"You have a message."

The voice startles me, and I press my hand to my chest for a second before turning around.

"Jeez, Dad. Warn a person before you go giving them a heart attack." The words are out before I have a chance to think, hanging in the air between with no way to take them back, and I give a quick inward wince.

Standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and doing a fairly accurate impression of a stone pillar, Charlie might not have even heard me for all the reaction he gives away. Automatically my eyes check skin tone, posture. No visible signs of stress or fatigue; nothing but watchful eyes and a general air of guarded readiness.

I set my overnight bag down next to the door I just finished closing and take a couple of steps into the room. "What do you mean, I have a message?" He motions with a nod of his head toward the phone sitting on a narrow table against the wall. "Came while I was out washing the truck." Then he turns around, hesitating for just a second or two before disappearing into the kitchen. Moments later I hear the sound of the back door opening and then closing with a soft click.

Curious, I walk over and look for the play button. Ostensibly a call for me at Charlie's house shouldn't be that unusual, considering how much time I spend here these days. Still, I can't seem to remember it ever having happened before. At least, not since I got my first cell phone during college.

The voice is scratchy, canned in that unmistakable answering-machine-distorted way, and instantly recognizable. Not surprising, since the last time I heard it was less than 2 hours ago.

"Bella. You said you were spending the weekend with your dad, so I'm hoping that you'll get this. I didn't even realize I still knew the number, but I guess it's funny the way we remember certain things. Maybe I should have waited, tried to look you up when I had it all figured out in my own head what I wanted to say. Or what I wanted to hear back. But I can't. I'm afraid that if I don't do this now, then I never will. And I can't live with any more what-ifs. I need you to know.

"When I saw you this morning—no, before that. I heard your voice, and that was all it took. I haven't felt it in so long, and there was all this other stuff going on, and I didn't know what to think. I told myself that it was just memories, or residual feelings. But it's not. Maybe I've never stopped loving you in all these years, and that's why I could never fall for anyone else. Or maybe all it took was one meeting make me fall in love with you all over again. I don't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is that it was there. It was real. And I don't know if that means anything to you, but I needed to tell you. I need to know if it was just me. I need to know if there's any chance—"

The harsh sound of the end-message tone interrupts, followed by the canned voice reciting a time several minutes after the first message. His voice this time is calmer, firmer, as he leaves a number. Nothing else.

Somehow, I'm not as surprised as I know I should be. Maybe it's because I've already suffered one too many shocks already today, and I'm just not up for any more.

I don't listen again, but I don't delete either of the messages, either. Answering machines aren't as forgiving as computers are. Once you hit that little button, it's too late to turn back the clock; there's no salvaging anything from the trash folder later on that night after one too many glasses of wine. Best to save that decision for another time.

My breathing is even and my hands steady as I make my way into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Drink it and set the glass down on the counter. Go back into the living room to grab my bag. Up the stairs and change out of my work uniform into jeans and a t-shirt. Stare at my reflection in the small mirror over the bathroom sink. I look okay. I feel okay. Calm. Normal. Fine. I'm fine.

I find Charlie on the back porch, sitting on one of his ancient patio chairs. The metal grid ones with white plastic coating that peels away under bored fingers. There isn't anything to see back here, but I take the other chair and watch the nothing with him.

I know what he's doing. He's giving me the chance to talk about it. If I don't—if enough time passes in silence—then he won't bring it up, and it will be like it never happened. We'll spend most of the weekend in quiet companionship. Maybe I'll go fishing with him tomorrow. We'll talk about whether he should paint the shutters this summer or try to get one more year out of them first. I'll try to convince him to get rid of old red and buy something more reliable. He'll ask me if I'm being careful, making sure I keep my door locked 24/7, mace in my purse. I'll ask him if he's taking care of himself and eating right.

