"Dad?"
"In here, kiddo."
Moving towards the sound of my father's voice, I drop my purse and duffle bag on the floor as I go, barely taking any notice of the familiar, if worn, decor in the home I grew up in along the way. In truth, there are bigger concerns, right now, whether or not I might have actually enjoyed the chance to simply savor the reality of being home. Concerns that are a large part of why I returned to Forks in the first place.
It certainly isn't the quality of the weather that brought me back, the sky outside the kitchen window a dull, lifeless gray. And as I catch sight of my father sitting at the nearby table, I offer him what I hope will be a somewhat more encouraging smile, knowing that even if he needs it, he is hardly one to ask for such a thing out loud.
"Hey."
"Hey Ems," He replies, standing and moving forward to envelop me in a warm embrace which I readily accept, my body tucking against his taller frame as though the time that has passed since we last saw one another is all but fading away, "Thank you for coming."
"Of course. How—how is she?"
Judging by the look on his face as I tilt my head up to get a better glimpse of his features, it is the one question my father did not want me to ask, the lines around his eyes and mouth growing deeper with every second he waits to reply. My heart aches to see him like that. Unsure, where before, I was always so accustomed to him knowing what to do no matter what.
Another beat or two of silence passes between us as he releases me, and drags one hand across his face. But before I can make any sort of attempt at taking back my initial inquiry, he is removing the opportunity from the table altogether.
"Bout the same since I called you."
My heart sinks in response, though I truly hadn't expected it to be any different. I might have hoped for some form of miraculous recovery, but reality is hardly ever that simple. Or that kind.
Where my father may seem discouraged, though, I only grow more determined. And as soon as my mind settles on a means of how I might first attempt to bring my sister back to some semblance of herself, I move past him to rummage through the kitchen cupboards for the needed supplies.
"Uh, Ems? What—what are you doing?"
"Puppy chow."
"You're going to feed your sister dog food."
"Not literal puppy chow, Dad," I laugh, placing the pile of supplies that I have already pulled from the cupboards on the counter in a neat row, before attempting to explain, "It's a snack we used to have all the time with Mom."
"And you need to use the rest of my cereal to make it?"
"I'll buy you some more later on, how's that?"
"Fair enough. You really think this'll help?"
"It can hardly hurt, right?"
He leaves the question unanswered, preferring to simply lean back against the opposite counter to watch as I begin rummaging through the refrigerator, but we both seem to know on instinct that our hopes are clinging to the answer being a yes far more than we probably should. In truth, I'm operating on a hunch, here. Using something that my mother used on me after a breakup of my own, and desperately hoping that Bella and I are similar enough for it to work on her, as well.
Still, it's a start. A way to get myself in the door, so to speak, before alternative techniques are employed. And as I set about making the snack in earnest while my father watches on, I can only hope it will be enough.
Perhaps most especially because the longer I take doing that, the more of a chance my father has to ask questions about my life, before returning home.
"So—you still with that bartender?" He begins, his gaze fixed rather firmly on the tile flooring at his feet as I turn to level him with a skeptically raised brow, "Jim?"
"Joel, actually. And no, we uh—we're through."
"You're through."
"Yep," I confirm, deliberately trying to keep my tone as neutral as I can, if for no other reason than to avoid more probing questions, "I thought you never liked him, anyway."
"Never did. Always seemed like a bit of an ass to me."
A snort escapes me even in spite of how fiercely I wish we were not actually having this conversation right now, the memory of the exact moment my father and Joel first met something amusing, to say the least. As police chief, Dad had always possessed a keen ability to see right through someone, whether they were a person he knew well, or someone he'd only just met.
And that had been something that clearly hadn't worked in Joel's favor from the start.
"Too bad I don't have your cop instincts, I guess."
"I wouldn't say that," Dad counters, the denial provoking my curiosity and causing me to turn slightly to face him, the task of preparing a treat momentarily going forgotten as he goes on, "I always kinda liked your optimism."
"Even when it trended toward just being naive?"
"Even then."
Unsure of what to say, I bite down on my lower lip, my attention turning back to the mix I am preparing in the bowl on the counter so that I do not have to look him in the eye. I may not be fond of that optimism he mentions all the time. In fact, more often than not, it only gets me into trouble, and more than once, I've caught myself wishing that I could be more like Bella. More realistic, at least half of the time.
In lieu of that, though, I suppose I've grown somewhat resigned to simply continuing on as I have already for the last twenty years, my shoulders tensing just a bit as my father asks yet another question, and I endeavor to portray a confidence I do not entirely feel.
"You okay with it all? Because I can always go out to Portland and give this guy a piece of my mind."
"Would this piece of mind happen to include your service weapon?"
"Or I could just have a talk with the guy. Set him straight."
"And we both know what that would entail," I conclude, turning yet again from the concoction in the bowl, and offering my father an amused, if not exasperated smile, "No."
"You never let me have any fun, Ems."
"So sue a girl for trying to keep her father out of jail."
"You know, as police chief, I think I might know something about staying out of situations like that."
"And yet, here we are, talking about a situation that we both know will land you in one of those situations in seconds."
The words are tempered with a smile, and my father's soft laughter echoes between us not long after, the sound far more reassuring than I probably deserve. I hate lying to him. Truly, regardless of how self-serving my omission of details relating to Joel may be. But even if he suspects that I may not be being entirely forthcoming, my father seems content to let the matter lie, his laughter fading until he once again shifts our conversation back to the matter at hand.
