-:-

I expected the remaining days of my vacation to pass in slow, gaping holes of loneliness and longing. I anticipated boredom. I figured I'd probably even sink into some sort of depression, considering the emotional turmoil that had occurred after Edward's departure, and end up going home early. But after sitting in my truck and listening to Ludovico Einaudi on repeat for too long, I stuffed the CD and Edward's note into the glove box and decided, no. That was not going to happen.

Charlie had paid for me to stay at the lodge for a month, after all, and unless I wanted to run back home to career want-ads and my parents' overly-concerned faces, I needed to get my act together. I wanted what I had come to Forks for, what I had intended to get from the start: a break.

My days consisted of exploring the town and periodically having breakfast with Mr. Miller, or Doris, when she had the time. I usually met Angela for lunch, and if I wasn't hanging out with her and Ben in the evening, I was helping Tom with dinner preparations. I'd landed myself an impromptu job in the kitchen one day while sweeping the café for Doris. Jessica had walked inside the front door and I sought refuge in the kitchen in an attempt to hide from her. It wasn't really fear that made me want to avoid her, but more that I felt the need to keep my distance so I wouldn't shove the broom up her ass.

As I stumbled into the kitchen, I managed to trip over the broom, fall against the counter, and accidentally plunge my hand into a bowl of a batter-like substance. Tom looked up from mixing a huge bowl of chicken salad, smiling widely, and said, "Well, if you wanted to give me a hand with the cooking, Bella, all you had to do was ask."

I had to admit that my days were full, and even fun as the weeks passed. But each night, my mind went where my heart tried so desperately not to go.

Tonight was a warm night, which was rare, and my window was open, letting in a fall breeze that rustled and blew the curtains. I sat with my back against my bed, my hoodie draped over my knees. It was a pretty morbid thing to do, staring intently at something that was both insulting and sorrowful, but I'd had the damn thing for six years and I wanted to say goodbye properly before chucking it into the garbage. My familiar, tainted sweatshirt had been balled up in the corner for over two weeks, hiding behind my suitcase, and only tonight, after cleaning my room, did I finally pull it from its abandonment.

Ignoring the last two words in their mocking, fuchsia scrawl, I traced my fingers over the flaking polymer letters that spelled his name. The inevitable wondering was what usually pulled me into a trance: where he was, if he had found what he was looking for, if he was in trouble, or if he was even still alive. I tried to tell myself that he was fine, and I naively hoped that he was just brooding in his car or giving in, finally letting the police handle things. But I knew if either of those possibilities were true, he probably would have called me. If he meant what he said when he had left, he wouldn't have a reason not to call—at least, I could only presume as much.

It had been sixteen days since Edward had left. I shouldn't have expected anything; he'd said goodbye in every way he could have, and yet, some tragic, stubborn corner of my soul wouldn't let me purge him from my mind. It was unlikely that he hadn't found my letter—possible, but still doubtful. Sooner or later he would have noticed the little bulge in the pocket when taking it off, especially if he decided to start walking around with a gun on him.

Still, if he had found it, there was still the strong possibility that he chose to not respond. I'd been in a hurry when I wrote it, and it definitely wasn't the most eloquent of all things spoken between pen and paper, but none of my statements were hasty in thought, only penmanship. Whatever the reason, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself that he was okay, I couldn't shake an awful feeling that wherever he was, he was suffering. I breathed a sigh, stood up, and tried to force myself out of my Edward-induced daze.

I shook the wrinkles out of my hoodie, briefly considering cutting his name out of the back and patching it up, leaving 'Little Slut', and placing it on Jessica's car window out of spite. Eventually, I just folded it into an unkempt square and tossed it on the desk, figuring I'd throw it out another day.

Yawning, I climbed into bed and turned off the lamp. It had been a long, lazy night. I'd spent hours at Angela's apartment, watching movies and consuming an incalculable amount of junk food, and I was actually looking forward to sleeping off my food coma. I checked my phone to set my alarm and then realized it was off—a dead battery, probably. I groaned and leaned over the side of the bed to grasp my charger's cord and plugged its poor, cracked carcass into the adapter. I flipped it open and the screen flickered to life, and I briefly saw the time was twelve forty-three AM, before noticing the little, yellow envelope icon in the bottom, left corner.

