Twisted (10 page)

CHAPTER 18

L
iam's sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair. I feel so happy, like it's Christmas morning. A huge smile spreads across my face as I snuggle up under my blankets. I stay there for a long time, want- ing the moment to last forever.

My eyes fly open, and I bolt upright, flinging back the covers.
Stop it, you idiot! Get a grip!

Argh.
Cradling my head in my hands, I let reality sink in. It leaves me with a cold, dull feeling.

The dream seemed so real. I touch my fingers to my hair just like Liam did. I could have sworn he was right here …

I flop back across the bed. Whatever this thing is I have for Liam, I have to squash it. He's got a girlfriend — at least, he thinks he does.

From where I'm lying, I glimpse a flick of Bingley's tail. He's curled up in his favourite spot under the window, purring away.

My eyes go the door. It's open, just a tiny bit. I stomp over and give it a push. It squeaks closed, but I can tell it didn't catch. I'm about to give it another try when I turn to Bingley. “Why am I shutting you in here
with
me?”

He gives me a bored look and, maybe sensing the new vacancy, moves to my bed.

“Off!” I shout. Using both hands, I shove him over the edge. The thought of cat hair all over my bed …
ew
.

“Aidan!” I can smell coffee, so I know he's here.

“What?!” he hollers back.

I wait a few seconds, assuming he'll appear. He doesn't. “Aidan!” I shout louder. This time he doesn't even bother to answer.

I sigh and thump down the hall. Now I know how Mom felt. I hear her voice in my head,
“When I call your name I expect you to come, not yell ‘what?'”

He's sitting in the living room, channel surfing. He stops on the
Today Show
.

“Didn't you hear me?” I demand, knowing he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda hard not to.”

I cross my arms.

“I'm trying to catch the news. I figured if it was important, you'd come find me,” he says. “And now you've found me, so I'm guessing it's important.”

I make a face. “You said you were going to get me a deadbolt for the inside of my door,” I say calmly. “No matter how many times I kick him out, tell him to beat it, Bingley keeps trolling my room.”

“So what you're saying is, he's not obeying you.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

“That's because he's a
cat
, Lyss.” And he turns up the volume on the
TV
.

Just because his girlfriend's away doesn't mean he gets to act like a total dick
.
“Where's the closest hardware store, then? I'll friggin' go get one myself.”

“Relax, would ya? You're kinda making a big deal over a stupid cat in your room.”

“I —”

He puts up a hand and rolls his eyes. “I
know
. You don't like cats. FYI, I went to Canadian Tire the other day. They only had multipacks, with like eight in them. I'll stop by later this week, okay?”

I smash my lips together and don't say anything.

“Look,” he sighs. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such an asshole.” He tilts his head and attempts a smile. “Forgive me?”

There's not much sincerity in his voice, but I say, “Fine. Whatever.”

“Thanks.” He smiles an actual, real smile.

As I turn to head back to my room, I see him get up and go to the window. I stop and watch him. He stands there, hands on his hips, staring outside. He looks so serious.

I backtrack a couple of steps. “You okay?”

He's as still as a statue. Maybe he's ignoring me again. Then he says, “Oh yeah. Just thinkin'.”

“About?”

“Stuff.”

THE SKY IS A
steely grey. It's going to snow any minute. I look down at my feet. I should've worn boots. For a second I contemplate going back to the house, then I check my watch. No time, I'll be late for work.

Erin yanks open the service entrance door before I finish my first knock. “Back to apolo—” She sees it's me. “Oh, sorry. Thought you were Liam.”

“Nope,” I say, following her into the kitchen. I'm disappointed I missed him. He might have some info about the pill.

“Trust me. I'm glad,” she snarls over her shoulder.

Curious, I ask, “Why would Liam be back to apologize?”

She turns the tap on full force. The water pounds into the sink. “Well, for some reason he felt the need to come in, even though he's not even
working
, and criticize every goddamn thing I did. From how I take the inventory, to how I fold the raisins into the muffin batter, right to my coin rolling technique.”

I frown. “That doesn't sound like Liam.”

“I've seen the signs before,” she says, pouring a carafe of water into the coffee maker. “He's got
something
up his ass about
something
, and my guess is it's Princess — it's
always
Princess.”

“Princess?”

“Oh, right. You haven't had the joy of experiencing full-on Rosalyn.”

“Well, I've met her. She's … um … pretty.” It's the only thing I can think of to say without getting into … anything else.

“Pretty
bitchy
.”

I try not to smile. “Really?” Who am I kidding? I'm loving the Rosalyn bashing. Scanning the room to check on the customer situa tion, I count two tables of women. Everyone has a coffee in front of them. “So you were saying?”

