Page 8 of Getting It Twisted

“Hey, where are you going?” George slurs in the hallway as I put my sneakers on. “The sky’s falling out there.”

A bolt of lightning strikes as soon as I get outside the front door, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I take shelter under the patio roof and peer into the rain-soaked darkness.

When we were sixteen, Nathan and I stumbled upon an old car in the middle of the forest. It was covered in branches and debris but not beyond saving. We set to work, educating ourselves in car mechanics and obtaining spare parts.

We were supposed to go on a cross-country road trip after high school. The car would be our escape car, we said. But when push came to shove, Nathan went on his own and left me behind. I haven’t seen that car for over five years. It’s almost surreal to see it here now.

I sway drunkenly on my feet, grabbing onto a support beam. Damp wooden splinters dig into my palm, and the hair at the back of my neck stands up.

“Looking for something?”

That voice . . .

I spin around. The world tilts on its axis, all misaligned and disjointed. A cloud of cigarette smoke dissolves, revealing green eyes, black hair, and the tilt of a perfect mouth.

No. No way . . .

The music and chatter from the party inside fade to a buzz in my ears, as does the rain. All I see and hear ishim.

Nathan.

And five years of heartbreak and sorrowful anger rushes back to me all at once, as fresh and raw as when it first happened.

I dash forward and seize the collar of his leather jacket. There’s a dull thud as his back hits the wall, and the cigarette he was smoking drops from his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl.

His vivid green eyes glitter, his strong dark eyebrows contrasting his otherwise androgynous features. “I could ask you the same.”

His voice. That damn smooth drawl. I once told myself I’d forgotten his way of speaking, but I know now that wasn’t evenremotely true. I’m stunned enough that I don’t even question what the hell he means.I could ask you the same.Why? What?

“Tell me,” I grit out. “What. Are. You. Doing here?”

“Didn’t hear the news? Dear Mother Theresa got herself shot up with enough dope to finally kill her. I’m here to sort out her shit.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here on my front porch.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

“So you thought you’d just hang out here and look through windows like a fucking creep? How did you even know I live here?”

I shove him one more time, hard against the wall, and this time, it gets a frown out of him and a buzz of satisfaction from me.

“What can I say, I just wanted to do some recon,” he says, and the corner of his lips curls into a smile. That damn smile . . . It’s the smile of someone who knows the secrets of the world—the smile of someone who knows us mortals will never understand what it’s like to have his good looks and unerring confidence.

The air crackles between us with another strike of lightning, followed by a rupture of thunder so loud I feel like my eardrums are gonna burst. At the same time, the front door opens wide.

“Yo, Danny,” George slurs, relying on the door handle to support his weight. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

A jolt of anxiety goes through me at the thought of him finding out what exactly I’m doing here—and with who—but when I look back to the space where Nathan just stood, it’s empty.

He’s gone. The fuck? How did he get away so fast?

George points to the still-burning cigarette by my feet. “I thought you’d quit?”

“I have.” I stomp it out and make for the door. “Come on.”

As soon as we get back to the lively chaos of drunken, happy people, what happened outside feels like some kind of fever dream.

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