Foreword

Alice.

When I said, 'I'd never given much thought to how I would die,' it was a lie, and you probably know it.

But supping from the goblet of existential dread from time to time is a great deal different than downing it.

You already know what I plan to do and all the ways it could…end badly.

Thank you. Not just for all you've done, but for not bursting through the door to stop me as I write this.

You know where I'm going, just wait five minutes. Just five minutes.

Let's hope it's long enough.

But if she wins. Don't let him do it.

I've accepted my fate. However it goes.

Please look after Charlie for me.

Chapter One: Breaking Point

It was the eve of my seventeenth birthday. My Mom, Renee, was in Hawaii on her Honeymoon with my new stepfather, Phil Dwyer. She was supposed to be here this afternoon, but a mild hurricane put a hold on all flights leaving the state. I didn't really mind, though. I don't think my Mom had taken a vacation without me since before I was born, and I was happy she could spend a little longer in paradise.

Besides, it gave me time to think.

The home my mother and I had built in Phoenix wasn't the kind you usually saw in Hallmark movies. For starters, it was filled to the brim with cultural knick-knacks from a myriad of religions and belief systems. Anything my mother found beneficial, uplifting, sacred, or meaningful had been hung on a wall, set on a shelf, or dangled from the ceiling.

From the embroidered tapestry of Buddhist tenants in shiny gold lettering, hand-painted Navajo pottery from the Painted Desert, and a hallway runner depicting the lunar cycle from start to finish, our décor was perpetual chaos.

If there was a truth universally acknowledged about my mother, it was: if she could go somewhere new, she would. And did. As often as she could. Especially before I came along.

Yet, of the innumerable trinkets, candles, paintings, dream-catchers, and whimsical gas-station souvenirs, there was one thing more important to my mother than her need to see the world.

It was me.

For every vacation postcard pinned on the cardboard wall of 'places seen,' there were two little things I'd made, found, or drawn nestled on her nightstand. Regardless of how hard she'd worked to get a degree and become an art teacher, my mother's greatest accomplishment was me.

Which was part of the problem.

Renee was more than my mother – she was my best friend. Thousands of little inside jokes were hidden in the things we bought, wore, and gave each other.

She would keep choosing me over anyone else that might make her happy. Which was something she'd done half a dozen times, no matter how much it hurt her.

It felt selfish, wrong even, to consider leaving home after everything she'd given up for me. But the alternative was worse.

Unless I severed the chord, it would never break.

Realizing that the past two weeks of semi-independence had been spent saying goodbye, I reached out to touch the most essential pieces of my past. The lines scribbled on the molding by the main hallway marked how tall I'd grown since we moved in when I was seven. The library of VHS tapes and DVDs that Mom and I had collected over the years. Decades of little adventures trailing under my fingertips.

Finally, I drank in photographs of my cat, Magellan, before he passed away from old age last year.

I would miss the warmth of Phoenix. The glow of the morning sun sparkling like tiny diamonds on the concrete. The riot of color dizzying across the horizon like watercolors splayed out in every direction. The red mountains and wildlife.

Mostly, I would miss my loving, erratic, harebrained mother. Who was finally, truly, happy with Phil. Maybe my leaving wouldn't change anything, and they'd break up in a few years without any help from me. But they deserved that chance to thrive. To learn how to fly together without me contributing to the pace. I didn't want to be a reason for them to break up or even to risk feeling that way. I wanted her to have a chance to be happy with the man she loved almost as much as me, in entirely different ways.

If I was honest with myself, I knew I'd drown if I stayed here. I would take care of her for the rest of my life while she tried to take care of me, and I would resent her for it. So it wasn't only the risk that our closeness could come between her and Phil that had me saying goodbye to Phoenix.

I needed to prove to myself that I could live without her, too. That I was strong enough to be on my own for an extended time.

Walking to my room, which was organized as much as my need for creative chaos could allow, I slipped off my shoes and slid past the heavy blanket curtain to lay down on my bed. In the beginning, we had picked out a bunk bed in the hope of having room for a friend in case of sleepover parties with video games. Now the top bunk housed dozens upon dozens of books in messy piles. Never enough to make the top bunk mattress sag threateningly, but enough to make me feel secure that I wouldn't shake the frame too much.

