-:-

I slept fitfully. When I did wake, I punished my eyes for opening, squeezing my eyelids shut until my head ached from the pressure. I didn't want to see anything. In the darkness, there was nothing: no haunting reminders, no memories, no reasons for my heart to race or break. It was pure emptiness and I craved it.

During what was probably my longest spell of oblivion, I had a bizarre dream where I was chasing an indistinguishable someone on a sandy beach. It was dusk, the sky was midnight blue, and surprisingly, I could see well—however, being able to see clearly did not aid me in catching the mysterious, shadowed being, no matter how fast I ran. Every time I reached out to grab their hand, they would dash away from me, laughing. Oddly, I couldn't discern whether the voice was entirely human.

"Stop! Wait!" I cried, but they sped ahead of me, leaving me behind on the quiet, vacant shore. Disappointed that I was alone, I collapsed onto my back, closer to the coast. A rippling swell of waves bubbled around my toes, and the crash and surge of the water created an alluring symphony in partnership with the wind. I stretched my arms and legs in a sand-angel movement and slowly began to sink into the damp sand.

I enjoyed the feeling of the smooth, cool granules covering and tickling my skin. But I slowly started to descend too deep and the pressure built upon my chest like heavy chains. I tried to scoop away the bulky, grainy weight, but the waves were fast and overly strong, and I became stuck in a full-body sand trap. I should have panicked but I felt too weak to move, and the almost too-warm tide surrounded me. Waves unrelentingly crashed atop my head and the immensity made me dizzy and disoriented. I was suffocating. I wanted to cry for help but had gone under in my self-created tomb. Confined.

Help.

Groaning, I managed to tear myself out of my dream and opened my eyes to a horrendous consciousness.

Ugh. Dream-drowning was better.

I felt like shit. The strange pressure I'd imagined was now a fusion of genuine muscle aches and the illusion of water that had engulfed my body was, in reality, my own sweat.

I rolled over, blinking groggily, and tried to reach for my phone to check the time. Then I remembered that it was in my purse, which I had thrown against the wall before I'd collapsed into bed for the night.

Painfully dragging myself out of the confines of the sheets, I walked unsteadily to the corner of my room, shivering from the sudden loss of my blanket. I bent over to retrieve my purse and I could feel my blood swirling around in my head like a mental hurricane. My skin ached all over, sensitive and sore, which was a feeling I only got when I was sick.

Great.

I fished my phone out of my purse and staggered back to bed with it, only looking at the screen once I was back under the comforter where it was warm. Throwing my purse at the wall had proven to be a mistake; my phone had taken a crashing blow and I'd succeeded in making the outside screen a solid, purplish color with a small crack at the top. I sighed and opened it, thankfully finding that the inside was unharmed and still legible.

It was six-fifteen in the morning, on the dot. I considered calling my parents just to whine, but I didn't want them to worry more than they already had after hearing about my concussion. Languidly staring into space for a few minutes, I decided that more sleep might be promising, and surprisingly, it came easy.

By the time I woke up again, a bright light had seeped through the cracks in my curtains, and yet I still felt as though I'd been hit by a truck and granted sun poisoning. I felt hot, too, but I still felt cold, like I'd left a window open all night. I rolled over and felt something poke my side—my phone. I pulled it out of the comforter's folds and flipped it open.

Now it was past noon. I had been in bed for eighteen hours!

I stumbled to the bathroom to retrieve some Tylenol, thinking that it would probably be smart to hydrate, too, considering that my shirt was still sticking to me as though I'd worn it while showering. In the mirror, I looked super sexy with my pale face, sweaty hair, and drinking to replenish my sweat glands. For a fleeting moment, I was glad Edward wasn't around.

After changing, I crawled back into my mass of pillows and sheets, debating on whether or not to call Angela. It was Friday—one of her days off—and I knew there was a possibility that she might still be sleeping due to her graveyard shift schedule. I decided to send her a text message just to be safe, keen on letting her know a teensy, tiny bit of information.

'Flu shots do not work, FYI,' I typed, then hit send. Less than thirty seconds later, my phone rang, and the sound echoed throughout my room, startling me and making my head throb. I figured it was Angela, even though I could no longer see my Caller-ID.

