I listened to his musing in stony silence.
"I'll put your car back together in time for school, in case you'd like to drive yourself," he assured me after a minute.
With my lips mashed together, I retrieved my keys and stiffly climbed out of the truck.
"Shut your window if you want me to stay away tonight. I'll understand," he whispered just before I slammed the door.
I stomped into the house, slamming that door, too.
"What's wrong?" Charlie demanded from the couch.
"Truck won't start," I growled.
"Want me to look at it?"
"No. I'll try it in the morning."
"Want to use my car?"
I wasn't supposed to drive his police cruiser. Charlie must be really desperate to get me to La Push. Nearly as desperate as I was.
"No. I'm tired," I grumbled. "'Night."
I stamped my way up the stairs, and went straight to my window. I shoved the metal frame roughly - it crashed shut and the glass trembled.
I stared at the shivering black glass for a long moment, until it was still. Then I sighed, and opened the window as wide as it would go.
Chapter 3. MOTIVES
THE SUN WAS SO DEEPLY BURIED BEHIND THE CLOUDS that there was no way to tell if it had set or not. After the long flight - chasing the sun westward so that it seemed unmoving in the sky - it was especially disorienting; time seemed oddly variable. It took me by surprise when the forest gave way to the first buildings, signaling that we were nearly home.
"You've been very quiet," Edward observed. "Did the plane make you sick?"
"No, I'm okay."
"Are you sad to leave?"
"More relieved than sad, I think."
He raised one eyebrow at me. I knew it was useless and - much as I hated to admit it - unnecessary to ask him to keep his eyes on the road.
"Renée is so much more . . . perceptive than Charlie in some ways. It was making me jumpy."
Edward laughed. "Your mother has a very interesting mind. Almost childlike, but very insightful. She sees things differently than other people."
Insightful. It was a good description of my mother - when she was paying attention. Most of the time Renée was so bewildered by her own life that she didn't notice much else. But this weekend she'd been paying plenty of attention to me.
Phil was busy - the high school baseball team he coached was in the playoffs - and being alone with Edward and me had only sharpened Renée's focus. As soon as the hugs and squeals of delight were out of the way, Renée began to watch. And as she'd watched, her wide blue eyes had become first confused and then concerned.
This morning we'd gone for a walk along the beach. She wanted to show off all the beauties of her new home, still hoping, I think, that the sun might lure me away from Forks. She'd also wanted to talk with me alone, and that was easily arranged. Edward had fabricated a term paper to give himself an excuse to stay indoors during the day.
In my head, I went through the conversation again. . . .
Renée and I ambled along the sidewalk, trying to stay in the range of the infrequent palm tree shadows. Though it was early, the heat was smothering. The air was so heavy with moisture that just breathing in and out was giving my lungs a workout.
"Bella?" my mother asked, looking out past the sand to the lightly crashing waves as she spoke.
"What is it, Mom?"
She sighed, not meeting my gaze. "I'm worried. . . ."
"What's wrong?" I asked, anxious at once. "What can I do?"
"It's not me." She shook her head. "I'm worried about you . . . and Edward."
Renée finally looked at me when she said his name, her face apologetic.
"Oh," I mumbled, fixing my eyes on a pair of joggers as they passed us, drenched with sweat.
"You two are more serious than I'd been thinking," she went on.
I frowned, quickly reviewing the last two days in my head. Edward and I had barely touched - in front of her, at least. I wondered if Renée was about to give me a lecture on responsibility, too. I didn't mind that the way I had with Charlie. It wasn't embarrassing with my mom. After all, I'd been the one giving her that lecture time and time again in the last ten years.
"There's something . . . strange about the way you two are together," she murmured, her forehead creasing over her troubled eyes. "The way he watches you - it's so . . . protective. Like he's about to throw himself in front of a bullet to save you or something."
I laughed, though I was still not able to meet her gaze. "That's a bad thing?"
"No." She frowned as she struggled for the words. "It's just different. He's very intense about you . . . and very careful. I feel like I don't really understand your relationship. Like there's some secret I'm missing. . . ."
"I think you're imagining things, Mom," I said quickly, struggling to keep my voice light. There was a flutter in my stomach. I'd forgotten how much my mother saw. Something about her simple view of the world cut through all the distractions and pierced right to the truth of things. This had never been a problem before. Until now, there had never been a secret I couldn't tell her.
"It's not just him." She set her lips defensively. "I wish you could see how you move around him."
"What do you mean?"
"The way you move - you orient yourself around him without even thinking about it. When he moves, even a little bit, you adjust your position at the same time. Like magnets . . . or gravity. You're like a . . . satellite, or something. I've never seen anything like it."
She pursed her lips and stared down.