Inside my special place, my sanctuary for the short duration I planned to remain, orange and yellow twinkle lights lit up the underside of the bunk bed like tiny stars. Just faint enough to be able to read the digits of the cordless phone in my hand without damaging my eyes. The phone I'd been holding for the past forty minutes or so.

I imagined it would be harder to do this once Mom returned from Hawaii. Her presence would distract me and I'd lose my nerve. She'd try and talk me out of it, use those disarmingly pleading eyes on me, and my resolve would wane.

Closing my eyes to the messy rows of twinkle lights, I sat against the wall to steel myself.

My entire life up to this point was measured in the press of one stupid telephone button.

With one deep breath, the worst was over.

In a buzzing of musical noises, I dialed my father, Charlie Swan's, number. Memorized by heart after all the years we had been separated from each other.

The phone rang, again and again, four times until a soft clicking sound against my ear informed me that my call had been answered.

"Chief Swan," His voice was warm and guarded. I could only presume that he thought this was a work call from the Station.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted with more enthusiasm than I felt.

"Beau?" My father said with a soft laugh. "I wasn't expecting your call til' tomorrow."

The reminder that our relationship wasn't exactly solid made me grimace. Outside of holidays and birthdays, we talked on average every other Wednesday evening. Sometimes with a month or more passing where nothing of value was said to each other. Either because he was busy working on a case to help out neighboring county police departments or because I had nothing to share.

"Yeah, I thought I'd call early," I tried to tease, but it wasn't my strong suit.

There was a mild pause on the other end. "Do you have any fun birthday plans?"

"Not really," I said with a grimace. But nevertheless, the sea of unspoken resentment related to that particular subject left a bad taste in my mouth.

He seemed to know it wasn't a subject I enjoyed and changed it.

"Is Renee back from her honeymoon?" Of course he would ask…

"No. Their plane got grounded."

"Oh." I knew what he would ask before it funneled into my ear. "Are you all alone at the house?"

The concern in his voice irritated my stomach. Adding to the uneasy bile on my tongue.

"I'm seventeen, Dad." I countered a bit more irritably than I needed to. "It's fine. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me."

Whether it was the snark in my tone or the phrasing I'd used, he backed off quickly. "Alright, if you're fine."

"Yeah. I'm fine," I lied. Squeezing the phone in my hand so tightly that the plastic crinkled against my ear. "Well, I will be. If you'll help me."

Silence on the other end. The longest three seconds of my life thus far.

"What did you need help with?" He hedged, doubtlessly befuddled in the knowledge that I never asked for help.

With a gaping wound throbbing bitterly in my chest, I took one deep breath to gird myself before I said the words. Being as careful as possible to leave no wiggle room for debate.

"I want to live with you for the spring semester. Can you buy me a ticket?"

With one declaration I'd rendered my father stupefied.

On the last day I lived in Phoenix, my new stepfather drove us to the airport. It was mid-morning, the sky was its signature blue, and the windows were rolled down. With music funneling into my ears and the wind caressing my face – it was electrifying.

As a farewell gesture, my Mom, Renee, put on her favorite shirt made of white, eyelet, lace. It brought out the turquoise of the jewelry we'd picked out last summer. She always wore that necklace: set with silver and laden with orange, red, and turquoise stones.

A matching ring on my right hand and a silver bracelet with turquoise stones and gold patterns narrating a Navajo legend were strapped around my left wrist. It had cost us a very pretty penny, but they would hold the warmth I needed to keep the heat alive for the foreseeable future.

As much as I loved Phoenix, the sun, and even the blistering heat – this change was necessary. I don't know how convincing my smile was at the airport. Maybe my Mom was trying as hard as I was to pretend I was happy about this self-imposed exile, but before I could board the plane she stopped me.

"Beau," she said to me – the last of a thousand times. "You don't have to do this."

Phil held tightly onto my mother's hand in support, yet made no effort to pull her away from me or interject in other ways – just as we'd discussed privately before.

