Twisted (19 page)

It doesn't take me long to figure out he has misunderstood. “Oh. I'm not going with you, Aidan.”

He frowns. “But I can't go without
you
.”

“I'm staying here.” I glance around the kitchen. “Well, not here, but in Halifax. I'm staying here and going to school.” I look directly at him, carefully pronouncing each word.

The sandwich in his hand drops to the plate. “I don't get it. You said you'd never go back while Vince was around. Vince is gone. There's no reason for you to stay away anymore.”

“My life is here now. I've got school, a job.” I pause. “Friends.”

“But you said …”

“I'm never going back there.” I need to drill it into his head once and for all. “
Ever
.”

He clamps his jaw shut. His shoulders rise and fall with every breath.

It's like trying to reason with a child. “Aidan!”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Is it?” I press.

“Yeah. I get it.” He gets up and carries his dish to the sink.

“So … we're good?” I ask hesitantly.

Instead of answering he says, “Look, I gotta go out for a while.”

“Where are you going? You're always disappearing.”

“Down to that wine bar. Tell him I'll take the job, I guess.”

I wasn't expecting that. “O-okay.”

“He's got some books on wine I should pick up and start to study.”

“I could help,” I say, my attempt at an olive branch. “Quiz you or something.”

“Super,” he says tonelessly and walks out of the kitchen.

For a while I just sit there, my head held up by my hands. Once I hear the front door close, I get up, peel off my soaked jacket, and make my way to the bathroom. I turn the water on and let it run to get hot.

It's not until I'm undressed that I remember all the towels are in the dryer. I slip on my housecoat and run down to the basement. When I return, the bathroom is already thick with steam. Standing in front of the mirror I can barely make out my reflection as I pile my hair on top of my head — I'm just a ghost in the fog.

I step under the stream of water, let it hammer my neck and shoulders, run down my back. I keep the tap way over, arrow on red. My skin burns, but I don't care. If only the water could wash away the day, wipe everything clean and send it swirling down the drain.

I'm in there so long, the water temperature starts to cool. I've probably drained the tank. Finally I turn the tap off and fling back the shower curtain.

It takes a minute. I have to rub my eyes. There, staring back at me, drawn on the steamy mirror, is a giant happy face.

CHAPTER 32

W
ith the corner of the towel, I wipe my eyes again, as if somehow it will change what I'm looking at. It doesn't.

I wrap the towel tightly around me, tuck it in at the top, and open the bathroom door. “Aidan?” I call. Nothing. “Hello?”

I pad down the hall, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. The driveway is empty, his phone and keys are gone from the hall table. It was him, though — it had to be. He must have come back for something.

I try not to make a big deal about it, try to ignore the creep factor, the idea that he came in while I was showering … but that probably wouldn't have occurred to Aidan. He wouldn't have meant it that way.

A shudder ripples through my body as goosebumps burst out over my damp skin.

After I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, I go to the kitchen and put some water on to boil for Mr. Noodles. The top on the pot begins to rattle. I dump in the package of noodles, add the seasoning packet, and set the timer.

I drain the broth off the noodles and start eating them out of the pot. They're undercooked, still a bit crunchy, just the way I like them. I reach for the noodle wrapper. A serving size is only half a package. I look deep into the pot for a second then eat the whole thing.

MY THUMB IS TIRED
from channel-surfing. How can there be a hun- dred channels and nothing on?

I crawl into bed. The pillow feels extra hard, and when I lie on my side, my earlobe keeps bending the wrong way. I flip the pillow, punch it a couple of times, and roll onto my other side … then back again. It's no use. No matter how tired I am, what position I contort myself into, sleep won't come. My head swirls with so many thoughts I can't even begin to sort them out. Liam, Rosalyn, Aidan, Marla, Mary, Glady … the list is endless.

I strain my ears for noises in the house, any sign that Aidan's come home.

Because I have to,
have
to talk to him.

I look up at the lock. If Aidan has noticed, figured out I did it myself, he hasn't said so. Exhaustion finally triumphs, and I drift off.

Not before I check that the deadbolt is slid into place.

AIDAN'S NOWHERE TO BE
found the next morning. Big surprise. I'm not sure he even sleeps anymore. Where the hell does he go?

Maybe this job at the waterfront is a sign. If he finds a new apartment, that would probably be a good time for me to go my own way, move onto campus like I planned. Hopefully the timing will work out, a room in residence will open up or someone will answer my message on the bulletin board. It's not like I'm abandoning him or anything — I can still be his sister, still help him and be supportive without sharing the same bathroom.

I promise myself I'll stop by the university and see if anything's changed, see if I've moved up the list.

Tucking a Ziploc of Frosted Mini-Wheats in my coat pocket, I head out for work. At the door, I pause and rummage around my bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. I eventually find a crumpled Thai menu. On the back I scribble,
Aidan. Hope you're around 2nite. Wanna talk. L
. The “wanna talk” is going to make him cringe, I know it, so I stick an “xo” at the bottom.

When I get to the coffee shop it's pretty full for late morning.

“It's a whole bunch of English Lit today,” Erin says. “So a ton of people are writing.” She turns on the dishwasher. “Don't worry, the place will be empty by twelve-thirty. Afternoon exams start at one.”

Erin's right. By 12:25 the place is a ghost town, with only a half a dozen people scattered around, no one under the age of twenty-one.

I'm counting muffins in the display case when Liam schleps in looking like a flu victim. My heart stops. I checked the schedule just before I started. I know he isn't on it.

