
"There must be something," I heard him whisper, desperation edging his tone. "Maybe in chemistry or physics—"
Idiot, I thought to myself, everyone knows you have to be a senior before you take physics, unless you have written permission. Although, I reasoned with myself, given his father's profession as resident surgeon, he was likely to get it, somehow. Rolling my eyes, I pushed my way forward, not even waiting for him to see me standing there. I handed over my slip for Ms. Cope to sign, and Edward visibly stiffened beside me; I was very surprised when he did not cover his face again. I gave him a look at Ms. Cope awkwardly signed my very important piece of documentation, narrowing my eyes ever so slightly, letting him know that I had heard his talk with her, and I wasn't too pleased by it.
"Well," Edward said stiffly as Ms. Cope filed away my slip of paper, "I guess I'll just have to suffer through it."
"Suffer?!" I demanded then, and his eyes flashed to mine.
"Yes," he replied. "Suffer."
"You don't even know me, and you talk about suffering," I said, shaking my head. "I hardly think you know the meaning of the word."
"You obviously don't either," he snapped back.
I roll my eyes. "You don't even know me," I shot back, "so don't presume to know what I do and don't know about suffering," I say in a hiss, adjusting my backpack on my shoulders and walking out of the office, to ensure that I get the last word.
It is raining as I step outside then, and I pull up the hood of my coat, careful not to slip on the sidewalk as I walk over to the parking lot. Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I go to unlock the door of my truck and get inside, tossing my backpack onto the passenger seat and slamming the door behind me, locking it for good measure. Looking through the windshield and through the bits of rainwater, I can see Edward Cullen from across the parking lot; he is looking at me, his eyes bearing into me, and I can sense something other than anger behind them. Rolling my eyes, I watch as his brothers and sisters arrive, taking their time as they glide along through the rainfall; Alice Cullen is even dancing, and Jasper looks amused at her antics.
I stick my keys into the ignition and pull out of my parking space; I will not allow anyone to pin me somewhere where I couldn't get out—I'd learned that the hard way. I found myself smiling as the cloud cover darkened, and was pleased that Edward wouldn't be able to stare at me as easily as before. I pulled out of the parking lot within the line of cars, and made my way down the main road in search of the grocery store in the rain. Peeking into my rearview mirror, I saw a silver Volvo just behind me, and I gritted my teeth, tightening my grip upon the steering wheel. I didn't think the surgeon's son would run the police chief's daughter off the road, but I knew I'd have to wait and see to find out.
Thankfully, as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the silver Volvo pulled on its way, a red BMW convertible with its top up following suit. That had to be the queen bee's car, I thought to myself as I found a parking space. Checking to see that the wad of cash was still in my pocket, I pulled my hood up and got out of the truck, locking the doors behind me. Walking through the rain and towards the main entrance, I was able to find a shopping cart not dripping with an abundance of raindrops and pulled it after me as I headed inside. As I made my way through the store, familiarizing myself with the layout, for I knew I would be the one doing the shopping, I could hear the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the building. It filled me with a sense of comfort, doing something as routine as shopping for dinner for the next week, and found I could grow used to living in Forks.
I gathered some chicken, steak, and pork chops for the next week, as well as boxes of pasta and cous-cous, and a few potatoes. I also stopped by the produce section, selecting broccoli, carrots, and corns, as well as a couple of bags of salads. I made sure to get some fruit as well, a good assortment, and also picked out some cheese. I also stopped by the baking aisle, getting some flour and sugar in case I wanted to do some basic baking around the house, and also selected some cereal and eggs. Passing by the dairy case, I also bought milk before making my way to the check-out lanes, thankful to have the trip over. I handed over some of the cash to pay for the purchases, barely making the dent in the budget my father had given me for the next month. I headed back out with the cart, heavied down with the three purchases, and pulled them into the truck with me, moving my backpack to the well in front of the passenger seat and placing the bags next to one another beside me.
The drive home was uneventful; even though the roads were slippery, I was pleased that I didn't hit any mailboxes along the way. I wondered then how far I'd have to go, out from within the law, for my father to fix things for me. Naturally, if a situation presented itself that was so every day and commonplace that it could be construed as an accident, I assumed that Dad would be able to presumably fix it. However, if it was so far from ordinary, like, say a hit and run against Edward Cullen, I assumed I'd at least get community service out of the deal. As I drove through the rain, I considered Edward's skin—like alabaster—and I couldn't even fathom something, or someone, breaking it.
