The Girl With Lost Memories - Parts 1 & 2 (An OUAT Fanfiction)

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 39: 375°

Uncertain of what to do with myself, I amble and pace around the apartment. I assume having guests over is awkward for everyone, especially when you've finished getting ready and have to wait for them to show up. What if Neal's early? What if he's late? I don't want to watch TV and get invested in a show only for him to knock on the door when I'm halfway in. I don't want him to knock even if I'm five minutes in.

Mary Margaret's feeling the pressure, too. In the kitchen, she bustles around, finishing the last-minute details of cooking, cleaning, and setting up. David—I don't understand how—is chilling on the couch, watching a sports game.

"You could help in here, you know?" Mary Margaret calls out to him. "Or at least go check on Emma. I'm worried about her. She's still upstairs." Emma hasn't come down from the loft since Mary Margaret dropped the bombshell.

"You're the one who set this whole thing up, Snow. Don't expect Emma to be thrilled tonight."

"Excuse me for wanting my daughter to have a caring, loving man to look after her."

"I want that for her, too, but Emma can take care of herself. She's a grown woman."

"Please," Mary Margaret begs.

"Alright." David rises from the couch and heads up to the loft.

Even though Mary Margaret's "look nice" comment was directed toward Emma, I dressed up. It's dinner—Sunday dinner—and we're having a guest over, so I want to look nice. I should look nice. Unfortunately, I only have one outfit that would be considered "nice"—the one Mary Margaret bought me.

I smooth out the maroon dress but change my mind about the cardigan. I throw it onto my bed and re-lace the heeled brown boots. Before exiting my room, I double-check my makeup, which I kept simple, and twist some of the curls in my hair. Satisfied with my appearance, I busy myself with tidying the place settings on the table. Straightening napkins, centering plates, and adjusting chairs. I don't know what else to do, but I don't want to hide in my room. I want to be useful.

"Bella, could you take the cookies out of the oven?" Mary Margaret asks from the kitchen.

"You made cookies?" Where did she find the time for that? And everything else?

"Of course. I want this to be the best dinner Neal's ever had."

As I head over, I ask, "If you don't mind me asking, why do you care so much?"

"Emma's my daughter," she says, her voice warm. She strains the pasta, and hot steam rises from the sink in a thick, white cloud with a seething hiss. "I want the best for her. And Neal's Henry's father. All three of them deserve to be a family together."

"Emma made it pretty clear she and Neal aren't getting back together. Like ever," I say, referencing one of my favorite Taylor Swift songs.

"That doesn't mean it still can't happen. I have hope it will."

I open the oven and reach my hand inside.

"Bellaovenmitt!" Mary Margaret rushes her speech, her words tumbling out in one breath.

I do a double take, wondering why she called me Bella Ovenmitt instead of Bella Palmer. Then, I jerk my head and watch my hand grab the metal cookie tray before I can flinch away. But this tray's not even the slightest bit hot. It's warm but not scalding.

Mary Margaret stares at me, perplexed, as I take the tray out of the oven with my bare hands and place it on the counter. "Didn't that hurt you?" Her question reminds me of when Max asked it after I put my hand into the fireplace, and like then, no, it didn't.

"No."

"They just finished baking." She moves to the oven to check the temperature. "It's set to three hundred and seventy-five degrees, and you took them out with your bare hands. Are you sure you're not burned?"

"I'm fine." I show her my hands, free of redness and blisters. "It was hot," I fib, "but not scorching." But it should've been. Thin tendrils of smoke rise from the tray, and the cookies bubble and breathe. Why wasn't I burned?

"Let's get this over with," Emma says, treading down the stairs like a teenager, David following close behind.

"Emma, please be nice to Neal," Mary Margaret says.

"I'll show up, but I can't promise I'll enjoy myself or be nice."

"He's Henry's father."

"And he abandoned us."

"No, just you. He didn't know about Henry."

Mary Margaret's words make me cringe. That was definitely the wrong thing to say.

"Like that makes it any better."

"It's one dinner, Emma," David says, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Surely, you can get through it for your mother."

The way Emma looks at Mary Margaret almost chokes me up. She cares about her, but it's evident from her eyes Emma doesn't view the two of them as mother and daughter. She probably never has. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn't, either. They're about the same age, and Emma found Mary Margaret late in life. Will I not view my mother as my mother because I found her late in life, too? Because she didn't raise me? Because I lived so long without her, I got used to not having her around? I wonder...

"Alright. Just this once," Emma says.

A knock sounds at the door.

"That's him," Mary Margaret says, untying her apron and tossing it into a bottom cabinet. She hurries to the door, fussing with her side bangs and hair.

"Did you invite him here for Emma or for you?" David quips.

Mary Margaret swats at his bottom as she passes him, but he dodges in time. When she reaches the door, she adjusts her sweater before answering it. "Neal. We're glad you could make it."

"I brought some cider," Neal says, holding up the bottle. "I would've brought wine, but I know Bella can't have any."

A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips in appreciation.

"How thoughtful?" Mary Margaret says, accepting the bottle. "Please, come in."

"This family's not very fond of apples," Emma remarks, arms folded, as Neal steps into the apartment.

At first, he appears confused, but realization hits him. "Oh, right." He turns to Mary Margaret, then to Emma, then back again. "Sorry. I forgot about—"

"Don't worry about it," Mary Margaret reassures him, closing the door. "We can make an exception for tonight. Right, Emma?"

"Right."

This is going to be one hell of a dinner, and not in a good way.