False Dawn

(Disclaimer: I don’t own Twilight. I’m going to play with the world though. In some things I will do my best to be accurate, in others not so much. This story will involve an f/f relationship/romance, if you can’t handle this consider yourself warned. I will disregard any homophobic reviews. I do hope you enjoy this story though, I enjoy writing it. I’m happy to accept corrections and constructive criticisms. In all things have fun, and be kind. The Pov in the story will change from Harper to Leah chapter by chapter. )

Chapter 1 – Harper – Having Run So Far

 The dark forest closed in around La Push road as I coaxed a little more power from my van’s engine. The van had been struggling for the past forty kilometers… miles rather, and I was really hoping it would hold out until I reached the small coastal settlement. Listening to the engine whine, I cursed myself for not stopping in Forks to try and find a mechanic, but the day was drawing to a close, and I had wanted to reach the coast before nightfall. It was often difficult to find a quiet place to park my van for the night, and if I wasn’t careful I might find myself driving around until the early morning trying to find a decent place to pull up. Unfortunately the van decided that my plans didn’t really matter all that much to it, and as it trundled its way between the damp green and brown trees, I was beginning to get a sinking feeling that it might not make it La Push at all, let alone keep moving long enough to find a nice place to sleep. It wasn’t surprising really.

 The van was a ’66 model VW Kombi, and although it had been well loved by its previous owner, reconditioned and altered for comfort, I had been driving it pretty hard for the past few months. I’d bought the van, for a generously small amount from an old woman in San Francisco, shortly after I’d arrived in the US in June. I’d been fresh off the plane and ridiculously jet-lagged when I’d stumbled up to her doorstep in answer to an ad she’d put online. In some ways that was how this all started.

…

 Celeste Winterson lived in a gorgeous old Victorian style house at the end of lazy street. I wasn’t the first itinerant traveler to show up at her doorstep, but I was the only one at the time. She’d grinned, and invited me in with a cool drink and snack. A single woman in her early sixties, Celeste still had some throw back habits to her hippie days. She ran her boarding house almost like a commune. The price of lodging was almost nothing, so long as you were willing to help out with housework and groceries, keep your room clean, and join her for a “family dinner.” That first day she’d kept me awake with friendly chatter, and games of cards, until I was exhausted and the sun had just set. That night I slept through till morning, barely feeling my body clock telling me it was time to wake up on the other side of the world.

I was in a pretty bad state in those days, but I think she realised. It felt so strange to be in a completely different country; especially a country where every voice sounded achingly similar to my father’s, where I was supposed to somehow carve out a place for myself. For the first few days I had barely been able to contemplate leaving the house. Instead I hung around with Celeste, cleaning, weeding her seemingly endless vegetable garden, and helping her cook amazing meals that almost seemed wasted on just the two of us.

She gave me my space, let me keep my peace. Instead of asking questions, she told me stories about the roaring 60s. Amazing stories. Some were beautiful, the one about how she’d run away from home at sixteen and hitch-hiked to San Francisco with a bunch of travelling musicians. She spent her first night in the city playing guitar and singing in a park overlooking the bay. There was a crowd and they all stayed up until sunrise. Someone offered her a room in a share house, and suddenly she’d found a home, friends and a community that shared all her dreams and ideals. Telling these stories, her eyes would like up and her hands would stop whatever they were doing to animate her conversation. The years seemed to slip away and I could almost see the young woman she’d been, naïve, sheltered, but full of passion and determination.