Pushing Edward Cullen from my mind, I drove up to my father's picturesque white house on the quiet street, knowing that he wouldn't be home until after six. It was after three now, so I had just enough time to at least put a dent in my homework assignments, put away the groceries, and make an attempt to figure out what was for dinner. I pulled my backpack on and slid from my truck, going around to the passenger side and picking up the semi-heavy bags of groceries. I slammed the passenger door shut and locked the door, going around to the front of the house and fishing my key out from my raincoat pocket and letting myself inside. Shutting the door behind me, I locked up automatically and walked past the stairs and through the living room, making my way into the kitchen.
I hung my backpack over one of the chairs, before placing the various grocery bags onto the counter and going through them, putting away the perishables and going through my father's cupboards to see if he had any form of system. Thankfully, he was living in the past in the kitchen as well as the living room—given that his wedding photo to my mother was proudly on display near the T.V.—and the pantry system was the same as what my mother and I had put together in Phoenix. Shaking my head, knowing that my father would move on when he was good and ready, and pleased that he had not allowed his love for my mother to derail his life completely, I placed the pantry things into their allotted spaces and cleaned the kitchen a bit. It was a real mans' space, as there was no dishwasher, so I made quick work by scrubbing the dinner dishes from the night before, plus my morning cereal bowl, and my father's mug that he'd used for coffee.
Once the kitchen was tidy enough, I quickly washed my hands and replaced the dish towel, hanging from the oven, and brought it to the laundry room, where I threw it into the machine, and made a mental note to do a load later. I returned to the kitchen temporarily and made a grab for my backpack, trudging upstairs and heading into my bedroom. I walked over to my desk and plunked into the chair, having just enough space around the oversized desktop computer to have some homework room. Looking though my assignments—a double-sided math assignment from trig; an outline for our upcoming essay on Wuthering Heights for English; a brief history of our era of choice for European History, which we would then turn into an essay; and a lab outline for Biology II, I decided to focus on trig for a while. My other assignment, for Spanish, was an easy word conjugation piece, which I could do in under twenty minutes and likely could even do at lunch tomorrow, provided that Jessica Stanley didn't talk my ear off again. I shook my head then, a Be nice, Bella, flaring brightly in my mind temporarily, and I found myself smirking at my trig assignment.
I'd finished my trig paper and my lab outline for Biology II by four-thirty, and in that time, I decided to make a macaroni and cheese casserole with chicken and some simple steamed vegetables for dinner. I went back downstairs and into the kitchen, setting up a pot of water to boil the pasta in, and took out the chicken, dicing it up with some onion and garlic before putting it into a pan with some oil. Once the chicken was browned accordingly, I set it aside to focus on the macaroni, and, once that was done, greased a casserole dish and put it all inside, mixing it up with a generous amount of cheese sauce I'd made. I also topped it, to create a cheese crust, and selected some spinach, which I decided I would steam in a pan after the casserole came out of the oven.
As I inhaled the scene my dinner was making, I headed back upstairs to bring down the progress of my essay outline, intending to work on it while I waited for dinner, and for my father, to return home that evening. I also brought down the instructions for my history essay outline, in case I got to it, as I didn't want to solely rely on T.V. for entertainment while my father was out of the house. I'd finished my outline close to six, and checked on the casserole, taking off the tin foil I'd put on top so as the top would turn golden-brown. I'd finished my essay outline for Wuthering Heights and stretched my legs by walking the length of the house, and noticed a red light upon the answering machine. I pressed the button, hoping that I wasn't being intrusive, and was pleased to hear my mother's voice.
"Surprised Phil in Jacksonville today—it's absolutely beautiful out here, Bella," she gushed on the other end of the phone. "I'm sure you're probably in school right now—the time difference over here is insane! Listen, honey, I didn't think you'd be avidly researching what's been going on down here, but I thought you should know that James is looking at a one to three year sentence for what he did to you. I know it doesn't seem like a lot, but you'll be applying to colleges by then and you could be halfway around the world. And you have that restraining order in place, that applies to Phoenix, Forks, and Jacksonville—Charlie called in some favors," she explains, almost as if that makes everything better. "I know it's going to be a big adjustment—the move, and being single—but I know you'll be all right. You're like your father in more ways than you think, and living with him will be good for you—you'll see. Oh, okay, Phil!" she says, after I've heard my stepfather's familiar voice telling her something. "We're going to start really looking at houses out here today, sweetheart. Call me by the end of the week—I want to know how you're settling in! I love you, honey—talk soon."
