I'll be home for Christmas

Chapter 1

AN: I wrote an entry for the JBNP's Naughty or Nice... Christmas One Shot Contest 2011 under my fanfic name mrstrentreznor, but got carried away with my idea and forgot to read the fine print. No wolf boy equals no contest entry. But on the bright side, that means I can post it here for you.

On the negative side, ff doesn't have photos so if you want to see the great shots of Benjamin Bratt (I borrowed his body) and the sunrise, you'll have to read it on JBNP. But sadly, it shut down in July 2013. So Google is your friend.

I have mangled the banner that goldengirl made me from printingpaws. Sorry, Hun ♥

Disclaimer: the characters and all recognisable situations belong to Stephenie Meyer - this is a work of fan fiction, except for the legends and histories of the Quileute and that, of course, belong to them. I pay my respects to their gods.

Paring: Bella and a guy she met in a bar

Rating: MA

I'll be home for Christmas.

"You did WHAT?" Bella screamed at her fiancé.

"I would want to have known," he argued. But because he could not read her mind, he never did know what she was thinking.

"What did you say? And I know you can remember exactly."

"I said: I'm breaking the rules by sending you this. She was afraid of hurting you, and she didn't want to make you feel obligated in any way. But I know that, if things had gone the other way, I would have wanted the choice. I promise I will take care of her, Jacob. Thank you – for her – for everything," he recited.

She just stood there and looked at him while she tried to marshal her thoughts.

"You sent my human best friend who just happens to be in love with me and a werewolf and your mortal enemy… an invitation to our wedding?"

"Yes." Stupidly, he sounded supremely confident of his actions.

"And you really think he wants to stand there and watch you win the battle for my heart? Knowing that it will result in my death?"

"No you'll be turned-"

She glared at him hard enough for him to stop that line of argument.

"Dead is dead, Edward," she spat at him.

"Well I suppose… when you put it like that…"

She was furious with Edward for sending him the wedding invitation. It was spiteful and unnecessary. As unnecessary as the invitation itself. The layers of petal printed pages with matching vellum overlays. So formal; so not her.

"It was my job to tell him; not yours. How else could he interpret that, than as one upmanship? It was cruel, Edward. He lost me and you're reminding him of that. Did you enclose an extra message? Nahnah na nahnah? Was that what it said?"

"Isabella, please. Don't be childish."

"Really? And what did you just do? Rub salt in his wounds?"

Edward looked momentarily confused. As if his Victorian rules of behaviour had failed him here. Miss Manners for century old men didn't apply in the year 2000.

"It's my choice to marry you. To be with you, not him and I should have told him that," she tried to explain. "He's my friend and I-"

She stopped suddenly. Her choice…

She had a realisation. She hadn't made any choices, other than Edward.