Wayward ➳ Edward Cullen

1. Forks

The old pickup grumbled as I shifted the clutch and pressed on the gas. The Impala ahead of us climbed the steep hillside with far more ease. Leaning forward, I willed the truck to keep up.

It wasn't necessary. Even if we were separated, Forks wasn't hard to find. The small Washington town was one of less than half a dozen that dotted the interstate between Bogachiel State Park and Port Angeles. Still, I was loathed to lose sight of the Impala before I absolutely had to.

As the truck crested the hillside, rumbling crankily, static began to creep into the radio. A long-limbed, bony hand dropped like a hammer onto the dashboard. The static took over the signal entirely, and I shot an annoyed side-eye to the gangly fifteen-year-old boy in the passenger seat.

Sam frowned before delivering another hit. The alt-rock station came back clear, blasting Incubus through the speakers. Settling back into the seat, his sights drifted back out the window.

I wasn't sure what he was seeing. Couldn't be the same trees that passed without pause to either side of the two-lane highway. Like silent green sentinels they towered above the road and hid the land deeper within in darkness. The sky overhead was dim and grey, as if a fog had risen and now conspired with the clouds to keep out the sun.

Whatever it was Sam was dreaming about, he kept it to himself.

It was another fifteen minutes before a wooden sign welcomed us to the township of Forks appeared off the side of the road. "Looks like we're here."

Sam blinked, his eyes refocusing on the sign as he straightened out of his slouch. We were both peering out the windshield with interest as the first set of buildings appeared on the horizon. They didn't look much different from the other houses we'd passed outside of the state park. Mid-fifties two stories, in various shades of blues, whites, and greys, with mowed yards and a truck in the driveway.

The interstate transformed into the main road. As we drove further into town, commercial buildings cropped up. A small corner diner, a squat bank sitting beside a warehouse thrift store. A row of brick and mortar shops.

We followed the Impala as it turned off the street and into a residential area. Here were more mid-century houses. There weren't a lot of fences to be found, but that was likely because the yards themselves were huge. I was willing to bet most of the folks around town owned riding mowers. The houses were well-kept, but not terribly large. Twisting around a few corners, a few minutes and the Impala pulled into the empty driveway of another mid-century halfway down F Street.

Sam's eyes were big and round as they took in the white two-story. I shifted into park and joined him for a moment.

It was narrow in front, lacking a covered porch like the neighboring house, but sporting several dormers and a tended line of waist-high shrubs. The garage bunched up beside the main house like an addition that had been tacked on after the fact. Aside from needing a fresh coat of paint, it looked in decent condition from the curb, if a bit plain.

The creaking of doors opening from the Impala drew my attention back to the driveway. Dean was the first out, taking a second to stretch his back as he looked around. He shut the door and turned to amble back towards us. Dad was slower. Seeming content to set an arm across the top of the driver side door and study the house.

A slap against the Ford's hood demanded my attention. "Let's go kids."

Sam and I shot equally affronted glares in Dean's direction. He chuckled before knocking his knuckles against my window as he passed, heading to the truck bed.

"He'll be gone tomorrow," Sam reassured himself.

My sights slid away from the long stretch of our new, tree-lined yard to spy Sam still glaring out the back window at Dean. I blew out an annoyed breath and shoved the driver door open without comment. Sometimes I thought Sam would be happy to see the backs of all of us.