“You’re supposed to take the lid off first, Dad. Metal’s bad for microwaves.” I swiftly removed the lid
as I spoke, poured half the sauce into a bowl, and then put the bowl inside the microwave and the jar
back in the fridge; I fixed the time and pressed start.
Charlie watched my adjustments with pursed lips. “Did I get the noodles right?”
I looked in the pan on the stove — the source of the smell that had alerted me. “Stirring helps,” I said
mildly. I found a spoon and tried to de-clump the mushy hunk that was scalded to the bottom.
Charlie sighed.
“So what’s all this about?” I asked him.
He folded his arms across his chest and glared out the back windows into the sheeting rain. “Don’t
know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.
I was mystified. Charlie cooking? And what was with the surly attitude? Edward wasn’t here yet; usually
my dad reserved this kind of behavior for my boyfriend’s benefit, doing his best to illustrate the theme of
“unwelcome” with every word and posture. Charlie’s efforts were unnecessary — Edward knew exactly
what my dad was thinking without the show.
The wordboyfriend had me chewing on the inside of my cheek with a familiar tension while I stirred. It
wasn’t the right word, not at all. I needed something more expressive of eternal commitment. . . . But
words likedestiny andfate sounded hokey when you used them in casual conversation.
Edward had another word in mind, and that word was the source of the tension I felt. It put my teeth on
edge just to think it to myself.
Fiancée. Ugh. I shuddered away from the thought.
“Did I miss something? Since when do you make dinner?” I asked Charlie. The pasta lump bobbed in
the boiling water as I poked it. “Ortry to make dinner, I should say.”
Charlie shrugged. “There’s no law that says I can’t cook in my own house.”
“You would know,” I replied, grinning as I eyed the badge pinned to his leather jacket.
“Ha. Good one.” He shrugged out of the jacket as if my glance had reminded him he still had it on, and
hung it on the peg reserved for his gear. His gun belt was already slung in place — he hadn’t felt the need
to wear that to the station for a few weeks. There had been no more disturbing disappearances to trouble
the small town of Forks, Washington, no more sightings of the giant, mysterious wolves in the ever-rainy
woods. . . .
I prodded the noodles in silence, guessing that Charlie would get around to talking about whatever was
bothering him in his own time. My dad was not a man of many words, and the effort he had put into
trying to orchestrate a sit-down dinner with me made it clear there were an uncharacteristic number of
words on his mind.
I glanced at the clock routinely — something I did every few minutes around this time. Less than a half
hour to go now.
Afternoons were the hardest part of my day. Ever since my former best friend (and werewolf), Jacob
Black, had informed on me about the motorcycle I’d been riding on the sly — a betrayal he had devised
in order to get me grounded so that I couldn’t spend time with my boyfriend (and vampire), Edward
Cullen — Edward had been allowed to see me only from seven till nine-thirty p.m., always inside the
confines of my home and under the supervision of my dad’s unfailingly crabby glare.
This was an escalation from the previous, slightly less stringent grounding that I’d earned for an
unexplained three-day disappearance and one episode of cliff diving.
Of course, I still saw Edward at school, because there wasn’t anything Charlie could do about that. And
then, Edward spent almost every night in my room, too, but Charlie wasn’t precisely aware of that.
Edward’s ability to climb easily and silently through my second-story window was almost as useful as his
ability to read Charlie’s mind.
Though the afternoon was the only time I spent away from Edward, it was enough to make me restless,
and the hours always dragged. Still, I endured my punishment without complaining because — for one
thing — I knew I’d earned it, and — for another — because I couldn’t bear to hurt my dad by moving
out now, when a much more permanent separation hovered, invisible to Charlie, so close on my horizon.
My dad sat down at the table with a grunt and unfolded the damp newspaper there; within seconds he
was clucking his tongue in disapproval.
“I don’t know why you read the news, Dad. It only ticks you off.”
He ignored me, grumbling at the paper in his hands. “This is why everyone wants to live in a small town!
Ridiculous.”
“What have big cities done wrong now?”
“Seattle’s making a run for murder capital of the country. Five unsolved homicides in the last two weeks.
Can you imagine living like that?”
“I think Phoenix is actually higher up the homicide list, Dad. Ihave lived like that.” And I’d never come
close to being a murder victim until after I moved to his safe little town. In fact, I was still on several hit
lists. . . . The spoon shook in my hands, making the water tremble.
“Well, you couldn’t pay me enough,” Charlie said.
I gave up on saving dinner and settled for serving it; I had to use a steak knife to cut a portion of
spaghetti for Charlie and then myself, while he watched with a sheepish expression. Charlie coated his
helping with sauce and dug in. I disguised my own clump as well as I could and followed his example
without much enthusiasm. We ate in silence for a moment. Charlie was still scanning the news, so I
picked up my much-abused copy ofWuthering Heights from where I’d left it this morning at breakfast,
and tried to lose myself in turn-of-the-century England while I waited for him to start talking.
I was just to the part where Heathcliff returns when Charlie cleared his throat and threw the paper to the
floor.
“You’re right,” Charlie said. “I did have a reason for doing this.” He waved his fork at the gluey spread.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
I laid the book aside; the binding was so destroyed that it slumped flat to the table. “You could have just
asked.”
He nodded, his eyebrows pulling together. “Yeah. I’ll remember that next time. I thought taking dinner
off your hands would soften you up.”
I laughed. “It worked — your cooking skills have me soft as a marshmallow. What do you need, Dad?”
“Well, it’s about Jacob.”
I felt my face harden. “What about him?” I asked through stiff lips.
“Easy, Bells. I know you’re still upset that he told on you, but it was the right thing. He was being
responsible.”
“Responsible,” I repeated scathingly, rolling my eyes. “Right. So, what about Jacob?”
The careless question repeated inside my head, anything but trivial.What about Jacob? Whatwas I
going to do about him? My former best friend who was now . . . what? My enemy? I cringed.
Charlie’s face was suddenly wary. “Don’t get mad at me, okay?”
“Mad?”
“Well, it’s about Edward, too.”
My eyes narrowed.
Charlie’s voice got gruffer. “I let him in the house, don’t I?”
“You do,” I admitted. “For brief periods of time. Of course, you might let meout of the house for brief
periods now and then, too,” I continued — only jokingly; I knew I was on lockdown for the duration of
the school year. “I’ve been pretty good lately.”
“Well, that’s kind of where I was heading with this. . . .” And then Charlie’s face stretched into an
unexpected eye-crinkling grin; for a second he looked twenty years younger.
I saw a dim glimmer of possibility in that smile, but I proceeded slowly. “I’m confused, Dad. Are we
talking about Jacob, or Edward, or me being grounded?”
The grin flashed again. “Sort of all three.”
“And how do they relate?” I asked, cautious.
“Okay.” He sighed, raising his hands as if in surrender. “So I’m thinking maybe you deserve a parole for
good behavior. For a teenager, you’re amazingly non-whiney.”
My voice and eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? I’m free?”
Where was this coming from? I’d been positive I would be under house arrest until I actually moved out,
and Edward hadn’t picked up any wavering in Charlie’s thoughts. . . .