There is the customary click at the end of the call, and I'm convinced she is calling from a hotel room she managed to spring somehow. I reach out and delete the message, knowing full well that it wouldn't be helpful for my father to hear her voice very much. I check the time again, and see that it is now a few minutes past six, and that I should probably start the vegetables. I head back to the kitchen, clearing up my homework stuffs and putting it out onto the coffee table in between the couch and the T.V. Once I head back to the kitchen, I get the spinach out of the refrigerator and bring it to the stove, where I situate a pan and put some oil into it. Once the spinach is steaming away and has been for a few minutes, I hear a key turning in the lock of the front door, and know that dinner should be ready very soon.
"Bell?" I hear from the front door.
Who else would it be? I think to myself. "In here, Dad!" I call. I can hear him taking off his gun belt and such and his heavy footfalls as he trudges into the kitchen. "Dinner should be ready in a few minutes!" I call over my shoulder.
"Smells delicious," he comments, walking over to the casserole and inhaling for a moment, before crossing to the fridge and putting away a six-pack. "Hey, will I have time to shower and change before we eat?"
I nodded; he was always fairly quick about those sort of things. "Yeah, no problem," I reply. "It will be a few more minutes, anyway."
"Thanks, Bella," he says with a sigh of relief, obviously grateful, and heads out of the kitchen and up the stairs, where he heads into his bedroom to presumably take off his uniform before getting into the shower.
I cover the vegetables to steam completely, turning the heat to low so as the leaves of the spinach won't burn, and cover the casserole with foil so as it won't get cold. I then return to the table, and pull along my schoolwork with me, and make a few notes on the eras I do happen to know about, and the facts that I know about them. I know a decision won't just come to me, and that I probably should be diplomatic about all this—I mean, I was a junior, and colleges would likely be looking at me at some point in the near future. I had to impress my teachers, especially because I was new to town, and I didn't want them to think that if they failed me in class, that my father would arrest them. No, I had to work as hard as I always had—which hadn't been too hard, as I spent all my time reading about various subjects, and so I knew I had enough general knowledge about school topics to pass the classes.
I could hear the pipes turn off through the house and, thinking that I had decent enough headway to quit while I was ahead, I gathered up my homework again and returned it to the coffee table in the living room. Next, I washed my hands and set the table, retrieving napkins from a drawer and keeping the plates near me, so as I could dish up the casserole and the spinach. I could hear my father leaving the bathroom and heading into his room to change, and so I finished setting the table and poured some coke for myself and got a can of beer for him. I set the plates on the table just as I heard his door open, and he came out onto the landing and down the stairs pretty promptly after that. I smiled at him, allowing him to pull me into an awkward hug as he moved to sit across from me.
"Smells really good, Bells," he says, plunking down in the seat and opening his can of beer and drinking it down. "When did you learn to cook?"
"By twelve or thirteen," I reply. "I took over bookkeeping at ten."
"Really?" he asked, half to himself, raising his dark eyebrows for a moment before picking up his fork and putting his napkin in his lap. "Well, if it tastes as good as it looks, I don't think I'll need to depend on takeout again...for a while, at least."
I smirked then, copying his movements, spreading out my napkin into my lap. "Well, thankfully the schoolwork isn't too difficult. We're reading Wuthering Heights in English class right now, and I started reading that the summer before freshman year."
"Oh, yeah?" he asks, stabbing his fork into the spinach, and tasting it, his eyes rolling back in a moment of satisfaction. "Do you know what other books are on the assigned reading list for the rest of the year?"
"I looked," I reply, "and it looks like we have two other books to read after this one—Nineteen Eighty-Four and Anna Karenina," I tell him.
"Ah, Russian literature," my father says, tasting his serving of casserole and shaking his head at the thought of it. "It's never been a friend of mine."
"It hasn't?"
"No," he tells me. "Where you always have your nose in a book, I'm out fishing with Billy Black and Harry Clearwater. You remember Harry?"
I shrug. "Barely," I say, eating my dinner. "About as much as Billy."