"Hello?" I answered, cringing at my sleep-heavy voice. Ew.

"Wow," came Angela's voice. "Is this Bella or Cloris Leachman?"

"It's me. I woke you, didn't I?" I said.

She laughed, sounding almost perky. "No. I went to bed before nine last night and woke up five hours ago. So, what's wrong? You think you have the flu?"

I pathetically proceeded to ramble an explanation of how I'd felt when I woke up, omitting the word 'shit,' and despite my arguments, Angela insisted that she was coming over to put her nursing skills to good use.

Angel that she was, she brought me soup from her favorite deli, swearing that it would make my mouth have an orgasm no matter how close to death I was, and a big bottle of Gatorade fruit punch. Despite my embarrassment, I gave in and let her feel my forehead, only to brush her away as soon as a concerned mom-face made an appearance.

"So, what am I dealing with, here?" she asked, taking a seat at the desk, popping the lid off her container of soup. "Are you just a snotty, hacking mess, or are you one of the lucky few who have to bolt to the bathroom every half hour?"

"None of that, actually," I said, trying not to spill my lunch all over my lap. "I just… ache." Considering the last twenty-four hours, that was the most accurate word to describe it.

Angela pursed her lips and studied me. "If you don't have anything respiratory going on, it might be another virus than the flu. I mean, you've had some stress this past week, with the accident and all, plus being in a new place, which can equal new germs."

Also I'd had an emotional rollercoaster of meeting, kissing, and crying over a boy who was seeking retribution on one of America's Most Wanted. It was a wonder how Edward could stand on his own two feet without succumbing to some kind of stress-induced illness with all that he put himself through.

"I guess," I answered her, wishing that I could reiterate even half of the non-Edward happenings that had been stirring in this little town. Sex fiends in a sportswear store, creepy forest warnings, plus bitchy, senseless girls defiling my clothes… well, maybe only one piece of clothing. But still.

"See how you feel later tonight. If you don't have any new symptoms, then I would say that you're in the clear," Angela said, leaning back in the chair. Then, she smirked. "Hey, maybe you're fighting off the flu. Just wait, you're going to be thanking me for the shot when this disappears tomorrow or the next day."

"Yeah, right," I said dramatically, sipping my soup. It was pretty good, I had to give her that. "Thanks for my last meal, since I'm probably on my way to death."

Angela chuckled, "You baby."

We ate in silence for a while, and eventually, she glanced around the room and toward the door. "Where's Edward, anyway? Keeping his distance from the germs?"

I knew someone would have brought up his name sooner or later, but it still stung. "He's—" He was probably on his way to death, too. "He had to leave."

"So he left when you were sick, huh?" Angela said, leaning back in the chair. "I am going to have to have a chat with that guy."

"No, not like that," I continued, absently stirring my soup. "He left last night. Some kind of—" Emergency revenge spree. "Work-related thing."

Angela's eyes grew sympathetic. "Is he coming back?"

I concentrated on eating, merely giving a defeated shake of my head.

"Oh, Bella," Angela said softly. "Are you sure? What did he say?"

It felt strange to lie to her. She listened carefully as I fabricated a simple parting conversation between Edward and myself—something short and sweet. By the look on her face, I figured she assumed I wasn't telling the whole truth, but I hoped she accepted my fraught expression as part of my fatigue.

"That's really a shame," she said quietly, playing with her fingernails. "Work has the worst timing, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, thinking of exactly what kind of work he would be doing. I set my almost-empty soup container to the side and sat back against some pillows. "I guess it's for the best. We barely knew each other."

I was good at lying.

"I don't know. The other night at the bar, you would have never thought so. You guys seemed like you'd been together for a while. You both looked really happy, " Angela continued, creasing her eyebrows in thought. "Did, uh… Did anything ever happen? I mean, after we left?"

So many other thoughts had flown through my mind since then, I'd almost forgotten. The short time Edward and I had spent on the pier in Port Angeles seemed like days ago.

"He kissed me," I said, briefly letting myself reflect on the memory—remembering how soft his touch was and the warm feeling of his lips on mine. We'd been caught up in each other for the briefest of moments, and to know that I'd never get to experience it again made my chest feel heavy.