I had a message. One new voicemail.

My fingers started to press buttons so fast that I put in an incorrect password twice before hearing the automated operator:

"You have one new voice message. First message."

My heart beat furiously and I waited with bated breath for the voice that I was longing to hear.

"Uh, hey, Bella."

My eyes narrowed.

"It's Brandon… the, uh, guy from the bar last week? Or—wait, it was longer than that, wasn't it? Anyway, I was just wondering—"

I hastily snapped my phone shut and took a few moments to breathe through my frustration, though it didn't stop angry tears from forming in my eyes. My anger wasn't directed toward Brandon—just myself. I was getting way too worked up over every little thing; Edward didn't want my help and I there wasn't any reason to be upset about this anymore, or to be pining or worrying to the point of tears.

"This is bullshit," I mumbled to myself, wiping my eyes.

And then my phone rang.

I was frozen for a moment, simply staring at it as the ring echoed throughout my room.

"For real?!" I yelled at the phone.

Renée and Charlie were undoubtedly asleep, seeing as they were three hours ahead of me. It was unlikely that it was Angela unless she got an emergency call into work and just saved a life, and wanted to share. And due to my broken screen, I couldn't see who was calling unless I flipped the phone open, which would connect me immediately—if it was Brandon, I was going to scream. Literally.

"Shit," I muttered and finally pressed send on the outside. "Hello?"

Silence.

I tried again. "Hello?"

I sighed, frustrated. There was a little bit of static, but still no answer. Maybe my speakerphone was broken, too, or I'd accidentally hung up on whoever it was. I flipped my phone open and saw that the call was still active, flashing a number that I didn't recognize. And it wasn't a Florida or Washington area code.

My heart suddenly lurched into my throat. It wouldn't be. Would it?

I gripped my phone tightly. "Edward. Is that you?"

I became frantic, thinking that the silence was due to poor reception. I jumped out of bed and ran out into the hallway, bracing myself against the banister. "Edward? Hello? Can you hear me?"

The distant sound of a car horn was my answer. Anyone who had dialed the wrong number would have probably hung up by now. And if the caller couldn't hear me, surely they would be echoing my 'Hello?' Wouldn't they? It had to be him. And he wasn't responding, and that was not good.

All I heard was a small intake of breath and the sound caused my heart to skip a beat. My stomach churned at the dreadful possibilities, with which my mind was brewing. Was he hurt or just not speaking?

"Edward? Edward, say something," I demanded anxiously. "Please. Please, talk to me."

But then, there was a click. Call Ended, my phone mocked.

I took a quick breath and gripped the railing, feeling my legs turn to rubber as I slid down to the floor. A whirlwind of rampant thoughts ran through my head, making me dizzy with worry.

He was hurt. He was dying. He did it—he killed that man. Or he was drunk. Drunk dialing. Or he dialed by mistake. But he would have had to physically enter my number since he didn't have it before. That meant he read my letter. Holy shit. Did he change his mind? Was he okay? Or maybe—wait. What the hell was I thinking? I could call back!

That quickly, I'd forgotten that an actual phone number had come up on the screen—not an unknown or private one—an accessible one. I brought up my call history and swiftly pushed send, holding the phone to one ear while I raked my other hand through my hair.

It rang and rang, and rang, and continued for the next minute—I was going to be persistent, damn it. That's what he would get for calling and then hanging up—and I desperately hoped that was his choice and he hadn't passed out on the phone. Once a considerable amount of time had gone by, I ended the call, checked the time, and then dialed again. I never received a voicemail greeting; maybe he hadn't called me from his cell phone. Or maybe he didn't even have a voicemail.

I hung up again after an absurd amount of rings, sighing. I knew that if he really didn't want to talk, he wouldn't take the call. I could waste my night and my monthly minutes, and even continue to call back for hours. Or I could go to sleep and try again in the morning. My stomach was in knots, knowing that whether he had an actual problem or not, I wouldn't be able to help, considering my location.

