Chapter Text
Bella Swan is walking down the aisle at her wedding, and it doesn't feel real in the slightest.
Charlie is beside her, unmistakably comforting, solidly himself. In the familiar shuffling rhythm of his footsteps and the scratchy rustle of the rented suit. In his solid height, his warmth where her arm is tucked through his—
And yet.
She never really thought she'd get married, did she?
Even the once-or-twice her thoughts drifted there, under Phoenix sun, (before Phil, before Forks, before Edward), it was Renee walking her down the aisle. Because Renee would've laughed about it, would have flung her arms up and said who needs tradition! and maybe even worn a suit for the fun of it, and that happiness would've spilled over onto Bella. Because all she'd had of Charlie to dream about then was a few disjointed weeks.
And now he's the only thing keeping her standing. (Don't let me fall, Dad, she'd whispered. And he promised. Never.) (Even now his chin is tilted up and his face held stubbornly uncrumpled, almost proud.)
But she can tell, just from the corner of her eye, that there are tears behind it. That they'll fall, later, as he's stripping off this barely too-small tux. Alone, in the silence of a house she suddenly feels she spent far too little time in—
No. It's stupid to think about that, now of all times.
She should be happy.
She's in the middle a fairy tale. Everything is glittering, glistening, perfect. The bright lights and soaring white canopies, the flowers tumbled everywhere...even the guests, in dresses so nice it's almost surreal. Almost as surreal as her own, a gown so glamorous she never even would've dreamed it; so expensive she feels like an entirely different person wearing it.
(So expensive she can't stop hearing the scrape of quarters against the bottom of the jar of grocery money. It rings in her ears, drowning the scuff of fabric against a long carpet laid so she doesn't have to drag silver heels through the dirt.)
She should be happy.
Edward is waiting for her—the fairy tale prince. Surreally, inhumanly perfect. A happy ending all her own.
One she doesn't deserve in the slightest—one she'll never compare to—Edward—
She should be happy.
She knows exactly how it will feel, when she reaches him. Cold hands on her cheeks, twining with her fingers. Cold stone lips firm against her own, his breath dizzyingly sweet as it glides across her skin—
For one absurd second, she thinks maybe she's going to cry.
Maybe she's going to drown.
The soaring awnings, the strands of gleaming flowers, the light-draped boughs of the trees, are all too heavy. It's going to collapse down on her, it's too much not to, bound to topple and smash and ruin. And it would crush her, but then at least she'd be free from the weight of all these stares—
Edward is waiting.
Alice is beaming.
Charlie is holding her, and Renee is crying, and she should be happy, she—
Didn't want this.
She doesn't.
She wanted Edward, first and always and only.
She wanted the way he looks at her, like he was trying, really trying, to know her. Every last boring human piece. She wanted that dizzying, undivided attention. To stare into the play of light in eyes a whole spectrum of shades, and know they'd never flinch away. She wanted the glow of knowing that he could've had anyone in the world, and still chose her.
She wanted the hours at his piano, the gentle banter in the meadow, waking from nightmares trusting that he would be there, cool and reassuring and holding her so gently she didn't even have the chance to scream—
And she doesn't want this.
She doesn't want the production. The gossip she can see growing in the tilt of Jess and Angela's heads, the whispers flitting between them.
She doesn't want the heels pinching her toes and setting her ankles aching, the prickle of pins in her swept-back hair, the fancy lace dress itching at her wrists and tugging her off-balance with the weight of its train.
She doesn't want Charlie stiff with how desperately he's trying to hide his sorrow. (She doesn't want to know that soon his sorrow will be permanent, because everyone's going to have to think that she's...)
This is a fairy tale.
And Bella always thought she wanted to live in one, but none of the books ever described it quite like this.
The weight of the eyes. The panic strangling her throat. The tiny bubbling piece of resentment for the fact that they joked about Emmett reading the vows, about shotgun weddings in Vegas in her vans and a flannel, but it could only ever be a joke, because when it came down to it, Alice, (Edward?), wanted the glamour and the show and she didn't know how to say no, even though she doesn't.
She didn't even want to get married.
But somehow she's here, they both are, and...
She stops.
