Pickup Truck

Chapter One

Bella

Six weeks later

I hate the sand.

I love the water. I love the sun. I love the boys on the boards.

I do not love sand.

The only thing worse than sand in my sheets is sand on the hardwood floors; and the only thing worse than sand on the hardwood floors is sand on the bottom of the shower. The only thing worse than sand on the bottom of the shower is sand in the loaf of bread; and the only thing worse than sand in the bread is sand in my mouth.

It happens.

I tried to talk Charlie into moving closer to Forks and away from the water's edge, but he never listens. He's either too high, or he's too busy at Charlie's, his surf and ride shop. When he does pay attention to my rants, his reaction is normally like, "Bella, Forks is too dangerous," or "Bella, just blow on the bread. The sand comes right out."

Which is ridiculous. No amount of blowing will ever get all of the sand out of each crevice in the bread. I've tried. And while Forks may have the highest crime rate in the state of Washington, it's hardly dangerous. Remington, my on-again, off-again ex, lives there and he's fine.

It would be comfortable in La Push if there weren't so much damn sand, or if my dad would tie the bread up after he made his sandwich. I mean, I don't know what my deal has been the last couple of weeks, but I've been kind of edgy ... and there seems to be fucking sand everywhere.

Perhaps has something to do with the boy who lives three houses down.

"Step away from the broom," my dad says as he walks into the kitchen through the back door. He's in his normal attire of beach bum: Birkenstocks, cut-off Levi's, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, with a pipe between his lips.

He isn't foolin' anyone. The entire town knows it isn't tobacco he's smoking.

He's too tanned, and his beard is twelve inches too long. His hair, more frizzy than curly and more salt than pepper, is thinning at the base of his head, and is entirely unbrushed on the sides where it still lingers well over his ears.

Charlie Swan, the male behind my existence, has the reputation of being stuck in the 60s. He grew up here. First Beach was—and still is—his stomping grounds. When he was younger, he surfed these waters, and if he wasn't catching waves, he was pushing his Zephyr down sidewalks and through parking lots. Always moving, always rollin', always ridin'. La Push isn't exactly Dog Town and he's not a Z-Boy, but nobody told Dad that. He and his crew treated it as such.

He still does. He hasn't changed at all.

I blow my dark blonde bangs out of my face and smile. It's fake. I'm boiling. There's fucking sand stuck to the bottom of my feet and no matter how much I sweep, there's always more. Our little home on the water isn't exactly well kept. It's old and ocean-beaten, but it's ours. I like to keep it clean, but the sand makes it impossible.

"Take off your shoes before you walk through the kitchen, Dad!" I stomp my foot. My bangs fall back in my eyes.

Dad holds his hands up in surrender. If there's one thing Charlie has learned about me in the seventeen years of my life, it's that when I stomp, I'm not messing around. He said my mom used to do the same thing. Except she used to throw things, too. According to my dad, my mother was so passionate and overdramatic that she used to turn the whole house upside down when they would fight. She would cry loud enough for the entire shoreline to hear. She would pull her own hair and kick and scream and demand the attention of the world.