2,290A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts! Glad you guys enjoyed the prologue even though, yes, it was a tad bit heavy. But I think it's time to lighten things up for the summer. :)
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 1 - Crash and Burn
Two and a Half Years Later
Early June
Olympic Mountain Range, Washington State
Edward
The coach bus came to a halting stop, its tires screeching then releasing air before slumping like a battered, old man breathing a long, tired sigh. After a couple of minutes of murmured voices, indiscernible shuffling, and unrecognizable footsteps later, it hit me why everything sounded muted and muffled. I'd dozed off.
Startling awake, I jumped in my seat and barely missed cracking my skull on the bus's rooftop. Thankfully in the next moment, with a hitched breath, but before panic could take over, I found my son's ruddy, disheveled head resting comfortably on my lap. Poor kid was so exhausted not even my impressive leap woke him.
"We'll be at our summer haven soon, buddy," I whispered, pushing a few strands of hair from his face and smiling to myself.
In reply, I received quiet snores and a generous amount of drool to the thigh.
Concurrently, I recalled why we were in this tangled heap in the first place, with the rest of Tristan's relatively small frame – though in the ninetieth percentile for height – splayed between his own seat and mine. Curled up and warmly cocooned inside the sweater I'd dug out of my carry-on duffle, he was, for all intents and purposes, what his paternal grandmother, my mom, Liz, tended to call him while she hugged and squeezed him 'til he shrieked in her arms – a ginger-haired angel.
"Ginger-haired angel, my ass," I grinned privately, an angel who'd caused no negligible amount of hell and an exponential amount of embarrassment, mid-three-hour-bus-ride. Normally as well-behaved as can reasonably be expected of a three-year-old, the frenzy of a full day's travel had hit him full force. He'd been a trooper through most of it, and had I not been the stupid one, my son may have actually hit an impressive milestone for his age – that of traveling cross-country without throwing a tantrum of epic proportions.
o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o
Up earlier than usual for a six-plus-hour plane ride between JFK and Sea-Tac airports, the first half of the ride kept Tristan impressively awed with views observed from between gauzy, cumulus clouds. The second leg of the flight found him busy with more TV than he was typically allowed, followed by a session of toddler-appropriate video games galore.
A woman in about her late forties or early fifties was seated next to Tristan and me in the aisle seat. She'd been reading a magazine or something, but about an hour into the flight, she turned to me.
"You have such a good, little boy," she said in a hushed whisper. "Other than for his loud but sweet exclamations, he's so well behaved!"
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
"How did you manage it?" Resting her elbow on the armrest between us, she got comfortable.
"Well, he's known about the flight for a few weeks now, and for the past week or so, we've had nightly discussions regarding what he should expect as well as what our fellow passengers might expect. That being said, he's only three, so I suppose I can thank a big dose of luck there as well."
She chuckled heartily. "That's amazing! I remember when my kids were that age. They were little frikkin' monsters. I hated flying with them."
I smiled.
"You and your wife must be so proud of him!"
I kept smiling.
"Is she waiting for you in Seattle?"
"No, ma'am, she's not."
"Oh, you don't have to call me ma'am! I'm sure I'm not that old! Just call me Irina! Is your wife back in New York City then, or are you…?"
After becoming a single dad, for the first year or so, I was like an actor whose script had changed midway through the movie, yet no one had provided him the new one. Sometimes, while I was out with Tristan at the market, in the park, at the pediatrician's office, etc., men and women would strike up conversations, supremely eager to offer advice. At the same time, I was supremely eager for that advice. That is, until one time when a woman I'd met and exchanged numbers with at the pediatrician's called to "finalize the day, time, and place for our date." With my face flaming, I then had to explain to the woman that I really had only given her my number so that she could forward me her supposed tried and true method for resolving painful teething. All the while, my sister Alice, who as luck would have it had been over visiting Tristan and me, laughed her ass off in the background.
'Edward, you're a single dad, a lawyer, and you've got the most adorable baby boy ever. Add to that the fact that while you may gross me out, you're what many people consider hot. Get a clue, big bro, because they're coming for you, and they're coming in with guns a-blazin'. You're going to have to grow a radar.'
'A radar?'
Needless to say, I'd grown that radar.
The woman on the flight waited a few seconds, and when she realized I wasn't planning on providing her in-flight entertainment, she let out a confused sort of snort.
"Enjoy the rest of your flight," she said, turning back to her magazine.
"You too, ma'am." Then, exhaling, I turned to my son. "Trist, are you ready for a nap?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to crash and burn, buddy."
"I not crashing or burning, Dad. I just sitting here."
That pre-school logic continued through the first half of the semi-private coach ride out of Seattle. Lush and mountainous scenery, a sharp contrast to his silver skyscraper surroundings in New York City, was engaging enough to keep my son from surrendering to exhaustion.
