Twisted (18 page)

CHAPTER 31

“P
regnant.” I don't say it like a question or anything. I say it even, deadpan.

Liam's hands are resting on the counter. He flattens them out and pushes himself back, away from me. “Yeah.”

My mind is blank as I stare at a lump of something next to the cash register. It's white-ish. Icing. I scrape it with my fingernail. It comes off in one piece, and I slide it to the edge until it falls to the floor.

All on its own, the word “How?” slips out of my mouth.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “The usual way, I guess.”

“No, I …” My face burns. “I meant more like, how can this be hap—” I stop myself. “Never mind.”

“I know, Lyssa. I know what you meant.”

We stand still, looking at each other until a guy comes up and asks for an espresso.

Liam shuffles off a few steps to the side.

I make the coffee as quickly as possible. I don't say a word except for the price. The guy pays. He doesn't leave a tip.

“So what now?” I whisper to Liam. “What are you going to do?”

“I dunno,” he says, shaking his head. “I just … I haven't figured that out yet.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I feel stupid for asking.

After a pause, he says, “My mom was a single mom. She did a great job and everything, but ...” — he stops and takes a deep breath — “I don't want that for my kid.”

I nod and stare back down at the counter. There's water collecting in my eyes, and I don't want him to see.

“Well.” I hear him sigh. “I should take off. My exam is … though I don't know how I'm going to be able to —” He doesn't finish. His voice sounds so hopeless.

The urge to give him a hug, to comfort him, trumps whatever else I'm feeling, but the counter is between us, separating us. It's probably for the best.

Again we stand there looking at each other. I'm finding it hard to breathe. If he says something like “we can still be friends” …

“I, uh, I'll see you around, okay?”

“Okay.” Air leaks out between my lips. “Good luck.”

He attempts a smile.

“On your exam,” I add.

IT'S LATE IN THE
day and quiet at the coffee shop. The time drags by. Each hour that passes feels like two. I've run out of chores to do, so I contemplate playing pick-up-sticks with the plastic stirrers. Thank- fully, the milkman arrives at the back door. I sign for the order and lug the crates into the kitchen. I'm just finishing unloading all the milk and cream into the fridge when Erin shows up.

“Hey,” she says, unwinding her scarf. Her cheeks are bright red. Snowflakes are melting into her hair. “It's colder than a polar bear's ass out there!”

I nod.

“Come on,” she says, scowling. “That's funny stuff. What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I say, turning away and gathering up the empty crates.

She jumps around in front of me. “Liar.”

I ignore her and focus on stacking the crates on top of each other.

“Tell me,” she says, poking my shoulder.

When I still don't say anything, she pokes me again. “I'm gonna keep poking you till you tell me.” Poke … poke … poke …

“Oh for shit's sake!” I jerk my body away out of her reach. “Rosalyn's pregnant, okay? She's pregnant.”

Erin's quiet for a minute. Then all she says is, “Hmph.”

I was expecting more of a reaction. “That's it?”

She screws up her mouth. “Well …”

“Yeah … ?”

“I dunno. The first thing that comes to mind is, is she really even pregnant.”

“
What
?”

“Yes, I'm suspicious by nature, and true, I don't like her, but I mean, look at the timing. Liam dumps her, begins to move on,” she says as she nudges me in the side, “then suddenly, ‘Oh, Liam, by the way, I'm preggo.' Kinda suspect, don't you think?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No one would do that.”

“Oh my God, woman! Have you ever watched
TV
? It's been done to death. Girl tells boy she's pregnant, girl and boy get back together, try to ‘make a go' of it.” She makes air quotes. “Then a few weeks later, girl trips and falls, or has some pains or bleeding, and conveniently
loses
the baby. And then girl is all, ‘You can't leave me, I just lost your baby.'”

“Yeah, but that would never happen in real life!” I exclaim.

“You
are
from the sticks, aren't you? If I were Liam, I'd be get- ting her to pee on a stick right in front of me. And she'd bloody well better hope that thing lights up like a Christmas tree.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I don't think it lights up. It's a plus sign, or two lines together, something like that.”

“Whatever.”

“You're out of your mind,” I mutter.

“Hold that thought,” she says and takes care of two girls approach- ing the counter. They order two medium coffees and two carrot muffins to go. Erin does the coffees, I warm the muffins, put them in a bag with napkins and a couple of pats of butter. After they pay and are on their way, Erin turns and says, “Okay.” She crosses her arms. “We'll do it your way. Say she
is
pregnant. Is he sure it's his?”

Now it's my turn to be quiet for a minute. “Why would you say that?”

She shrugs and shoves the empty milk crates toward the back door.

I follow her. “No, really. Why would you say that. Do you know something?”

“No. But next to the old fake pregnancy, telling a guy he's the baby daddy when he's not is the oldest trick in the book.” She spins around and squints at me. “Why. Do
you
know something?”

“No. I, uh … I'm just trying to figure out how your mind works.” That part's true.

She takes a step closer, studies my face. “You do. You know something.”