"So your plan is to ply Bells with—"
"Puppy chow."
"Puppy chow. Right," He nods, folding both arms across his chest before going on, "Ply her with that, and she'll open up?"
"That's the plan."
"And if it doesn't work?"
Sighing, I try to simply accept my apprehension, in part because I am honestly not sure this entire charade of mine will be successful, and in part because of the weight of responsibility that seems suddenly determined to settle itself around my shoulders. Regardless of knowing my father truly will not blame me for failing to nudge my sister's mental state towards improvement, that does not mean I will not end up blaming myself…
And that is something I wish to avoid, even if that desire only proves me to be an optimistic fool.
…
Later, after having finished the puppy chow, I wander upstairs armed with the bowl and a few paper towels to prevent any mess, my brow furrowed as I focus upon the task of shifting all of the items into one hand so that I can knock on my sister's bedroom door with the other. For a moment, silence is the only reply, and I frown, wondering if it would be rude of me to push in, regardless.
I truly don't want to invade her privacy, or force her to accept my company if she would rather be alone. But there is also something to be said for my need to have some sign of life before I simply turn away.
Fortunately for me, Bella relieves me of the choice altogether by opening the door herself, familiar brown eyes widening in surprise as soon as she realizes I'm really there. That I am not some figment of her imagination. Her eyes track down to the bowl in my hand, for a moment, before returning to my face once again.
I wait as one of her eyebrows lifts in slight curiosity, before she is stepping back to allow me into the room. And even without her next words, something in her demeanor tells me that my father's assessment of her depression had not been that far off the mark.
"I didn't know you were coming home."
"Figured I'd surprise you."
"And Dad called," Bella supplies, the tone of her voice nothing short of resigned as she moves back to her disheveled bed, and perches on the mattress's edge.
"He might've," I admit, erring on the side of potentially throwing our father under the bus in favor of keeping Bella talking. Keeping her in the present, rather than fixated on the past, "He's worried."
"He shouldn't be."
"Yeah, well—you know how he can be. This is the same man who drove all the way to San Francisco because he thought we were too young to be there on our own for spring break."
As I expected, the quip prompts the slightest twitch of Bella's lips, the inclination to lapse into a smile clearly proving more tempting than her persistent frown. Even if I shouldn't, I acknowledge a significant flare of relief at the sight, placing the bowl of puppy chow between us on the mattress, before taking a seat, myself.
I wait as Bella eyes the bowl, biting down on her lower lip for a moment, before deciding to take a handful on her own. And soon, she is lifting her gaze to look me in the eye once again, her expression unreadable as she speaks.
"He just—he just left."
"I know," I acknowledge, reaching for my own handful of puppy chow, though I do not move to take a bite, "And for that, if he ever comes back here, I will personally kick his ass."
To my surprise, Bella's face blanches in response to the assertion. Her eyes widen, as though what I am suggesting truly seems that far from normal. It startles me, to say the least, given that the idea of either one of us feeling even a little protective of the other is hardly a foreign concept. But before I can make any attempt at questioning such a sudden divergence in my sister's reaction, she is breaking me from my surprise with her own response.
"You—no, Em, you—you can't. If—he comes back, you can't—"
"He hurt you, Bells. As your sister, I'm—"
"You can't do anything. Please, Em, promise me, you can't—you won't do anything if they come back," Bella pleads, the genuine terror behind the words startling me into a nod, even if I am still largely in the dark as to why she is so afraid. She should know I don't really intend to fight anyone. At least not unless they try to initiate something, first.
My threats are largely innocuous, no matter how serious the sentiment behind them. And Bella's panic is only serving to give me the impression that something must have happened between her and Edward to make her so scared. Something to make her think he would hurt her, or anyone else she cared for. I never got the chance to know the guy, but what I'm gathering from my sister now is hardly encouraging. And even though I want to protest—even though every last fiber of my being all but demands it—I force myself to stand down for Bella's sake, if nothing else.
"Okay. Okay, Bells, I won't. I won't do anything," I assure, reaching out to move the bowl between us, and then choosing to seize her hand not long after, "If he comes back, I won't say anything either if you don't want me to."
"I don't."
"You're sure?"
"He's not—he won't be coming back," Bella states, her tone and expression once again taking on a more deadened cast, the reality of her own words clearly too much for her to bear, "It's—they're gone."
Helpless to do much more than nod in acknowledgement as my sister's gaze drops to the mattress, while her arms move to draw her knees up against her chest, I shift until I can rest at her side. I loop an arm around her shoulders, and pull her close, until her head drops down to rest upon my shoulder.
In spite of the meagerness of our own conversation, somehow I know that these words we shared are the most my sister has spoken beneath our father's roof since all of this began. And for that?
For that, I am starting to hate the boy named Edward Cullen.
…
Hello there, my darlings! And welcome to a new story of mine! I just recently rewatched all of the Twilight movies, a decidedly dangerous task, seeing as it provoked my already wayward muses into conjuring plot lines for yet another story. But regardless of the potential foolishness of this venture, I do hope that at least some of you find it to be a worthwhile read?
In addition to the canon storyline, I'm also toying with the idea of 'lifemates' from the Carpathian series by Christine Feehan, so that will feature heavily, here, once Garrett comes into play (I'm bringing him in a bit earlier than canon, so I suppose this could be considered AU?) And if any of you are willing to leave your feedback about this, or any other facet of the tale as time goes on, that would be greatly, greatly appreciated! Many thanks for reading! See you all the next time around!
~FireAndBlood1415