Page 161 of Twisted Collide

She didn’t lie to me. Not really.

Chill out, Josie.

“When I met your father, I was a wreck. I didn’t want to tell you about that night, because I was afraid you’d be embarrassed by me.” Her head falls forward on a sob. “Until recently, I didn’t even know who he was, Josie.”

“What?” I hold my breath.

“The night I met him, I never got his last name.” She swipes away her tears. “I was eighteen. I wasn’t even in college yet, and I went to a frat party with a friend. I got drunk. Really,reallydrunk.” She closes her eyes, sucking in a deep breath before opening them again on a groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

I hesitate, not sure I want the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “He didn’t…”

“Take advantage of me? God, no. We werebothblasted. All I remember is that he introduced himself as Robert, we had this crazy connection, and I climbed him like a pole.”

“Mom.”

“Sorry.” She has the decency to turn pink. “We went our separate ways in the morning. By the time I found out I was pregnant, three months had passed, it was summer, and I didn’t know where to find him. I returned to the frat house and asked around. The guyslaughedat me, Josie. Theylaughed.It was like every mistake I made as a kid flashed before me in that moment. The booze, the sex, the drugs—”

My eyes widen. “Drugs?”

The mother I knew was always so straight-laced. I’ve never even seen her drink a sip of wine. Not even in pasta.

She groans, getting up and taking a seat on the empty visitor’s chair. “So much drugs. That’s why I got so scared when I found your stash?”

“Wait. Hold up.” I shake my head, not following. “Mystash?I don’t do drugs. Never have, never will.”

“Your stash. Of books.”

“You mean my manuscripts?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, even as my head threatens to split with a headache. “Oh, my God. When people say stash, they mean contraband, Mom.”

A small smile makes its way up her cheeks. I didn’t realize how little I’ve seen it.

“You called me Mom.”

I look away, unsure how to answer that.

She sobers, scratching the back of her neck. “I snuck into your room when you didn’t return that night and read one of your manuscripts. The ones you worked on for your creative writing class.”

“Umm…okay?” I don’t follow.

“Devil Chalk.”

“Oh.Oh.”

I wrote a short story on addiction for my creative writing final, which I turned into a novella the following summer as I debated pursuing a career in publishing. In the end, I realized it wasn’t for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss anything I’d written.

I shake my head. “Just because I wrote a book about addiction doesn’t mean I’ve ever done drugs.”

“It read like a diary.”

“That’s the writing style.Bridget JonesmeetsChoke. My professor thought it was cool.”

“It felt so real. I saw myself in every page, Josie. You even knew how to cook meth.”

“Yeah, because of a Google search. Couldn’t you have asked me about it before, I don’t know, kicking me out?”

“I messed up, didn’t I?” She gnaws on her lower lip. “I just…am so embarrassed about my past and scared you’d found yourself on the same path. I thought it had to be my fault, and the only way to save you would be to get you away from me.”

“So you sent me here.”

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