FANFICTION: SILVER LINING
A Jacob/Bella fic. Old.
Silver Lining
hurray, hurray, i’m your silver lining
hurray, hurray, but now i’m gold.
silver lining, rilo kiley
You drive down the California coast, bare foot pressed hard on the gas pedal, Forks disappearing behind you. In the passenger seat, Bella’s facing the ocean. She’s smiling, yelling out the lyrics of “Bad Moon Rising” to all the early morning surfers, the joggers preparing for a run, the trees all bent eastward. You think she’s beautiful, feet up on the dash, hair whipping around her face, catching in her mouth so that she gags on the chorus.
By evening you’re in LA, a cheap motel and food from a nearby gas station littered across the bed. You grab a Snickers. Bella’s in the shower, and it’s taking every ounce of self control you have not to barge in there and kiss her. So, you settle for your candy bar and hope she can’t see the way your hands shake when she crawls under the covers with you.
-
You make a left into Arizona, and soon you’re in her hometown. Everything screams Bella, and she can’t seem to understand why you tighten up when you run into old friends of hers. A girl named Marie, with black hair and soft curves, invites the two of you to a party at Danny Mitcham’s house.
The beer is warm, and Bella clinks her bottle to yours, says cheers. At two twenty-five, exactly, she leans in and kisses you, to catcalls from all the people present. It’s soft and warm, and when she pulls back she’s grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m so drunk,” she says, then giggles.
-
Summer brings heat and more heat. The state lines begin to blur, and you wish Bella would give you more time.
In Texas it’s Willie Nelson and Randy Travis, a taqueria near the Mexican border, and Bella lets you kiss her while she’s sober, back pressed against the ice machine down the hall from your room. Somewhere between Louisiana and Georgia, it’s local rappers on the radio, and sleeping on the beach. The warm sand of the gulf between toes, and Bella cries into the crook of your neck, I could have loved you more.
In Virginia it’s a postcard to Charlie, and a call to Edward that leaves Bella in tears. You lick the salt from her cheeks, kiss the fleshy lids of her eyes, promise her the world. New Jersey is a cranberry festival, and you decide you’ll never fall in love again when Bella shift beneath you, locks her hips with yours.
Maine is Bella’s first experience with fishing, and she rolls her eyes when she comes away with nothing, decides she doesn’t like it. The hotel is cold, the curtains are drawn, and the television’s on mute, casting a warm glow over Bella as she dances to a Tori Amos song, the alarm clock radio turned as loud as it can go. She’s bare foot on the carpet, hips swinging wide and low, arms floating around her. Her hair falls into her face, and she grins at you, mouths the words. Strange little girl, where are you going? She’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see, you’re sure.
You drive to each Great Lake, and Bella insists you watch the sun set over each one. You don’t argue, hold her a little closer than normal, Forks is beginning to peek over the horizon.
-
“I want you to remember,” you tell her.
A hotel in Nebraska, where it’s Bright Eyes and your tongue tracing Bella’s spine. Sweat drenched sheets, and she whispers love you into your mouth. Love you more, only you don’t say it. You want her to remember this after she’s been turned. Want her to pick you. Please pick me, you think, walking your fingers up her thigh, and then she’s sighing into the pillow. When it’s over, and you’re lying awake, all you can think of is the way she said your name. Juh-ake, over and over like a mantra.
-
A little motel in Idaho, and Forks is right around the corner. The bags are all packed, and you stand in the doorway watching Bella. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you duck your head. “I’m so sorry.”
She chokes on a sob, and lets you kiss her. A soft, goodbye kiss. A sweep of tongue, and you think you’ll die the moment you set foot in Washington.
-
Three weeks later, and an invitation arrives in the mail. What a fucking joke.
You run as fast and far as your legs allow.
Silver Lining
hurray, hurray, i’m your silver lining
hurray, hurray, but now i’m gold.
silver lining, rilo kiley
You drive down the California coast, bare foot pressed hard on the gas pedal, Forks disappearing behind you. In the passenger seat, Bella’s facing the ocean. She’s smiling, yelling out the lyrics of “Bad Moon Rising” to all the early morning surfers, the joggers preparing for a run, the trees all bent eastward. You think she’s beautiful, feet up on the dash, hair whipping around her face, catching in her mouth so that she gags on the chorus.
By evening you’re in LA, a cheap motel and food from a nearby gas station littered across the bed. You grab a Snickers. Bella’s in the shower, and it’s taking every ounce of self control you have not to barge in there and kiss her. So, you settle for your candy bar and hope she can’t see the way your hands shake when she crawls under the covers with you.
-
You make a left into Arizona, and soon you’re in her hometown. Everything screams Bella, and she can’t seem to understand why you tighten up when you run into old friends of hers. A girl named Marie, with black hair and soft curves, invites the two of you to a party at Danny Mitcham’s house.
The beer is warm, and Bella clinks her bottle to yours, says cheers. At two twenty-five, exactly, she leans in and kisses you, to catcalls from all the people present. It’s soft and warm, and when she pulls back she’s grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m so drunk,” she says, then giggles.
-
Summer brings heat and more heat. The state lines begin to blur, and you wish Bella would give you more time.
In Texas it’s Willie Nelson and Randy Travis, a taqueria near the Mexican border, and Bella lets you kiss her while she’s sober, back pressed against the ice machine down the hall from your room. Somewhere between Louisiana and Georgia, it’s local rappers on the radio, and sleeping on the beach. The warm sand of the gulf between toes, and Bella cries into the crook of your neck, I could have loved you more.
In Virginia it’s a postcard to Charlie, and a call to Edward that leaves Bella in tears. You lick the salt from her cheeks, kiss the fleshy lids of her eyes, promise her the world. New Jersey is a cranberry festival, and you decide you’ll never fall in love again when Bella shift beneath you, locks her hips with yours.
Maine is Bella’s first experience with fishing, and she rolls her eyes when she comes away with nothing, decides she doesn’t like it. The hotel is cold, the curtains are drawn, and the television’s on mute, casting a warm glow over Bella as she dances to a Tori Amos song, the alarm clock radio turned as loud as it can go. She’s bare foot on the carpet, hips swinging wide and low, arms floating around her. Her hair falls into her face, and she grins at you, mouths the words. Strange little girl, where are you going? She’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see, you’re sure.
You drive to each Great Lake, and Bella insists you watch the sun set over each one. You don’t argue, hold her a little closer than normal, Forks is beginning to peek over the horizon.
-
“I want you to remember,” you tell her.
A hotel in Nebraska, where it’s Bright Eyes and your tongue tracing Bella’s spine. Sweat drenched sheets, and she whispers love you into your mouth. Love you more, only you don’t say it. You want her to remember this after she’s been turned. Want her to pick you. Please pick me, you think, walking your fingers up her thigh, and then she’s sighing into the pillow. When it’s over, and you’re lying awake, all you can think of is the way she said your name. Juh-ake, over and over like a mantra.
-
A little motel in Idaho, and Forks is right around the corner. The bags are all packed, and you stand in the doorway watching Bella. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you duck your head. “I’m so sorry.”
She chokes on a sob, and lets you kiss her. A soft, goodbye kiss. A sweep of tongue, and you think you’ll die the moment you set foot in Washington.
-
Three weeks later, and an invitation arrives in the mail. What a fucking joke.
You run as fast and far as your legs allow.