The ride home felt like it dragged for three whole centuries. Honestly, I was about two potholes away from writing a Dear John letter to public transportation. By the time Bella and I finally stumbled through the front door, I was ready to declare the day officially illegal. Someone call Congress, because this was a violation of basic human rights.
Exhausting. Sticky. Muddy. My jeans felt like they weighed twelve pounds from the rain, my hair could've doubled as a bird's nest, and my soul had given up somewhere around mile three. Basically, Mother Nature and high school had teamed up like some kind of chaotic supervillain duo just to make me feel like a wet towel left in the rain soggy, sad, and vaguely smelly.
If the Grim Reaper had shown up at that moment and said, "Your time has come," I would've just handed him my backpack and said, "Cool, you carry it then."
And yet thanks to that little perk from the rob I still looked like I'd just stepped out of a glossy magazine shoot. My hair, while feeling like damp straw to me, somehow fell in perfect waves. My skin glowed like I'd been airbrushed by the gods. Even my rain-soaked clothes clung dramatically, like some couture fashion statement instead of the swamp-gremlin disaster I felt like.
It was both a blessing and a curse. On the outside: flawless goddess. On the inside: overcooked lasagna.
I dropped my bag in the hallway with all the grace of a collapsing Jenga tower. "I swear, Bella, if anyone speaks to me for the next twenty minutes, I'm pressing charges. I'm going to take the world's longest shower. Olympic record level. Someone better call Guinness."
Bella kicked off her boots with a loud thud and gave me the patented Swan shrug flat, unimpressed, and entirely too used to my dramatics. "Fine. I'll start dinner. What do you want to eat?"
I blinked at her, slow and suspicious, like she'd just announced she was applying to NASA. "…You?"
"Yes, me," she said, straightening up with mock dignity.
I squinted. "You're going to cook?" My tone was so drenched in doubt it could have been poured into bottles and sold at the supermarket as seasoning: Doubt Now with 25% more sarcasm!
Bella narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms like she was posing for a passive-aggressive family portrait. "Of course I know how to cook."
"Mm-hm." I tilted my head, scanning her from head to toe. "Sure you do. You absolutely radiate culinary goddess energy. Martha Stewart, move aside. Bella Swan is about to make instant noodles… but more bland."
Her nostrils flared so hard I thought she might actually take flight. Which was hilarious, because Bella being mad looked like a mildly frustrated goldfish.
"Just go shower," she snapped. "I've got this."
"Famous last words," I muttered, dragging myself toward the stairs like a weary Victorian child. "If the fire alarm goes off, I'm not coming down. I'll just accept my fate and let the flames take me."
Bella shouted something behind me probably rude but I was already halfway up the stairs, throwing a dramatic little hand wave over my shoulder.
Because if I was going to perish thanks to her 'culinary skills,' I wanted my last moments on earth to be spent in hot, soapy bliss, not chewing charred mystery food.
Up in my attic room, I rummaged through my dresser until I found the holy grail: my silky, luxurious pajamas. Soft, fancy, and far too good for Forks High nonsense. Honestly, these pajamas deserved their own red carpet and paparazzi. With clothes in hand, I padded into the bathroom and let the hot water pound over me like a baptism. Shampoo, conditioner, body scrub the whole spa package. I scrubbed myself like I was erasing evidence of the entire day, right down to the trauma of soggy jeans and Bella's "Edward monologues."
By the time I stepped out, wrapped in towels, skin pink from the steam, I felt almost human again. A quick blast of the hair dryer, and I slid into my pajamas like a queen putting on her crown. Perfect. Regal. Reborn.
Then came the true test: Bella's "cooking."
Descending the stairs, I braced myself for smoke, flames, or possibly the fire alarm serenading us. Instead, I found Bella setting the table, muttering under her breath like a chef in denial.
I peered over her shoulder. Dinner was… salad. Leftovers reheated from yesterday. And Coke. That was it.
I stared at the table. Then at Bella. Then back at the table.
Bella noticed. Her lips pressed together. "Stop it."
"Stop what?" I asked innocently, sliding into a chair.
"Stop judging me."
I widened my eyes, halo practically glowing. "Oh no, Bella. I would never. I'm not judging you… I'm judging your cooking."
She swatted at me with a napkin, cheeks pink. "You're impossible."
"True," I said, grabbing a fork. "But at least I can cook pasta without needing to reheat the leftovers."
Bella rolled her eyes but sat across from me, stabbing at her salad like it had personally betrayed her. We both dug in salad crunching, Coke fizzing, leftovers trying their best. Somehow, between my teasing and her groaning, the kitchen filled with laughter.
It wasn't gourmet, but it was ours.
After dinner (a.k.a. Salad Surprise with a side of Mystery Leftovers), I retreated upstairs, stomach at least half-full and soul thoroughly entertained.
Homework, unfortunately, waited for no one not even a girl recovering from a field trip of doom. I sprawled across my bed with my notebook open, pencil in hand, and about four brain cells left. My eyelids kept drooping, my handwriting started to look like some kind of cryptic vampire rune, and I was this close to surrendering to the siren song of sleep.
That's when my phone buzzed.
I squinted at the screen. Lucien.
Message: Are you awake?
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and stared again, as if the words might magically transform into "Here's a million dollars, goodnight." Nope. Still Lucien.
With all the grace of a sleep-deprived gremlin, I typed back: Yeah. Yeah, I'm awake.
And immediately regretted it.
Why did I reply? Why couldn't I have just pretended to be unconscious? Or dead? Or abducted by werewolves? Anything would've been safer than opening this door.
My pencil rolled off the bed and clattered to the floor like even it disapproved of my life choices. I sighed, already knowing this night wasn't going to be quiet anymore.
But then… nothing.
No reply. Just silence.
I stared at the screen, blinking. Okay. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just wanted to check if I was awake and would now proceed to leave me in peace. Great. Perfect. End of story.
I dropped the phone onto my pillow and flopped backward dramatically, already planning my triumphant return to sleep.
That's when my phone lit up again this time with a full-on ringtone.
Lucien. Calling.
I sat up like someone had just dumped ice water over me. "Oh, for crying out loud," I groaned, clutching the phone like it was radioactive.
Because apparently, this night wasn't cursed enough the first time around.
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