I rubbed my forehead, which was aching, trying to iron out the twisted muscles that felt permanently cramped under my skin. I decided to try one more time and only one more. Not in the morning or another day—now, and that was it.

I hit redial and slumped against one of the pillars. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Four. Five. It probably wasn't even him who had called. Six. Seven. That would definitely be embarrassing. Eight—

"Yeah?"

I sat up so fast, I almost lost my grip on the phone. "Um… hello?" I said, not recognizing the unknown man's voice.

"I said 'Yeah?'"

Well, good lord.

"I—is—can I speak to Edward, please?" I asked, not sure who the hell I was talking to or what location I had even called.

"Edward?" the man repeated. "Ain't no Edward here, sugar."

Shit.

"Where exactly am I calling?" I questioned, thinking that I could at least find out if he was in Minnesota, as that was where he'd been heading the last I knew. Of course, that was over two weeks ago.

"A payphone," the man answered.

Yeah, that helps, jackass.

I clenched my teeth, holding myself back from screaming. "I mean, what city and state, please?"

"Chicago, doll. Do I have to spell out the state for you?"

Chicago. It was him. Why was he back in his hometown?

"Listen," I said, frantically twirling my hair between my fingers. "You didn't see anyone walking around a few minutes ago? A tall guy, wearing a brown jacket?"

If he'd been wearing it, that is.

There was a pause before he said, "Well, maybe. There were a few guys walking past I think—I don't know. No one's in sight now."

The phone suddenly felt like a solid chunk of steel in my hand. "Okay. Thank you."

Hanging up was the man's goodbye, and I let my phone slide out of my hand and onto the floor. The pillar was cool against my cheek as I leaned against it, not caring how pathetic I might look. I could feel more tears creeping into the corners of my eyes, so I tightly shut them, refusing to shed anymore.

Why would he do that? That wasn't just a phone call—it was a heartrending echo that completely gutted my insides, making me think the worst—though, I supposed he was physically okay. It wasn't like the man had said, "I don't know any Edwards, and the corpse on the ground next to me isn't talking."

Eventually, I found the strength to drag myself back to my room and crawl into bed. I turned off the lights and reached under my pillow for Edward's shirt. Shamefully, I continued to keep it there for comfort. I put it on over my nightgown and smoothed my hand over the inscription that hit too close to home, trying to imagine the long-faded, spicy vanilla scent that had been so provocative. I stared at my phone, which I'd placed on my night table, wondering what could have been on his mind to make him unable to say even one word.

The silence was empty and it left room in my mind for nothing but horrible thoughts. I found myself growing angry that he would do such a thing, but not enough to overshadow my fear—the worry that something terrible was about to happen to him. Or that it already had.

I closed my eyes tightly, and it seemed to take an eternity for reality to slip away, shifting me into a different darkness. When I opened them again, silver light speckled from an onyx sky, reflecting off the watery street like glitter. The road was silent, empty. I walked toward a lighter path, listening to echoing drops of water splatter the earth. Rain, I supposed. When I held up my hands to feel the sprinkle, nothing touched my open palms, yet the phantom droplets continued to sound.

The street turned into an alley with high walls and I was suddenly in a concrete labyrinth. There only seemed to be one direction in which to go and my feet carried me forward, trudging with dull, thudding footsteps, in tandem with the constant dripping. My breath quickened at each corner I approached, afraid of the unknown—of what I might find beyond the wall. Wind pelted my back, pushing me onward, and as I rounded more bends, my apprehension increased. Something wasn't right; this was not safe. But I couldn't turn back—behind me, the path had disappeared.

Shadows shifted like storm clouds and the ground around me grew darker, but suddenly, there was light ahead, beyond the next wall. I quickened my steps, running toward it. The closer I got, the louder the dripping became; it was like a continuous heartbeat, seemingly right next to my ear. When I turned the corner, I saw that the illumination came from a rusted, flickering streetlight.

There was someone hunched below it.

I stiffened, untrusting of this stranger, but all of a sudden, a low, ominous rumble came from the darkness behind me—thunder? Another person? Whatever it was, it didn't sound welcoming. I couldn't go back.