After all, if he agreed with her, out loud, it would only give her hope that I'd change my mind…and make it that much harder to walk through T.S.A.

Staring into her deep blue eyes, wide and childlike with worry, a fresh wave of resolve strengthened me. No one could say, at this moment, that she didn't love me and value my happiness. But, I knew her assurance came from a selfish place, too.

A place that couldn't bear to be away from her son.

"Mom. I really want to go." The lie fell from me more eloquently than any other lie I could remember making. "It'll be good for me. And I'll get to hang out with Dad for a while."

"But, if you need to come home. You'll tell me?"

"Mo-o-m, I'll be okay. It'll be..." I nearly stammered over the word: "fun…"

My father, Charlie, lives in the Olympic Peninsula of the Northwestern Washington State. In a small town named Forks, under an almost constant cover of clouds and rain. It rains more often in this tiny, inconsequential little town than anywhere else in the continental United States.

It was from this small, gloomy, omnipresent shadow, my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was from this town that I'd been compelled to spend almost every summer since I was eight to fifteen. That was the year I put my foot down and demanded that my father vacation with me for two weeks instead.

So, naturally, she couldn't believe me. 'Fun' and 'Forks' did not mesh well for either of us.

To her credit, though, my mother didn't try to change my mind again. Just sent me a broken smile and sniffled for the hundredth time since I told her I was leaving.

"We'll talk again soon," she promised, her dark blue eyes were wet and pleading. There was a pain in her eyes, more than just the sting of separation, and she couldn't hide it from me any more than I could hide my loathing of Forks from her.

"I know," I sighed affectionately. "So don't worry so much, okay?"

"Okay, okay," she crooned in a sappy, wavering texture that almost made me wish I could change my mind. Her hand touched the Turquoise necklace she wore, and I touched the silver on my wrist, in a secret expression of familial love. Our version of friendship bracelets. Something we could look at or hold when we sorely missed each other.

"I'll text you when I land," I promised as she wrapped her arms around me.

For one moment all the sunshine in the world pooled into my skin. And in one mere moment – I was on the plane, and she and my stepfather were gone.

It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle on a good day and another hour in a small plane to arrive at Port Angeles – a city near the Canadian border. However, the time spent in the air didn't bother me.

The hour-long ride in my Dad's police cruiser to Forks was another story…

If I was lucky, I could just smile after about ten minutes, shove my earbuds in my ears, and avoid conversation for the rest of the hour. Unfortunately, I didn't think that was very likely. My Dad would want to 'catch up', which could be incredibly awkward. Neither of us were talkative people, which was okay if he didn't try and force us to 'bond.'

For those few hours, though, I enjoyed what tranquility I could. Staring out the tiny plane window, watching the world disappear behind a thick layer of cloud until it was too bright to keep staring out at the white sea. Mulling over possible topics I could ask my father.

When the small plane finally landed, and rain began to fall, I didn't see it as an omen more so than the inevitable. Olive, muted, parka strapped around me, I'd made my peace with the loss of sunshine.

My father's brown eyes waiting for me in the driver's seat of his police cruiser were equally inevitable.

Stepping out of the car when I approached, my father – police chief of Forks – moved to give me an awkward, one-armed hug.

"Eyy! Don't fall over!" he said with a laugh, smiling as he steadied me against his side. I wasn't clumsy, but my shoes weren't made for wet ground, and the uneven pavement wasn't doing me any favors. Another thing to adjust to.

"I'm fine, Dad. Thanks," I replied with some effort to at least pretend I was as thrilled to be here as he seemed to be. Loathing how many times I said 'fine', of course.

To commend him, Charlie had been pretty great about this whole situation. He seemed ecstatic that I was coming to live with him for any degree of permanence. Before I'd even packed to leave Phoenix, he'd already registered me for their local high school and promised to help me get a car.

"This' all your bags?" He asked, ever the practical person, and I nodded as his arm moved out from around me. Hugs that were too long made us uneasy, especially with onlookers present.

"Yeah. I'll have to go shopping later," I mumbled as we shoved my suitcase into the backseat and climbed into the Cruiser. I preferred to keep my backpack on my lap with me. Mostly to be able to grab my mp3 player, or even my old CD player, and have the music ready for when our conversation got as awkward as I feared it would be.