"Trist, once the coach is off the ferry, I want you to close your eyes for a bit. You've been up for hours, and we've still got quite a ride ahead of us."
"But Dad, if I close my eyes, I can't see nothing."
"I can't see anything, Tristan."
"Me either!"
"Buddy, sleep is important, especially for a young, growing boy who got up really early this morning and who's already traveled half his waking day."
"Who, Dad?"
Sometimes, I wondered who was the bigger smart-ass between the two of us.
"Tristan…"
"I not sleepy!"
I'd been a single dad for most of Tristan's young life, present and in charge for the majority of his waking moments, whether milestone events like first teeth, first steps, first words, first birthdays or simple events like tummy aches, scrapes, trips to the park, and/or tantrums.
Thankfully, I had help from a few places: my parents; Kate's mom; my little sister, Alice; Kate's twin sister, Tanya, and I'd never discount how invaluable their collective assistance and knowledge had been. But as every parent, whether male or female, co-parenting or single-parenting knows, second-hand advice, no matter how well-meaning, can never take the place of first-hand experience.
Ultimately, Tristan was my responsibility. He was also my entire heart and soul. My entire life.
Nonetheless, I still found it disconcertingly amazing just how a kid could morph from angelic gift from heaven to demon spawn from hell out of the blue. Usually, I tried to stay calm in such situations, to turn them into age-appropriate teaching moments and learning experiences regarding the value of patience, delayed gratification, and all such relevant themes.
So, the most recent exorcist-level event occurred sometime after our coach bus deboarded the Bainbridge Island ferry. Overtired, as I'd warned him he'd be, Tristan's eyes, which were on the landscape blurring by, went from round and wide one moment to heavy-lidded in the next. Finally, he turned to me.
"I want Blanket."
Already stiff from contorting a six-foot-two frame into a seat meant for someone about a foot shorter, this request further served to tighten my muscles.
See, about a year-and-a-half ago, Tristan began hinting that he was done with his crib. No matter what I did, I'd invariably find him out of it. He'd scale down its sides like an Everest mountaineer, vault over its railings like an Olympic hurdler. It got to the point where every time I set him in his crib, I'd have nightmares about how I'd find Tristan the next morning.
Tristan's maternal grandmother, Chelsea, provided her opinion, as usual. She informed me that Kate and her twin sister, Tanya, both slept in their cribs until age three. Therefore, I had to do whatever possible to keep Tristan in that crib for another year and a half or so.
'What am I supposed to do, Chelsea, tie him to the crib? I'm sorry, but I don't understand that logic.'
'It's easier to control them when they're in their crib, Edward. Besides, I know Kate wanted Tristan in his crib for at least another year.'
'Really, Chelsea? And you know this how?"
'Because my daughter and I discussed it thoroughly and in detail," she'd replied indignantly.
'Strange, how even though he's our son, Kate and I never discussed the imperativeness of keeping Tristan in his crib, at all costs, until age three.'
I consulted my mom as well.
'Edward, honey, I'm not surprised he's already climbing out of his crib. My ginger-haired angel is just like his daddy, and you lasted in your crib for all of a year before we had to get you a big-boy bed. Listen to your gut, my love, about what will make Tristan happier and safer.'
Therefore, before he could break off one of his new and few teeth – or worse – I decided to donate Tristan's crib, the knick-knacks, and the room décor that went along with it and redecorate his room around a big-boy bed for his second birthday. It was a bittersweet decision for…many reasons. But it was time.
Chelsea was livid when I happened to mention my plan.
'Edward, you have no right to take it upon yourself to make that sort of decision!'
'Excuse me, but since two people made Tristan, and one of those two people is no longer around, exactly whose agreement am I meant to seek out?'
As she failed to provide me with an answer – at least, with one that made a modicum of sense – I went ahead and bought Tristan a bright green and white bed in the shape of a sports car and redecorated his room accordingly. Chelsea, meanwhile, gifted her grandson a handknit blanket in blues and browns – his old color scheme – and in a size that perfectly fit the crib that was now taken apart and waiting by the door for drop off to the Salvation Army.
Two-year-old Tristan hugged the blanket. 'Blanket soft.'
'Isn't it, Tristan, darling? And it's just the right size for your sweet, little crib, where your Mommy would've loved keeping you for a little while longer. Should we ask Daddy to rebuild it?'
In reply, Tristan jumped on his new bed, covered himself with his new blanket, and pretended he was racing around town. I could never accurately gauge how much of a consolation it was to Chelsea that although Tristan slept soundly and safely in his bed every night from then on, he rarely spent a night without Blanket.
So, when my son, in his sudden exhaustion, requested Blanket halfway through the coach bus ride through the Pacific Northwest, I took a quick, mental inventory of those items I currently carried in the overhead duffle, and even those in our luggage stored on the bus's baggage hold. Two seconds later, I arrived at a horrifying realization. I had not, in fact, packed Blanket for our summer sojourn.
As I cringed in my seat, already dreading breaking the news to a spent three-year-old, I wondered if his mother…if Kate would've ever made such an enormous mistake.
"Uhm…Trist, buddy, Dad forgot to bring Blanket to Washington for the summer. Sorry."
He stared at me through round, green eyes, blinking excessively, his minuscule mouth hanging slightly limp.
"But don't worry." I offered him a brilliant smile meant to convey the greatness of the problem-solving skills I was about to share. "Dad brought other blankets, and I'm sure the town we're headed to has plenty of stores where we can buy-"
"I want Blanket."
"You know what I do have in the duffle bag? That warm, green sweater Nan Chelsea made you-"
"Blanket!"
I felt the unmistakable sensation of eyes suddenly on us. Then I literally heard the constant hum of conversation that had accompanied us since Seattle come to a deafening halt.
"Hey, you want to call Aunt Alice and see what she's up to? Or Nanny Liz? Or Grandpa? Or-"
"I want Blanket!"
"Tristan, please lower your voice," I said calmly yet firmly.
"BLANKET!"
Apparently, it was time for a life lesson.
"I know you want Blanket, buddy, and I wish I could get it for you," I said, employing my father-in-charge tone, "but sometimes, things are simply out of our reach, and no matter how badly we-"
The rest of that lesson was drowned out by the aforementioned meltdown. For the next five minutes, which at that moment felt more like five hours, no words of persuasion, whether spoken backward, forward or while balanced on my head, calmed my son. Our fellow passengers first sucked their teeth, then groaned, and ended with none-so-subtle requests that I "get that kid to shut it!"
Finally, Tristan's screams drained him of the last of the adrenaline encore coursing through his tiny frame. With a long-suffering sigh, he shut his eyes and blessedly knocked out.
So now, I snorted at my sleeping demon while the coach continued emptying of haggard passengers, and I resisted the urge to chuckle.
"Could've thrown that tantrum on the flight, bud, and saved your dad a few minutes of awkward conversation."
Before I woke Tristan so we could exit the bus as well, I began what I hoped would be a quick text exchange.
Chelsea, everything's good. We're not there yet, but if you can please stop in at my apartment and grab Tristan's blanket, then mail it out to the address I gave you, I'd appreciate it. Thanks.
A minute later, I sighed in frustration as I read her reply.
Finally! Some communication! I've been so worried! I even called your parents and your sister! Now you're only reaching out because you need my help after you took my grandson away for the summer and to such a ridiculous distance! And how in the world did you leave behind Blanket?! You know he adores it!
"Come on. Seriously, exclamations after every sentence?" I groaned to myself as I typed out a reply to her reply.
Chelsea, we've been traveling all day, and I haven't had time to reach out. I've always appreciated your assistance, and obviously, leaving behind Blanket was an oversight. Please just send it when you can. Thanks.
I nursed another vain, minute-long hope for that to be the end of the text exchange.
As a parent, these are the sort of oversights you can't afford! My poor Tristan! As if it isn't bad enough he's going to be away from everything he knows for an entire summer! He'll probably spend the entire time having nightmares!
"Not if you just send the fucking blanket," I spat under my breath.
Then with a huff, I squeezed my eyes shut and exhaled through my nostrils. It took fifteen seconds of Herculean effort, but I resisted the urge to type those words out in text form. With another breath, I repocketed the phone. Chelsea was…many things, but she loved her grandson. She'd rant and rave, then she'd have that blanket out in the mail first thing in the morning.
Yet, our exchange had reaffirmed that I needed a break, not just from her but from pretty much everything back home – except my son.
And God, I hoped I was doing the right thing for Tristan – the right thing for us both. Sure, there were closer small towns in which to spend a quiet summer away from New York City. There was upstate New York, and the Hamptons, and the Jersey Shore. Perhaps, had I actively been searching for a vacation spot, something in one of those places would've caught my eye.
But the little town to which Tristan and I were headed had come to my notice pretty much out of nowhere. A few weeks back, I'd been scrolling through the news and came across an article about tiny towns attempting economic revival through their relative obscurity. It turned out that anonymity had the benefit of allowing these towns in parts unknown to maintain the pristineness of their natural landscape. Then, a particular town's name had jumped out at me simply for its peculiarity – named for a utensil, or conversely, for the possibility of more than one bend in the road…
Before I knew it, I was sending emails and making inquiries. And although the pictures I'd seen of the town where we were headed promised an Eden-like paradise, after that text exchange with Chelsea, I had to admit that its biggest draw wasn't its mountainous landscape but its distance.
With that thought in mind, and with a deep breath, I looked up.
Beyond the tinted window on the Dungeness Line Luxury Coach, large, white letters on a stout, red-bricked building announced we'd arrived at the Port Angeles Gateway Transit Center. Behind the building, a cluster of serpentine mountains coiled around an indigo-gray horizon, crowned by a dim, hazy, early evening sun wearing an abundance of downy clouds. In the foreground, a gathering of trees unfamiliar to a northeastern eye rose majestically, tall and proud, nobility leading the way to…to where and what?
Those were the questions.
Either way, it was breathtaking, for lack of a more original term. Not for the first time, I wondered what Kate would've thought of all of this.
'On screen and paper, it's a cute idea, Edward. But we've got the Hamptons in our backyard! We've got the Shore, the Catskills, and even Cape Cod if you want to go a bit further! The Pacific Northwest, Edward? And a tiny, relatively unknown town to boot? There's no way I'd pick that over any of the former spots.'
"But I would. I did," I breathed to myself.
Then, I snorted because I was a lot more confident when speaking to myself than in reality. And along with that went the equally disquieting fact that lately, thoughts of my dead wife no longer brought on the sharp ache of despair they'd once engendered. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
"Kate…is this what you meant by mov-
"Dad, who's you talking to?"
Peering down at my now-wide-awake son, a pair of eyes greeted me exactly like the ones I saw daily in the mirror. They reminded me of the here and now, of the evergreens I'd just admired through the windows.
"No one, buddy." I smiled and ruffled his already tousled hair. "Come on. We're here."
"We's in our summah home?"
"Almost, Tristan; almost."
OOOOO
With a duffle slung over one shoulder, my son's car seat gripped in one hand, and Tristan's hand held firmly in the other, we stepped off the coach. The bus driver stood off to one side, wishing his passengers good luck and safe travels on the rest of their journey toward their destinations. Me, he offered a scowl and an extremely insincere "Yeah, sure, man," in reply to my words of gratitude and apology for any inconvenience.
After retrieving our two larger pieces of luggage from the luggage hold compartment, we made our way to the terminal's exit.
"Come on, buddy. Let's breathe us some fresh mountain air, yeah?"
Tristan's apathetic, halfhearted inhalation barely jostled his shoulders. Along with his shuffled and sluggish steps, it all hinted at an adventure that was quickly losing its luster.
"How much 'til we's in our summah home, Dad?" he asked in a monotone that confirmed my suspicions.
"You've been such a big boy today, Trist. I'm so proud of you. Not much longer, I promise."
I had to get him settled soon, or the next time Tristan erupted, we could conceivably be looking at devastation on a cataclysmic scale. Luckily, just a few feet from the exit, someone called my name.
"Mr. Cullen?"
The man approaching was dark-haired, in about his early forties, and of average height and build. When he saw me visibly respond to the name, he removed dark shades under which were a pair of equally dark eyes, crinkling at the edges. A thick mustache matched the rest and concealed his upper lip. He wore jeans and a flannel, checkered button-down that had me silently musing how, summer or not, for the next few months, I'd have to grow accustomed to what was likely the unofficial uniform around these parts. Still, the man's understated and comfortable appearance – at least, while out of official uniform – made me glad I'd left all my suits behind for the summer.
All these thoughts only lasted a few seconds. The man was soon in front of me, while behind him, a bright red Chevy pick-up contrasted with all the greenery – looking even better than it'd looked on my laptop screen.
I stepped forward with Tristan. "Chief Charlie Swan?"
His mustache twitched as he stretched out a hand. "Mr. Edward Cullen, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law. Good to finally meet you in person, and please, just call me Chief."
"Chief," I acquiesced, chuckling at the ridiculous, mouthful title he'd addressed me by. Simultaneously, I realized two things:
1) He'd likely gotten the title from my auto-filled emails, and
2) He was making friendly sport of me.
Instantly, I felt at ease. And at the same time, I was impressed by the solid yet unpretentious handshake.
"Please, just call me Edward."
"Edward, then, how's the trip been so far?"
"It's been…long, especially for my son."
The chief crouched down and impressed me further with his friendliness toward my young son. Again, he stretched a hand, and when Trist glanced up at me questioningly, I nodded.
"Hello, young man, I'm Chief Swan, but you can call me Chief."
"Hi, Mr. Chief. I'm Tristan Cullen."
Charlie chuckled. "Just Chief."
"Tristan, the chief here is the chief of police in Forks, where we're going to spend the summer."
"Really, Chief?" Tristan exclaimed in open awe.
"Really," Charlie confirmed before getting to his feet again. "Tristan, it's good to meet you." Then, to me, Charlie added quietly, "Yeah, I remember those long trips with a preschooler and the Chernobyl-level meltdowns that typically resulted."
"Try a Vesuvius-level eruption," I smirked.
"Ah," Charlie nodded, "a big-bang level outburst. Got it. Poor kid."
"Poor fellow passengers," I muttered, making Charlie's mustache twitch all the more.
"Listen, Edward, I apologize we weren't able to pick you guys up in Seattle, but my shift ended just this morning, and Sue had a client call her last-minute to schedule something for this afternoon, and Sue's partner, Gianna, is working with another client…" He trailed off and shook his head. "A few others must've read that same article you told my wife you read because the tourism industry is suddenly booming in Forks."
His dry tone made it unclear how he felt about that boom. Either way, I waved off his unnecessary apology.
"Please don't apologize. Sue has been more than helpful over the past couple of months, going above and beyond. Then when I mentioned I'd probably need to rent a car for the summer, and she offered to rent me this truck…" My gaze wandered to the truck behind him, almost grudgingly returning to him. "I had no expectations of either of you even doing this much. Besides, we were fine. It's been an adventure, hasn't it, Trist?" I smiled down at my son.
"Chief, I went on a great, big plane with my dad! We saw the ground from sooo high," – Tristan stretched out his arms as far as they'd go – "like we was birds! Then the plane was in the clouds, and I asked Dad if we was gonna see my mommy cuz Nanny Chelsea says my mommy's in the clouds, but he said she's even higher than the clouds!"
In my periphery, I saw Charlie's eyes flash to me briskly before returning to my son.
"Then we took a bus, and we saw big, big many mountains, like the ones behind you! Then I fell asleep. And now I here!"
"That sounds like it was quite the adventure all right, young man," Charlie said softly. When he turned back to me, I was silently grateful he made no additional comment or questions on Tristan's speech. "So, why don't we head home in your new summer truck, guys? It's about an hour ride, but I promise it'll be more comfortable than even that coach probably was."
As we walked toward the truck, Trist looked up at me. "Dad, is that big car mine and yous?"
"It's ours for the summer, buddy."
"Oh, boy! Dad, I was comforble on the bus, but I sorry if I yelled for Blanket."
I squeezed his hand. "Other than for your nap, you've been up for almost fourteen hours. If we were back home, it'd be almost bedtime."
"Really, Dad?"
That open awe in his voice always got to me. It was as if I were a wizard conveying a secret, magical spell to him. In all honesty, the weight of responsibility carried by that awe was humbling, sometimes threatening to overwhelm me. And sometimes…I wished I had someone with who I could share-
"Dad?" he repeated impatiently, making me chuckle.
"Really, Trist." As I loaded the luggage onto the truck bed, I addressed Charlie. "I considered breaking up the trip into two days and staying in Seattle overnight before heading here. But then I figured we might as well get it over with in one shot."
"Like ripping off a band-aid. Makes complete sense," Charlie nodded solemnly. I could already tell he was a man of few words, yet the ones he spoke, he meant. "Kids are a resilient bunch, much more than many give 'em credit for. Now, this way, you'll both be home tonight instead of having one more day of travel ahead of you."
Home. It was simultaneously a welcome yet daunting prospect. I'd rented the place, sight unseen, through Labor Day. Yet what kind of home, even if just for the summer, would I make for Tristan amongst a bunch of strangers? What would these next few months entail? What sort of days and nights would my son and I experience here, by ourselves?
"Dad," Trist yanked my arm, "I promise I won't scream like that again. I a big boy," he nodded fervently.
"I know you are, son," I smiled. "I know you are. And you might scream like that again, and then again, you might not. There's no need to promise one way or the other."
The words hit me like a ton of bricks because, for a moment…it'd sounded like I was simply making excuses.
OOOOO
Charlie handed over the reins – or rather, the keys to the truck. After settling Tristan into his car seat, we were on the road to Forks, Washington, a rugged town with a population that roughly equaled the student body in my high school, and a town that promised to be almost as far removed from New York City in distance and similarity as one could get.
While Tristan once again wrestled with sleep by admiring the mountainous view from his back window, Charlie and I spent the next half hour excitedly going over the truck's specs. It was amazingly well maintained, and I may have praised this great maintenance more than once. Every time I did, the Chief offered me a wistful smile. After about the fourth time, it hit me that renting out the Chevy pick-up for the summer hadn't exactly been Charlie's idea.
"I'll take good care of it, Chief, I promise," I smiled.
"Didn't mean to make it seem like I was unwilling to rent it to you, son. I can already tell you'll be good with it. Tell you the truth…it was meant for my goddaughter, a big and strong truck, and I still consider it hers even though she won't…she'd rather not drive." He snorted, his gaze suddenly stuck on the windshield but seeming to see something beyond the forested road. "Now she's got her heart set on one of those electric vehicles that drive themselves."
He exhaled, and I fought my curiosity. It didn't seem that Charlie wanted to say more about this goddaughter, and as he'd been gracious enough not to ask about Tristan's earlier monologue, I'd offer him the same courtesy. Instead, I maneuvered us through the darkened, one-lane road, learning the drive around these parts. A light sprinkling of rain started falling, and I quickly turned on the windshield wipers. I wouldn't take a chance with the precious cargo in the back seat.
"Daddy drives a boomer in New York," Tristan volunteered from the back, pretending he was handling an invisible steering wheel. "He goes, Vroom! Vroom! VROOM every time we go see Grandma Lizzy, Grandpa Ed, and Aunt Allie!"
Charlie side-eyed me. "I assume young Tristan isn't referring to you driving some poor senior citizen down the streets of New York?"
I chuckled. "Nope."
"A Beemer, huh? Nice."
"And I got a big, blue car I sleep in!"
"Do you?" Charlie smiled into the rearview. "Well, it looks like the three of us 'll be bonding over our love of vehicles that go Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!"
I grinned. "Looks like it."
"Chief, what's a goddaughtuh?" Tristan asked.
"Oh. A goddaughter is like a daughter, except she has a different mom and dad."
"But you still love her?" Tristan wondered.
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. "Just as much."
"Chief, is her little like me?"
The chief chuckled. "No, Tristan, but there are a few kids about your age in Forks. And I've got a daughter who's a lot younger than my goddaughter."
"How old are she?"
"How old is she, Trist," I corrected.
"That's what I asking. Are she little like me, or are she old like Dad and your goddaughtuh? Can I play with her?"
"Well, Leah's not quite as young as you, but she and my goddaughter will both be counselors this summer at the town's summer camp program. And I'm sure they'll both be happy to play with you."
"Yay!"
"You did sign up Tristan for that, didn't you?" Charlie asked me more quietly.
"I did," I smiled.
"Thank goodness," he breathed. "For a sec, I feared I'd stuck my foot in it since the camp's already full. I'm telling you, this summer is shaping up to be something else."
"Well, that's something else your wife helped me out with. She forwarded me the paperwork."
"That's my Sue," Charlie grinned. "Soon as you mentioned Tristan here to her, she developed a soft spot. Loves kids, that one. And the camp's run by a wonderful young woman, Rosalie McCarty. Now, at your son's age, I think he'll be in the half-day, Pee-Wee program. It'll be a great way for him to make friends this summer."
"That's what your wife said, and…I agree. It's been just Trist and me for a while," I found myself volunteering. "But he's getting to an age where I'd like him to branch out and learn to start making friends."
"Meeting people your own age is a good idea at any age. Alright, we're coming up onto Forks Avenue, which is our main street."
Hastily looking around, I spotted a couple of trendy-looking shops interspersed with a handful of older, diner-style places. There was a boutique hotel in between two other motels. There was an interesting café next to a mom-and-pop pharmacy. Then, we stopped at an intersection's red light. However, I could see that once we drove beyond the intersection and the traffic lights, we'd come upon maybe a handful more businesses, old mixed with new, before leaving behind Forks Avenue – and apparently civilization as well.
"This is the main street?"
"This is our main street, aaand this is where our main street ends," Charlie said. "It's growing; got a few new shops popping up, even one of those extreme adventures outfits."
Again, I couldn't tell from his tone how he felt about his little town's recent growth spurt, so I said nothing. However, I was coming to realize that, although Charlie was quiet, he was by no means slow.
"I've never been to New York City, but I imagine this is different from what you're used to?"
"Vastly different. Night and day different," I snorted.
There was a beat of silence. "Edward, within this small perimeter here, you've got everything you need and nothing you don't need. We're bordered on the north and west by miles of saltwater shores and south and east by alpine meadows and rainforest valleys. Wild rivers crisscross the region, providing some damn healthy fishing." He looked at me sideways. "You fish?"
"While I have fished, I wouldn't call myself an angler; though, I wouldn't mind exploring it as a hobby this summer."
"Good to know. We've got waterfalls and trails for hiking or off-roading with this beauty. And at night, our sky is just…full of stars. You stargaze?"
"I mean, I've looked up at the sky at night, but I'm no Galileo."
"Hm," he grunted. "Then, there are the beaches. How 'bout surfing? You surf?"
Peculiarly, though he'd sounded almost eager for me to answer in the affirmative regarding the fishing and stargazing, when asking about surfing, he sneered.
"Again, like the fishing, I've tried it, but I'm nowhere near bleaching my hair blond while hanging ten."
"Now, that's good to know too. Dangerous sports – surfing, jet-skiing, and all that nonsense, but it's gotten real popular with some of our young people like they've got to prove…" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Anyway. If you want to do some grocery shopping, there are two grocery stores; your basic, normal one, and now we've got one of those newfangled vegan and plant-based ones too. You vegan?"
"Now, that is a definite no."
His mustache twitched before he thumbed his finger toward somewhere behind us. "You want to eat out, you've got a handful of options for that as well. You need clothing, housewares, hardware, an ATM, the Lotto, you've got Newton's Outfitters. Schools, my police station, Sue's realty slash tourism agency, a pharmacy, and a couple of other odds and ends round it all out, and we're good to go here in Forks."
I quirked a brow in his direction. "What more can one want?"
He held my gaze steadily. "Well, this'll at least take care of your summer needs. Speaking of which, your little boy has conked out back there."
I took a brisk peek over my shoulder, noting the sharp angle at which Tristan's head hung, the slack mouth, and the slight snore.
"Aww, damn. He didn't even have dinner," I sighed.
"I was going to suggest you pull over before the light changes. That corner pub there serves some good, honest meals. The owner's a good friend of the family." From Charlie's tone, I could tell that around these parts, that was worth more than a Michelin star.
"Maybe I could pick something up for Tristan and me in case he wakes up later. Right now, I only have snacks and such on me." My stomach rumbled at the thought of real food. It'd been hours.
The Chief smiled. "Good idea."
After checking and double-checking with the Chief to make sure he didn't want anything, he volunteered to wait in the car with Tristan while I parked and ran into Emily's Pub, as the sign above the restaurant read.
The inside space was small but cozy, purposely rustic, yet clean. Some alternative band played loudly over the sound system. Plastic-table-cloth-covered tables filled the mid area, and red, squirt-ketchup bottles rested side by side with yellow mustard bottles and frosted-plastic glasses of water. At a long counter, patrons wore more denim and checkered clothing while enjoying their meals alongside a rich-looking brew served in real glass pints. My mouth watered, but now wasn't the time to kick back with a beer. More than a couple of pairs of eyes were abruptly dragged away from their pints and landed on me with undisguised curiosity.
Clearing my throat, I made my way to the front of the counter at the other end of the pub, where a sign read, 'Place Take-out Orders Here (But Not the Alcohol – You Wish, Dudes).'
"…another summer tourist…not from around here…" I heard whispered. "…look at his city clothes…"
I ordered chicken tenders and fries for Trist – not the healthiest option but something I knew he'd eat without complaint if he happened to wake up hungry – and a chicken salad for me. Then, I took a seat on one of the counter-level stools and tuned out the not-so-furtive stares and not-so-hushed whispers while scanning my phone for messages that needed answers. There were a couple from my parents, a few more from Chelsea, one from Alice, one from Tanya, and a couple from a couple of friends. I sent out short replies alerting everyone that Tristan and I had arrived safely and that I'd be in touch within the next couple of days.
The woman behind the counter reappeared, and I pocketed my phone as she handed me my to-go bag along with a friendly smile.
"Here you go, honey."
"Thanks."
"You renting one of the places for the summer?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Aw, that's good! You need anything else?"
"Uhm…actually, can I please have some plastic utensils?" I was in no mood to dig through luggage back at the house for utensils.
"Already put some in there! Ooh!" she exclaimed, "But I did forget the ketchup packets. Don't know if your place has ketchup, and you can't have tenders without ketchup! Let me go grab you some."
While she disappeared again, this time to find ketchup – and it would've indeed been a tragedy to unpack Tristan's tenders without ketchup – I sat once more.
That was when I inadvertently honed in on a conversation occurring a few stools down from me...and a voice that seemed to cut through the rest of the clatter.
"Emily, I'll be fine, really."
"You should let me call them to come get you. You're in no shape-"
"No, Em."
"But your balance…"
"So, I'll sway and stagger a bit from here to home. Maybe hit the floor once or twice. Nothing new, and no biggie. I've had worse."
"Bella, that's not funny, babe."
The person…Bella chuckled. "Admit it; it's a little bit funny."
At those words, I looked up.
The other woman, apparently the bartender behind the counter, was in about her early twenties and speaking to a woman…to this Bella. She sat a few stools down from me, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. From my angle, she was slim and unremarkable, dressed like the poster child for a female lumberjack, with the requisite flannel checkered shirt paired with denim shorts and a set of scuffed black combat boots. Her brown hair was swept up in a haphazard ponytail. When her boots hit the floor, she swayed unsteadily on her feet.
"Whoa."
Apparently, Bella had pushed back one drink too many. I snorted quietly to myself, noting how even a town this small and remote had its requisite drunks. And if the wild-west-type boom continued, it'd probably soon have more.
"Don't call them, Em. They all worry enough. It's not a bad one, I promise."
Her voice had a pleading quality to it now, and I watched with an inexplicable sort of fixation as this Bella person staggered her way to the exit by clinging from one stool to the next. I considered offering my assistance – not in the form of a ride home, no, but perhaps by offering her Uber money. There had to be Ubers in this town, right?
In the next moment, it hit me:
If a town this small had your typical drunks, it would also have other vice and crime forms. And if it had crime, it had criminals, some of which might very well be maniac kidnappers.
'Tristan, the chief here is the chief of police in Forks...'
That's what I'd told my son, but Jesus, what the hell did I know about this Charlie Swan beyond what he and his wife told me? What proof did I have that any of it was true? What if he wasn't really the chief of police? And so what if he was? For that matter, what did I know about his wife beyond the fact that she'd rented me a summer house via emails and texts?
