A/N: I don't own Twilight, that's the property of Stephanie Meyer. Anya Simms is all mine.

Chapter Four: Just Ride It Out

APOV

BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP.

The alarm blared, pulling me from the haze of sleep, and I groaned as I slapped the snooze button. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I registered was that I was still in Forks. Still in this alternate reality or coma-induced dream, or whatever the hell this was. The ceiling above me wasn't my usual one, and the faint smell of rain and pine drifted through the open window.

I needed to accept that I was stuck here—stuck in this strange version of my life. What was the name of that CBC series? Ahh, right, The Odyssey. I was like Jay Ziegler stuck in the Dreamworld battling my way home. I was navigating a world that felt both familiar and foreign. And just like Jay and Ulysses alike, maybe I was just supposed to ride it out, see where it led.

Because what else was I gonna do? Call on the good doctor and tell him my concerns? Snort.

So, I did what any sane person would do in my situation that first morning after my shower: I got dressed and started to set up house.

If I was going to be here, I might as well make the best of it, right?

I began methodically with the boxes in the guest room, starting with the ones labeled "Towels." I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of perfectly folded towels, each one arranged by size and colour. I found the linen closet with ease, thanks to the small sticky note marked "LINEN Closet" stuck to the door. As if the shelves inside wouldn't have given that away. It was a little over the top, but I couldn't deny the satisfaction of seeing everything neatly organized.

Once the towels were tucked away, I moved on to the boxes labeled "Bedding." The sheets and pillowcases were all coordinated, and I took a moment to appreciate the attention to detail—this version of me certainly had a knack for organization. And the thread count! Oh, a woman after my own heart! Again, I found myself laughing at the absurdity, of course it's my own heart because it is me. Or at least a version of me. As I smoothed the last of the linens into place, a rumble in my stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten yet.

Hunger drove me to the kitchen, where I found several more boxes waiting for me. I decided to put off unpacking those in favour of investigating the fridge. To my relief, there were some basic groceries already stocked. Eggs, milk, a loaf of bread, some lettuce, a tomato, and bacon—it wasn't much, but it was enough to throw together a quick meal.

As I made a toasted BLT, the smell of frying bacon filled the kitchen, bringing a sense of normalcy to the otherwise surreal morning. I couldn't help but feel a wave of gratitude that, at least in this reality, I wasn't a vegetarian. After all, there were already enough of those in Forks—of the golden-eyed variety, no less.

With my sandwich in hand, I leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a moment to savour the crisp bacon and fresh tomato. The familiarity of the meal was comforting, grounding me in a way that nothing else had since I'd woken up in this alternate world. I might not understand everything that was happening, but hell, I could count on the simple pleasure of a good BLT.

Once my hunger was sated, I turned my attention back to the task at hand. The boxes stacked neatly around the house beckoned to me, each one perfectly placed in the room it was intended for. I couldn't help but marvel at how meticulously organized my American alternate self had been. Every box was labeled with precision—kitchen supplies, bedding, office materials, and the most intriguing of all, Library which I found in the large room off the kitchen. Oh, those built in shelves! Magnifique! I could see the charm of the house.

I started with the box labeled "Kitchen Supplies," unpacking dishes, glasses, and cookware with methodical precision. Each item had its place, and soon enough, the kitchen began to feel more like my own—or at least a version of it that I could live with.

I soon found myself falling into a rhythm, a sense of purpose taking hold as I moved from room to room, unpacking and organizing. There was something satisfying about setting up a new space, even if it wasn't exactly my gorgeous apartment in the chic Mile End neighbourhood of Montréal where I had been living for the last four years. Still, this was a way of asserting control over my environment, of making this house feel less foreign and more like a home.

By the time I reached the boxes labeled "Library," I was feeling more settled, more at ease with the idea of being here. Curiosity piqued, I opened one of them I was greeted by a sight that left me both amused and bewildered: dozens upon dozens of Harlequin Romance novels, neatly stacked and organized. Eight boxes full of them, all labeled and sorted.

I stared at the books in disbelief. Seriously, who reads that many Harlequins? I thought, shaking my head. My Canadian self certainly didn't have this kind of collection. It was almost comical—here I was, stranded in this alternate reality, and one of the biggest differences I'd discovered was that this version of me had a serious romance novel addiction.

For a moment, I considered using them as kindling for the fireplaces I'd found – the house had three in all. It would have been easy enough, and there was a part of me that was tempted to rid myself of the evidence of this strange quirk. But the book lover in me couldn't bring myself to do it. Even if they weren't my kind of books, they were still books, and destroying them felt wrong.