Erin putters around, putting things away, measuring out backup reserves of coffee. “Of course I'm only going by what I've seen, but she treats him like shit — like, takes him for granted, you know?”

I nod. I do know.

“I mean, she has him wrapped, and I can't figure out why. He trips all over himself trying to keep her happy. And let me tell ya,” she stops and points at me, “she never is. I don't think I've ever seen her smile and thought she actually meant it.”

“Oh?”

“And yeah, she's pretty, but seriously. Are guys that stupid? That shallow?”

If
my
experience is anything to go on …

“I'll tell you something else,” she continues in a low voice. “And I'll deny it if asked, but comparatively speaking, Liam's a nice guy. I'll go so far as to say he
could
be considered ‘hot' in a nerdy, slightly annoying kind of way.”

Again, I try not to smile.

“Like, he'd be so much better off with someone else, someone … such as yourself, perhaps.”

My neck seems to shoot up a few extra inches. “W-what? What?” I sputter.

“Oh, puh-lease.” She gives me a knowing look. “I see how you are around him.”

“No, no.” I shake my head. “You've got it all wrong.”

“Yeah. You keep tellin' yourself that.”

“Nuh-uh.” I'm still shaking my head. “It's nothing — you're way off base.”

“Well, I totally ship it. So does Anna.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “You guys
talked
about us?!”

“Just once.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You could probably get him, you know, if you put in a little effort. You're just as pretty as Rosalyn. In a different kind of way.”

There's a compliment in there somewhere. “Thanks, but …”

“Really, you are. You've got that whole …” — she steps back, looks me up and down — “Bella from
Twilight
thing goin' on. And you
have
to be smarter than her — though that wouldn't take much,” she adds.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck. “Weren't you off ages ago? Don't you want to get going?”

“Ha, ha.” She shoves me, and I bang into the fridge.

“Go home.” I shove her back.

While Erin counts out her tips, I peek into the front room again. Still the same ladies.

“All right,” I say, slipping on my apron. “Everything seems to be under control.”

“We're supposed to be getting a storm tonight,” Erin announces, pulling on her jacket. “Janet might call and tell you to close early.” She opens the back door. “Yuck. It's really starting to snow.”

I stand behind her and look out. There's a thin layer coating the sidewalk, but not much on the street yet.

“Do you have a long walk?” she asks, glancing down at my sneakers.

“No. I'll be fine. Plus it's still big flakes, so there won't be much accumulation.”

Erin has one foot on the back step and the other still inside the kitchen, as if she's hesitant to leave. “Right. Little snow, big snow; big snow, little snow. I dunno, though.” She twists up her face. “They're calling for a lot.”

A gust of wind whips up the deserted side street, swirling the loose snowflakes into tiny tornadoes.

“Go, would ya?” I say. “So I can lock the door. I have to get back to the front.”

“Okay, but close if it gets bad. Janet won't care.”

“I will.”

Erin pulls the toggles of her hood tight until just her eyes and the bridge of her nose are showing. When she finally jumps off the step, she turns and says in a muffled voice, “Yep. There's definitely a storm a-brewin'.”

CHAPTER 19

9
:40 p.m., and the coffee shop is empty.

I can hear the
ting
of icy snowflakes hitting the window. They're no longer big, they're tiny. “Uh-oh,” I whisper. “Little snow, big snow.” It's been a while since I've seen the flashing lights of a plow. I go to the front door. There's a lone set of tire tracks on the street quickly disappearing under the blowing snow, and a decent-sized drift is forming on the sidewalk, partially blocking the entrance.

Janet hasn't called to say close early. It's Friday night, so we're supposed to be open till 11:00.
If I don't hear from her by 10:00, I'll close.

I'm refilling the sugar pack holders when I hear a rattling crash against the window. A tiny yelp slips out from between my lips, and I spin around.

It's Liam.

Goddamnit, Liam!

He's spread-eagle, both hands and his right cheek flattened against the glass. He looks like one of those Garfield cats you see suctioncupped to car windshields.

I laugh out loud, mostly with relief. Even though I want to smack him, I'm glad he showed up. I don't like being here all alone.

He seems to be struggling with the door, so I go help him.

Grinning, he points to the “push” sign on the door handle. “I was
pulling
!” he says. “Remind me to tell Mom that that English tutor place really paid off!”

I'm hit with a massive blast of beer breath.
Great.
I step back, away from the cold. And the smell.

“Lyssa!” he shouts, following me into the main room.

“Yeah?”

“Lyssa … Lyssa … Lyssa …” he repeats, slowly but loudly.

