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Hello again. I'm somewhat sheepishly re-posting my stories. My decision to remove them seemed like a good one at the time, however, it turns out it was a bit pointless.
I'm re-posting them since a lot of people keep asking me about them. I lost all my lovely reviews which is a bit sad, but I had fun reading them at the time Both ladies played a major part in making the story far better than it would've been if I hadn't had their assistance. I'm forever grateful.
Seriously, you don't have to take any time off. My flight lands at one and if I rent a car I'll be there just as your shift ends anyway. We already had this conversation last night when I called to tell him my flight details, but, Charlie being Charlie, it looks like we're going to have it all over again.
I'm already irritated because I've left my cell phone at home, which necessitates standing in the middle of a busy corridor to make the call by payphone. I balance the receiver between my ear and my shoulder as I rummage my pockets in the hope of finding more change. I grit my teeth a little and roll my eyes.
I hear a frustrated sigh behind me, and I turn and glare at the douche looming over me wearing an expression that I'm sure he thinks is enough to get me off the phone. It really annoys me that, despite the fact that I'll be flying from Florida to Seattle alone, Charlie still thinks I'm incapable of then driving from Seattle to Forks.
I can't help the snark evident in my voice when I speak again. I'm twenty-eight years old and more than able to get from Seattle to Forks without any major incidents. I can tell he still imagines me to be that young girl who scurried out of Forks with her tail between her legs ten years ago. He's seen me only once in that time, and that was when he came down to Phoenix to visit me a year after I left. He never visited again. I think Renee and Phil were too much for him, and there was no way I could come to see him in Forks.
Until now. He called me last weekend and insisted that I had to come, and in the back of my mind I probably already knew why, especially since he'd insisted that I come alone. His voice had been even quieter than normal, his words even more stilted, and I could hear the regret when he practically begged me to come. I am getting tired of this now. I'm renting a car. It'll make this so much easier, so just let me do this, and I'll see you when I get to Forks!
Finally he relents and offers to pay for the car rental, and rather than get caught up in another marathon argument, I tell him we'll talk about it when I see him. I hang up and ignore the loud groan from King Douche behind me when I pick the receiver back up and, take the number out of my purse to call the rental company.
I make the arrangements to pick up a car at Sea-Tac, and then I head back to the departure lounge and wait for my flight to be called. Sitting alone in the departure lounge surrounded by strangers, my mind starts to wander to the reason he has summoned me back to Forks.
But I can't face it yet, so I push the depressing thoughts to the back of my mind. That's another reason why I won't let him pick me up; I don't want our first meeting to be in an airport terminal. I want to be in the privacy of his home when he breaks my heart. My flight gets called, and as I hand over my ticket to the attendant, she beams at me and tells me to have a pleasant journey. I can't help but think it would be a more pleasant prospect if I was travelling into the bowels of hell rather than to Forks, Washington.
Travelling alone isn't as boring as I thought it would be. The cheesy in-flight movies keep my mind off things for the most part, and the young man beside me sleeps for most of the journey.
He barely acknowledged me when I sat down and that pleased me. I was in no mood for making small talk with a perfect stranger for several hours. It seems the gods are with me when I get off the plane; my bags are among the first to come riding along the carousel and that in turn means there is only a short line at the rental desk because most people are still waiting for their bags.
By the time I get the keys and my instructions for where to find the car, the line is three times as long as it was when I got there.
I can't keep the smirk off my face as I walk past it, and see King Douche right at the end. It has just gone past four o'clock when I arrive in Forks. I glance at the sign as I drive past it and try to work out how many of the people who live here will still know me. The day I left I would imagine that almost all of them over the age of about fourteen would have heard of me, or at least, about me.
By now I'll be old news, and I'll probably be nothing more than that girl they once thought they knew something about. I pass the diner where Charlie used to take me every Thursday religiously, and we'd eat the same thing and have the same conversation every time. It was our thing, our father-daughter ritual, and practically the only time we spent alone in each other's company that lasted longer than thirty minutes.