Erin nudges me on her way to do coffee refills. “No one told me
The Walking Dead
was shooting around here.”

I can see his bloodshot eyes from across the room. I watch him as he comes toward me then around behind the counter. He's in the same clothes as yesterday and his hair is flat on one side, sticking up on the other.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for a mug and pouring himself a cup.

“Hey,” I say and slide him four sugar packs.

“Thanks. Um, you don't know if, uh, if Janet dropped the cheques off yet?” He keeps his head down, stirring his coffee, not making eye contact.

He's standing close enough I can feel the cold from outside coming off his jacket. “Oh, I, uh, don't … I didn't see any …” I look all around, make like I'm searching for anything that might be labelled “cheques.”

“Janet usually has them here by … or most times anyway, uh, yeah, by noon.”

“Maybe … Erin knows?”

“Maybe. Because, well, that's why I came … so …”

“Yeah, I didn't see your name on the ... like when …”
Shit.
I take a deep breath and hold it, hoping nothing else stupid comes out.

He sighs and gives me a half smile. “Can you sit for a couple of minutes?”

I glance over at Erin. She crooks her finger, beckons for me to come. I do. Barely moving her lips, she says, “You're not here to be his shoulder to cry on.”

“I know.” I try not to sound offended.

“I only mean, well, it's obvious you still like him.”

“No, I —”

“
Please
. I just had the pleasure of overhearing your last bit of witty repartee. The both of you.
Painful
.”

I follow him to our table by the fireplace. When he pulls out a chair for me I say, “Do you mind if we sit over here?” I move to a different table in front of the window.

“Yeah. Sure.” He doesn't ask why.

We sit there facing each other.

“This. This feels a little weird, huh?” he says.

“It shouldn't,” I say, not denying it. “I mean, we were friends before, we'll be friends again. We're friends now.” I feel like choking over the word
friends
. At least I'm the one who said it, not him.

He seems to be thinking about this. Then he says, “I came by here last night. I was hoping you might be working.”

“Oh?”

“But it was Zack and Molly.”

“I kind of wanted someone to talk to.” He shoots a look at Erin. “Instead I got you-know-who. She was here studying, and couldn't wait to give me advice.”

I wince, realizing there's no way Erin would have kept her mouth shut. “Sorry. I told her. It kinda just came out …”

“It's okay,” he says. “Everyone's going to know eventually, aren't they?”

“Um, yeah, I suppose so.”

“You'll never guess what she said — Erin.”

I shrug.
Oh God.

“She said I should get a paternity test. Said I was almost a doctor and should have thought of that first thing. She practically bit my head off.”

Oh God, oh God.
I clear my throat. “But that's just Erin's MO. She kind of speaks her mind, doesn't waste time beating around the bush.”

He rolls his eyes. “I'll say.”

“Did she, uh,” — I nervously scratch my neck — “say why she thought you should? Um, you know, get one.”

“Said you can never be too careful about these sorts of things.”

“Oh. So … are you?”

He scrapes the stubble on his unshaven face. “Lynnie's a lot of things — hard on the head and all that — but I never thought of her as someone who'd cheat.”

I can only nod as guilt burns in my stomach like lava.

“It's just … it doesn't make for a very good start, you know?” he continues. “It basically says I don't trust her. And I mean, trust is the most important thing, right?”

He looks at me so innocently, all I want to do is throw up. I may not have cheated on him, but I lied to him. Is there really much difference?

After a moment he says, “Every time I try to picture me and Lynnie, picture our lives together …” He pauses and shakes his head. “Tell me what to do, Lyssa. I need someone to tell me what to do.”

There's a gob of thick phlegm that's stuck in my throat. I cough to dislodge it. “I can't tell you what to do, Liam.”

He sighs, defeat written all over his face. “I know. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. I'm being a self-absorbed shit.”

“Really, it's okay.”

He gives me another half smile. “How are things with Aidan?”

“Oh, you know …”

“No, what does that mean?”

“We're fine. He's fine,” I lie. “Tell me how your exams went.”

But he's not ready to let it go. “Have you asked him about his medication, suggested he see someone about his treatment? Maybe they can offer up another option that he'd be more open to.”

“I'm working on it,” I sigh.

“Well, I still think taking a break is a good idea. When I go home to P.E.I., you can stay at my place. I know it's only for a few days, but …”

“Don't you live with three guys?”

“Yeah.” He makes a face. “Never mind. They're totally disgusting.”

“Liam.” I smile, reach over, and pat his shoulder. “It's not your job to look after me.”

He looks down at the table. “But I want to. And it might have been my job had things …”

“I should get back to work.” I slide my chair back and stand. I need this conversation to end.

“You know you can still come with me,” he says.

“Where? To P.E.I.? Um … isn't Rosalyn going with you?”

He shakes his head. “No, I told her I needed to — I needed some space.”

My turn to shake my head. “No, Liam. That wouldn't help any- thing. Thanks, but no.”

“Yeah.” He sweeps his hair off his forehead. “You're right. I know you're right.”

“I'll see you around, k?” I say softly.

He looks back down at the table and doesn't answer.

The burning lava in my stomach flares hotter as I slowly walk back to the kitchen. I have to tell him. If he never speaks to me again, well, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. He has to know about Kyle, know that there's a fifty-fifty chance that the baby's not his.

I stop in front of the counter, focus my eyes on the blue thumbtack on the bulletin board, and take a few deep breaths. But when I finally get my courage up and turn around, Liam's gone.