"Billy's a widower, but Harry's still happily married to his wife, Sue," he explains. "They've got two kids of their own—Leah, who's about a year older than you, and a son, Seth. Seth's starting high school in the fall."
I nodded. "Sounds like a pretty tight community over there."
"Here, too," my father tells me. "Did you meet anyone at the old high school today? Any friends at all?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I met this guy Eric Yorkie on the way to class—pretty talkative. And then there was Mike Newton, Jessica Stanley, Angela Weber, and Lauren Mallory."
"The Newtons own the sports department store just outside of town—good kid, good family," he tells me in between bites. "I've never had to give his parents a speeding ticket."
I smirk over my glass of coke. "Well, he's certainly better mannered than the Cullen's," I mutter under my breath.
"You met Dr. Cullen's kids?"
I shrug. "Well, yeah—they're kind of hard to miss and all."
"You met all of them?"
I purse my lips at the memory, immediately thinking that "met" was not the best way to describe my interaction with Edward Cullen at all. "Mainly Edward Cullen," I reply. "Mr. Banner made us lab partners in Biology II. He doesn't talk much, when he's not attempting to get a schedule change," I mutter.
"A schedule change?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"
"Dad, it's fine," I reply, shrugging. "I may be slightly at fault, too. I mean, I did kind of assume that he was doing it because of me, and I may have..."
"What, Bella?"
I stared up into my father's eyes, an exact copy of my own. "I may have yelled at him for it," I answer honestly. "I mean, he was so standoffish, and thankfully we didn't have to complete a lab assignment today, or else I think I would've failed."
My father sighed, leaning back against his chair. "I need to know if people are giving you the business, Bella. I'm not chief of police of this town for nothing. The next time someone says or does something that makes you uncomfortable, you let me know. Okay?"
I nodded, dragging the tongs of my fork along a bit of the pasta upon my plate. "Loud and clear, Dad—I get it."
He sighed again, casually reaching forward and picking up his fork. "Listen, Bells, I don't want to make you uncomfortable either—and your mother made me swear not to bring it up—but this is my house, and I'm not duty-bound to her anymore."
I looked up. "Dad?"
"Your mom mention that your...erm...restraining order against that bastard applies to Forks as well as Phoenix and Jacksonville?"
I lower my eyes again, feeling myself automatically hunching my shoulders. "Yeah—she left a message on the machine, detailing the outcome of the trial..."
"The jury reached a verdict already, then?"
I shake my head. "No, but it should be soon. Mom mentioned that he's going to be looking at one to three years for what he... For what happened."
He nodded. "Of course, if it were up to me, I'd lock him up and throw away the key, but, fortunately for him, he's out of my jurisdiction."
I purse my lips. "Yeah. Luckily."
"Were you together a long time?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah—that's why I put my foot down and told you to come to California for two weeks every summer, instead of me coming up here, when I turned fourteen. Even though James and I weren't dating yet, he was sowing the seeds, so to speak. He made me depend upon him so much that I felt like I had to do whatever he asked."
My father tightened his grip upon his fork. "I'll never forgive what he did to you, Bella—I know you had to testify that he was drinking, but I just hope that you—"
I shake my head, cutting him off. "No, Dad—I don't drink. I mean, Mom had a glass of wine with dinner every now and again, and I would have an occasional sip, but not at a party. Mom always preached the safety of an environment. The house..." I shrug. "I mean, it was nice, and it was in a good neighborhood, but something told me not to trust it, so I declined every red plastic cup shoved at me."
My father nods. "Good... And you and James, before that night, you'd never...?"
I shake my head again. "No—not because I think it's wrong or anything, sex before marriage. I just never really..." I find myself wrapping my arms around myself, not really knowing why, but feeling the need to create some kind of barrier between myself and the world. "I guess I just wasn't ready to do that."
"And he's the only guy you've dated?"
I nodded. "The one and only. I kissed a couple guys before him—but mostly on dares. It beat eating dirt," I say, and I remember doing the latter under similar circumstances.
"Nothing wrong with kissing—as long as it's done with permission."
"It was."
My father nodded, slowly eating his dinner again, and the subject was closed.
. . .
That night, after finishing the cleaning of the kitchen and watching football on the tube with my father, I went upstairs and drafted several outlines on several potential eras of my history class. I ultimately narrowed it down to three—the 1910's, the Great Depression, and Medieval England, but couldn't decide. I wouldn't have to decide until the following Monday, however, so I quickly sped through my Spanish homework before heading to the shower.
