Chapter 6: Paint Chips and Plaid Crimes
"A new life should come with fresh walls and less flannel upholstery."
---
Friday arrived with more drizzle, more overcast sky, and more evidence that Forks had declared war on my hair's ability to remain un-frizzed. I gave up after two minutes and pulled it into a loose braid, then threw on jeans and a soft hoodie that still smelled faintly of Phoenix sun.
Charlie was already halfway through his toast when I wandered into the kitchen.
"You've got," I pointed, "a jam situation."
He blinked at me, then swiped his sleeve across his chin. "Handled."
"You're a vision of grace."
He grunted, then handed me a mug of cocoa before grabbing his own travel coffee and heading out.
"Be good," he called over his shoulder.
"No promises!" I shouted back, then winced as the door clicked shut.
---
The morning at school started off about as normal as things get in a town where half your classmates are walking fashion models with dead eyes and ambiguous dietary habits.
Angela greeted me at my locker with a sheepish smile.
"Jessica said you made Mr. Banner laugh yesterday."
"I drew mitochondria having a turf war. It was a dark, biological drama."
"I wish I had your brain," she said, giggling.
"Don't. It's mostly trivia, caffeine, and increasingly specific vampire exit strategies."
Angela didn't know how literally I meant that, but she laughed anyway.
---
Lunch came before Biology, as it absolutely should according to the timeline the universe insists on following.
Mike waved me over, and I sat at the end of the table with him, Jessica, Angela, and a few others. I picked at a slice of pizza and listened while they debated who had a crush on who.
Jessica leaned close. "You've got Biology next, right? Still flying solo?"
"Yup," I said cheerfully. "Edward Cullen saw me once and moved to another state. I like to think it's my overwhelming charisma."
That got a laugh from most of them — even Angela.
I spotted the other Cullen's across the cafeteria.
Rosalie and Emmett were sitting unnervingly still. Jasper looked like he was holding his breath. Alice smiled right as I glanced over, and for one weird second, I felt like she knew I was thinking about her.
Then I blinked and it was gone.
Just Bella being paranoid. Totally normal.
---
Biology was boring without my angry vampire lab partner.
Mr. Banner paired me with an acne-ridden sophomore named Reed who wore too much Axe and called mitochondria "the bomb diggity."
We identified cell structures in awkward silence until he asked if I had a boyfriend.
"No," I said. "But I do have a restraining order quota for the year, so tread carefully."
He didn't talk after that.
Bless.
---
When the final bell rang, I bolted.
Today was project day.
And by project, I meant Operation: Save the House from Pattern Crimes.
---
Forks' local hardware store was one part small-town charm, one part chaos. The bell over the door jingled as I stepped inside, rain dripping off my hood.
Paint swatches lined one wall like tiny rectangles of possibility.
I grabbed a cart and made a beeline for them.
The couch had been the final straw. Brown plaid so intense it had given me a migraine last night. The rest of the house was beige, wood, and more plaid — like a lumberjack had exploded in 1997 and no one had cleaned up.
I needed color. Life. Maybe something vaguely human.
A bored teen clerk in a vest spotted me reading the paint chips and wandered over.
"You doing a room?" he asked.
"Doing justice," I replied.
He blinked. "Cool."
I left with:
Three test cans of warm-toned neutrals.
Two brushes.
Painter's tape.
A vision.
---
Charlie was already home, on the couch, watching a fishing show when I walked in with paint cans clanking.
He looked at me. Looked at the bag.
"Is that...?"
"Revolution," I said, setting them down.
He narrowed his eyes. "You're not painting your room black, are you?"
"No. I'm painting your house something other than sad beige and serial killer flannel."
Charlie set down his beer. "I like the couch."
I pointed at it. "This couch looks like it haunts its own cabin."
"It's broken in."
"It's broken, Dad."
He didn't argue. He stared at it for a long moment, then said, "You gonna paint today?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday. Enchilada leftovers tonight, and if you agree to at least consider letting that plaid monstrosity go, I'll let you pick the next couch."
He leaned back, arms crossed.
"I want cup holders."
"Deal."
---
We ate dinner with a sense of mutual smugness. I even put on music while we cleaned up. Charlie tolerated it for a full three songs before muttering something about "kids these days" and hiding in the garage.
I finished homework at the kitchen table, then joined him to go over paint options.
"I like this one," he said, pointing at the swatch labeled Smoked Sunset.
"It's literally the same color as your mustache."
"I'm consistent," he replied.
"You're impossible."
But I marked it with a star anyway.
---
That night, after brushing my teeth and changing into my favorite faded sleep shirt, I flopped into bed and stared at the ceiling.
I hadn't dreamed in two nights.
Not of Damon.
Not of anything.
But I could feel it — the electric hum under my skin. The itch behind my ribs. Like the tether was coiling tight again, pulling me toward something.
Someone.
I closed my eyes.
And let go.
---
The dream came slower this time. Not like a door swinging open — more like a curtain parting.
I was standing in a parlor lit by gas lamps and candlelight. Music drifted from the nearby room — a lilting piano melody played by delicate fingers.
The walls were burgundy velvet. A fire crackled low. The scent of cinnamon, blood, and rosewater hung in the air like an omen.
Katherine was laughing.
She leaned over the piano, her gown hugging every curve, eyes locked on someone just out of view.
Damon.
Young. Smiling. Charmed and dangerous even in his humanity.
He was dressed to impress — dark slacks, open collar, cravat tucked loosely.
His eyes, though…
They kept flicking away from her. To me.
Standing just beyond the candlelight. Half in shadow.
She didn't see me.
She never would.
But Damon did.
And this time, he smiled.
Not the performative grin he used on everyone else. This one was small, private. Real.
She twirled away from the piano and beckoned him.
"Dance with me, Damon," she purred.
He stepped forward — a practiced bow — and took her hand.
But the moment their fingers touched, something shifted.
His smile slipped.
His gaze slid back to me.
She didn't notice.
She laughed, spun, dipped.
But Damon moved like a man remembering something he shouldn't.
When the music stopped, she whispered something in his ear and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then drifted toward the stairs like mist on a windless night.
When she vanished, Damon turned.
Walked straight toward me.
"You're still here."
"I told you I would be."
He stopped inches away. Candlelight danced in his eyes. The fire crackled low behind him.
"I saw you that first night. In the garden," he murmured. "I thought you were a ghost."
"I might be."
"You're not hers."
"No."
"Good."
He stared at me, unreadable. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for something but didn't know what.
"You shouldn't stay," he said softly.
"Why not?"
"Because if you do…" He swallowed. "I'll remember you."
"Maybe that's the point."
Something in him broke open at that. Just a flicker.
A breath.
"I think I already do."
The dream cracked at the edges.
But I didn't wake up right away.
Instead, I stepped closer. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch him.
He didn't flinch this time.
His voice, when it came, was nearly a whisper.
"You make me feel like I'm still mine."
And then the dream ended.
---
I woke to the soft buzz of my phone alarm and the scent of rain.
My heart ached.
But I smiled.
Because he remembered.
And so did I.