For a second, it's not too late.
For a second—as Charlie's grip tightens, as the faces stay smiling and untouched, as Edward's eyes linger on hers, his smile unwavering—she knows she could pass it off as nothing, still. It could be something to laugh about. Only Bella Swan would trip on the aisle at her own wedding, but of course she did. Emmett would love it. Would boom out a laugh and, once they're out of human earshot, say something about how he's going to miss her clumsiness—
It stretches on for a second longer.
She doesn't trip. She doesn't fall. It's just that her legs have ground to a stop halfway down this suddenly infinite, (or maybe too finite), walkway.
She's thinking, absurdly of her truck. Dead in the driveway of "mysterious causes" that she absolutely wasn't stupid enough to miss connecting with Edward's smug smile and the missile-proof monstrosity shining in her driveway not even an hour later.
An engine's chainsaw roar, stuffing spilling out of the seams of seats and the icy metal of the wheel under her clenched fingers, the faint, stale smell of tobacco from the coughing vents and the comforting hiss of tires on rainy roads—the ridiculous, giddy happiness of it—
A tiny piece of warmth, of home, in this cold, shadowed town.
And Edward smiled—
"Bells?" Charlie whispers.
Bella finds Alice's face in the crowd. Watches it fall as she sees—
Bella doesn't honestly know what. Because she doesn't have a single choice made.
"Dad," she whispers back, clinging so tight to his arm he must be able to feel her shaking. (So hard she doesn't even feel it—like she's cold, like she's frozen, down to the bone.) "Dad, I don't want—Dad, I changed my mind."
Alice is rising from her seat. Edward's face is tightening and tragic as he eases a step closer, hands clenching. Bella is suddenly deliriously glad for the spectacle, the humans here and the facade they all have to maintain—
Charlie swallows. "Alright."
And she's never been more glad for her impossible, inscrutable father. Because that's all she's going to get—but it's also all that she needs. She turns, and—
Bella Swan runs.
She kicks off her silver heels. Stumbles at the sudden length of her hem without their extra inches. Keeps running.
Her cheeks burn, whispers chasing her vicious down the aisle. Edward's churchbell voice peals—Bella, love, wait!—Charlie's gruff voice booming over it—holding back the crowd whose murmurs are growing to gasps, expanding to outcry—
She trips. Tosses her arms out to windmill back her balance, and the bouquet goes flying.
She keeps running.
Off the carpet, and onto forest floor. Pinecones, the razored edge of needles catch her feet, stabbing into the soles. Tear her dragging dress.
She keeps running.
Past the house, tall and stately with sun shining off the glass. Inhabited now, but she can still picture it empty, empty—haunting and haunted—when Edward left her, for her own good—
She runs.
Until her lungs are burning. Until her stomach twists and her legs ache with the weight of the ruined dress still tangled around them.
She's running. She's doing it. She's free.
She's breaking her own heart, leaving it as bruised and bloody as her feet slamming against the dirt driveway. She's never going to be able to go back.
She chokes on tears, streaming suddenly warm down her cold, cold face. They blur the world, turning everything to swimming, impossible green. Edward's going to be so angry...
And yet. Deep beneath the sick panic, the weight of her gaudy jewelry and her gauzy dress...beneath the awful, cracking sorrow...if there was enough air in her lungs...
She might just burst out laughing.
She's running.
Until icy arms close around her waist, tight enough to bruise. Of course. Of course. So stupid to think that she could escape, you knew better—
Except the voice that rings into her ears, warm and steady as churchbells, isn't his. It isn't even Alice's.
"Hold on," Rosalie grits out. "And maybe close your eyes."
So Bella does.
Rosalie sweeps her off her feet and tucks her against her chest. It's a bridal carry, Bella realizes, the urge to laugh bubbling even wilder.
And that's all she has time to think, because Rosalie—who would've been her sister-in-law, who could've loved her—Rosalie, who was always viciously, jealously insistent that Bella didn't want this—
Rosalie, who might've been right—
Rosalie is running, that sickening speed that unwinds the forest into long green ribbons.
Bella tucks her head into the stone-cold chest, and squeezes her eyes shut, tight enough to keep out the world.