Instead of running, I carefully walked by the slouching figure but then stopped, thinking maybe they could tell me where I was. Their head was bowed, hiding from the light, and their arms hung limply by their sides. As I drew nearer, they granted me a quick look and I only saw a brief flash of their eyes. I would know those evergreen eyes anywhere.

"Edward!" I cried, running over and dropping to my knees. He didn't look up again, so I tried to tilt his face toward mine; his head felt heavy in my hands. "What happened? Where are we?"

As I spoke, the humming growl from around the corner grew louder, accompanied by slow, dragging thumps. Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

"Come on, we've got to leave!" I pleaded with Edward, pulling his shoulders, but he wouldn't move, except to grant me a glassy stare.

"Go," he whispered.

I shook my head and tugged his arm. "Come with me!"

Still, he remained glued to the spot, leaning his head back against the streetlight's pole and the light hit his shirt, shining brightly. The ghostly raindrop resonance was back with ferocity, growing louder, and suddenly, dark splotches were spreading across Edward's chest. I grasped his hands to pull him away from the darkness that was threatening to consume us, but I wasn't strong enough, and he slumped further against the light post. My hands slipped away from his, covered in something wet. I looked down in confusion, only to see a stream of liquid cascading down his arms, dribbling over his fingertips, and splattering the ground.

The echo I'd been hearing wasn't rain, and the shadows on his shirt were not shadows at all; it was blood. His blood. He was covered in it.

I didn't even have time to scream, for, at that moment, the cause of the mysterious footsteps rounded the corner, taking shape as a monstrous, looming, shadowed figure. I stared in shock as the man, if it was a man, tilted his dark head, peering at us curiously. He almost blended into the night's background—if it hadn't been for the menacing, snarling breath emanating from him, it would have been difficult to sense where he was standing. I clutched Edward's bleeding body to my chest and tried once again to pull him to his feet. We needed to get away.

"Bella," Edward rasped into my ear, and I could feel his blood run down my neck in a hot stream. "Run."

And then, as if the order had been given to the sinister man, he ran straight for us.

I only caught the end of my scream as I woke, jerking myself to a sitting position and scrambling backward until I hit the headboard. Cries that I didn't even recognize as my own spilled from my mouth and I quickly clamped my hand over my lips to stifle the sound. I dug my fingers into my shirt and sat, my chest heaving with my panicked breaths.

It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

I reached for my comforter, desperate to have something to wrap around myself so I didn't feel so exposed. It was missing; I could only assume I kicked it off the bed during my nightmare. I whimpered like a scared child as I stretched my hand down to the floor to retrieve it, then quickly turned on my light, half expecting to expose an apparition of my dream that had breached reality.

Of course, I was alone. No blood. No shadowy murderers. No Edward.

I stayed enclosed in my blanket for hours and did not sleep again until the sun came up.

-:-

"Mom, for the last time, I know."

From the other end of the call, Renee sighed, her motherly huff mixing with the static. "I just want to make sure you have everything together. I really wish you would consider taking a plane. It's not too late for you to book a ticket."

"I like the train," I argued. "Besides, I already paid for my boarding pass."

"I'll reimburse you, baby. Five days is a long time to be on a train traveling by yourself. Are you worried about your truck? If you get home earlier, it's not like you won't have something else to drive."

It was the morning before I would be dropping off my truck to a transport service in Seattle, then boarding a train for Jacksonville, and Renée was freaking out. "My truck will probably beat me there. I'm just craving some scenery, I guess."

I kicked my legs back and forth on a bench outside the lodge, listening to Renée vent her worries and last-minute reminders. Truthfully, I'd always planned on flying home, but as I started counting down the days to the end of my stay, my stomach felt heavy—the inevitable disappointed feeling of returning to reality after a long vacation had crept up on me. I had missed Jacksonville, but I wasn't exactly eager to dive back into my boring, run-of-the-mill life. Forks had been therapeutic: it provided me with time to reflect on my past, an opportunity to meet new people and get a whole new sense of myself. Although now, it felt like I was leaving half of that part behind instead of taking it with me.

And I couldn't pretend to not understand why things felt unfinished, but that was something I was going to have to deal with no matter where I went.

