It was unusually foggy, even for Forks, Idaho; the air was almost smoky with it. The mist was ice, ice cold where it clung to the exposed skin on my chest. It was such a thick fog that I almost didn't notice the silver Volvo in the driveway, with its one pale hand hanging out of the driver-side window. My heart thudded, stuttered, murmured, and then picked up again in double time.
I didn't see where he came from, but suddenly he was there, pulling the door open for me. I could get used to this.
"Do you want to take a ride in my hot rod today?" he asked, amused by my surprised expression as he caught me by surprise yet again. There was uncertainty in his voice. He was really giving me a choice—I was free to refuse, and a part of him—probably not the potent part of him that thirsted for my blood—that hoped for that. It was a vain hope.214 I was far too unconditionally in love with him, and he irrevocably knew it.
"Yes, thank you," I said, trying to keep my cool. As I stepped into the warm car, I noticed a feminine-looking beige leather jacket was slung over the headrest of the passenger seat. Had someone else been in there? Did he have another girlfriend? I looked at the jacket, and then at him, refusing to sit in the seat before I got some answers.
"Why are you glaring at my jacket?" He asked. I immediately felt silly for forgetting how feminine his clothes were. I got into the car, took my seat, and buckled in. "I brought the jacket for you. I didn't want you to get... sick or something." His voice was guarded. I noticed that he wore no jacket himself, just a light purple gray knit V-neck shirt with tight, ¾ length sleeves. Again, the fabric clung to his perfectly muscled chest. It was a colossal tribute to his face that it kept my eyes away from his body.215
"I'm not quite that delicate," I said, but I pulled the jacket onto my lap, pushing my arms through the too-long
214. More like a vein hope!
215. For more, please see thought question #6.