Angela smiled, though I didn't mirror her excitement. "Well, there you go. That's progress! Are you going to keep in touch with him?"

I shifted uncomfortably, unsure if my ailment or the talk of Edward was the reason for the deepening ache in my body. I pulled the comforter around me, feeling cold again, and bit the inside of my cheek as I stared at my lap. "I'm not sure. I don't know if he'll call, but he has my phone number."

Well, his coat had my number. I wasn't sure if he had found the letter I'd written right away. There was a good chance he wouldn't explore parts of his coat that were presumed empty, especially the chest pocket where I'd placed it; I should have put it in one of the hand pockets.

Angela looked thoughtful. "I'm sure he will," she said reassuringly. "He seemed to care about you a lot. Before you came here, he looked like a lost puppy, and then with you, he seemed—"

I looked up at her cheerful face, wishing to soak up some of her positive energy. She stared back, eyebrows raised and smiling in optimism, and then grew serious, probably due to the somber look that was unquestionably spread across my face.

"He'll call, Bella."

I managed a smile, though it felt as fake as something Lauren would give. After a while, Angela left to let me rest, and instead of doing so, I turned to the only activity I could think of to pass the time: reading. I went with Stephen King, deciding to stay away from poetry since it was too good at stirring up my emotions. After an hour or two, I forced myself into a restless nap, wanting refuge from the sunshine that was taunting me from behind the curtains.

However, dusk was torture. As the sun slowly died, the fever inside me began to burn, and the raw sting I'd been trying to keep at bay twisted through my veins like toxic vines. I clutched Edward's shirt to my chest and cried, tears raining down my cheekbones and to my ears. The pain pinched and pulled at my insides, but the fear was more crippling.

Naps hadn't helped to keep me calm; they were temporary, and when I couldn't sleep or read anymore, I was given more time to conjure horrific possibilities of what might happen to him. I wondered what he was doing, if he was okay, where he might be already… The unknown answers brought me nothing but more grief, and speculation was empty and cold. Several times, I reached for my phone, clumsily entering Charlie's number, determined to have him put a stop to it for real this time.

I always ended the call before the first ring. Edward didn't want help, and who knew if anyone could actually find him. And if anyone could, I didn't want to bring down a shit-ton of havoc on him. I could only pray he would change his mind.

I ran his words, all the ones that I remembered, through my head in a mantra. So much of what he had said should have registered as insane—this revenge and this crazy plan to avenge his parents was textbook hero-complex webbed inside of survivor's guilt. He was strong and I didn't doubt that he could put up a fight, but I was equally worried about his fragile state. I understood why he thought he had to go, but that didn't stop my heart from aching, reminding me that I was powerless in the whole situation.

My phone buzzed, and I lethargically picked it up and opened a text message from Angela. 'Hydrate.'

I sighed and reached for the fruit punch she'd left me, swallowing as much as I could handle, and the sweetness replaced the bitter taste in my mouth. After I had sunk back into my comforter, I watched the sun disappear and the sky become gray. I listened to scattered raindrops until the sky grew completely black and the shadows in my room disappeared, leaving me in more blankets than one—I had darkness, again. Slowly, I calmed and my tears dried on my cheeks.

Eventually, like a steady stream of paralysis, I got what I wanted. The numbness was back, slowly spreading over me, relaxing my muscles and freezing all my thoughts.

Only the wind and rain outside broke the silence and I rolled over in bed, exchanging Edward's shirt for a pillow, which I wrapped my arms around instead. I tossed the shirt to the foot of the bed, and as I closed my eyes to try to sleep again, I had to admit that it was easier to not care.

-:-

I was shocked when I opened my eyes again. First, I had slept through the night without dreaming. Second, the sun was back for a second day in a row. And third, I felt absolutely fine. Just as Angela predicted, whatever had been plaguing me had been a twenty-four-hour bit of hell, but hadn't turned into anything nasty.

"Gross," I announced to myself, pushing the blankets from my legs and pulling at my shirt. Apparently, during the night, I'd lost another quart of sweat. My clothes and sheets felt sticky and damp, and I hadn't showered the day before so I didn't exactly smell great, either.