I'd left my son alone in a car with a total fucking stranger.
Panic sent bile welling up to my throat, concurrently shooting adrenaline through my limbs.
I rushed toward the door, all fucking thoughts of ketchup annihilated. The hammering of my heart and the throbbing in my temples blurred my vision so that when the drunk, staggering woman – Bella – who was apparently still attempting to find her way to the door, stumbled out in front of me, I plowed into her, hard. The to-go bag of food between us bore the brunt, smashed between our chests.
"Oof!"
"Ow!"
After our collision, I instinctively grabbed her by the waist before she could go down – by her own admission, nothing new to her, but still. In one hasty and impatiently ungraceful motion, I set her solidly back on the nearest stool.
"Watch it!" I said sharply.
Her head snapped up.
Two brilliantly onyx eyes, more black holes absorbing all constellations in their orbit than actual eyes, met my eyes. It was only later that night, while alone in my new bed and with the knowledge that Tristan was safely in his bed, that I'd stop to think about those eyes. They were amazingly deep and unclouded and…intense, especially for a drunk individual. It was as if…just like black holes, they'd swallowed up all light in their vicinity, claimed it for their own. Had I not been in the midst of almost blinding fear at that moment, I may have become completely lost in those eyes and never found my way out of that pub.
"Why don't you watch where you're going, City Boy?" she spat, onyx eyes flaring.
"Seriously, Lumberella?" I retorted heatedly while simultaneously sprinting for the exit. Nonetheless, I clearly heard her indignant intake of breath when the appellation hit her.
"Lumber-? Asshole!"
With no time to spare arguing with an inebriated person, regardless of her eyes, I yanked open the door. Immediately, I spotted the red truck parked exactly where I'd left it down the block. I ran toward it at breakneck speed. As soon as I was close enough to see Tristan through the windows, still in his car seat, still fast asleep, my feet came to a halting stop, and I dropped my head, inhaling and exhaling hard.
Charlie, the police chief, was in the passenger seat, right where I'd left him too. When he saw me, he smiled and simultaneously shot me a frown as I opened the back door and set down the squashed to-go bag – minus ketchup. I leaned in and brushed my lips across my son's forehead before climbing back into the driver's seat.
"Had a moment back there?" Charlie smirked.
"Yeah," I admitted, wrapping my hands around the steering wheel and waiting for my racing heart to slow to normal before I started up the engine. "I had all these…crazy thoughts…" And a drunk woman with onyx eyes who did nothing to help with my clarity of mind, I thought to myself but didn't verbalize.
"S'alright," Charlie said. "Happens to us dads. It's good to check in on those moments once in a while. Trust me."
I turned on the truck, let the engine roar and turn over a couple of times; then, Charlie gave me directions.
"Edward, if you don't mind me asking…how long has it been since…?"
"In November, it'll be three years since Kate's death. Tristan was eight months old." Then, I added something that surprised me even more, considering our short acquaintance. But I felt…a peculiar sort of kinship, a sort of rapport with Charlie – well, except for when I'd imagined him as my son's kidnapper. "That first year, my son's well-being was all that kept me going."
Except for directions, we forewent conversation until I pulled up in front of Charlie's house. It turned out we'd be neighbors for the summer, with Tristan's and my house just down the next block. Charlie had a good-looking home, pristine white aluminum siding and a red door as well maintained as he'd kept the truck's red paint. A garage to the side curiously boasted windows and colorful flowers in window boxes, as if the garage had been converted from its original purpose.
He climbed out, and I thanked him for everything, gratitude which he waved off. He promised he and Sue would be by the next day because she was dying to meet Tristan and me in person. Then, he looked at my son and hesitated for only a moment.
"And Edward…I know we just met, but you seem to be doing a damn fine job of it, son. Don't be afraid to reach out to us this summer if you need anything. Everyone needs a hand at some point. Good night."
"Good night, Chief."
He shut the car door. Before pulling away, I happened to glance up at the sky.
Its vibrancy shocked me. It was as if the sky were…alive, radiant in its ethereal glow, the darkness outnumbered by the blazing splendor of stars. And, for just a second, even more breathtaking than the stars were the pair of onyx orbs that suddenly appeared, momentarily joining the sparkling and outshining even their majestic brilliance.
A/N: Thoughts?
See? I told you we'd lighten the tone. (Though there may or may not be fireworks up ahead now) ;)
Facebook: Stories by PattyRose
Twitter: PattyRosa817
Oh! I forgot one FAQ last time!
Q: Who will narrate the story?
A: The story will be told in Edward and Bella's alternating POVs; though, depending on where I'm forced to cut off the chapter, it may not always be a 1 to 1 correspondence. :)
*The next chapter will be from Bella's POV.*
"See" you soon!