The shower calmed me before I headed to bed, calling goodnight to my father, who was still downstairs and watching T.V.—I guess his team was winning. I set my alarm for seven the following morning and got into bed, turning off the lamp upon my bedside table and lying down upon my back. Shutting my eyes and pulling my grandmother's quilt around me, I attempt to sleep in what is my second night in my hometown...
I walked along a darkened wood; there appeared to be smoke wafting in between the thick, gnarled tree trunks, and I found that, compounded by the unfamiliar terrain, I became fearful that I was being watched. As I walked through the smoke, I heard the faint sound of crackling around me, but the more I searched, the smoke seemed to thicken around me.
It was then that I heard footsteps behind me, and when I turned around, there was a flash of something, and then there was a strong body behind me. Before I could scream, a hand came around my waist then, before a second hand covered my mouth. As I was pulled away from that place, I could feel the familiarity of the hands, and it made me sick to recollect the thoughts that now swam around in my mind.
"No," I managed to get out as I was dragged away. "James, don't! James, please! James, please, please, don't!" I yelled, just as I had done that night.
And then there was a flash of alabaster, and the weight of James's body pressed against mine was suddenly lifted. As I turned around, I saw that James was gone, and I sighed a sigh of relief, and yet, I still peered curiously through the direction James had presumably gone. Blinking, I tried to see through the smoke, but could see nothing.
"Who are you?" I called out.
Then, through the smoke, an alabaster hand crept through, almost hesitantly. I felt just as hesitant in my actions then, but, nevertheless, knew I had to walk towards it. I stepped forward, only to be greeted by the jarring sound...
My eyes flashed open then, and I realized that my alarm clock was waking me up to ensure that I wouldn't be late to school. I gathered my things methodically, grabbing my jacket to ensure that I wouldn't get rained on, and headed outside. I was careful not to slip on the landing of the small set of stairs outside, and loaded my backpack into my truck and went off down the street. My dad must've had an early day, because I noticed the police cruiser was gone.
The Cullen's were short a member of their crew that day, and it was of slight surprise to me that Edward Cullen was missing from their quintet. I deliberately threw myself into conversation with Angela during lunch—ignoring Jessica's annoying comments and Lauren's dirty looks—and did the same with my schoolwork that day. Nothing would make me dwell upon my past, or the bad dream I'd had the night before—nothing.
When I got home from school, I started preparations for stuffed pork chops for dinner, having picked up some herbed breadcrumbs from the grocery store after school had gotten out. I also decided to make baked potatoes that evening, and hoped that my father would enjoy the meal, knowing that I could have a future in cooking, at least in some respect. I did my homework while dinner was preparing and cooking, and my father got home at six o'clock that evening, and again commented on how good dinner smelled.
The days successfully began to blur together; the only highlight was on Saturday afternoon when I spoke to my mother. She told me that she and Phil had found a house and were thinking of putting in an offer on it, and I couldn't help but be happy for her. My mother deserved to be happy, but, then again, so did I. I didn't know what happiness meant to me anymore, but I sure wanted to find out.
The rest of the weekend passed smoothly, with my father and I having salmon for Sunday dinner, freshly caught that same afternoon. I threw myself into my assignments, freeing myself up for the next week, even though I knew I wouldn't have much to do with myself other than catch up on some personal reading. I went to bed early on Sunday night, tired from doing so many homework assignments, and had the same dream I'd had a week before...
"Earth to Bella!" Jessica said, taking me out of my humdrum thoughts of my weekend and my overdoing of homework assignments. "Aren't you listening?"
"What?" I asked, taking a bite of my applesauce to distract myself from the exasperation behind her tone. "What is it, Jess?"
"Edward Cullen is staring at you."
"He—what?!" I demanded, not even noticing that he was back. Turning, I saw him blatantly staring at me from his table across the way, and how his brother's and sister's, although not trying to be obvious about it, were all giving him looks of annoyance. "So?" I said, turning my back on him and returning to my lunch.
"So?!" Jessica cried. "He's a god!"
I shrug. "I know—he certainly behaves like one," I mutter, knowing he won't be able to hear me, but it feels good to say all the same.
"What do you mean?" Jessica asks, and I see her peeking at him again.