I decided that, with my renewed health, I needed to do something before my mind started wandering. So I got up, stripped the sheets off my bed, and stuffed them into my duffel bag, which held the rest of my clothes that were waiting to be washed. After a thorough scrub-down in the shower, I straightened up my room, slung the laundry bag over my shoulder, and started downstairs without giving a glance to the unoccupied room next door. My footsteps slowed on the last stairwell as I spotted Doris chatting to a few ladies, and the bag I was carrying suddenly seemed much heavier.

I figured that either Edward or Angela had mentioned his leaving to Doris—at least I hoped so. I truly didn't care to have that conversation a second time. Then again, I didn't want to have to sneak past her for the rest of my stay, either. Finally gathering some nerve, I walked down the rest of the steps and over to Doris, just as the other women made their way over to the café.

"Morning, Doris," I said softly.

She turned in surprise and broke into a wide grin. "Oh, good morning, Isabella!" she said warmly, grasping my arm with her hand that wasn't holding a coffee cup. "How are you feeling? I was worried yesterday when Angela said you were ill."

"I'm fine," I said, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry to worry you."

"Goodness," she said, rubbing my arm. "I'm certainly glad you're up and about. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I promise," I answered honestly. "I was just fighting something off, I guess."

Doris gave me a small, sympathetic smile and pinched my cheek in a grandmother-like fashion. "Well, let's hope it stays away. As much as I love this place, I'd hate to see you cooped up in bed during your visit."

I said thank you and glanced at my feet, and she was silent for a few moments. I waited for her to say something about Edward, but I was surprised when she didn't. When I finally looked up, it took me a second to figure out that she was eyeing the bag I was carrying and her cheerful expression had sobered.

"Are you going somewhere, dear?" she asked hesitantly.

I creased my eyebrows, wondering why she suddenly looked so sad. If someone had told her about Edward, she probably thought I was leaving, too.

"Oh, no," I started, shaking my head. "Well, yeah, I am, but I'm just going to find a laundromat. I'm running out of clothes."

Technically, I had plenty of clothes left to wear, but I needed something to pass my time. I guessed being a Real Housewife of Red Timber Lodge was it.

Doris's face lit up again, looking reassured. "Oh! Well, that explains it, doesn't it?"

"Um, I hope it's okay, but I took my sheets with me," I confessed, gesturing to my bag. "I was kind of running a fever and sweating yesterday, and I didn't want you to have to deal with that. Is it all right if I wash them myself?"

"Oh, honey," Doris said pleasantly, sipping her coffee. "Don't you dare worry about such a thing! Here, let me tell you what—I'll take you back to the laundry room and we'll toss the sheets in with the others, and you can load your clothes back there. I wouldn't want you spending this beautiful day inside a laundromat!"

I turned to the windows, and indeed, along with the golden blanket the sun had laid over the trees, a few people were walking around in long-sleeved shirts without jackets for once. It figured.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the lodge was one of the last places I wanted to be at the moment, with its familiar walls, aroma, and ambiance. Each room contained Edward's ghost—even the outside picnic tables and parking lot reminded me of him.

"I suppose I was just hoping for a change of scenery," I said apologetically. "I was thinking I'd finally explore a little. Maybe I'll drive by Charlie's old house or go visit the beach. I just need some air, if that makes sense."

Doris pursed her lips in understanding and nodded, squeezing my shoulder again. "There's a place called Laundry 101 just down the street, dear."

She proceeded to point me in the right direction and I left quickly before I could get a glimpse of one of the crab-snatch twins. As I got into my truck, it struck me that it was Sunday. I'd been at the lodge for over a week, about ten days. I couldn't make up my mind if the time had gone by quickly or slowly, given the events that had taken place.

I huffed and started backing out of my parking space. It only took a few minutes to arrive at the Laundromat, and thankfully there was a large sign poking vertically into the air, so even my directionally dysfunctional ass couldn't miss it.

As I entered, I was met with a piercing scream.

"I—want—Emm—Ennn—Emmms!"

