Chapter Two

Uncle Edward is right.

The instance the day of school is over, it's pouring with rain. The sky has turned into a dark grey, and it's cloudy. Sometimes my father likes picking me up from school if I ask, especially on rainy days like this, but I forgot to ask him. I also forgot to bring my phone with me as well.

I'm also naively hoping my Dad will take the initiative to pick me up when the end of school arrives. But when I reach out into the parking lot, he obviously isn't here. There's no cop car anywhere, and it's freezing outside. My sweater is warm enough but the skirt I'm wearing isn't very water-proof. By the time I get home, I'm probably going to be drenched.

Just as I'm about to suck it up and endure the cold, I spot him. My Uncle is standing by an expensive-looking, jet-black Mercedes-Benz. He seems content and absorbed in watching a group of girl's in my grade that are running over to their cars, hidden under their bright pink umbrellas. I peer over at the girl's myself, feeling envious: They were smart enough to think of taking an umbrella, just in case. I wasn't.

But that's the weather for you, here in Forks. It's either raining or getting prepared to rain. Fortunately for me, I've always loved the colder climate.

I bring my gaze back to this supposed Uncle of mine who, until this morning, I never knew existed. I discover he has finally noticed me standing where I am, getting wet. I still can't believe he is actually my Uncle, or in any way related to my father. They don't look anything alike; And, plus, he looks so much younger than my Dad. They are two different breeds, almost.

He's staring straight at me from where he stands by his car, getting equally as wet as I am. I don't understand why he didn't just bother staying in his car.

"Told you it was going to rain, Isabella," he calls to me loudly from where he stands. "Now how about that lift before you get even more wet?"

Much to my embarrassment, a few girl's in my grade hear and erupt into giggles. Just what I needed, to be made a fool out of, no matter how unintentional it probably was.

I consider ignoring him and taking the walk home anyway. It's about a half an hour walk home from Forks High School to my Dad's house. But it'll probably take longer in this weather. I don't know if I should trust this man or not, but since he is apparently like family to me, what is the worst that can happen? Besides, he already turned up here waiting for me, didn't he? I guess that was kind of... thoughtful.

Ignoring answering him, I stride over to the passenger's side of his car and slide in. I can't deny it's a lot warmer in his car, compared to the frostiness of the rain outside on your skin and dampening your clothes. Added with the heating in his car, it's almost heavenly. I pay no attention to him as he climbs in himself, letting out a relieved sigh from the warmth. I can feel his eyes on me as he rubs his hands together, puts them up to his mouth, blows some warmth into them. Suddenly it's all the more stifling in a small car, because he's a stranger, and I find it hard to trust.

Ever since my mother died, I have made a private vow to myself to not let anyone in. Losing her was hard enough, so why would I want to go through it all and have to endure all that heartbreak all over again? It seems a pretty neat way to live in my perspective. I try to ignore him best as I possibly can, when he starts the car and pulls out of the lot. Listening to the sounds of the rain pelting on the windshield seems so much easier than having to suffer through awkward conversation, only it seems it isn't good enough for him.

"So, Isabella," he starts quietly, "You go to this school?"

"Yes," I answer shortly. "And it's Bella."

"What?"

"My name," I explain. "My name is just Bella, not Isabella."

"And what's wrong with Isabella?" he asks casually. I think he is trying to taunt me. Tease me.

"I just don't like the name," I admit stiffly. "I prefer Bella."

He starts laughing. That funny feeling happens again from inside me. "All right then, Bella. Apparently your Dad thinks I need to spend some time with you two, and bring in some happiness. Why would that be exactly?"

I find it hard he doesn't already know. "Didn't Dad tell you?" I ask him, full of disbelief. "My... my Mom passed away. I guess he felt things were getting too lonely and felt he needed close family around."

"And what about you?" he asks gently, with interest. "Do you feel things are getting too lonely?"

"I don't know. I think things are pretty fine the way they are."

"Well, obviously your Dad doesn't think so. I'd be happy to keep you both company, but I don't exactly want to be rude and imposing." I stare at him and he turns to look at me apprehensively. "Would you consider it imposing if I stayed in your house for a little while?"

"What does it matter what I think?" I ask bluntly. "If Dad wants it, then it's his choice, isn't it? It's Dad's house." I feel in sudden dire need for a subject change. "How come I never knew you existed?"