"Gods were considered tyrannical creatures, Jess," Angela put in quietly. "Remember? We did a Greek mythology unit just before Christmas."
"Who can remember back that far when there are far more important things to consider in ones lives?" Lauren asked, tossing her hair.
"Maybe," Angela said.
"You're right, Lauren," Jessica cut across her. "Completely right."
I turned and looked up at Angela, smiling, letting her know that I knew what she was talking about and appreciated her support. I returned to my lunch, fading in and out for the rest of the day, yet managing to appear somewhat polite when Edward Cullen engaged me in conversation in Biology II after lunch. Although he did introduce himself—and the pretty boy did apologize for being "unable to do so last week"—I still wasn't about to forgive his behavior and fall into his arms.
No, I don't myself. No more falling for the charms of the opposite sex, Swan. You've learned your lesson—move on.
When I got back home after school, I prepared meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, wanting to do something somewhat labor intensive to keep my mind off of Edward Cullen's seemingly polite behavior. I knew Dad had gone into see Dr. Cullen for his annual physical the previous week, and maybe he'd mentioned Edward's behavior towards me. That had to be it, didn't it? Dr. Cullen had obviously told Edward that his behavior was unacceptable, and that he had to learn to be polite to me in public. Not that it objectively mattered...
The dream came back again that night—maybe it was Edward Cullen's interrogation session on me the former afternoon in Biology II. All I know is, I saw an outline of a face in the smoke gathered around me, and the thought of who it was made me uneasy. When I was just about to take the hand of whoever my savior had been, the sound of my alarm filled my ears, and I let out a groan of frustration when I saw it had snowed the night before.
I was shocked to see that my father had put chains around my tires, and made an effort to remember to thank him for it later. As I drove to school, I decided to make something with chicken that night, but couldn't fathom what. I got out of my truck, spotting Edward Cullen standing four cars away, and puled my hat down around my ears and my scarf closer to my throat. I zipped up my coat, and made an effort not to slip on the black ice on the parking lot surface. Just as I was gathering my things together, zipping my backpack closed, I heard a screech behind me—a screech of unprotected tires on a surface of covered black ice, and as I turned, my stomach dropped.
I felt myself inhale then in a moment of shock, turning to look at Edward Cullen, not fully understanding why I wanted my last thoughts to be of him, after all the hell he had put me through, in the psychological sense. I turned and looked at the van again, which was coming at top speed towards me, with no intention of stopping, or ability to do so. I recognized Tyler behind the wheel—another friend of Mike's and Eric's—and didn't know what I expected impending death to feel like, but certainly not like this. Then, suddenly, Edward was standing beside me, just as the van came inches from flattening me completely, and reached out, shoving it away from me almost effortlessly. Then, I must have fallen to my knees, for the impact of me lying on black ice was not as severe as I initially believed it would be.
"Bella? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Be careful," he said, pinning me to the ground. "You hit your head—"
"Don't touch me!" I cried out, my eyes flying open in fear, and Edward immediately let me go and moved away from my personal space bubble, not wanting any false accusations that day. "I, I mean...sorry," I said, and slowly managed to pick my head up from the coldness of the ground and shivering slightly. "I mean...you did save me..."
He smiled a little. "You're right. I did."
"But—you were four cars away," I said, and he looked fearful that I made such a sudden declaration against him. "You were too far to even—"
"Bella," he said, his voice hard, "I was next to you the entire time."
I shake my head, looking away from his piercing eyes—I could not take his god-like features swimming around in my fuzzy head anymore. "This makes no sense," I muttered.
"Bella, I was next to you the entire time—"
"You weren't," I reply, my tone biting as people are in a flurry around us, attempting to get through and to get Tyler out of the van, "but that's beside the point."
"And what point is that, Bella?" Edward asked, slightly impatient.
"The point being that you hate me," I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. "The point being that you should have let that van smash me. You saving me makes no sense, Edward Cullen—physical or emotional sense."
"Hate—wow, is that what they call it these days?" Edward said under his breath as he got to his feet, to make the extraction process so much easier, so that there wouldn't be needing the jaws of life. "I don't hate you, Bella."
I shrug. "Could've fooled me," I mutter.
He shakes his head. "Somehow, I doubt that," he replies, hopping effortlessly over to the bed of my truck, before getting over onto the other side, so as the authorities can step im and take me out of the wreckage.