"Mom, calm down, none of my bills will be late. I already told you that I paid them online," I continued, turning to look down the parking lot as I heard tires rolling up the rocky hill. "Five more days isn't going to hurt. I'll—I have to go, okay? Angela's here."

Angela's Camaro came into view and I hopped up from the bench, waving to her as she parked. "I'll call you later tonight, okay?"

"All right," Renée said, probably figuring that she wasn't going to win. "Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah. Love you."

I hung up as Angela got out of her car, holding two water bottles, and jogged toward me, decked out in professional workout attire. I'd made do with yoga pants and a tank top. "Helloooo," she called with a smile. "Are you ready for this?"

"I can't believe this is my last day and you want to torture me," I said.

Oddly, the weather forecast had predicted temperatures up to the seventies for today and Angela had talked me into a physical activity. We were going for a run. A five-mile run. I was fairly sure that I might die.

Angela laughed. "You're going to be fine. Did you wear a sports bra?"

"No," I said, snorting. "I didn't think I would need one in Tree Town."

Angela handed me one of the bottles. "Well, you're coming back to run that marathon with me next spring, right? Just consider this the start of your training."

"I said I'd watch you run a marathon," I said, shifting my weight on my thin, non-defined legs. All I really practiced at home was yoga and the occasional walk around the neighborhood.

"Oh, you're doing it—you just wait," Angela said, nudging my elbow.

We set our bottles to the side and stretched our legs—well, I attempted to copy Angela's movements—and eventually, we started jogging. It wasn't as bad as I thought; sometimes, in Jacksonville, Renée and I would drive to the beach and run along the shore—only, they usually turned into walks after five minutes, and then we'd collapse onto the sand to soak up the sun.

Angela didn't give up in five minutes, that was for sure.

We jogged through town, albeit slowly. "Sorry if I'm slowing you down," I panted. "I'm a newbie to small-town cross country."

"Cross country," Angela giggled as we ran past the diner. "Bella, you crack me up."

"I'm serious," I said, contemplating asking if we could run to Newton's so I could buy a sports bra. I wasn't exactly a D-cup, but my God, my boobs were bouncing in Baywatch-motion. Eat it, Stanley. "This isn't a track. This is the road. Uphill."

Angela just grinned and I did my best to keep up and not complain. We ended up passing Laundry 101, the town high school, and even Mr. Miller, out on one of his walks. He gave us a wave and we continued running in silence until I saw—

"Whoa," I said, trying not to stumble over my feet as my eyes glued themselves to the several bare-chested boys, or men, across the street. Dark hair, tan skin, rippling muscles—they were huge. "Who are they?"

Angela glanced to the other side of the road. "Oh," she said, seeming unaffected by the Native American Ken dolls. "A few guys from the Quileute reservation. Ripped, aren't they? I'm pretty sure they only come into town for the food."

I brushed the hair that had bounced loose from my ponytail away from my face. "Some of my dad's friends are from there," I said, granting one last look at the boys before jogging past them. "My truck used to belong to Billy Black, actually."

"Oh really?" Angela said, glancing over her shoulder once more, as well. "I think that was his son back there—Jacob."

"Jacob?" I repeated, creasing my eyebrows. "I remember him. We were friends. We used to throw mud at each other when we were little."

Angela laughed as we rounded a corner. "You have more ties to this place than I do."

As she clocked our mileage, I mentally tried to count the minutes. It felt as though we had been running for hours. We stopped occasionally to take water breaks, and Angela jogged in place as I took breathing-through-the-stitch-in-my-side breaks. When we finally arrived back at the lodge, my lungs felt like lead. Angela literally pulled me up the long drive, promising me food as a reward.

"Food?" I groaned as we walked across the parking lot, pulling at my sweat-soaked shirt. "God, no. I'll puke."

"I'll go light, then," she said, walking toward the lodge's front door. "Orange? Banana? They're good for potassium intake."

"Green apple," I insisted. "I'll work on my potassium intake at dinner."

She chuckled and disappeared inside the lodge. I looked around, wanting desperately to curl up on the ground and wait for my muscles to stop screaming in agony. I was going to be severely sore the next morning—on a train, no less. At least I would have more space than an airplane.