A woman and her daughter, I assumed, were standing at the counter marked 'Drop-Off Service' and the little girl was jumping up and down in a tantrum, sending her curly hair flying. She pulled on her mother's shirt and pointed to the far wall as she screamed. The young girl behind the desk gave me a look that was half apologetic, half 'Please get me out of here.' I gave her a sympathetic smile and made my way to the corner, farthest from the counter—and the noise.

"M&Ms, Mommy!"

"Olivia Stanley!" the woman finally cried. "Stop it. Mommy's trying to pay."

I peeked over to the counter in time to see the little girl stomp her feet. "Humph!" she cried in a huff, crossly folding her arms across her chest.

Stanley? Two of them? She looked a hell of a lot like Jessica. That poor mother.

Trying not to snort, I quickly fed a few dollars into a change machine and glanced around. Rows of churning washers and dryers lined the walls, and next to the windows, two humming vending machines sat, one stocked with junk food and drinks, the other with detergent, softener, and dryer sheets.

I bought a couple of packets of laundry supplies, then caved and got myself a pack of blueberry Poptarts. To hell with being healthy. After I stuffed three washing machines full of sheets, whites, and colors, I sat on a chair, leaning back against the cool glass window. As I munched my sugary breakfast, I concentrated on the running water and vibrating motor sounds coming from the laundry machines, mixed with the temper tantrum still being thrown by the mini Stanley. I regretted not bringing my earphones.

I stared blankly at my laundry as it swirled inside the washer, suds and cloth crashing into the glass door, rolling and toppling in a hypnotizing swell. It was mesmerizing, and I was so caught up in watching the visual that I practically tuned out all noise.

"Well, hello there, Ms. Bella."

I jerked in my seat, Poptart crumbs spilling down my shirt. Mr. Miller was standing to my right, smiling down at me in amusement.

"You're a jumpy one, aren't you?" he said lightheartedly, setting two bags, one large and one small, atop a washing machine. "My apologies, missy."

"Oh, it's okay," I said quickly, brushing crumbs off my shirt. "Just lost in thought again."

"Ah, well, I've heard, 'Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who only dream at night'," he said, pulling a roll of change out of his pocket. "Count yourself one of the lucky ones."

The man had been taught by Robert Frost and was now quoting Edgar Allan Poe. I didn't remember any of my grandfathers, as they'd died before I was old enough to have any memories of them. I wondered if Mr. Miller's grandchildren realized how fascinating he was. If they didn't, I was happy to adopt him as a grandparent.

"And you called yourself ignorant when it comes to poets," I said with a small smile. "It's nice to see you again."

"You too," Mr. Miller said, pulling a bundle of shirts out of his laundry bag and loading them into one of the washers. When he was finished, he pointed to the chair next to me and asked, "Do you mind if I take a seat?"

"Oh, no—please," I said, scooting my chair over so he had a bit more room. I glanced out the window, seeing that only my truck remained in the parking lot since Mrs. Stanley and her little screamer had left. "Did you walk here?"

"Sure did," he answered, straightening his trademark burgundy tie. "I try not to let anything but the rain keep me from my walks. Laundry, I can conquer along the way."

He reached into the small bag he had been carrying and pulled out a little box, which he unfolded, revealing a rather quality chess set. He turned to me. "Care to join me in battle while we wait?"

I smiled, welcoming the warm feeling that came from having someone familiar with whom to pass the time. I now knew why Angela had originally called him Bobby Fischer. He was so skilled and thoughtful and stopped several times to gently point out rookie mistakes and game-changing strategies to me. I stayed quiet, soaking up his advice, glad to have something different to put my mind to. Eventually, though we kept playing, our chatter went from chess to my college classes, to his retirement as an electrical engineer, and before I knew it, my washers were beeping, ready to be emptied.

I loaded two dryers full of my clothes, tossing a dryer sheet inside each as well, and turned them on. As I pulled my sheets and pillowcases out of the other washer, I noticed a fold of gray fabric stuck in between the white cotton.

Edward's shirt. I'd finally been distracted enough to forget him for a little while, too. Just my luck.

