Indelible

A/N: Thank you for the wonderful fan-fic-fire-fuel reviews of chapter 1!

Chapter 2: Thoughts on Forks

I have no idea how long I stayed in Charlie's truck after pulling into the driveway. I just sat there, thinking about a boy from my past, certain I'd seen him and certain I couldn't have.

It wasn't until the rain made its reappearance, with fat raindrops spattering and trickling tears down the windshield, that I finally climbed out and made a dash for the front porch.

I unlocked the door and let myself in to the sound of barking.

"Shh, Fitz. It's just me."

Toenails clicked a canine happy dance on hardwood as the barking continued.

"Quiet down, you silly thing. Sit!" I pointed. His rump dropped abruptly to the floor. "Good boy."

I shrugged out of my rain jacket, hanging it on the coatrack in the entryway. He waited patiently, one ear cocked, the other at ease as always. I bent down and rifled a hand through the crazy fur of his brindled coat, thumping his side and giving him a quick scratch behind his mis-matched ears. His pink slice-of-ham tongue hung out one side of his toothy grin, his tail sweeping the floor as he wagged.

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had been a thin and scraggly mutt when he'd found me several years earlier, but I'd seen his inner beauty and potential. I'm sure if I'd been living at home at the time, Charlie would have put his foot down about me taking in the homeless. As it was, I'd been living in an apartment on my own again by then, and I'd been happy for the company. Fitz had seemed happy for the company as well and undoubtedly for the regular meals and warm and relatively plush accommodations.

When I'd moved back home to help Charlie out almost a year ago, Fitz had been part of the deal. By that time Charlie was already used to him as a regular visitor, and I think having Fitz around was somewhat therapeutic for him.

I headed for the kitchen, flipping on the light switch as I went. "Who wants doggy-dinner?"

Fitz did. His toenails click-clicked along close behind me.

"And who really needs a glass of wine?" I asked myself, once I'd set Fitz' bowl on his placemat and he began chowing down.

I scanned the contents of the refrigerator. Friends and neighbors had been especially kind in the past week. The number and variety of offerings in the refrigerator and freezer were a testament to that. I just didn't feel very hungry lately, my stomach and my life equally upset.

Pouring a glass of wine, I sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a notepad and pen close. I crossed off another item on my to-do list: drop off Dad's uniform. Pushing the pad and pen back across the table, I reached for the most recent edition of the weekly Forks Forum. I slid it over, looking at the photo of my dad in his uniform on the front page. The accompanying article was identical to the one in the Peninsula Daily News, lying just beneath the Forks Forum.

"I think Eric Yorkie did a decent job, you know?"

Fitz looked up, his bowl now empty and licked clean. He cocked his head, as if he'd missed what I'd said, so I repeated myself.

"You know, Eric Yorkie, over at the Forks Forum? He didn't go overboard with what he wrote. Charlie would have approved."

Fitz looked over his shoulder, as if expecting Charlie's presence. I'd done the same myself several times in the past week.

"Want to hear what Eric wrote?" I asked.

Fitz sat. Apparently he did want to hear, so I cleared my throat and read.

City of Forks Mourns Community Leader

Former Forks Police Chief, Charles "Charlie" Geoffrey Swan, age 61, died on April 7, 2013.

Born in Forks, Washington, on October 28, 1951, to Geoffrey and Helen Swan, both deceased, Charlie was a graduate of Forks High School, class of 1970. Following an early interest in civics and law-enforcement, he joined the police force in 1972. Remaining in Forks, he worked his way up through the ranks, serving and protecting his hometown for forty years. He started as a patrolman, advanced to Sergeant in 1978, and in 1986, Charlie Swan became the youngest Chief of Police in Forks' history. He served in that capacity for twenty four years until forced to retire in May of last year, after suffering a stroke.

Charlie was a member of the Fraternal Order of Police, Olympic Mountain Lodge 23 and a member of the Washington Association of Sheriffs and Police Chiefs in Clallam County.