Instead, I made a note on my ever-growing list THINGS TO DO—find out where one takes donations. I carefully labeled the boxes DONATE and pushed them to the side. There was no way I was going to spend the rest of my time here buried in four hundred (yes! 4-0-0!) Harlequin Romances.

Satisfied that those boxes were taken care of, I headed back into the living room, where a collection of vinyl records caught my eye. As I flipped through the stack, I was delighted to find all of my favourites, including Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell. The familiarity of it brought a smile to my face, and I couldn't resist the urge to put the record on the turntable.

Within moments, the powerful, soaring notes of Meatloaf's voice filled the house, blasting from the sound system on the main floor. I paused, something about the setup catching my attention. It was identical to the one I had in my apartment in Mile End—the one that had belonged to my grandpère, my mom's dad. The realization warmed my heart, grounding me in the midst of all the strangeness.

I wonder…..

I stopped the record and turned the device around slightly. There it was—the small crack in the back, a familiar mark from when it got jostled during an earlier move. It wasn't just similar; it was grandpère's sound system. Somehow, it had made its way here, into this alternate version of my life. Well at least that settled one thing, my parents were still my parents.

The music reverberated through the walls, drowning out the steady patter of rain outside and filling the space with a sense of energy and excitement. It was like a soundtrack to this strange new chapter of my life—a mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar, all coming together in a way that felt oddly right. As the music played, I found myself swaying along to the beat, letting the lyrics wash over me. It was comforting, grounding, in the midst of everything else that was so uncertain. With each song, I felt a little more at ease, a little more connected to this place; I continued to explore the house, uncovering more about this version of myself. In a box labeled University, I found a set of framed degrees. My fingers brushed over the glass, and I read the inscription: Master of Library and Information Science from Kent State University.

I stared at the degree, feeling a strange mix of emotions. It made perfect sense, given that I was supposedly the new librarian at Forks High School. But it was also a stark reminder of just how different this version of me was from the one I knew. Back in my world, I had a Master's in History from Queen's University, and I had never even considered pursuing a degree in Library Science, let alone at an American university.

I carefully lifted the degree from the box, examining it as if it might reveal more about this alternate life. The name on the certificate was mine, but the journey it represented was not. I wondered what had led this version of me down a different path. What choices had she made that I hadn't? What experiences had shaped her?

I set the degree aside and pulled out another one—this time, Bachelor's of Arts in English, from Michigan State. It seemed that my alternate self had been deeply rooted in academia, just in a different direction. I felt a twinge of envy, oddly enough. There was something appealing about the idea of being a librarian, of being surrounded by books every day, helping others find the stories and information they needed. It was a role that carried its own quiet power, its own way of shaping minds.

I added this latest discovery to my growing list of differences, my thoughts swirling with the realization that this life could have been mine, had I made different choices. It was both unsettling and intriguing, like peeking into an alternate timeline where I had taken a completely different route. As morning bled into afternoon, I continued to unpack, wondering if I'd find something that might balance out the overwhelming presence of romance novels. As I delved deeper into another box labeled Books, I was relieved to discover a more diverse collection.

Nestled between the Harlequin Romances – Seriously?! She had even more of them?! and a few self-help titles, I found a set of classic literature—works by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, and even a well-worn copy of Moby-Dick. These were books that resonated with the history buff in me, and I felt a wave of comfort wash over me as I pulled them out one by one.

There were also a few modern literary works—Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale – Yes! A Canadian author and one I had met a few years ago! Toni Morrison's Beloved, and a couple of Salman Rushdie novels – more Canadiana! These were the kinds of books I'd expected to find, the ones that felt more aligned with my own tastes and interests.

It was a relief to see that my alternate self wasn't solely obsessed with romance novels—she had a well-rounded literary collection, one that reflected a love for the classics and a curiosity about the world. I dragged these boxes into the back room, which I had decided was going to be my home office / library and not a homage to all that is Harlequin. Those built ins were begging to be filled. Unpacking and placing them on the shelves, I also found a couple of non-fiction books, mostly focused on history and social issues—topics that mirrored my own interests. A biography of Abraham Lincoln, a history of the French Revolution, and a book on the civil rights movement all found their place on the shelf next to the fiction titles.

