Téméraire: A Rosalie Hale Fanfiction

CHAPTER XX: HEY LOVER

The truck isn't pretty, exactly. The fresh black paint job is shiny even in the dismal light between the ancient towering trees, tires thick and brand new and oddly exempt of any trace of dirt. The chrome work gleams, decorating the boxy truck like jewellery worn to accesorize a plain black dress, little shining accents running along the profile. The shortbed has received a lift job that makes it taller, more imposing in stature. It's nothing flash, nothing dramatic- and yet Jules falls in love with it the moment Rosalie tugs the green tarp off, a gigantic goofy grin stretching on her lips.

Rosalie feels the decadent triumph filling her up like a hearty feast at the sight of the childlike glee that made up Jules' entire demeanour. She might have hoped for some squealing, maybe even an excited hug- but her simple joy was enough. She leans a heel on one of the large off-roading wheels, revealing the shiny keys in her hand that she dangles with a jingle between her fingers- perhaps a little excessive in her showmanship. "I figured it was about time you started driving me around."

"How did you- okay, non, wait." Jules shakes her head with a bubbling laugh, running both her hands through her hair and holding it combed back in absolute incredulity. "C'est de la folie, merde."

"Non, je suis un génie, je ne suis pas fou." The fluid, fluent French that Rosalie responds haughtily with is enough to make Jules' jaw finally drop. She snorts with a smug smirk twisting upon her lips, taking gratification in the surprise painted on her best friend's pretty face. Good, she thought. She took a twisted kind of pleasure in showing off, and it had never felt as good as it had showing off for Jules. "Come on. Are you gonna take me out for a spin or not?"

"Don't you mean take the truck out for a spin?" Jules steps into motion, remembering at last that she was even capable of doing so as she goes to take the keys out from Rosalie's grip.

"I'm proud of my work, I'll admit, but not as proud as I am of this outfit I picked out just for this memory." Rosalie flicks her long hair over her shoulder shamelessly while Jules laughs again, hiding the bitterness that stabs at her heart.

The first time she got to drive her grandfather's truck. Rosalie had been doing this for weeks, taking her firsts from her. She always made a big deal out of it, Jules' heart fluttering funnily whenever she saw the unbearably gorgeous girl dressed up in her ruby red car ready to take her out somewhere. It felt like a date, a memory she had curated meticulously just for her. It should have hurt her that they were so fabricated. Everything was so contrived, so planned, down to the weather or a firefly flittering by. Rosalie knew every detail of what was to happen through her sister's visions, and Jules allowed her to steer her through their stolen evenings like being led through a dance she did not know the steps to. She should've been mad at how little control she had over their rare shared time together, and yet, it was so easy to slip into the mirage with Rosalie, to pretend they had more than they did. That they were more than they are. To believe in the illusion was the sickest trick of all.

She would only feel the daydream crumble when she went back home, when she was in her bedroom all alone— as if the magic from Cinderella's ball had fallen away, leaving little behind in its wake. It was then that she would feel the bitterness grow, the cold green fire fed regularly by the lies she told herself. The truth was that she hadn't just had the greatest romantic evening of her life. The butterflies in her stomach flew away from her, the happiness soaring off into oblivion leaving her numb and cold and alone. Her best friend wanted her to remember what she could never have again alive, but all Jules could remember was the pretty girl whose dead heart she would never hold.

For a moment, after she climbs in past the driver's side door Rosalie holds open for her, she is left in her own company. The truck doesn't smell new and she doesn't know why she's so grateful for this unanticipated revelation. The seat within is identical to the one Charlie used to sit on with her on his lap as a toddler. A singular bench seat with warm light brown leather, stitched in with wide ribbed panels over thick, comfortable foam. She knows it's reupholstered because the leather had once been so old and water-damaged that patches of it had gone entirely, exposing the damp and deteriorated foam beneath it. Rosalie had somehow made the new leather feel soft and used and entirely flawless all at the same time.