I tugged it out of the confines of the sheet and shook out the wrinkles. The smell of him would be gone now, replaced by two-dollar detergent. And after it came out of the dryer, there would be a faux-perfumed dryer sheet scent covering it. Oh well. I'd been sweating all over it anyway.

"You have an affinity for Frost, don't you?" came Mr. Miller's voice. He was watching me stare at the shirt, probably thinking I was a mindless space cadet.

"Oh," I said, giving him a glance before hastily shoving the shirt into the dryer with the sheets. "It's just a coincidence. It's someone else's."

I hoped that didn't make me sound like I collected boys' belongings as my little tramp trophies.

"I mean, I borrowed it and didn't get a chance to give it back," I confessed, even though I knew that wasn't completely true—I'd only planned on giving Edward back his shirt if he specifically asked for it.

Mr. Miller was quiet for a few moments. "Something tells me he didn't ask for it back for a reason."

I stopped feeding quarters into the dryer as a small ache, reminiscent of the one from the day before, twinged in my chest. Biting the inside of my cheeks, I slowly finished, turned on the dryer, and slid back into my chair.

"How did you know it was his?" I asked softly, suddenly taking an interest in a small tear in my jeans.

"I suppose it was a good guess," he said. "You have the same look in your eyes that he was sporting the day he left. It's a matched sadness, missy."

"You spoke to him?"

"Briefly, that evening," Mr. Miller said with a small sigh. "I was on my way inside and stopped to say hello. I imagine you know much more than I do, but he seemed upset."

The churning water that was still rushing through Mr. Miller's machines mirrored the actions of my stomach. "Because of me," I said, pulling one of my knees to my chest. "I did something stupid and he was angry."

Mr. Miller raised his eyebrows. "I don't think so, Ms. Bella," he said honestly, and I gave him a curious look.

"As I said, we didn't talk for long," he said, answering my thought, and reached into his small bag once again, fishing around for something. "But he did ask me to give you this."

I watched, my heart speeding up, waiting for whatever he was talking about to come into view. I expected a note, too—something he had written in case he wanted to jump in his car and leave before I had gotten back from Newton's. But instead, Mr. Miller handed me something unexpected—a CD case.

Ludovico Einaudi.

Mr. Miller sat patiently as I stared, and I finally took it into my trembling hand. I had jokingly talked about Edward burning me a copy, but I hadn't expected him to give me his own. I guessed he wanted me to have it to remember him by. Maybe he wanted me to think of it as an apology.

I circled the case in my hands for a while before tucking it into my purse. If I started thinking too much about it now, unwanted tears had the potential to pour down my face, and I wasn't about to start crying in a goddamned Laundromat.

"Thank you," I mumbled to Mr. Miller, zipping my purse closed. "Did he say anything else?"

Mr. Miller scratched the back of his head. "He might have said that he wouldn't blame you if you broke it in half."

I scoffed a small laugh and brought my other knee to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. "This is so stupid," I said quietly, unable to hold back. "I didn't come here to meet a guy. And when I did, I didn't expect to get so invested. Pretty childish of me, don't you think?"

"On the contrary, missy, I don't think anyone has control over who they begin to care for," Mr. Miller said. "Whether you're a teenager or an old man like me, some things have the power to get under your skin and into your soul, and there's no stopping it."

I hummed quietly, thinking that was the damn truth if I ever heard it.

"You know, when I was probably even younger than you, I was a fairly bitter young man. I fell into the clutches of a girl named Lucy Bethesda. Little soul-sucker, she was," Mr. Miller continued with a grin on his face. "She strung me along for two years like a hungry pooch, knowing full well that I would do anything she asked. Sure, she told me she loved me and even said she wanted to get married under a willow tree with me by her side. I believed her. And then she went and eloped with my best friend, Drew."

I winced. "Ouch."

"Yes, ouch, indeed," he said with a chuckle. "I spent the next year hating the world, thinking that I'd never let myself get so wrapped up in a woman or friends again, so help me God. I had a full intention of devoting my time to being an engineer and an eternal bachelor.