He maintained close ties to life-long friends in Forks and on the Quileute reservation in La Push. In his free time, Charlie was an avid fisherman.

Charlie is survived by his daughter, Isabella Swan, of Forks, Washington.

A funeral service will be held at 10:00 AM on Wednesday, April 17, 2013, at the Community Church in Forks.

By the time I'd finished reading, I was in tears and Fitz was eyeing me with concern.

"You have every right to be concerned," I cried. "Today, I saw a boy I couldn't possibly have seen, and now I'm reading an obituary to a dog." His tail wagged slightly at the word dog.

I grabbed a tissue, wiping at my eyes. Then I took another and blew my nose. After a shaky breath I took a shaky sip of wine before returning the Forks Forum newspaper to the opposite side of the table.

Forks. Such an apropos name.

I remember as a child asking if there were towns named Spoons or Knives. Mom had said I asked such strange questions. Dad had said he was doubtful, explaining that Forks had been named for the forks in the many nearby rivers.

As time went by, I became convinced the name Forks had even less to do with the nearby Sol Duc, Quillayute, Bogachiel, Hoh or Calawah rivers than it had to do with utensils. It seemed to have more to do with the forks in the road of life. The options and decisions sort of forks, which could be life-altering, not just for the decision-maker-fork-taker but for those who loved them. The ones they'd loved and left behind.

My mother, Renee, had been a fork-taker. She had breezed into Forks before she was twenty, travelling up the coast of the western United States with a girlfriend. When the girlfriend headed back down south to California, Renee opted out of the return trip. She'd found the Pacific Northwest and my father dreamy and interesting enough to stay, and remained behind to take a half-assed stab at marriage and motherhood.

Renee's affinity for pine green, raincloud gray, and Charlie Swan had waned after a handful of years. Always described as somewhat flighty, she eventually did take flight, veering off in a new direction with me in tow. Renee blazed a trail south in the years that followed, leaving a trail of failed relationships in her wake. I never knew quite what or whom to expect when I returned to Renee for the school year, after my childhood summers in Forks with Dad.

The one uniformity in Mom's capricious flings seemed to be her love of a man in uniform. After Policeman Charlie in Forks there had been Mailman Dave in Los Angeles, followed by Security Guard Don in Las Vegas, and finally Ballplayer Phil in Phoenix. Phil was the one to finally stick and they married a year later.

But two years after that, with an impending move to Jacksonville as Phil's career took off, I took off as well. Like a homing pigeon, or maybe a homing swan, I returned to the nest in Forks to finish out my high school years with Dad, freeing Mom up to follow Phil and his career from ballpark to ballpark.

Mom had been the first to check out of Forks; Dad the most recent. I hadn't expected Mom to ever return. I knew for certain Dad wouldn't…though I suppose he would never completely leave this place, now.

Of course there had been others besides Mom who'd set their sights beyond Forks. High school friends and acquaintances had headed off to points beyond, pursuing the paths that led to their futures, leaving this place behind. And years later, a disenchanted husband had followed suit, though I think I'd probably left him long before he'd decided to physically leave me. Or maybe I'd never really been completely with him in the first place.

For all of them, it had been obvious their time in Forks had expired. They'd been restless to move on, anxious to get away.

But Edward Cullen had been different. When the time had come for him to begin leaving, he had been reluctant about going, but always happy to return. And then after that, we had both mistakenly assumed he would always return, at the very least.

And even when he had left for good, I'd waited for a long time.

And hoped.

Until I'd finally stopped waiting.

And eventually gave up hoping.

For years afterwards…maybe still…I'd always felt he'd departed before the clock had run out, and I'd always wondered, what if things had been different for us? What if our roads hadn't diverged in the green-not-yellow wood of Forks? Would that have made all the difference?

A/N: The last lines are a reference to The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost.