Tuesday, March 15th, 2005 — Port Angeles, 4:00 p.m.
Weather: gray and breezy, a hint of sea salt on the air.
Mood: vaguely horrified, but learning.
---
By the time Jessica pulled her little red Civic into the pay lot near the boardwalk, Bella already felt like she'd run a social marathon — and she hadn't even set foot in the store yet.
Jessica hadn't stopped talking the entire forty-minute drive.
"So then," Jessica was saying as she killed the ignition, her voice bubbling with the kind of self-satisfied smugness that made Bella's teeth ache, "Mike actually walked me to my car and everything. Which, like—honestly? Pretty impressive, considering he's totally one of those guys who pretends he's too cool for gentlemanly gestures? You know the type. All swagger, no follow-through."
She paused dramatically as she slung her oversized Juicy Couture purse over her shoulder and threw Bella a meaningful look through the rearview mirror.
"Anyway," Jessica continued, clearly savoring every syllable, "I told him I'd let him know about Saturday. You know, play a little hard to get. Keep him guessing."
Another pause. More meaningful looks.
"Which I guess means you're officially off the hook," Jessica finished pointedly, grinning like she'd just solved world hunger.
Bella blinked slowly, her hand frozen on the door handle. "I wasn't aware I was on the hook to begin with."
Angela — quiet, reliable Angela — gave a soft laugh from where she'd already slipped out of the back seat, her messenger bag slung carefully across her shoulder. "Jess just means Mike clearly likes you, Bella. Or, well... liked you."
"Liked, past tense," Jessica corrected with a dramatic eye roll as she climbed out of the car. "Obviously. Because now he's into me. Which is, like, only fair considering he asked you out first and you totally blew him off."
Bella made a vague noncommittal noise and shut her door, the sound echoing flatly in the parking lot.
It was just easier not to argue. Arguing would require energy she didn't have and explanations she didn't want to give.
Besides, if Jessica wanted to believe that Mike Newton had somehow transferred his affections like he was trading Pokemon cards, who was Bella to burst her bubble?
"I mean," Jessica continued, clearly not finished with her victory lap, "it's actually kind of perfect timing. Because now I don't have to feel guilty about saying yes when he asks me."
"When he asks you," Angela repeated gently, ever the voice of reason. "Not if."
"Oh, he'll ask," Jessica said with absolute certainty, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Trust me. I know these things."
Bella trailed behind them toward the store entrance, wondering if this was what anthropologists felt like when they studied particularly aggressive social hierarchies.
---
The department store was exactly as good as Jessica had promised: the only real game in town, and — judging by the explosion of pastel chiffon and iridescent taffeta that greeted them at the entrance — clearly capitalizing on prom season with the ruthless efficiency of a small-town monopoly.
Jessica made a beeline for a rack of sequined halter gowns, chattering the whole way like a caffeinated tour guide. Angela trailed after her with a faintly bemused expression, and Bella trailed after both of them, feeling vaguely like a ghost haunting her own life.
"Okay, so," Jessica said, spinning around suddenly and fixing Bella with an incredulous stare. "Wait. You're seriously telling me you've never been to a school dance? Ever? Like, not even once?"
Bella froze mid-step, her fingers tightening reflexively on the strap of her messenger bag. "Um... no?"
Jessica's jaw actually dropped. Literally. Like she was a cartoon character who'd just been hit with an anvil.
"Not even, like, eighth-grade promotion?" she pressed, her voice rising with disbelief. "Or homecoming? Or winter formal? Nobody's even asked?"
Bella gave her a flat look. "Nobody I said yes to."
Jessica clutched at her own chest like she'd just been personally victimized by this revelation. "Oh my God. You are, like... so mysterious. No wonder all the guys are obsessed with you."
Bella frowned, a familiar knot of unease tightening in her stomach. "What?"
Angela, ever the peacemaker, tried to step in with a gentle smile. "I think Jess just means you're different, Bella. In a good way."
"Different," Jessica repeated, nodding emphatically. "Like... you don't even try and yet you're all anyone talks about? It's actually kind of unfair. Like, I guarantee you Tyler's gonna ask you to prom. Probably tomorrow. Maybe even today if he gets up the nerve."
Bella stopped short, her fingers tightening on a random hanger. "Tyler?"
"Mhm." Jessica nodded, clearly delighted by the subject. "He was totally bragging to Mike about how he's got dibs. Which, like—kind of rude, honestly, but whatever. Boys are weird about that stuff."
Bella shut her eyes for a long moment, fighting the urge to groan out loud.
Of course Tyler thought he had dibs. Because Forks High was apparently some kind of time warp back to the 1950s where girls were just prizes for boys to claim if they happened to own a car and nearly run someone over with it.
And because apparently saving his life in front of the entire school had been misconstrued as some kind of romantic gesture instead of basic human decency.
She forced a thin smile. "Great. Can't wait."
Jessica, oblivious to the sarcasm dripping from Bella's voice, hummed happily as she pulled a short, flirty pink dress off the rack and held it up against herself in the mirror.
"Oh," she added offhandedly, examining the dress's rhinestone detailing, "and that's why Lauren hates you, by the way."
Bella blinked. "I—what?"
Jessica glanced at her over her shoulder, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like she was explaining that water was wet or that the sky was blue.
"Because you stole all the guys," she said simply. "Lauren was super into Tyler at the beginning of the year. And Mike. And probably even Eric, honestly. She had this whole five-year plan mapped out, I swear. And then you show up and—poof."
She made a little explosion gesture with her free hand.
"Suddenly none of them can remember her name."
Bella stared at her, stunned into silence.
She hadn't... stolen anybody. She hadn't even wanted anybody. She'd spent the better part of four months trying to blend into the background, to be invisible, to avoid exactly this kind of attention.
But apparently none of that mattered.
Apparently just existing was enough to make Lauren Mallory look at her like she was some kind of scarlet woman trying to rob Forks High of all its eligible bachelors.
"That's..." Bella started, then stopped. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" Jessica asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've got half the male population of our school wrapped around your little finger without even trying. Which, honestly? Kind of impressive. Also kind of annoying."
Angela shot Jessica a warning look. "Jess."
"What? I'm just saying." Jessica shrugged, completely unrepentant. "Some of us have to actually work for male attention. Put in effort. Wear lip gloss. Laugh at their stupid jokes. And then Bella shows up looking like she just rolled out of bed and suddenly everyone's writing poetry about her eyes."
"Nobody's writing poetry about my eyes," Bella muttered, her cheeks hot.
"Eric is," Jessica said matter-of-factly. "I've seen his notebook. It's actually kind of sweet. Also kind of creepy, but mostly sweet."
Bella felt her stomach drop somewhere in the vicinity of her shoes. "Oh God."
"Look," Jessica continued, apparently taking Bella's mortification as encouragement, "I'm not saying it's your fault. You can't help being... you know. Whatever it is you are. But you have to admit, it's kind of unfair to the rest of us."
Angela cleared her throat gently. "Maybe we should focus on finding dresses?"
"Right," Jessica said, immediately perking up. "Dresses. The whole reason we're here." She turned back to Bella with renewed intensity. "So what's your plan? For prom, I mean. Because if you're not going with Tyler, you should probably let him know soon. Before he buys a corsage or something."
Bella stared at her. "I haven't even said I'm going to prom."
Both Jessica and Angela turned to look at her like she'd just announced she was planning to sacrifice a goat.
"You have to go to prom," Jessica said slowly, like she was explaining a very simple concept to a very small child. "It's senior year. It's, like, legally required."
"I'm pretty sure it's not legally required," Bella said dryly.
"Emotionally required, then," Jessica amended. "Socially required. You can't just... not go. What would people think?"
"That I don't want to go to prom?"
Jessica looked genuinely pained by this response. "Bella. Honey. You're killing me here."
Angela, meanwhile, had been quietly browsing through a rack of more understated dresses. She looked up with a small smile. "You know, you don't have to decide anything right now. We're just looking today, remember?"
Bella shot her a grateful look. "Right. Just looking."
"But seriously," Jessica said, holding up a sparkly blue number that looked like it had been bedazzled by a craft store that had suffered a glitter explosion, "you should at least try something on. For fun. Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"
Bella could think of about seventeen different ways that could go wrong, but she kept that to herself.
"Fine," she said finally. "One dress. But I'm not promising anything."
Jessica practically bounced with excitement. "Oh my God, this is going to be so fun. Angela, grab that green one. The one with the straps. And Bella, you're trying on this blue one whether you like it or not."
As Jessica thrust the sequined monstrosity into her arms, Bella couldn't help but wonder how exactly she'd gone from reluctant shopping companion to reluctant prom dress model in the span of ten minutes.
But she supposed that was just the Jessica Stanley effect.
Once she set her mind to something, resistance was futile.
---
Twenty minutes later, Bella found herself standing in front of a three-way mirror, wearing a dress that cost more than her monthly allowance and made her look like a disco ball that had gotten into a fight with a mermaid.
"Oh wow," Jessica breathed, her eyes wide with what might have been awe or horror. "You look... really different."
"Different good or different bad?" Bella asked, tugging at the bodice.
"Different... sparkly," Angela offered diplomatically.
Bella caught sight of herself in the mirror and winced. The dress was beautiful, objectively speaking. But on her, it looked like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
"I look ridiculous," she said flatly.
"You do not," Jessica protested, but there was something in her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "You look... glamorous."
"I look like I'm trying to be someone I'm not."
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," Jessica said quietly. "Maybe trying to be someone different for one night wouldn't kill you."
Bella met her eyes in the mirror. There was something almost vulnerable in Jessica's expression, something that made Bella realize this wasn't just about prom dresses.
This was about fitting in. About belonging. About being the kind of girl who got asked to dances and had boys write poetry about her eyes and made other girls jealous just by existing.
The kind of girl Bella had never wanted to be.
But maybe, she thought as she looked at her reflection, maybe Jessica had a point.
Maybe trying to be someone different for one night wouldn't kill her.
Even if it felt like it might.
---
It turned out Angela had worse luck with shoes than she did with dresses.
Bella found herself crouched beside her in the back of the department store twenty minutes later, among rows of strappy heels and rhinestone flats that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd never actually walked anywhere in their life. Jessica flitted between mirrors trying on pair after pair, offering loud commentary about arch support and ankle straps to anyone within a three-aisle radius.
"Oh my God, these are so cute but they're literally torture devices," Jessica announced, wobbling precariously on a pair of silver stilettos. "Like, who designs a shoe that requires you to walk on your tiptoes? That's not walking, that's ballet."
Angela, for her part, looked up from a pair of simple silver peep-toes and gave Bella a faint, sheepish smile. "Does it always take this long?"
Bella huffed a dry laugh, gesturing vaguely at Jessica, who was now examining her reflection from three different angles. "This is my first time on a mission like this, so I'm probably not the best person to ask. But I think you're doing better than me. At least you've found shoes that don't make you look like you're about to topple over."
Angela tilted her head a little, studying Bella for a beat longer than necessary. Then, as though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked quietly, "So... do the Cullens skip school a lot?"
The question caught Bella completely off-guard, enough that she almost dropped the modest black pump she'd been holding. She looked at Angela sharply, her defenses automatically snapping into place. "Why?"
But Angela's smile was calm, kind. Not prying — just curious. There was something gentle in her expression that made Bella realize she wasn't fishing for gossip or trying to stir up drama like some people might.
"I noticed you seemed... distracted today," Angela said gently, like she was trying not to say too much. "And... yeah. They kind of disappear sometimes when the weather's good. They go camping or hiking or something. That's what everyone says, anyway."
Bella's lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded slowly, her chest doing something complicated.
So it wasn't just her.
It wasn't personal.
Not like she'd been telling herself for the past three days, anyway.
Her chest felt a little lighter, but also — somehow — more unsettled. Because if it wasn't personal, then what was it? And why did knowing that make her feel worse instead of better?
She muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and Angela just smiled softly and went back to trying on shoes.