I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“My tongue keeps pressing on the back of my teeth when I say your name! Go ahead. Try it!”

“Liam,” I say patiently. “What can I do for you?”

“I'll bet …” He leans in close and seemingly examines my face.

I wait for him to finish his sentence. It doesn't seem like it's going to happen. “You bet what?”

He scratches his chin. “Idonremember.” It comes out as one word.

“You seem a little … tipsy.”

“Tipsy!” he exclaims as he bumps into one of the coat stands. He catches it before it falls. “Pardon me,” he tells it, patting some abandoned jacket hanging on one of the hooks like it was a person.

I shake my head.

“Tipsy,” he repeats. “That's for
girls
.” His voice sounds like his tongue is too big for his mouth.

“Sorry,” I say. “Is there another adjective you prefer?”

“Buzzed.” He sits down heavily on the closest chair. “And I'm totally not.”

His hair is wet with melted snow, and the front and shoulders of his coat are plastered with crusty ice pellets. I tilt him forward and tug it off, hanging it on the stand next to his new friend. Any thought I had about asking him about the pill goes out the window.

“I'll get you a hot coffee,” I say.

As I head toward the kitchen he calls after me, “That's just an urban myth, you know. Coffee doesn't sober you up, if that's what you're thinking.”

I reappear with a steaming mug. “Why would I be trying to sober you up? You said you weren't buzzed.”

“Okay, you win,” he admits. “I might be a little buzzed. Just a little, though.”

I sit down across from him and watch him dump five sugar packets into his coffee. He's on his sixth when he accidently drops the whole thing in, paper and all. “Ah,
man
,” he whines.

“Settle down,” I say. I grab a spoon and fish out the soggy paper. “There. All better.” It feels like I'm babysitting a two-year-old.

He pushes it away. “I don't want it anyway. Caffeine's a stimulant, you know. It might actually increase my feeling of buzzedness.” He pauses, stares up at the ceiling. “Buzzedness. Is that a word?”

“It is now.” I smile. “So what's the occasion for your, uh … buzzedness?”

He puts an elbow on the table, rests his chin in his hand. “Friggin' Rosalyn, man. She was supposed to go to the Seahorse with me. My roommate plays guitar in a band. We planned it like two weeks ago.”

“And what, she couldn't go?”

“Noooo. She has some big biology lab or something. It's Friday night! She has all weekend.”

“Biology?” A warning light flashes in my head.

“I've never seen anyone so … so, like …
obsessed
with their school work. And I'm in pre-med!”

I just nod.

“Every time I want us to do something, she's got an assignment. She's taking a B.A.! Not that there's anything
wrong
with that. But come on. It's a B.A.!”

He's talking way too loud. I nudge the mug of coffee toward him, hoping he'll pick it up.

“I dunno.” He slides the mug back to me. “Maybe she wants to break up and doesn't have the guts. Maybe our relationship's run its course.” Then he sits back and slaps his hand on the table. “I mean, should it really be this hard? Shouldn't the good outweigh the bad?”

I look around the room, everywhere but at him. I don't know how to answer his questions. It's obvious he's hurting, and if he was talking about anyone but Rosalyn, I'd probably be making up some lame excuse for her, hoping to make him feel better …

“I'm the last person you should be asking for relationship advice,” I finally say — my new escape clause. I said the same thing to Marla.

We both sit quietly for a few minutes.

“Did you end up going to the Seahorse?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Wasn't in the mood. Me and Mr. Alexander Keith spent a quiet evening in.”

“Uh … then why are you out wandering around in a snowstorm?”

He doesn't answer me.

“I'm going to call Janet,” I say as a blast of wind spatters snow against the window. I go to the counter and pick up the phone. All I hear is a clicking sound. “I think the phones are out.”

“Here.” He stands and reaches into his back pocket. “You can use my … nope. Forgot my phone.”

The lights flicker, and I freeze, expecting them to go out completely.

“Janet's not gonna care. Just close,” he says. “You shouldn't be working the late shift anyway.” He wags his finger at me. “No girls on the late shift. 'Cept Erin.” He tries to muffle a burp. “Cuz who's going to mess with Erin?”

“It was last-minute. Someone called in sick. Zack, I think.”

Liam mutters something unintelligible and then shrugs. “Well, suit up. We'll start walking. If we see a cab, we'll grab it.”

I don't have a better idea. “Okay.” And I rush around finishing up a few last things, shutting everything off, locking the front door, and flipping around the “closed” sign.

On the way out, Liam miscalculates and rams one side of his head into the door frame. “Ouch.” He winces and rubs his ear.

“Good God, Liam.” I lock up the back door, rattle it a couple of times to make sure.