Driving through the town, it strikes me that nothing much has changed. Everything looks the same and it even feels the same, though the backdrop of slate-grey skies and lush, green trees is a far cry from the sun-soaked beauty of Florida, and might take a little getting used to again.
Everything looks familiar and it's like Forks has been in some kind of frozen time warp while the rest of the world moved on. Of course, if I stayed away from anyplace for ten years, I'd probably go back and find most of it unchanged. But I'm sure that if I'd stayed in Forks, I would have stayed exactly the same too.
The heavens have opened, and rain is lashing down on to the mostly empty streets. Only a few people have braved the elements, and are scurrying along as if running will help them dodge the raindrops. I'm glad, because it means there is less chance that I'll see or be seen by anyone who recognises me. I don't want anyone to know I'm back in town, although, knowing Forks, I doubt that that is even possible.
I turn into the driveway, and he's out on the porch before I even switch the engine off. Thanks to the dark clouds hanging in the sky, the light is too dim for me to see him properly, and I briefly wonder if he's smiling.
I grab my bag and hurry through the rain while he holds the door open for me. He helps me peel my wet jacket off and hangs it up for me while I prop my bag against the wall. I turn to face him at last and the sight of him knocks the wind out of my sails. He's so gaunt! His skin is sallow and loose on his too thin face.
It sags in on his hollow cheeks and is craggy at his jaw line, not tight and smooth with just a hint of stubble like I remember. His hair is mostly dark grey now, still thick and cut in the same style, but that only accentuates the thinness of his face even more. His eyes are the worst, and not because of the deep lines etched into the delicate skin surrounding them. No, it's the unmistakable look of resignation in them that is the worst thing for me to look at.
This man before me is like a bad charcoal sketch of the memory I've held in my mind's eye for almost ten years. Every month —when I talked with him on the phone— I pictured him with thick, dark hair, a bushy, brown moustache, and still with that cynical glint in his eyes. I pictured him at least twenty pounds heavier, with rugged good looks and darker, slightly weather-beaten skin.
He takes my arm and gently leads me into the front room before sitting me down. He paces across the room. I can feel his tension as I look up at him, and his eyes are troubled now. He looks like he's warring with his conscience.
Like he's trying to choose the right words from a list of thousands he's gone over in his head already. He sits down beside me, and I feel the heat of his body when it occurs to me that my blood had chilled as soon as I looked at him, and I'm afraid of what he's going to tell me. I can't stand to look at his face any longer, but when my eyes trail lower, I see that his neck is too thin for his shirt collar, and that seems so much worse, so I look away from him completely.
His bony fingers curl around my hands which are clamped together on my lap. I'm sorry I had to ask you to come. It's what I've known all along, but wouldn't let myself dwell on in the hope that it wasn't true. I feel him shift beside me, and he separates my hands, taking the left one between his. He was never a tactile father, so that little action strikes fear into my heart.
This is bad. His breathing is deep and calm but, judging by the way he is gripping my hand, I guess that it is not without great effort. My eyes squeeze tight of their own accord, as if, when they close, it will make everything go away.
But it only makes it worse; I am assailed with images of hospitals and doctors and I suck in a sharp breath. My initial thought is that he has known this for months and didn't tell me, but then a more pressing thought presents itself, and I look up into his dark troubled eyes.
I gape at him through my tears. God I hoped—" I'm babbling, too many thoughts are scrambling around my brain at once. What about chemo? There's all sorts of new drugs. They talk about them in the newspapers all the time. Can't they at least—? He grips my shoulders and turns me to face him, his mouth set in a grim, determined line, his craggy jaw taunting me. I don't want that, I don't—". I've reconciled myself with this; I just want things to be as normal as possible for as long as possible.
Story Story Writer Forum Community. BellaScotia hide bio. Author has written 6 stories for Twilight. Sort: Category. An Education reviews After a sheltered childhood, 21 year old Bella has never been kissed.