Amish Jedi: In a City Far, Far Away

Episode 3.1 ~ Bella

The next two weeks are Jason-free. I don't try to look for him, convincing myself he doesn't care to hear from me. The morning after our big fight, I stop in to visit Teddy. He's gone back to basics, with a bit of a twist. He assures me he's experimenting more with what I've taught him. Comforted but not wanting to get involved in his subterfuge, I return to my room and write.

Writing is the only thing, other than cookies and my favorite movies, that takes away the throbbing pain in my chest. Not because of Jason. I barely know Batman-wanna-be. Rather because of him. I thought he was my Jacob, in the version of Twilight where Edward never exists and Bella is allowed to love on a human level. Who would have thought a human heart could survive such a massive hole? He took everything when he walked away; when he laid down the ultimatum I could never cower to.

I develop a pattern and focus on the pattern—a healthily coping mechanism. I start my days by grabbing my laptop the moment I wake and working from Leah's with a mug of cocoa. Often I'm up hours before Tea & Tales opens. On the third day of my self-imposed exile to Greenwich Village, Leah discovers me writing as I wait for her on the staircase and decides to give me a key so I can come down and work whenever I want. Thankfully she doesn't ask about what I'm writing. Once the café doors open, I head to the alley with a baked good for Martin. No one should be forced to subsist on a diet of plain bagels. But, when he starts in on his morning brew, I retreat to my room praying Jason isn't in the hall when I enter—and he hasn't been. I spend the rest of the day switching between work and writing until Megs arrives home and we binge watch movies or TV shows while munching on whatever I baked for us. Baking is another essential of my mental well being. It produces sugar, which when eaten numbs the tender edges around the hole in my chest. The night caps off with a phone call home. My pattern may not be much, but it's better than being curled in the fetal position on my bed too drained to cry.

"Cookie?" I hand a brown paper bag to Martin filled with a dozen oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies—my favs.

"Rough night?"

I sit on my designated crate as he shoves his paw-like hand into the bag. "My youngest sister isn't taking this," I motion to myself and the non-Ohio-ness around me, "well."

"How old is she?"

"Five."

"Tough age."

I snort. "Twenty's no walk in the park."

Martin washes the first cookie down with a swig from the thermos of milk I brought him. I've learned that if provided with alternative beverage options, I get more semi-sober time with him. "It's all downhill from five."

"Maybe..." Glimpsing back, I suppose everything started heading downward at a steady pace, with minor peaks, the moment I was thrust into kindergarten. Involuntary shiver. "I kind of hope things turn out better for her, you know?"

A pedestrian enters our alley. He is older, with olive skin, and kind brown eyes.

Martin sets the milk on the blacktop and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of a shirt he let me wash for him—after I threatened not to bring him cookies anymore.

"I'm Frank," the older man says, holding out his hand to me, "Betty's husband."

"Oh." I shake his hand—strong but softened by age. "Hi."

"I hope I'm not interrupting." He glances over at Martin with a benign smile that reminds me of Megs.

Martin shrugs and Frank returns his attention to me.

"Your aunt would like to invite you to our house, which is just across the road," he points at the building with a bookshop at its base, "for supper."