Angela came back outside and tossed me an apple, and we walked around the corner to the picnic tables. I gratefully collapsed onto a bench and put my cheek against the grainy wood, not even caring about splinters.

"That was… fun," I said, holding back a moan of pleasure as the wind blew, cooling my body and blowing strands of hair away from my face. "But I think you're on your own for the marathon next year."

Angela unpeeled a banana and laughed. "Ah, beginners," she joked. "I promise, next time we'll just do two or three miles. How's the weather in December where you live?"

"Oh, no," I said, picking up my head and unscrewing the lid to my water bottle. I took a sip and shook my head. "We will not be exercising on New Year's. That can be my resolution, but not a day before. You can drag Ben to run on the beach."

Determined not to be discouraged over a long-distance friendship, Angela and I had already made plans for her to come to Jacksonville for New Year's festivities, and Ben was working on switching his job hours so that he could accompany her. It was something to look forward to, at least.

We sat silently for a while after that, eating our fruit and watching the trees sway in the wind. I breathed deeply, soaking up the fresh, autumn air that wasn't going to be available to me much longer. I'd said silent, visual farewells to mostly every part of the lodge, memorizing the beauty of the inside as well as the outside. I never did get around to setting foot on one of the nature trails, though I supposed Mr. Miller would be pleased about that.

"I wonder if Jessica will miss me," I said, breaking the silence.

Angela snorted. "And, once again, I'm left to deal with the asinine drama all by myself. I really, really wish you would show Doris what she did to your sweatshirt. She would be fired so fast."

"There's no actual proof that it was her," I remarked softly, flicking a rogue splinter with my fingernail. "Besides, I think I'll leave it for her as a little parting gift. Only I'm going to paint over 'Edward' with 'Mike.' Or I could just patch over his name and make it say, 'This Little Slut Got Syphilis at Newton's Outfitters' and give it back to her."

Angela spit out her water and we laughed loudly, rocking back and forth on the bench. "This is why you need to stay," she said, still giggling as she stood up. "I can't joke like this with anyone else."

"I'm sure Ben will keep you plenty entertained. Besides, you've put up with me and my drama long enough—if I were you, I'd throw a party after I leave."

"Whatever," Angela said, smacking my arm with her banana peel. "If I'm not the one bawling later after we say goodbye, Ben will be."

At her words, a little pang of sadness surpassed the still-winded feeling in my chest. I hated goodbyes, and I was going to miss Angela and Ben immensely—especially her. I stood up, finally, tossing my apple core down the hill.

"Yeah," I said dully, turning my back to the trees.

She sighed, looking at me with thoughtful eyes. "Oh, come here before I do cry," she said in an oddly high voice, pulling me into a hug. "I know I said I wouldn't, but—man, I'll miss you."

"Ang," I said weakly, my own eyes starting to sting. "I'll miss you, too. Don't cry, or I will!"

Her arms tightened slightly, then loosened, as if she was about to release me, but suddenly, I felt her fingers dig into my back. I slackened my hold on her shoulders, but she stood solidly, only pulling her head back after another second. Her eyes were wide.

"What?" I asked. "I smell, don't I?"

Angela's lips parted, her gaze drifting from my eyes to the space behind me. She looked stunned. I creased my eyebrows, confused. What was she staring at? The woods? Oh shit.

"What?" I repeated in a whisper, feeling apprehensive. "Is there a bear?"

She raised her eyebrows, slowly shaking her head. I felt my heart pick up, trying to think what could be worse than a looming, carnivorous, wild animal.

"Is it Jessica?" I asked, trying not to panic.

Surely, if there was something dangerous behind us, wouldn't she be pulling me away, running like crazy? Instead of answering me, she slowly spun me around to see for myself.

The run we'd just completed was suddenly child's play because when I locked eyes on what had so aptly captured Angela's attention, it was enough to take half of my breath away. I stared, waiting for the image in front of me to dissipate or change into something that made sense. I had just run three miles, after all, so it was possible that I was hallucinating in the midst of an aneurysm.

Because, standing on the slope of the hill only twenty feet away, holding my finished apple core—there he was—present, handsome, and unbroken.

"Edward," I breathed.

-:-