“Told ya coffee doesn't do anything,” he says, still massaging his ear. Then he links his arm through mine.

I don't bother to point out that he didn't drink any coffee.

The snow is coming down heavy. We can only see as far as the next corner. A few of the drifts are up to our knees. Somehow I don't mind.

We barely make it half a block when Liam slips on a snow-covered patch of ice. I feel him going down and try to save myself, yank my arm free. I don't make it and end up right on top of him.

“There's no way I wasn't taking you with me.” Because of the cold, his words come out in little puffs of smoke.

“Gee. And after everything I did for you.”

He smirks but makes no attempt to get up. Neither do I.

Our faces are only a couple of inches apart, the tips of our noses almost touching. His beer breath doesn't bother me a bit. All around us, it's so silent, like we're in a different world and we're the only people who exist. The snow collects on his hair. My head acts as an umbrella and shelters his face. We stare into each other's eyes, and a silence stretches between us. Does he feel my heart beating through my coat? One slight movement and our lips will touch. I hear myself swallow. He's going to kiss me. I know I shouldn't want him to, but I do. I want him to kiss me.

His head slowly lifts up off the snow toward mine.

My breath catches in my throat, and I close my eyes. I've seen this scene played out a thousand times on
TV
.

Then: “Uh-oh.” Liam flips me off him and rolls onto his side. I see his shoulders heaving, hear him retching into the snow.

He's throwing up.

This can't be happening.

Feeling I should give him some privacy, I just lie there on my back. There's a scraping sound as a snowplow rumbles up the street. A second later I'm showered in a giant spray of slushy snow.

The scene on
TV
never ends like this.

I sigh and get myself up, start brushing myself off.

Somehow Liam is unscathed by the slush shower. He's off to the side rinsing his mouth out with clean snow.

He sees me, gives me a sheepish look, and comes over to help wipe me off. “Sorry about all that,” he says, pulling some chunks of ice out of my hair.

I give my head a shake to get the rest out. I'm sure there are crystals of salt in there too. “It's okay. No worries.” What else could I pos- sibly say?

“Let's keep going,” Liam says.

“Yup.” It's like we've come to an unsaid mutual agreement to say nothing more about what happened.

Once again he loops an arm through mine, and we start off.

As we trudge up the street, the slipping and stumbling con- tinues — Liam more than me. I hoped the fresh air would help sober him up …

We keep walking, and after a while it seems to be getting easier, or maybe we're just getting better at it. The wind has died down and the snow is letting up. The flakes have gone back to being big and fluffy. With the plow gone, the street is still and quiet again. We see almost no one. No buses, no cabs, no traffic at all. A group of teenage types are across the street trying to push a car out of a snowbank.

“Dudes!” Liam yells and waves a fist in the air. “Be strong! Don't give up!”

They yell something back. I'm pretty sure it's, “Fuck off, asshole.”

Finally we get to my house. We carefully make our way up the icy walkway.

Aidan whips open the door as we step onto the porch.

“Thank God. I was getting ready to go out and look for you.” He stops, takes in me and Liam, snow-covered, our arms wrapped around each other — mostly because I'm holding him up. “I called the shop, but there was no answer.”

I push past him, dragging Liam behind me. “The phones were out.”

“Didn't you close early?” he asks suspiciously. “
We
did.”

“Yeah, yeah. It just took me, uh —” I jerk my head in Liam's direc- tion — “longer than usual to get home.”

“And that's because you, like … collected homeless people on the way?”

I glance at Liam. His wavy hair hangs in long, wet strings. His clothes are soaked, and he's swaying a bit. Cold and tired, I snap, “Oh, lighten up, Aidan. He's hardly a homeless person.”

“Hey, maaaan,” Liam says in a long drawl. “Why the beef?”

“Shush,” I scold, elbowing him in the side. “There's no beef.”

Aidan rolls his eyes. “Who
is
this clown?”

“You've met him before,” I say through my teeth. “It's Liam.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aidan says. “Coffee shop boy.”

Liam takes a step sideways, loosens up his shoulders. “Thems be fightin' words.”

I sigh and steer Liam toward the sofa. “Here. Sit down.” Then I go back to Aidan. “Ignore him. He's a little tipsy.”

“Buzzed!” Liam shouts.

“I'm letting him sleep on the couch tonight,” I tell Aidan in a low voice. “I can't let him walk home in this.”

“He could call a cab.”

“He'd have to wait forever. We didn't see
one
cab on our way home. It's no big deal, Aidan. A few hours.”

He sets his jaw. “Fine.” Then he looks over at Liam, who's already sprawled out, asleep on the couch. “Why is he half in the bag anyway?”