Jessica, meanwhile, popped up at their side like a caffeinated jack-in-the-box, holding two clutches and a pair of sparkly chandelier earrings that looked like they'd been stolen from a Las Vegas showgirl.
"Okay, I'm officially done," she announced, waving her shopping bag triumphantly. "And I got these on sale, so I basically win at life. Twenty percent off, ladies. Twenty percent."
"Congratulations," Bella said dryly. "I'm sure your future great-grandchildren will be proud."
"Mock me all you want," Jessica said, completely unperturbed. "But when I'm the best-dressed person at prom, you'll thank me for dragging you here."
Angela found her shoes and matching clutch a few minutes later — simple silver flats that actually looked like she could walk in them without requiring medical attention — and Bella helped them pay, still mulling over Angela's words.
They stepped outside into the crisp salt air, and Jessica immediately pulled out her hot pink Motorola flip phone, frowning at the time display.
"Okay, so it's like five-thirty now," she said, snapping the phone shut with a decisive click. "Let's just meet at Bella Italia in an hour? You know the one — right on the boardwalk, red awning, they have those checkered tablecloths that look like they were stolen from a pizza place?"
Bella nodded, already feeling the familiar guilt twist in her stomach.
"I want to... check out a bookstore first," she explained awkwardly, tucking her hands deeper into her jacket pockets.
She knew she was pulling away from them — just like she kept doing since she got here — but she couldn't stop herself. Not when her head was so full of him she could barely keep up with what Jessica was saying anymore. Not when every conversation felt like she was trying to participate in a play where everyone else had the script and she was just improvising badly.
Angela gave her an understanding little nod. "See you there," she said warmly, like she actually meant it.
"Don't get lost," Jessica added, already halfway through scrolling through her contacts. "And don't get kidnapped by any weird bookstore people. I'm not explaining to Charlie why his daughter disappeared into a pile of romance novels."
"I think I can handle a bookstore," Bella said.
"Famous last words," Jessica called over her shoulder as she and Angela headed toward the main strip.
---
Bella found the bookstore quickly — though she probably shouldn't have been surprised to discover it was more of a crystal shop masquerading as a bookstore.
The window was cluttered with dreamcatchers and tie-dye scarves that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd consumed nothing but patchouli oil and good intentions for the past decade. The interior smelled strongly of sage and lavender, with an underlying note of something that might have been incense or might have been someone's grandmother's closet.
Inside, the shelves were lined with self-help books with titles like "Awakening Your Inner Goddess" and "Healing Your Chakras Through Interpretive Dance." There was an entire wall dedicated to zodiac charts and crystals, and a corner devoted to what appeared to be tarot cards and books about communicating with the dead.
Nothing useful.
Nothing real.
Nothing that would help her understand what the hell was happening to her life.
Bella didn't stay long.
She stepped back into the chilly evening, letting the door's little brass bell jingle behind her with what sounded like deliberate mockery, and tucked her hands deep into her jacket pockets.
The streets were busier now — early diners wandering toward the boardwalk restaurants, couples window-shopping and holding hands like it was the most natural thing in the world, a few kids laughing as they chased each other down the sidewalk with the kind of carefree energy that made Bella feel approximately ninety years old.
She hardly noticed any of it.
Her feet carried her aimlessly down the block, her eyes glazed as her thoughts turned back — like they always did, like they had been doing for days now — to Edward.
Even here, even now, even surrounded by the perfectly normal chaos of a perfectly normal Tuesday evening, she couldn't shake him.
She caught herself scanning every corner, every doorway — half-expecting his bronze hair to appear in the crowd even though she knew that was impossible. Even though she'd spent the entire day reminding herself that he wasn't there, that he was probably miles away doing whatever it was the Cullens did when they disappeared.
And then her gaze caught on something metallic at the curb.
A silver car.
Her breath hitched, her heart giving a stupid, treacherous little lurch before she could stop it.
It wasn't even his car — not exactly — but it was close enough to fool her at first glance. Close enough to make her chest tighten with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Her chest tightened, hot and frustrated, and she glared at the innocent Volvo like it had personally betrayed her.
This was ridiculous.
He wasn't here.
Of course he wasn't here.
He was probably off somewhere being mysteriously beautiful and perfectly unavailable, just like always.
And yet she couldn't stop herself from looking for him everywhere.
Even when she hated herself for it.
Even when she knew it was pathetic.
Even when she knew that whatever this was — this stupid, impossible thing she felt when she looked at him — it was completely one-sided and completely hopeless.
She pulled out her own phone, a basic Nokia that Charlie had gotten her for emergencies, and checked the time.
Six-fifteen.
She was going to be late for dinner if she didn't get moving.
But as she started walking toward the restaurant, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.
It was probably nothing.
It was definitely nothing.
But as she glanced over her shoulder one more time, she could have sworn she saw a flash of bronze hair disappearing around the corner.
Which was impossible.
Right?
---
She had to get her head on straight before she met Jessica and Angela.
That much was painfully obvious.
If she showed up at the restaurant looking like she'd just walked through an emotional hurricane — which, let's be honest, she basically had — Jessica would never let it go. She'd spend the entire dinner trying to extract every detail with the persistence of a particularly chatty FBI agent. And Angela — sweet, quiet Angela — would just give her that concerned little half-smile that somehow made everything worse because it was so genuinely kind.
So she kept walking.
Kept her eyes on the uneven sidewalk, kept her arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together, tried to breathe like a normal person instead of someone who'd just had her entire worldview shaken by a glimpse of maybe-bronze hair.
The boardwalk had already started to light up behind her — restaurant windows glowing warm and inviting with people inside, the comfortable chatter and clinking glasses of normal people living normal lives spilling out into the street.
But up ahead, the streets got narrower. Quieter.
Less... safe.
She didn't realize she'd drifted out of the touristy part of Port Angeles until it was already too late to play it off like she'd meant to come this way. Like she was some kind of urban explorer instead of a hopelessly distracted teenager who couldn't stop thinking about a boy who probably didn't even remember her name.
The shops here were shuttered, their security grates pulled down like metal eyelids. The windows were grimy, reflecting nothing but her own pale face as she passed. Paint peeled in big, sad flakes from the doors, and the streetlights seemed dimmer somehow, casting everything in sickly yellow pools.
And warehouses — a whole row of them — loomed further ahead, all flat walls and blank windows like watching eyes.
She was just starting to debate whether she should turn around and retrace her steps when she heard them.
Voices.
A low laugh, followed by a whistle that made her skin crawl.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She didn't even have to look to know who they were — she'd passed them half a block ago, four men leaning against the side of a building like they owned the place. All cigarettes and cheap cologne and grimy flannel shirts that had seen better decades.
She kept walking, gaze fixed straight ahead, her jaw tight as she ignored the first catcall.
"Where you going in such a hurry?"
And the second.
"Come on, don't be like that."
And the soft, deliberate psst that followed her down the block like a snake's hiss.
It wasn't until she risked a glance back that her stomach really dropped.
Two of them had peeled away from the group.
They were behind her now.
Not running — but close enough that she could hear their footsteps on the cracked pavement, could smell the stale beer and cigarettes that clung to them like a cloud.
Her pace picked up immediately.
Her sneakers scuffed against the broken asphalt as she scanned the street ahead, praying she'd see something — anything — open. A convenience store. A gas station. Hell, even a McDonald's would be a godsend right now.
Nothing.
Just warehouses on one side and an empty parking lot on the other, littered with broken glass and discarded fast-food containers.
And she was alone.
Utterly, stupidly alone.
The sharp chill in the air was suddenly in her lungs, her chest tight as she dug her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, half-wishing she'd at least thought to bring her keys, her phone... her pepper spray, for God's sake.
But her pepper spray was sitting on the kitchen counter back in Forks, where it was absolutely no use to her now.
"Hey, where you going?" one of them called, his voice closer now. "We just want to talk."
The other one laughed, low and ugly. "Yeah, just talk."
She considered — briefly — dropping her wallet.
Letting it fall behind her, hoping it would distract them long enough for her to run. But one glance back at the two men, their dark shapes closing in with every step, told her they weren't here for money.
They didn't care about her wallet or the twenty-three dollars she had in it.
And that made her walk faster.
Not quite running — not yet — because she couldn't bring herself to admit just how far this had already gone. Because running would mean acknowledging that she was actually in danger, that she'd somehow managed to get herself into exactly the kind of situation Charlie had probably been having nightmares about since she'd moved to Forks.
The buildings pressed closer, and the street ahead was nothing but empty black asphalt stretching into nowhere.
"Come on, sweetheart," the first voice said, and she could hear the grin in it. "We're not gonna hurt you."
For the first time since arriving in Forks, she wished — desperately — that she wasn't invisible.
She wished she was back in the department store, listening to Jessica complain about arch support and Angela quietly offering her gentle observations about the Cullens.
She wished she was sitting in the cafeteria, enduring Mike Newton's awkward attempts at flirtation.
She wished she was anywhere but here, in this narrow street with these men behind her and nothing but empty darkness ahead.
She wished she'd never left the bookstore.
She wished she'd never left Phoenix.
She wished she'd never been born.
But mostly, she wished she'd listened to the voice in her head that had been telling her all afternoon that something was wrong.
Because now it was too late to listen.
Now she was just going to have to run.
---
Except she didn't run.
Not yet.
Instead, she forced herself to slow down, to breathe, to think rationally about this like the smart, capable person she was supposed to be.
They weren't following her.
They couldn't be following her.
She was just being paranoid, letting her imagination run wild because she'd been on edge all day. Because she'd been thinking about Edward and letting herself get distracted and now she was jumping at shadows like some kind of neurotic mess.
The footsteps behind her had probably just been coincidence. Two guys heading in the same direction she was, that's all. Nothing sinister about it.
She took a left at the next corner, then another quick right, weaving through the narrow streets with the kind of casual confidence she definitely didn't feel.
And sure enough, when she glanced back, the street behind her was empty.
See? Nothing to worry about.
She almost laughed at herself as she continued down the block, her shoulders finally starting to relax. God, she was such an idiot sometimes. Charlie would have a field day if he knew she'd worked herself into a panic over nothing.
The streets here were still deserted, still lined with those same grimy warehouses and shuttered shops, but somehow they didn't seem quite as menacing now. Just... empty. Urban decay, sure, but not actively threatening.
She turned another corner, then another, following what she hoped was a path back toward the main strip. The streets all looked the same in this part of town, but she was pretty sure she was heading in the right direction.
And then, just as she rounded the next corner and caught sight of a busy intersection ahead — actual traffic, actual people, actual civilization — she saw them.
The other two men.
Standing in the middle of the otherwise deserted street, hands in their pockets, watching her with expressions that made her blood turn to ice water.
They weren't smoking anymore.
They weren't laughing.
They were just... waiting.
The realization hit her like a physical blow: the men behind her hadn't been following her.
They'd been herding her.
Like she was some kind of animal being driven toward a trap.
And she'd walked right into it.
"Well, well," one of them said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet street. "Look what we got here."
The other one grinned, and it was the ugliest thing Bella had ever seen. "Told you she'd come this way."
Bella's heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears, but she forced herself to stay calm. To think.
The intersection was maybe fifty yards ahead. If she could just get there, get to where there were other people, cars, witnesses...
She crossed the street, trying to look casual about it. Just a girl taking a shortcut, nothing to see here.
But the four men — because of course all four of them were here now, she could see the other two approaching from behind — just sauntered closer.
Not hurrying. Not running.
They didn't need to.
They had her exactly where they wanted her.
"Hey, sweetheart," the first one called out, his voice sickeningly friendly. "No need to be antisocial. We just want to get to know you better."
Bella's mind raced through the self-defense moves she'd learned in the class Charlie had made her take before moving to Forks. Knee to the groin. Heel of the palm to the nose. Go for the eyes. Make noise.
Always make noise.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, preparing to scream loud enough to wake the dead.
And then she opened her mouth—
---
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