"How was your flight?" Charlie asked as he began to lead the Cruiser out of the tiny airport parking lot.

"It was fine," I said, again shooting myself inwardly for saying 'fine' for the thousandth time. My hands were busy on the small flip-open cell phone my Mom had gotten the both of us. After eight pm, minutes were free. Otherwise, I had a limited amount of time I could use long distance – so I was texting my Mom instead of calling. Awkwardly holding my bag between my arms as I did so.

The text read:

'Hey Mom, it's me. I'm in Port Angeles. I landed safely. Dad and I are heading to the house. It's raining, no surprise. Hope it doesn't snow or hail. Love you. Hope Phil is doing good, too.'

I had just clicked 'send,' hoping that the text went through without any issues when my father gently nudged my arm and smiled at me.

"So, I found a good car for you," Charlie announced.

My eyes narrowed shrewdly at the choice of phrasing he'd used. What did that even mean, anyway? Was it cheap? Old? All of the above? Definitely all of the above.

"Erm. What kind of car?" My voice could only thinly veil my concern. How bad was it?

My evident confusion when he glanced over at me made him pause.

"You know my pal? Billy Black? From La Push? He used to go fishing with us during the summer?" Charlie prompted several times, struggling to toe the line between explaining and alienating. Still, I blinked too much in confusion.

"Sorry, it's been a long time." I'd probably remember Billy if we met, but right now, I couldn't put the name to a face. I was better with faces than I was with names, anyway.

The apology soothed him, and he relented. "Well, he's in a wheelchair now, so since he can't drive anymore, he offered his truck to me."

If I could acknowledge how much my mouth pursing in response looked like my father's uncomfortable grumble, it might have bothered me. Even so, I made it. "How old is it?"

Or the thinly veiled question: is it going to fall apart halfway down the street?

My father's sinking expression, nay the powerful cringe that made his mustache twist into a half-open curtain, seemed to reveal that he'd been hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine over the years. So it's not in as rough a shape as one might think."

My stomach knotted, my mouth curled, and my father reluctantly explained more.

"Billy bought it in nineteen eighty-four, around there, but it's been fully restored inside."

I didn't need to ask if by 'around there' he was trying to shave off twenty years.

"I don't know, Dad. I don't know the first thing about trucks. If it broke down I really couldn't afford to pay for it and-"

He interrupted me with an optimistic chuckle. "I wouldn't tell ya about it if it wasn't up to snuff! It's been thoroughly examined, son."

"I'm not sure if a Truck is for me, Dad. I thought we'd just check out a used car lot or something?"

Charlie heartily laughed. "In Forks?"

"Port Angeles probably has one?"

We had just left Port Angeles and my father gave me a look, as though to convey that he had no intention of turning around.

"Well, Beau, I kinda already bought it for you," he confessed. Then, he peeked sideways at me as he drove with a gleam of hope.

He'd already bought it?! Great. I was stuck with it.

"How much do I owe you, then?"

His mustache wiggled in distaste at the question. "Keep your spending money. I got it for you as a" – he strained for a reason – "homecoming present."

The word felt so weird to me, so odd that it diminished what joy I had of having a free truck. Forks? Home? Those words were like oil and water. Staring out at the rainy sky that would forever loom over me for however long I stayed in Forks, I felt like this was the prologue of a horror movie. I half expected 'Welcome Home Eleanor' to be sprawled in blood across the front of Charlie's garage door.

Home? Why would I want this place to be home?

"You didn't have to do that," I began to say; but, the glimmer of pain that touched my father's eyes bothered me too much to let the phrase stand. "But, thanks. It's real nice of you."

I was worried I'd done some damage to his confidence, but, my reprise seemed to be more than enough to perk up my father.

"I don't mind. You'll be happier not being cooped up at the house all the time, anyway," he said, looking ahead at the road.

I smiled awkwardly at him. Mostly because I felt like he didn't know me at all. I loved being cooped up in a house so long as I had my books, music, movies, and such.

"Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it," I said for the second time, which seemed to make him bashful – as compliments often do to the socially obscure.