"I stopped in Port Angeles on the way here this morning to get coffee." This earns a slight frown, and I give a little grimace in apology. I threw away his coffee maker before he came home from the hospital, and threatened to tell his doctor if he bought another one. I'm pretty sure he still gets a regular fix from the diner, but there's only so much I can do.

"Edward was there."

Charlie grunts.

"We talked for a few minutes. His niece was with him. It sounded like they were coming back from the fishing derby." I wait for a few seconds, but he makes no reply. He's going to make me ask. "It was quite a surprise. I didn't know he was back in the area." My tone is careful, but the accusation is there. Nothing happens in this town that my dad doesn't know about, even now.

"There was some trouble a couple years back. Rose wound up in the hospital, and Royce ended up in jail. Edward came to help take care of things, and never went back home." I'm staring, wide-eyed. I had no idea. Nobody ever mentioned anything, in all this time. I can understand Charlie's silence, but the rest of the town? Why would they…but I suppose I can understand after all. I was a mess for a long time, and even though it was all so many years ago, small towns have long memories. I'm not sure whether to be touched that they obviously care, or insulted that they think I still might. I don't. I don't.

"You never said anything." I'm stating the obvious, but I can't seem to help myself. It's a lot to take in all at once, especially after everything else. Even though I understand, I can't help but be a little resentful. If I had known, I could have been more prepared for the possibility of eventually running into him. It wouldn't have been such a shock. I would have known who she was, could have avoided that sick feeling when I saw his chin and nose and thought…

"He hurt you a lot." He says it as if that's all the explanation I should need, and in a way it probably is. Jesus may forgive, but a daddy never forgets.

"He hurt us both a lot." I'm not sure why I feel the need to correct him, except that I'm remembering a rambling confession of pain and regret and thanks. Of a boy who realized too late what he gave up. I wonder if it's worse to be the cause of your own heartbreak, to have nobody but yourself to blame. "But that was a long time ago."

All I get in reply is another grunt.

After dinner that night I sit on the couch with my laptop while Charlie watches some game on the TV. I'm having a hard time trying to concentrate on work with everything still floating around in my head. We set the subject of Edward and his family aside after that last exchange, and spent the rest of the day following our typical Saturday routine. But I often find my attention wandering from the silent phone to the picture of Charlie and Renee on their wedding day that still sits in the center of the mantel, almost 3 decades after the marriage itself ended. …that was a long time ago…but right in front of my eyes is the proof that time doesn't necessarily heal all wounds. Time gets credit for a lot of things, but it doesn't always live up to its promises.

There's not more than the slightest hitch in my step as I pass by the phone on my way up the stairs.

I can't sleep, but not for the reason I would have thought. It's not Edward and his propensity for showing up in my life long after he should have been ancient history that keeps me awake. At least not directly.

For the first time in a long time, I think of Riley. I wonder—not for the first time—if I hurt him as badly as Edward once hurt me. I don't think so, but I also don't know if that's nothing more than wishful thinking.

I learned that there's a difference between loving someone and being in love.

I will never settle.

We should have had a perfect life together. We loved each other. We had the same interests. His ring felt right on my finger, and I felt right in his house and his bed. Everything was good. No, not just good. Perfect.

Then those words. Those insidious, infiltrating, ruinous words. Working their way into my mind. Repeating themselves over and over again until the constant echo threatened to drive me insane.

I will never settle.

Coming between us. Tainting everything until that ring, that house, that bed no longer felt as right as they used to. I cried when I slipped it off my finger and gave it back to him. We both cried when I packed my things and moved them out of his house that was supposed to have become ours. But as badly as it hurt, there was that little bit of relief there as well. Because it didn't hurt as badly as it could have. Because it didn't hurt as badly as it should have.

I will never settle.

As exhaustion finally takes over and I sink into sleep, a thought slips through. Something that my waking mind would never let take seed, much less actually form into a full-fledged idea. I don't believe it. I can't. But that doesn't stop it from following me into sleep and haunting whatever dreams may come.

Was I hoping that he'd come back for me, even then after all those years?