Twisted (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

T
he hum and vibration of the bus lulls me to sleep. I sleep deeply. For the first time in a long time I don't dream.

A tap on my shoulder drags me out of the darkness. “We're here,” someone whispers.

It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and I blink a few times to bring the face into focus. It's the older woman who was sitting across the aisle. “Thank you,” I say. When I stand to stretch, I see that there are hardly any people left on the bus.

Still groggy, I lean my elbows on the seat in front of me and wait for the rest of the bus to clear out. The driver turns. “Need some help?” His tone says,
Time to leave
.

“No.” I pull my duffle bag down from the overhead and slowly make my way to the front. Before I step off, I dig a piece of paper out of my pocket and ask him, “How do I get to Glengary Apartments? They're on Edward Street.”

“Cab or Metro Transit.” He checks his watch. “I think it runs on the half-hour … so another fifteen minutes.”

I can't afford to waste money on a cab, and I don't feel like waiting around the bus station. “Is it a long walk?”

He scratches his bald spot. “No, probably about twenty minutes. Go right up South Street.”

“Thanks.” I hop off the bus.

“Hey, missy!” he calls after me. “You shouldn't be walking alone at night!”

“Don't worry,” I call back over my shoulder. “I'll be fine!”
I'll be just fine.

THE HALLWAY IS DIMLY
lit and smells stale and damp, like our cellar with the dirt floor. I turn a corner and catch a whiff of beer and takeout food. Not great on an empty stomach.

Music blares from behind a door, combined with loud, out-of-tune, drunken singing, but once I pass by, the rest of the floor seems quiet. It's Saturday night. Enough happening on campus and downtown to lure students from their caves.

I stop and pull an elastic out of a side pouch on my duffle bag. After trying to comb my hair with my fingers, I sweep it back into a loose ponytail. My eye catches a white sock tied to a nearby doorknob, and it makes me smile. I thought they only did that on sitcoms. Continuing down the hall, I scan each door, searching for the right number. 205, 206 … the next one is Kyle's, 207.

I plaster on my best and brightest smile, hoping the hell of the day won't show. I've missed having someone to talk to. It feels like I've been alone forever. But that's all behind me now. It's finally my turn. This is my new beginning.

Taking a deep breath, I knock lightly on the door. After a second I hear footsteps on the other side. “I told you not to come back before mid— !” The door flings open.

“Surprise!” I manage to work up some enthusiasm.

Kyle's eyes bulge out of his head. “Jesus, Lyssa?” He grabs on to the edge of the door, looking like he's about to pass out. “What are you doing here?”

The look on his face isn't the one I imagined. He should be happy, sweeping me into his arms, kissing me. It throws me off balance. “I — I left,” I tell him. “I came to be with you, just like we planned.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You should have called me first.”

A weird sensation works its way up my spine. “Aren't you happy to see me?”

“Of course I am.” He clears his throat and swallows. “Just let me change and we'll go grab some coffee.”

“Grab some coffee?” I echo. “Can't we have coffee here?”

“Uh …”

Something's not right. I take a step back and survey the scene. He's wearing pyjama bottoms and no shirt. His hair is all tousled like he just crawled out of bed, but it's only — I check my watch — just after ten o'clock. Behind him I see a table covered with empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. “I … thought you had a term paper.”

His cheeks flush, and he takes a quick look back at the mess. “I, uh, I do. My, uh, roommates don't, though.” Then, as if becoming aware that he's only half dressed, he grabs a hoodie from a hook by the door and slips it over his head. “I was just trying to get some shut-eye while they were out,” he continues. “I've been working non-stop.”

Of course. The roommates. I blast out a breath of relief. That explains it. “Let me in, loser,” I say, playfully pushing him out of the way and tossing my bag on the floor.

“Lyssa, wait —”

“Kyle!” I hear a voice call. “You're out of sham—”

We see each other at the same time. She's coming out of another room, a plastic bottle in her hand. A jolt of electricity shoots through my body. She's wearing his pyjama top. Her long blonde hair has the same messed-up look. They match. They're a pair.

There's ringing in my ears, an airy feeling in my head.

Kyle swears under his breath, and his chin drops to his chest. “Rosalyn, could you leave us for a bit?”

Her cheeks flush like his. “Yeah, uh, sure, sorry.” And she scurries away out of sight.

My mouth starts moving, but no sound comes out.

“Lyssa.” He reaches out and touches my arm. I jump back. Stung.

He takes a step toward me and tries again.

I find my voice. “Don't touch me,” I say. “Don't come near me.”