"I thought you did," he says. "I mean, you did when you were at least three or four."

"But I don't remember you."

"Well, that's funny, because I remember you," he says, and he turns to look at me earnestly. "I remember the first day I met you almost like it was just yesterday, and the way I was chasing you around and how short you were. Maybe you were just too young to remember me?"

"I guess I must have been, then. Are you truly my Dad's brother?"

"No, I'm not. As I said before you went to school, I was adopted into your father's family at a very young age."

"How old are you?" I ask, not caring about being rude.

"I'm thirty-three this year, Bella," he admits, sounding not real pleased to have to admit it to me. I don't see why he would be embarrassed exactly; What's the big deal? "But on a more brighter note," he continues quickly, "I heard something very intriguing about you from Charlie's mouth."

"Yeah, and what's that?"

He turns to look at me again.

"Je vous entends parler François?" he says, with a slight smile. 'I hear you speak French?' It's amazing. His French is impeccable. It's envy-inducing.

"Oui," I confess breathlessly. Yes.

"Avez-vous visité Paris?" he asks curiously.

"Have I been to Paris? Unfortunately not. I want to, though."

"Yes, I'm sure you would enjoy it there. What excites you about it the most?"

"The Eiffel Tower. I think it's beautiful."

"It sure is beautiful. It's even more beautiful up close." I turn to look at him to show him I'm interested in what he's saying. I find he is already staring my way, studying my face. It's... unnerving. "Is that something you want to do when you're older? Travel the world, and see all its infamous landmarks?"

"Not exactly." I try to think of a better way to put it. "It was mostly my... Mom that influenced my love for French and the Eiffel Tower. She helped me learn."

"Yes. I heard she also helped you learn how to play the piano?"

"Yeah, she did."

"Do you play it well?"

"I guess so, yeah," I admit modestly.

"Well, we'll have to play together some day, won't we?"

Him saying that unnerves me for some reason. "You play piano as well?" I ask, feeling a bit deflated.

"I do. Isn't it odd how we both know how to speak French and play piano?"

He's right; It is odd. I can't believe we have... so much in common, despite not knowing each other at all.

"Maybe it's a sign?" he goes on after a minute. I force myself to look at him again, finding him already staring at me with a sombre expression on his face.

"A sign of what?" I ask anxiously, not following.

"Hmmm, I don't know, just a sign. We just seem to have so many things in common. It can't be a mere coincidence, could it?"

I don't even realize we've reached the house until he pulls up into the driveway and unbuckles his seat belt. Slowly, I do the same, finding myself eager to get away from him. Just as I'm reaching down for my bag, I feel one of his hands slide up my leg, bunching up the material of my skirt together as his hand glides up higher towards my thigh. I don't know if it's meant to be wrong or not, but it feels as if he is crossing a line I'm not entirely comfortable with. Touching in general with a stranger isn't something I particularly like, but when I peer over at his face again, it seems to be a harmless touch that he means nothing ill with.

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you that I'll be here for a little while?"

I hesitate, feeling my heart thump in my chest, all thanks to the fact his hand hasn't removed itself from my thigh. The warmth of his palm and the tips of his fingers burns straight through the fabric of my skirt; I can feel it.

"Because if it does bother you, then I can rent out a hotel room to stay out at if you're more comfortable with that? I don't want to cramp your style or anything like that?" His eyes search mine deeply and if the car felt sweltering before, it's so much more now that he's touching me. He seems to be searching my face deeply for something. Understanding? My permission into letting him stay in the house with my Dad? What? "I know some teenage girl's like their space. If you want that, it's fine, Bella."

"I don't care," I say finally. And it's the truth; I couldn't care less whether he stays in the house or not.

His entire body seems to relax with relief. "Well, good." He passes a hand over his face quickly. "I'm glad, because I would hate to get into the way or anything like that. I know things must be incredibly hard with the loss you're going through right now."

"I said, it's fine."

"Well, you just let me know, all right?" Finally removing his hand from my thigh, he reaches up to rest his calloused palm against my cheek affectionately.

"I said, it's fine," I repeat, a little more firmly. I grab his hand and pull it away from my cheek briskly. "Do whatever you want. It's not my choice to say anyway. It's Charlie's."

"All right, if you say so, Bella..."

Ignoring him, I climb out of his car hastily and race inside. How is it that someone can possibly make me feel so... strange?