Placing the last of the literary works on the shelf in the Library – there were only three boxes, a pittance compared to the romances that were taking up too much real estate in this house. I really needed to remove them, sooner rather than later, a wave of sadness washed over me. The presence of these books reminded me of the life I had left behind—the one where I was deeply engrossed in my PhD research on the role of everyday women in the French resistance during WWII. That was my passion, my purpose, and seeing these history books only emphasized the stark difference between the life I had been living less than a day ago and the one I found myself thrust into. The shelves in front of me were filled with classics and thoughtful non-fiction, but they lacked the specific texts that had been my constant companions during my research. No scholarly articles, no obscure volumes about the French resistance, no meticulously annotated works that I had spent countless hours poring over.

I found myself longing for those familiar books, the ones that had been a part of my academic journey, guiding me as I uncovered the untold stories of the brave women who had risked everything during the war. My heart ached as I realized how far away that world seemed now, how disconnected I felt from the work that had once consumed me.

In this version of my life, there were no signs of my PhD research, no evidence of the countless hours I had devoted to piecing together the lives of forgotten women. The absence of those books and documents left a hollow feeling in my chest, as if a crucial part of my identity had been stripped away. I hadn't even come across American Anya's master's thesis. I found myself wondering what a librarian would choose to write a thesis on. Is that even part of the program or is it more focused on course work I wondered.

In any event, I found myself standing in the disarray of American Anya's life, the patter of rain my companion, lost in thought, the weight of my situation pressing down on me. This house, these books—they were mine, but they weren't. They belonged to another version of me, one who had taken a different path, one who had found purpose in other things. And while there was comfort in the familiar titles on the shelves, there was also an overwhelming sense of loss for the life I had been building, the research that had meant so much to me.

"Fuck that!" I said aloud to the empty room – I've got a laptop.

With that thought, I practically ran to the living room, where I'd left the sleek, silver laptop I'd found in one of the boxes. Despite the overwhelming strangeness of everything, the realization that I had access to technology gave me a sudden sense of control, a way to connect back to the world I knew.

I powered it on, and as it booted up, another shock hit me: it was January 2005. Seriously? Not only am I in an alternate world, but I've also traveled back four years in time? I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. It was like some bizarre cosmic joke, but one I was determined to make work in my favour.

Once the laptop was up and running, I quickly connected to the internet—thankfully, it seemed that even in this reality, I had Wi-Fi. Thank you, Anya, for having the forethought to ensure the internet was set up before moving in. I pulled up Amazon and immediately began searching for all the books I could remember from my dissertation work. Titles and authors came flooding back to me, and I added each one to my cart with a sense of urgency, as if these books were my lifeline to the life I'd been torn from.

Within minutes, I had a cart full of the scholarly texts that had been the backbone of my research. Works on the French resistance, biographies of the women who had fought in the shadows, and obscure historical analyses that had been crucial to my understanding of the era—all of it was there, waiting to be ordered. It didn't matter that I was ordering them in 2005; all that mattered was that I could get them back into my hands, that I could continue the work that had been so important to me.

I paused for a moment, staring at the screen. This was my way of reclaiming a piece of my life, of bringing a part of my world into this strange new one. With a deep breath, I clicked "Place Order," feeling a surge of satisfaction as the confirmation appeared on the screen. I might be in an alternate reality, four years in the past, living in a town crawling with vampires – Do vampires crawl? I can't remember if that was in the book or not – but I wasn't going to let that stop me.

As the rush of excitement from placing my order began to fade, a sudden, cold realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

Merde! —what's my address in Forks?

Panic surged through me as I stared at the confirmation screen on my laptop. How had I gotten so carried away with ordering the books that I'd completely overlooked the fact that I had no idea where they were supposed to be delivered?

Frantically, I clicked back to my order history, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the alternate version of myself had already set up an account with an address attached. My heart pounded as I navigated through the settings, and then, with a mix of relief and disbelief, I saw it—my address in Forks.

It was already filled in, neatly entered into the shipping details as if this version of me had done it a hundred times before. I stared at the address, committing it to memory. It was another piece of the puzzle, another detail that reminded me that, while this world was unfamiliar, it was still mine in some strange way.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I double-checked the order details, ensuring everything was correct. My books were on their way, and now I had my address in Forks—a tangible connection to this new reality.

With that crisis averted, I closed the laptop, feeling a mix of lingering anxiety and newfound resolve. There was still so much to figure out, but at least I wouldn't have to worry about my books showing up in some random place across town.

Which brought me to another thought: when exactly did I move here? I mean, why was I on that highway Friday night? But as I sat there on the couch, another, more pressing thought pushed that one aside—my clothes. câlice de tabarnak! Please tell me that this Anya had more than just plaid and sweats in her wardrobe.