“She's nobody, Lyssa,” he says desperately. “She means nothing to me.”

I roll my eyes. “You couldn't come up with anything better than that? Isn't that every cheater's slogan? When they get caught?”

“But it's true!”

“You sleep with her and then tell me she means nothing, that she's nobody?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I don't know who to feel more sorry for — her or me.”

“Lyssa. It was just a stupid mistake, that's all. I love you. You know you're the only one.”

Wow.
He doesn't even deny it. A high-pitched, hysterical kind of laugh bursts out of me. It's all so ridiculous. “You have a half-naked girl in your bed!”

His eyes fly to the bedroom door, now closed. He has no response. There isn't one.

As I watch him struggle, a coldness settles over me and smothers all my other emotions. It scares me a bit, how little I feel. Making two fists, I dig my fingernails into my palms. It barely registers. I'm numb. I bend over and gather up my duffle bag. “Goodbye, Kyle,” I say.

“Goodbye …?” He says it slowly, like he doesn't know what the word means. “But —”

“Yeah. I'm telling you goodbye,” I say. “It's more than you deserve.”

He seems stunned as I shoulder my way past him and start down the hall. I'm almost to the front door when I hear his feet thumping on the stairs behind me. He follows me out to the sidewalk.

“You can't just leave,” he says. “Where are you going to go?”

I don't answer. I just keep walking. I know he's in bare feet and won't get very far.

“Lyssa!” he shouts. “I'm sorry!”

His voice sounds far away.

I don't look back.

CHAPTER 3

A
horn blares as I step off the curb. “It's a crosswalk, asshole!” I yell. The car honks again and speeds away. I give him the finger, reaching my arm in the air as high as it can go.

Once I'm across the street, I sit on a low stone wall at the edge of someone's front yard. I wait for the tears to start, but they don't come.

It begins to rain. I tilt my face upwards and let the water wash away the horrible day. It feels good. I like it here on this wall. I picture myself staying in this spot forever, turning to stone, becoming a giant garden statue.

As the rain soaks through my jacket to my clothes, so does reality. Where
am
I going to go? Stranded in the city, no friends, no place to stay. I should be a little more freaked out. I had no plan B. Or did I?

Never go back. Not to home. And now not to Kyle either.

That's … sort of a plan.

A clap of thunder brings on a heavy downpour. I have to move. I try to keep under the trees, but after I walk for a few minutes, there's no point — I'm completely drenched.

Through the sheets of rain, I'm able to make out an “open” sign. When I get closer I see it's an old house converted into a coffee shop. I run up to the door and pull it open. Warm air hits me, sending shivers through my whole body. I didn't realize how cold I was.

The wood floor creaks as I step inside. The place appears empty. I wipe my face with the cuff of my jacket and take a look around. There are a dozen or so round tables scattered along both sides of the room, leaving a clear path to the counter. Funky red pendant lights hang low over each table, throwing off a soft glow. Benches with piles of cushions line the front windows. There's a brick fireplace — the bricks cover the entire wall. A massive, antique-looking mirror leans on the mantle.

I hear something and glance down. Water drips off my jacket onto the floor. When I look back up, there's the reflection of someone standing behind me in the mirror. I spin around.

He puts up both hands. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

My heart is jammed in my throat. I swallow, hoping it slides back to where it's supposed to be.

“Really sorry,” he repeats. “Are you okay?”

I nod, feeling stupid. The
ping
of the water falling from my clothes to the floor sounds extra loud. A puddle the size of a small lake surrounds me and my duffle bag. He probably thinks I'm a homeless person.

“Can I get you something?” he asks. Then before I can say any- thing: “Bet you could use something hot.”

“Tea,” I whisper.

“Green? Chai?”

“Plain tea, please.”

He grins. “Sure.”

He goes to the counter, drops a tea bag into a mug, fills it with steaming water, and grabs a few sugar packets and creamers. “Listen,” he says. “Sit over here. There's still a bit of a fire left.” He puts the mug down on a table across the room and angles the chair closer to fireplace. “Might help you dry out.”

Peeling off my jacket, I follow him and take a seat. Goosebumps explode over my skin as the heat from the fire starts to seep through my wet clothing. I wrap my ice-cold fingers around the hot mug and lift it to my mouth. It burns my throat going down, but I don't care.

He watches me.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I think we have some soup left. Not enough to bother saving. I'll get it for you.” He doesn't wait for me to answer.

I take another sip of tea.
Yup, he thinks I'm homeless.
In a way, he's right.

