Page 27 of Getting It Twisted

“Nate?” I look into the two bedrooms—first Nathan’s old boy’s room to the right, and then into what I assume used to be his mom’s bedroom. Opposite the double bed is a huge ancient-looking cabinet. A sliver of sunlight shines in from a dirty window, and dust motes dance in the air.

I turn to the kitchen, and there he is, back turned, cross-legged on the floor with his hands in his lap as if he’s meditating. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize where he’s sitting.

The darkened patch of wood.

I think that’s the spot, he said.

“What are you doing?” My unease grows when he gives no sign of attention. It’s like he didn’t even hear me.

What’s going on with him? Is he angry with me? Is that it? Is this some sort of passive-aggressive way of showing it, similar to that childish mood he used to embody when things weren’t going his way? Like when I didn’t cancel my plans with George last second just because Nathan came around. Or like when he wanted us to get deeper into the drug trade, and I declined. His familiar pouting would turn to a blank-faced, sullen, deep-seated anger. He never stayed angry with me for long though. All it took was for me to show up with my bike and offer him a cigarette, and we’d be friends again.

I flick the light switch to my right. The lone bulb in the ceiling flickers and comes to life. “Finally bothered to pay the bill, huh?” When he still doesn’t reply, I walk over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nathan.”

He turns his head. “What do you want?” He looks pale and hollow-eyed, as if he hasn’t slept for days, and his voice sounds raspy from disuse.

Don’t tell me he’s been like this ever since we parted, several days ago? The possibility makes my throat tight.

“George talked to the officers. He got you the key to the house.”

“Fine. Give it here.”

“I don’t have it. You’ll get it during the party tomorrow.”

“What party?”

“At our house.”

“Why would I want to go to a party with George?”

“Because he won’t give you the key unless you come. I’ll be there too.”

“Whatever,” he mutters and turns back around.

It feels awkward to stand here in the doorway with him barely paying me any attention. Usually, he gives metoo muchattention.

“We should talk about Joshua too,” I say.

“What about him?”

The bored tone of his voice doesn’t make me as angry as it should. He obviously doesn’t regret putting me in danger. He’s still concerned with only himself and his own needs. Always has been, always will be. I wait for the urge to cuss him out, to argue, but for whatever reason, it never comes.

“Do you evenhavefour grand?” I ask instead.

“Maybe. But not four grand I want to spend on him.”

“If money’s an issue for you, then . . . I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t need to pay for anything. I told you; I’ll handle it.”

I’m not entirely sure whatI’ll handle itmeans. With Nathan in the picture, nothing is certain except for his unpredictable, chaos-prone nature. That particular piece of the puzzle clicks neatly into place, as do his mannerisms: the way he walks, the way he talks. His sharp wit, his impatience. But there are slight differences too: the circles under his eyes, and the deep, weary darkness that seems to descend over him like a menacing storm.

Again, I can’t help but wonder what happened during the years he was on the road.Nothing goodis what he told me. Finding him like this—sitting on the very spot where his mother died—makes it all the more obvious. I just have to say it.

“I don’t think you should be staying here.”

“Where else would I go?” His voice is hard, meeting mine with steely deflection.

“How about the motel?”

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