"Well, you're welcome, Beau," he said simply, albeit embarrassed by my thanks.

Now that the risk of troubling conversation was behind us, Charlie kept looking at the road, and I took out my mp3 player. I showed it to him in an awkward wiggle of my earbuds so that he knew I wasn't ignoring him if he tried to talk to me later. Then, when he stopped talking, I turned on my music and looked out the window.

We continued for the rest of the drive in mutual silence. The conversation hadn't been as abhorrent as I'd imagined it to be. Besides, the scenery here was beautiful. The tall stretching trees reach up into the gray clouds and torrential rain above. Even though it had little warmth or sun, the green had wick; a vibrancy that Phoenix didn't have. A world covered in a blanket of moss. Canopies of gnarled branches and leafy ferns. Even the air seemed to soak down through the leaves with an aura of green mist.

It was simply too green for me. An alien landscape when compared to dust and unencumbered sun. It looked like something you'd see painted and hung up in a museum, or a hospital, on display to 'soothe patients.'

Perhaps that was why I didn't like it here. I didn't enjoy being in hospitals or clinics. Being reminded that I had health defects that occasionally complicated my life caused my lips to fumble into an uncomfortable grimace.

Eventually, the Cruiser arrived at Charlie's house. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house he bought with my mother when they first married. I'd been here many times in my life, but still, it filled me with dread to see it. A reminder of my past that felt more like a pebble stuck in my shoe that would never be plucked free.

"So, the truck will be here tomorrow," Charlie said as I tugged the earbuds from my ears. Whatever rock song still playing drowned out before I completely turned off the mp3 player.

Knowing how stressful travel could be, I'd insisted on coming here with enough time to have a weekend to prepare for my first day of school. It was Friday, so I wouldn't have to worry about how well I slept or wake up exhausted tomorrow.

It wasn't like I'd had any fainting spells recently, but I wasn't going to give myself any chance of having them, either. Stress, extreme stress particularly, triggered my vasovagal syncope. Basically, the connections between my brain and my heart short-circuited and it dropped my blood pressure fast enough to make me pass out.

My parents made me spend my summers here to avoid the unforgiving Arizona heat, as heat and exhaustion could also trigger the 'black outs'.

It was a miserable experience, but my heart was alright – the doctors had already tested for that last year. Most who had this condition outgrew it by the time they were in their mid-twenties.

The rest of my 'conditions' weren't quite so debilitating, but being here, in Forks, reminded me of my frailties. Not just of hospitals or clinics, needles, and brain scans with tons of wires stuck to my skull like I was a science potato project.

Failures, like, being unable to keep my family together under the weight of everything I'd been born with.

Now, ironically, I'd chosen this hellhole on purpose. But, unlike Persephone, stuck in the underworld for half the year, I didn't have the balm of the love of Hades to make the experience enjoyable. Unless you counted the books I'd brought – which had plenty of lovers in them to accommodate my daydreams.

When I didn't answer Charlie, so lost in my thoughts to have realized he spoke to me, he gently patted me on the shoulder. "Beau?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I'm ready to go in now," I mumbled as I unbuckled my seat belt.

Charlie laughed and shook his head. "I said the truck would be here tomorrow. If you don't like it, I'll have Billy take it back down to the Rez', alright?"

"Sure. Sounds great, Dad." Feeling more secure in knowing that if I really didn't like the truck he'd return it for me, I opened the Cruiser door and stepped out into the cold rain.

It only took one trip to get all my belongings upstairs to my bedroom. Which had stayed 'my room' since before I was ever born.

As perplexed as I was to discover that Charlie had never gotten rid of the old pine twin bed when I stopped coming up for the summer, it was comforting to see a friendly face. The crib had been switched out for a bed when I outgrew it, but otherwise the room remained the same. Yellowed lace curtains still hung from the windows, which faced west toward the front yard, sheltered by the branches of the big tree out front.

My Mom had been so convinced that she was having a girl when she was pregnant with me that the fact that I wasn't had been a pleasant surprise.