Am I that transparent? God, she should work for the CIA or something, be a professional interrogator. I think about denying it again, but can't find the energy. I tell her the whole thing. About the night I came to town, how I found Rosalyn at Kyle's, how Rosalyn turned out to be Liam's girlfriend …

“And you didn't tell him.” There's no judgment in her voice.

I shake my head. “I couldn't. How do you tell someone some- thing like that? And then, well, and then it was too late. I waited too long.”

She nods. “My first job was cashier at a drugstore,” she says. “The pharmacist was a sweet old guy. He called me Karen right from day one. I didn't correct him. It went on and on. Worked there for a year. As Karen.” She sighs. “So I get it. It's sort of the same.”

“Yeah.”
Not really.

While I count out my tips, Erin puts through a pot of hot water. A minute later she says, “Here,” and she passes me a hot chocolate topped with a mountain of whipped cream. “I was so wrapped up in all my conspiracy theories, I forgot to say how much all this sucks, and ask how you were doing
.
”

I look down at the mug in my hands, watch the whipped cream change shape as it melts into the hot chocolate. “We went to one movie,” I say. “Shared a plate of stale biscuits.”

She touches my shoulder. “Sometimes that's all it takes.”

ERIN'S BOYFRIEND IS PICKING
her up from work, so she lends me her scarf for the walk home. The snow is coming down heavily, but in the span of fifteen minutes, it turns to freezing rain, then to rain. I don't bother hurrying or flipping up my hood. What does it matter? I pass by the house with the stone wall — my thinking wall. I stop and sit, let the drops soak my hair and jacket.

I close my eyes and concentrate on making myself feel nothing, making myself not think. After a while it seems to be working. Or maybe I'm just turning numb from the cold.

My body starts to tremble. It's time to move on.

As I come down my street, I can see lights on at the house. That means Aidan must be home. I take a deep breath and brace myself for whatever's waiting for me.

I find him in the kitchen, seated at the table, a sandwich in front of him. I don't think he heard me come in. Unseen, I stand in the doorway.

Our kitchen table is square. One side butts up against the wall. There are three chairs, one for each of the other sides. Aidan is sitting in the middle chair, the one that's directly facing the wall. And he's just sitting there, staring intently … at the wall.

“Hey,” I call out and bustle over as if I've just arrived.

He answers, “Hey,” but his eyes stay glued to the wall.

I slide out one of the chairs, angle it so it's sort of across from him, and with my coat and gloves still on, I sit. I don't say anything right away. I hope he'll initiate the conversation. He doesn't.

“You get everything done?”

He turns and looks at me.

“The windows,” I say. “The caulking.”

“Oh, that. Yes.” Then he goes back to his in-depth study of the wall.

The kitty-cat clock ticks away.

“Aidan?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think … I dunno, that maybe you might need someone to talk to?”

He turns again. “About what?”

“Um, like, stuff?”

“What kind of stuff?” He genuinely doesn't seem to have a clue what I mean.

“Stuff that's on your mind, that's bothering you, stuff you need help figuring out.”

He smiles wide. “I've got you for that.”

“But that's just it, Aidan. You don't really talk to me. Not about what you're thinking, or feeling, not the important things.”

“Hmmm.” He picks up a knife from the table, wipes one side then the other on a folded piece of paper towel. “I'll try to be more open.”

“Good.”
Sure you will.

Kitty-cat keeps ticking.

“Aidan.” I take another tack. “You never told me why you quit your job.”

“It's no big deal.”

“But people just don't quit their jobs out of the blue for no reason.”

“Like I said, it's no big deal.”

“Do you have a plan B? Aidan, please tell me you have a plan B.”

He sighs. “I have a plan B.”

I don't believe him. “And what about the moving thing? You didn't explain that either. Are you? Are you planning on moving?”

“Jesus. I didn't realize I was being held for questioning. Should I call my lawyer?”

I'm not letting him off the hook. “Where? Where are you moving?”

He cuts his sandwich in half, then into quarters. “Would you relax? It's all good.”

“Okay.” I sit back, fold my arms. “This is me being relaxed.” And I wait.

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Originally, I was thinking of the water front. A guy I know has a wine bar down at Bishop's Landing. He offered me a job. Thought it would have been nice having a place close to work.”

I absorb this new bit of information as I slowly pull off my wet gloves. I think about asking him about Glady's gate again, but figure it's better to deal with one thing at a time. And Glady is really old. It's possible she
did
forget.

He picks up a piece of sandwich. “Of course, I wanted you to move with me,” he assures me.

“Um, sure …” I notice he's talking in the past tense. “What did you mean by ‘originally'?”

“Huh?”

“You said,
originally
you were thinking of the waterfront, you
wanted
me to move with you. What's changed?”

“Well, a lot's changed, hasn't it?” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Lately anyway,” he adds with his mouth full.

After a few seconds go by, it becomes obvious he's not going to reveal anything else. “That's not much of an answer, Aidan. You said you were going to be more open, remember?”

He chews and chews, and finally swallows. “I want to go home, Lyss. I want to go back to River John.”

Not this again.
I press my lips together, fiddle with my gloves, stretch out the fingers. “Then maybe you should, Aidan. If that's what will make you happy, do it.”

“God, Lyss.” He closes his eyes. “I've been waiting for you to say that.”