Forum pracy nad projektem wskrzeszenia The Forge

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"I'm sorry to bother you, but could you tell me what kind of car you're driving?" the tall one asked.
"Urn, a Mercedes, right?"
"Yes," the man said politely while his shorter friend rolled his eyes at my answer. "I know. But I was
wondering,wholesale strapless beading ball gown tulle quinceanera dresses, is that... are you driving a Mercedes Guardian?" The man said the name with reverence. I
had a feeling this guy would get along well with Edward Cullen, my... my fiance (there really was no
getting around that truth with the wedding just days away). "They aren't supposed to be available in
Europe yet," the man went on, "let alone here."
While his eyes traced the contours of my car—it didn't look much different from any other Mercedes
sedan to me, but what did I know?—I briefly contemplated my issues with words like fiance, wedding,
husband, etc.
I just couldn't put it together in my head.
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On the one hand, I had been raised to cringe at the very thought of poofy white dresses and bouquets.
But more than that, I just couldn't reconcile a staid, respectable, dull concept like husband with my
concept of Edward. It was like casting an archangel as an accountant; I couldn't visualize him in any
commonplace role.
Like always, as soon as I started thinking about Edward I was caught up in a dizzy spin of fantasies. The
stranger had to clear his throat to get my attention; he was still waiting for an answer about the car's make
and model.
"I don't know,long slleve taffeta wedding glove ja 1371," I told him honestly.
"Do you mind if I take a picture with it?"
It took me a second to process that. "Really? You want to take a picture with the car?"
"Sure—nobody is going to believe me if I don't get proof."
"Urn. Okay. Fine."
I swiftly put away the nozzle and crept into the front seat to hide while the enthusiast dug a huge
professional-looking camera out of his backpack. He and his friend took turns posing by the hood, and
then they went to take pictures at the back end.
"I miss my truck," I whimpered to myself.
Very, very convenient—too convenient—that my truck would wheeze its last wheeze just weeks after
Edward and I had agreed to our lopsided compromise, one detail of which was that he be allowed to
replace my truck when it passed on. Edward swore it was only to be expected; my truck had lived a
long, full life and then expired of natural causes. According to him. And, of course, I had no way to verify
his story or to try to raise my truck from the dead on my own. My favorite mechanic—
I stopped that thought cold, refusing to let it come to a conclusion. Instead, I listened to the men's voices
outside, muted by the car walls.
"... went at it with a flamethrower in the online video. Didn't even pucker the paint."
"Of course not. You could roll a tank over this baby. Not much of a market for one over here. Designed
for Middle East diplomats, arms dealers, and drug lords mostly."
"Think she's something?" the short one asked in a softer voice. I ducked my head, cheeks flaming.
"Huh," the tall one said. "Maybe. Can't imagine what you'd need missile-proof glass and four thousand
pounds of body armor for around here. Must be headed somewhere more hazardous."
Body armor. Four thousand pounds of body armor. And missile-proof glass? Nice. What had
happened to good old-fashioned bulletproof?
Well, at least this made some sense—if you had a twisted sense of humor.
It wasn't like I hadn't expected Edward to take advantage of our deal, to weight it on his side so that he
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could give so much more than he would receive. I'd agreed that he could replace my truck when it
needed replacing, not expecting that moment to come quite so soon, of course. When I'd been forced to
admit that the truck had become no more than a still-life tribute to classic Chevys on my curb, I knew his
idea of a replacement was probably going to embarrass me. Make me the focus of stares and whispers.
I'd been right about that part. But even in my darkest imaginings I had not foreseen that he would get me
two cars.
The "before" car and the "after" car, he'd explained when I'd flipped out.
This was just the "before" car. He'd told me it was a loaner and promised that he was returning it after
the wedding. It all had made absolutely no sense to me. Until now.
Ha ha. Because I was so fragilely human, so accident-prone, so much a victim to my own dangerous
bad luck, apparently I needed a tank-resistant car to keep me safe. Hilarious. I was sure he and his
brothers had enjoyed the
joke quite a bit behind my back.
Or maybe, just maybe,a small voice whispered in my head, it's not a joke, silly. Maybe he's really that
worried about you. This wouldn't be the first time he's gone a little overboard trying to protect
you.
I sighed.
I hadn't seen the "after" car yet. It was hidden under a sheet in the deepest corner of the Cullens' garage.
I knew most people would have peeked by now, but I really didn't want to know.
Probably no body armor on that car—because I wouldn't need it after the honeymoon. Virtual
indestructibility was just one of the many perks I was looking forward to. The best parts about being a
Cullen were not expensive cars and impressive credit cards.
"Hey," the tall man called, cupping his hands to the glass in an effort to peer in. "We're done now.
Thanks a lot!"
"You're welcome," I called back, and then tensed as I started the engine and eased the pedal—ever so
gently—down___
No matter how many times I drove down the familiar road home, I still couldn't make the rain-faded
flyers fade into the background. Each one of them, stapled to telephone poles and taped to street signs,silvery plating colourful latest earring,
was like a fresh slap in the face. A well-deserved slap in the face. My mind was sucked back into the
thought I'd interrupted so immediately before. I couldn't avoid it on this road. Not with pictures of my
favorite mechanic flashing past me at regular intervals.
My best friend. My Jacob.
Thehave you SEENthis boy? posters were not Jacob's father's idea. It had been my father, Charlie,
who'd printed up the flyers and spread them all over town. And not just Forks, but Port Angeles and
Sequim and Hoquiam and Aberdeen and every other town in the Olympic Peninsula. He'd made sure
that all the police stations in the state of Washington had the same flyer hanging on the wall, too. His own
station had a whole corkboard dedicated to finding Jacob. A corkboard that was mostly empty, much to
his disappointment and frustration.
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My dad was disappointed with more than the lack of response. He was most disappointed with Billy,
Jacob's father—and Charlie's closest friend.
For Billy's not being more involved with the search for his sixteen-year-old "runaway." For Billy's
refusing to put up the flyers in La Push, the reservation on the coast that was Jacob's home. For his
seeming resigned to Jacob's disappearance, as if there was nothing he could do. For his saying, "Jacob's
grown up now. He'll come home if he wants to."
And he was frustrated with me, for taking Billy's side.
I wouldn't put up posters, either. Because both Billy and I knew where Jacob was, roughly speaking,
and we also knew that no one had seen this boy.
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