I hastily rose from the couch and raced back up the stairs to the room labeled Main Bedroom. As I entered, I was immediately struck by the heavy, ornate oak bedroom set that stopped me in my tracks. It was my Grandpa Simms' set—the same one I remembered fondly from his Ontario farmhouse. The intricately carved headboard, the solid, weathered dresser, and the matching nightstands were all there, just as they had been in my childhood.

I ran my fingers over the smooth wood, feeling a pang of nostalgia mixed with confusion. How had this ended up here, in this version of my life? My mind spun with questions, but I pushed them aside—I had a more immediate concern. I needed to know about the state of this woman's wardrobe.

I quickly turned my attention to the boxes stacked neatly along the wall. Each one was labeled with precision—Dresses, Blouses, Skirts, Unmentionables. There were even a few large boxes with built-in bars for hanging clothes, containing what appeared to be my more delicate items. My heart raced as I began unpacking, hoping that I wouldn't be disappointed.

To my relief, as I pulled out the first few pieces, I found a well-rounded collection that was far from the sloppy, touristy fare I had feared. Not exactly up to Montreal standards, but still stylish, with a sleek, defined, sexy theme running through the pieces. The wardrobe complemented my petite frame, blonde hair, and deep green eyes, with tailored blouses, fitted skirts, and dresses that hugged in all the right places.

Next, I found myself in front of a box labeled Unmentionables, and my curiosity got the better of me. Inside was a collection of high-end, expensive lingerie—delicate lace, silk, and satin in a variety of rich colours. I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as I sifted through the garments. So, this version of me had a taste for the finer things in life. It seemed to fit with the whole romance novel addiction—perhaps she dressed the part to match her fantasy life.

I snorted to myself, trying to reconcile this discovery with the person I thought I was. It was strange, almost like uncovering the habits of a stranger, yet it was all undeniably mine—at least in this reality. As I hung up the clothes and sorted through the drawers, I felt a sense of relief. This Anya might have different tastes, but at least she had style.

But all of that—the frantic ordering, the puzzling over my address, the unpacking—was done over Saturday and Sunday. Now it was Monday morning, and I was facing another hurdle: my new job. I had to get to Forks High School and begin my life as Anya Simms—librarian. Right. A librarian at a high school with honey-colored-eyed vegetarian vampires.

With the reality of the situation settling in, I stood in front of my closet, wondering what on earth a librarian in this world should wear. I knew one thing for sure: I wasn't going to show up looking like I had no idea what I was doing. I needed to make an impression, to walk into that school with confidence, even if I was still figuring everything out.

After scouring the closet, I settled on a look that I dubbed "sophisticated sexy librarian." Fancy unmentionables – because why not start the day with a little secret boost of confidence? – under a fitted black pencil skirt and a silk blouse. The blouse was a dusty mauve, soft to the touch, and the skirt hugged my curves just right, ending just above the knee. I t thanked God once more that American Anya's fashion sense was impeccable, as my Montréal fashionista self wouldn't have to deal with the horror of plaid – that seemed to be reserved strictly as her pyjamas as you guessed it – she had a box labeled sleepwear.

I felt a little more like myself as I prepared to leave the house, but then I was hit with another problem: I don't drive. American Anya drives, but Canadian me lived in Montréal and never had the need—or desire—to learn. Public transportation was my jam, not navigating the roads.

Merde!

I stared at the keys in my hand, debating whether I should just try to figure it out or come up with some excuse to avoid driving altogether. But as the clock ticked closer to the start of the school day, I knew I didn't have time to argue with myself.

"Screw it," I muttered, tossing the keys back onto the table. Instead, I dug out a very lovely and practical pair of knee-high rain boots, slipped them on over my stockings, and pulled on a navy-blue trench coat. To top it off, I added a beret—because why not embrace a bit of Parisian flair on this otherwise daunting day? My three-inch heels went into my leather bag, ready to be swapped out once I got to school.

Steeling myself, I grabbed my bag, took a deep breath, and headed out the door. I might not have the driving skills, but I had the look—and sometimes, that's half the battle. Now all I had to do was figure out how to actually get to Forks High School. I set off on foot, my boots splashing through puddles, I couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, a Canadian historian, navigating an alternate reality where I was now American librarian, surrounded by vampires, with an unhealthy addiction to romance novels and about to start a new job.

What's the worst that could happen?