When I was little, my parents asked me if I wanted to remodel the room. Add any posters of superheroes or Mario Bros and change the curtains to some boyish design such as Tetris or ninja turtles. I'd never wanted to change it. My Mom loved those silly lace curtains, and I enjoyed having a piece of Mom in my room with me when she had to stay down in Arizona for work.

Charlie probably wouldn't mind if I tore all the pictures down, ripped out the curtains, and completely remodeled it. But, with a faint smile, fingers brushing over my bracelet, I found I still didn't want to change a thing.

It wasn't like I felt like a sissy or a mamma's boy – though I'd been called one dozens of times by other kids. I wasn't puny, outside of those health issues rearing their ugly head every so often. Even if people thought I was, not everyone had the relationship we did, and I tried to be grateful for that.

Taking in the wooden floor, the pale green walls and the peaked ceiling – memories of my childhood filled me. Not all of them good.

With one difference, my room was untouched. A second-hand computer, with a phone line for the modem stapled along the floor, lay asleep on my desk. I'd insisted on having one to help with my schoolwork and keep in contact with any friends who wanted to message me. In addition, while I could text my Mom easily enough, I only had a certain number of texts I could make each month. So, it was more practical to communicate this way. Something we'd both have to adjust to when my prepaid minutes ran out.

Sitting down in the rocking chair that remained in the corner from my baby days, my eyes drifted to the hallway. Unfortunately, there was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, and I tried to avoid dwelling on the fact that I'd have to share it with Charlie.

Taking in my room, unchanged after years of gathering time, I was relieved that Charlie didn't check in on me now that we were 'home.' He was never one to hover, and that was one of the best things about him. He always left me alone to go unpack and get settled in – something that was nearly impossible for my Mom to do.

Which was part of why I'd never given my mother my Yahoo Instant Messenger info. She'd never stop messaging me, and sometimes the mind needs a break – even, if not especially, from those you love the most.

It was nice to be left alone. To not have to keep pretending to smile and look pleased about being here. A relief to be able to sit and stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain and let my eyes water unencumbered. To not be judged for being soft or feeling like I couldn't be myself. But I wasn't in the mood to let any actual tears fall from my eyes. For it to turn into a full-blown crying session. But it was only a matter of time before the reality of my imprisonment here finally hit me – days, weeks, or even hours – before I wept.

Touching the bracelet and holding it under my fingers, I sat there until I heard my phone go off to its familiar tune. Signaling that my Mom had replied to my text.

Tugging out my gray, metro, flip phone – I read the message and chuckled faintly behind my watery eyes.

The message read:
'Missing you. Phil sends his love. Holding my necklace and thinking of you Sunshine.'

Stupid how one cheerfully put text could make my nose start running. My Mom sang 'you are my sunshine' to help me sleep when I was little. Somehow it became one of our many things in the process. Maybe it was to help me feel happier or safe around bright lights and burning heat when I was having sensory issues. She couldn't sing without sounding like the basset hound from Lady and the Tramp, but she sang with her whole heart in it.

Laughed with every ounce of joy – so free and open. I envied her ability to light up an entire room with one smile. I had only been gone six hours, and here I was – missing my mother.

I felt silly, beyond silly, and I let go of my bracelet to unpack. Simply to try and distance myself from the imaginary sound of Babe the pig's iconic sniffling from haunting my ears. His voice, so weak and watery, whimpering: I miss my mom.

I tried to settle in by hanging up the photos I'd brought, stuffing my long-sleeved shirts and trousers in the pine dresser, taking off the parka, and hanging it over the rocking chair.

Even after I set all my stuff in as proper a place as I could find for them, this house still didn't feel like home. Even with the twinkle lights collecting dust along the walls from my tween years here, reminding me of my sanctuary, the fact remained that it wasn't.

How long was I going to stay here? Half a year? My senior year, too? Could I last that long before I went crazy?

Unable to sleep that night from how loud the rain showered over the roof until the morning's wee hours, I decided to give it until the end of my Junior year. Decide then if I could handle being here longer. I had to try. I had to really try to be on my own – or we would never fly. But, god, did I want to fly. To be inconsequential. To be able to have hope of being on my own.

This would be good for me. Even if I hated every second.