"The summer before I started an internship, I worked at a carnival—you know, one of those boys behind the game stand—the one where you try to pop a balloon with a dart. My boss was a bulbous little man with an attitude that made mine seem saintly. One day, he came around and started giving me a mouthful about blowing the balloons up with too much air, and how I needed to use more dark colors—the bosses thought the brighter balloons were easier to pop, if you'll believe that baloney."

He gave me a friendly nudge with his arm and I couldn't help but smile, feeling the tension that was thick across my shoulders begin to dissipate.

"Anyway, there was a girl behind him who had walked up to the stand, and even when I tried to tell my boss that a customer was behind him, he kept on ranting," said Mr. Miller with a glint in his eye. "She was beautiful. Took me by surprise, seeing as how I'd committed myself to bachelorhood and all. But she stood, listening, and her cheeks went rosy pink with anger. Before I could blink, she picked up a dart and threw it straight at my boss. Got him right in his flabby, old behind, she did."

His amusement at the memory made me laugh.

"It was one hell of a way to capture my attention," he continued. "The sound of her laugh was what did me in. That one little moment was all it took, and suddenly I was a different person. A better person." He gave me a thoughtful look. "But sometimes, it takes more than a moment to realize what's right for you. Everyone's built differently."

I nodded, letting his words sink in. "Did you ever talk to her? The girl?"

He suddenly appeared much younger, his face boyish and pleasant as he beamed. "I married her."

His smile was contagious. "What's her name?" I asked.

"Anna was her name."

Was. The corners of my mouth fell little by little and I pulled at the loose fabric of my jeans. "Oh," I said softly. "I'm sorry."

I watched as his smile faltered just a bit, and he turned to me. "I lost her three years ago, but she hasn't left me completely. I'd like to think she's watching me now and again," he said pensively. "Sounds a bit kooky, maybe, but it keeps the sadness at bay. That, I and don't doubt that I'll be with her again, in time."

I nodded, and we were silent for a few moments. He didn't seem unhappy, but the light that had been shining in his hazel eyes had dimmed ever so slightly. I hesitated for a few moments, trying to think of something to say, and eventually, I placed my hand atop his cool, weathered one, which was bearing a faintly scuffed, but still shiny, golden wedding band.

"Will you tell me about her?" I asked.

Mr. Miller glanced over down at our hands and then back up at me, and the glow began to radiate in his eyes again. "Sure, I will, missy."

Content, I listened to numerous stories as he brought his happy memories to life through speech. I'd rarely heard of a marriage that hadn't ended in divorce: Renee and Charlie; Renee and Phil; even Charlie's parents had split up before their deaths. And if I could remember correctly, I'd had a sixth-grade teacher who had a nervous breakdown or some kind of fit in the lunchroom because of her marriage ending. I'd always chalked it up to something inevitable, but listening to Mr. Miller, and hearing his affection regarding his wife, was enlightening.

The time passed quickly—almost too quickly—and before I knew it, both of us had folded our laundry and packed our bags full. We walked outside and the warm sun felt fresh on my face. My fever had been cathartic, flushing the emotional wreckage out of me, and my impromptu chat with Mr. Miller was uplifting; now, there was simply pure, fresh air to take in. I was thankful for the relief.

"Would you like a ride back?" I offered, gesturing toward my truck.

Mr. Miller smiled but shook his head. "No, thank you, Ms. Bella. These knees are made of steel. I feel like I shouldn't waste them while they last."

"I understand," I said with a laugh. "I might go for a walk, too. I was thinking of visiting La Push. My dad used to take me to First Beach when I was little. Either that or I'll go explore one of the trails Doris was telling me about. A few of the other guests were heading into the woods this morn—"

During my rambling, Mr. Miller's buoyant expression suddenly changed again, growing serious. He gazed at me peculiarly, almost grimly, and pursed his lips as if he was about to speak.

"Did I say something weird?" I asked.

He gave a small sigh and a halfhearted smile. "No, missy. Don't mind me."

I narrowed my eyes and glanced over my shoulder to see if someone was approaching us, or some other kind of sight I was missing. But there was nothing. I repositioned my bag on my shoulder, wondering what the shift was all about. Maybe he thought I'd go off the trail and become bear food.

