A/N: All I want is to finish this story, ugughghgghg. And I'm nowhere near done. For real, though, this story is my baby. My child. My offspring between me and an old flame (Twilight fanfiction). I can only hope you believe in this story even half as much as I do.

This chapter is mostly just some insight on Paul with a good amount of interior monologues. I also do not own Twilight.

Enjoy.

XLIII.

i will be better
and we will be stronger
and you will be greater
the one that i always wanted you to be

if you can resist it
and make a commitment
and stay with me in this
stay with me in this

October came colder than usual this year. Paul realized he didn't even like the cold all that much. Bouncing between different cities in California for a good chunk of his life had done that to him.

It wasn't like he wasn't used to the cold here, though. He knew it like his right hand, but as time progressed that autumn, he realized he was becoming the very thing he had accused Jacob of being: static. Paul was the biggest hypocrite in history, but he had never realized until now that he was so still. This was one of the longest times he'd been here in La Push by his own free will. He had chosen to love Leah and all these people he called his friends (even Jacob), but had he really chosen them? He didn't want to think he was that boring.

Paul believed in fate. He really did. He believed that wherever he had to go, he had to go, but at the same time, he believed in choices. He didn't have to stay tied down to La Push because of the tribe, his fake-ass friends, or even Leah. He was a mixed kid. He was equal parts Mexican and Quileute. He didn't like the boring assholes he'd known since he'd been a kid, and yeah, he really loved Leah—like, a lot—but he knew she was okay with being comfortable. He just wasn't.

So he was an asshole. He was just the kind of motherfucker he hated, the kind that he accused Jacob of being for the sake of Bella the talking bowling trophy. Paul was just like the rest of those middle-class white kids with virtually no problems in those shitty coming-of-age movies based off shitty coming-of-age books, filled with fake-deep quotes about life and love and challenging society's rules and finding a better life, a better future, or a better whatever the fuck.

Paul was every damn "wallflower," every damn teenage vampire who thinks he doesn't have a soul, every damn fake-deep teenage boy with cancer who wastes money on cigarettes without ever smoking them for the sake of a fucking metaphor rather than his wallet, every damn kid on that series about the show choir, every damn brain or athlete or basket case or princess or criminal, every damn Holden Caulfield, and every damn protagonist that rocked the world of every damn person Paul had ever known at the age of sixteen, all while Paul experienced these spectacular characters secondhand because while he didn't even have a library card, he had a pretty good pair of ears instead.

So he was like the rest. He was fake.

And he was a hypocrite.

At least he knew that. He knew the truth.

Then he was gone.

He went to see Quil one last time, to try to see if he could stay just one last time. That guy was the butt of every joke these days. Everyone else would get together at the beach or someone's house or whatever boring shit they did and someone would ask, "Where's Quil?" even though they knew the answer damn well. And someone would always say, "In a ditch." Then everyone would laugh and laugh and laugh like it was the funniest shit they'd ever heard.

Paul wouldn't laugh, though. He was an asshole, but not like that.

Paul parked his car, the lemon of a pimp mobile, down the street from Quil's house and ran up to his basement door. He put in the code that everyone had learned when they were little and waited. He glanced down at his watch; it was 2pm. On a Wednesday. Leah was at school, Sam was at school, everyone was at school except him and Quil. And he knew Quil didn't have a real job, so where the hell was this kid?

Paul couldn't help himself; the door to the basement was unlocked.

When he entered, the first thing he saw was Quil's feet, and everything hit him like a bullet.

Paul thought of his father. The bastard—either in jail or on probation—used to get fucked up all the time, but it was usually just on hard liquor. Paul would find him face down on the floor at least once every week, and he'd consider himself safe. At least he didn't have to worry about getting beaten up for the night, and that had held him over. He'd just pray that his dad wouldn't wake up. It never worked.

But the thing is, Quil wasn't his dad. He wasn't anything close.

Paul walked over to his unconscious friend and shook him by the shoulder. "Bro," he said, "bro, wake up. You got any idea what time it is?"

Quil could have been dead for all Paul knew.

"Quil, get up. You gotta go. We gotta go."

He kept nudging him.

"Don't you know you got places to be, man? Don't you know?"

Paul left after that. He drove off to Seattle and didn't look back. He had places to be, too. He didn't want to look Leah in the eye and tell him he was leaving again; he wasn't that brave. So he just packed up his belongings and left.

Leah came home to an empty house after work that night.

All she could say was, "Fuck."

Over the next couple of weeks, she tried to not be outwardly mad. She moved back into her mom's house without a word and didn't blow up once. No, she didn't have the energy for that. All she did was simmer. She was still that mean, angry girl; Paul hadn't taken that away. All he had done in her presence was put it on hold. So she was angry again, but only on the inside. She learned to be good at hiding how she felt; it was a sign of maturity to her. Somebody had to be mature since Paul wasn't.

He didn't even call her until he had been gone for two weeks. His words went in one of her ears and out the other. All that she picked up was, "I'm alive and I'm in Seattle and I'm stealing cars and I miss you."

All that she said in response was, "You're full of shit." Then she hung up.

So she didn't hate him. She wasn't going to blow up at him. All she was going to do was wait. He'd be back later; he was the original comeback kid.

She just wasn't going to be around when he wanted her again.

A/N: On deck: Clearwater family values. In the hole: more cut losses.

Thanks as always,

HS