Bella's trip to Forks went surprisingly smoothly.
No train derailment.
No bombs.
No random falling billboards flattening her mid-meal.
No short-circuit explosions.
Just a perfectly normal journey—almost unsettlingly normal.
Only one problem: the father–daughter conversations were painfully awkward.
Charlie assumed she was traumatized and treated her with extra care. Their early exchanges were the definition of stiff small talk.
"Your hair got longer."
"Yeah… I haven't cut it since I last saw you."
"…Grows fast."
That sort of thing.
Bella didn't know what the original girl used to talk about with her father, so she kept quiet about the past. Thankfully, she had lived through the toy-car incident and Flight 180 herself—so at least those topics were safe.
To ease the tension, she steered the conversation toward Natasha's mom.
Men are men. Talking about women always works.
Even the extremely reserved Charlie wasn't immune. When Bella described spraying the robber in the face and Natasha's mother throwing someone over her shoulder, the atmosphere warmed noticeably.
Between those conversations, Bella's mind kept circling back to one thing: survival.
She didn't believe in God. God definitely wouldn't save her.
The only person she could rely on was herself.
…
"We're here. Recognize it? That café on the corner—we used to eat there all the time." Charlie drove the police cruiser through town.
Forks had only about three thousand people. Classic sparse, quiet small-town America.
Truthfully, the outskirts were beautiful. Everywhere Bella looked, she saw green—moss-green tree trunks, bright green leaves, lush ferns. The air was unbelievably clean, like stepping into a living forest cathedral.
Charlie's house—a white two-story place with a lawn—was one he'd bought when he married Bella's mother. The marriage lasted a little over a year. The house was old-fashioned but solid, with no garage—Forks didn't really do garages.
Bella glanced around. Unlike Arizona's uniform apartments, the houses here all looked different—different colors, different shapes. Maybe individuality was the point? Freedom? She wasn't sure.
Her room was upstairs facing the front yard. Modern flooring, deep red walls. Charlie had definitely prepared it ahead of time: old scribbles and photos pinned to the walls, celebrity posters, new bedding, a small lamp. A little cramped, but cozy. Even had a second-hand computer.
"It's all for you. Hope you like it."
When Charlie stepped out, Bella hurriedly remembered her gift from the airport and handed over the sunglasses.
"Oh—thanks! They're great!"
Small presents were magic in building relationships. Afterwards they headed into town for dinner—Charlie agreed without hesitation.
A sudden honking—beep beep beep—came from outside. Charlie smiled.
"That's my old buddy. Come on."
The pleasant trip made him feel like Bella had really changed for the better. He proudly introduced her.
"This is Billy Black—my old friend. Billy, this is my daughter, Bella. You remember her, right?"
The man in the wheelchair was huge—broad-shouldered, strong build, long dark hair, warm brown skin. Clearly Native American.
Technically, the official term was Native American, not Indian.
Bella respected him instantly—maybe a bit too much.
Marvel Survival Rule #1: Never underestimate anyone in a wheelchair.
Wheelchair users were statistically very dangerous individuals in this universe.
She smiled politely.
"Hi, Uncle Black."
Billy shook her hand gently—but the moment their fingers touched, something flickered beneath his cowboy hat. Barely noticeable, but there.
"You're getting prettier every year. Charlie hasn't stopped talking since he heard you were coming."
Charlie looked away, flustered.
"Say one more thing and I'll roll you straight into the mud."
"And I'll break your leg first."
They bickered like children, laughing through the insults.
When the two older men intentionally stepped aside, the young man pushing the wheelchair finally got a chance to step forward.
Bella struck first.
"Hey—you're Jacob, right? I remember you. You got a lot bigger since we were kids—I almost didn't recognize you."
The perfect opener for young men.
After all, nobody wants to hear "you look weaker than before."
Jacob, with his strong Quileute features, turned bright red, instantly entering full puppy-mode.
"You… uh… you're—"
He wanted to say prettier, but embarrassment stole the word.
In the original timeline, their awkwardness ended the conversation immediately.
But Bella had her own plans—and this time, she held the lead.
"I remember you loved tinkering with machines. Still into that? Do you do motorcycle mods?"
Jacob lit up like someone had plugged him into a power outlet.
For anything else, he hesitated.
But motorcycles?
His domain.
"You like that stuff too? You wanna see my workshop?"
Bella hesitated deliberately.
"Wouldn't that be… a problem?"
The issue was simple: Jacob lived on the Quileute reservation.
"Native American reservations" were technically protected land. If Bella entered without permission, she could literally be breaking federal law.
A great start to her new small-town life:
commit a crime.