"You really don't like the woods, do you?" I asked curiously, knowing immediately by the knowing look on his face that I had hit the nail on the head. "Did you have a bad camping experience or something?"

Mr. Miller chuckled, though it was unenthusiastic and his eyes seemed to harden. "Not exactly. Just an incident, a long time ago."

I cleared my throat, fidgeting with a snagged thread on my shirt. "I won't pry," I said. "It just seems like you wish I wouldn't go in there. The woods, I mean."

He was silent for a moment before waving his hand in attempted reassurance. "I've heard that most of this area is safe. I suppose I'm letting my imagination run away with me, that's all. I think I told you before—I'm just an old timer with too many stories."

"But if it was you, you wouldn't, right?"

Mr. Miller took a few steps toward me, stopping only when we were very close.

"I don't usually say much about things of this nature," he said, looking around, as if someone might be listening. "As I said, the woods, most of them, anyway, are—how shall I say—well, protected in these parts. But nothing's one hundred percent certain."

I creased my eyebrows, confused. Sighing, he placed his hand on my shoulder. "You're asking if I would dare to walk past the trees and into the deeper parts? Honestly, missy? No. I wouldn't."

I tucked my hair behind my ear, feeling uncertain about how to respond. I never had a fear of the woods; Charlie used to take me hiking and exploring all the time when I was younger. Even when he would visit me in Florida, he sometimes took me camping in one of the more woodsy areas. But the way Mr. Miller was looking at me, and hearing the fear in his voice—it gave me a chill.

"I suppose I'm saying just be careful, whatever you do," he said, tapping the underside of my chin gently. "I'll be seeing you soon, Ms. Bella. It was nice talking with you."

"You, too." I raised my hand in a languid goodbye and watched him begin his trek up Forks Avenue, in the direction of the lodge.

Well, that was mysterious.

I sighed, shuffling my shoes into the concrete as I walked back toward my truck. Once I was inside, I lopsidedly propped my laundry bag against the window and glanced at my purse, which contained the newest addition to my music collection.

I knew I should probably put on some heavy metal instead. Or even the damn Wiggles. Anything that wouldn't get me emotional. I turned on my radio, which started spewing a college football game at me. I breathed a sigh. Sports were good and unromantic.

I adjusted my rearview mirror, preparing to back up, and then, out of the blue, a huge Laundry 101 delivery truck pulled up behind my tailgate, blocking my exit from the parking space. A man hopped out of the driver's seat and jogged to the door. He spotted me, gave a glance at the predicament, and grimaced.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he called. "Five minutes?"

I waved, nodding politely, not really caring. However, after only a minute, without the distraction of driving, that CD was starting to burn a hole in my purse. I exhaled forcefully, thinking that maybe I should just put it in, reminisce, and get the urge out while it was still early. Maybe then I could put all of this behind me for now and get on with my time.

It was just music, after all. It wasn't like he recorded me a personal Hallmark message.

Finally, I snatched the CD out of my purse, opened the case, and glided the disc into my CD player. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, slightly embarrassed that my heart was beginning to pick up. The first track was unfamiliar to me and I sat quietly for a minute before picking up the CD case to look at the back. The first track was called Uno. Primavera was number six. I felt a childish urge to skip through the others just to get to it, but I let the music continue and opened the case again, intending on flipping through the little paper booklet for information.

My hand froze when I realized something I had missed when I first opened it:

Handwriting.

I pulled the booklet out from the confines of the case to find, on the last page, over a faint design, a small script covered the little space.

Bella,

I'm sorry I never got a chance to make you a copy,

and if this seems like an insincere gift, I'm sorry for that, too.

I'm sorry for a lot of things.

I owe you so much more than music, but I hope you'll

realize that this is the only thing I can give you that

won't hurt you in the end.

I'll miss you, and won't forget you.

Edward

I read it once, then again, and then one more time. My chest wavered between a throbbing heartbeat and feeling as though a solid stone had been implanted, and I was stuck in purgatory over his words. What he wrote was thoughtful, but final. A second goodbye.

I sat, my back stuck against the seat, digging my fingernails into my palms, waiting for pain that made sense. None came, because, for the moment, I couldn't make sense of anything.

-:-