My eyes follow him as he returns to the counter. At school we would have called him a lank. He has a nice face, a nice smile. His hair is wavy, almost black, long enough that the ends curl at the bottom and touch his shirt collar. His bangs are so long, he keeps tossing his head to flick them out of his eyes.

He's back in a couple of minutes with another steaming mug. A spoon handle sticks out of the top. “Hope you like beef vegetable.”

It smells delicious. “I do. Thanks.” I start shovelling in the soup. I've had nothing to eat since this morning.

“May I?” He points to the other chair.

“Sure.”

He sits down across from me. He's holding his own mug of something, coffee or tea because he dumps in multiple packets of sugar.

The soup makes me feel human again. “This is the best thing I've ever tasted.”

“Hmm. You might want to re-evaluate your standards.”

“Oh?”

“I do a lot of things well, but making soup isn't one of them.”

I feel myself smile. I notice his brown eyes, how they're fringed with long lashes most girls would kill for.

He smiles back, takes a drink from his mug, and makes a face. “So … rough day at the office?” he asks, adding another sugar.

“Sort of,” I say. “Do you ever sometimes just really hate your life?”

“Oh yeah.” He tilts his chair back and locks his hands behind his head. “Every morning when my alarm goes off at 6:05.”

“I went to my mom's funeral this morning.” The legs of his chair slam to the floor. “Cancer.” I take another spoonful of soup.

“I — I'm so sorry.”

I wipe my face with a napkin. “No, I'm sorry. I don't know why I just said that.” And I really don't.

“Maybe you needed to,” he says, sweeping hair out of his eyes. “Like, maybe you needed to say it, hear it, or something.”

I roll that around in my head for a second. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I feel like an idiot, though, whining about my alarm.”

“It's okay. I don't like it when my alarm goes off either.”

It's quiet except for the rain on the windows and the hissing from the dying fire.

He glances down at my duffle bag. “Are you just passing through?”

There are a few drops of spilled soup on the table. I drag my spoon through them until they're all joined together. “I came to … surprise my boyfriend. It turned out to be” — I make a popping sound with my lips — “not a good time.”

“Oh,” he says knowingly. It's all quiet again. Then he makes a fist and flexes his arm muscles. “Do you want me to rip his lungs out?”

“Um …” I stare up at the ceiling like I'm seriously thinking it over. “Thanks for the offer. But you might get caught, sent to prison. I'd feel responsible.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “Just trying to help.”

“Yes, well, thanks for the offer.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

That's the million-dollar question. I think of the 238 bucks sitting in my bank account. With no job or place to stay, it's not going to last me long. “I'm not sure yet.”

“Is there anyone you can call? Someone else you know? I have a car. I can drop you wherever.”

I don't answer. There's a long thread hanging from the corner of the tablecloth, and I weave it through my fingers, over, under, over, under.

The faint pattering of rain on the roof is comforting. It would be so easy to drift off... A snap from the fire jerks me back.

“Look,” he says. “I've still got to do the cash and stuff. Take your time, stay and think about what you want to do.” He gets up and goes to the door, flips over the “closed” sign, and slides across the deadbolt.

Click
.

Instinctively my chest tightens and I sit up a little straighter in my chair. I've just let myself be locked up with a stranger.

As if reading my mind, he says, “Don't worry, I'm not a psycho or a serial killer. Though the ‘rip his lungs out' thing might have made you wonder.”

I stare at him, really hard, like I'm looking for something, a sign.

He tilts his head and stares back, like he's trying to figure me out too. His hair flops over one eye, and he brushes it away. Then, as if something dawns on him, he reaches for the deadbolt. “I can leave this unlocked, but you'll have to be in charge of chasing people away.”

I feel myself relax a little and shake my head. “No, it's okay.”

As he starts to make his way back to the kitchen, he stops and holds out his hand. “I'm Liam, by the way. Liam Stewart.”

His hand hangs there, waiting. I take a deep breath, slip my hand into his, and shake. “Lyssa,” I say. “Lyssa Thomson.”

“Okay, Lyssa Thomson. I'll be done here in about ten minutes. Then, like I said, I can drop you anywhere you want.”

“Thanks.”

I take my tea over to the window and watch the water rush along the street gutters. I have only one option. “Do you have a phone book?” I holler out to Liam.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Over by the cash register. The phone's there too.”

The number is easy to find. There are a million Mackenzies, but the one I want is at the very beginning. I lift up the phone and punch in the number.

He picks up after the second ring. “Hello?”

For a second I freeze.

“Hello?” he repeats.

“Hi, Aidan,” I finally say. “It's me.”