Page 3 of Twice as Twisted

“You’re married?” I ask, widening my eyes at him.

“Separated,” he says quickly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

He squirms and shifts again, unable to get comfortable as his chair gets hotter and hotter. Suddenly it bursts into flame, engulfing him. He screams and jumps up, but the fire is already devouring his clothes, his hair, leaving bubbling blisters and red,shiny patches of exposed muscle when the skin sizzles and falls away in chunks. He collapses to the floor, writhing in agony, screaming for help. I smile as I sit calmly eating my starter salad.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” I say with a wink.

The waitress comes, and we put in our drink order—wine for Geoff, lemonade for me.

“So,” Geoff says when she’s gone. “When’s your birthday, Skyler?”

“I have a little confession of my own to make,” I say, spreading my napkin across my lap the way my mother—or was it my stepmother?—taught me. “Before you spend money on me, I should come clean.”

I chew at my lip and peek up at him through my lashes.

“What is it?” he asks. “You know you can tell me anything, honey.”

“I’m not eighteen,” I say, then hurry to add, “Not yet.”

“Oh,” he says again, swallowing and glancing around nervously, like he thinks someone will overhear.

I shake my head, casting my eyes down, as if I’m the one who should be ashamed of myself.

He leans forward, dropping his voice. “When’s your birthday?”

“December.”

“So you’re only seventeen for six more months? That’s not so bad. You’re nearly there.”

“Well, that’s the other thing,” I say, shifting myself. People love it when you mirror their movements, not just their facial expressions. Everyone’s a narcissist. Most people are so narcissistic they don’t look outside themselves long enough to realize it.

I give Geoff a quick glance before taking a big gulp of my water. “I’ll actually be seventeen in December.”

“You’re only sixteen?” he asks in a whisper.

Leaning forward and holding his gaze, I whisper, “I’m very mature for my age.”

“That you are.” He sits back in his chair and swallows hard, watching me for a long moment. Just then the waitress arrives, her ponytail swinging. “What can I get for y’all?”

“We might need a minute,” I say, giving Geoff a questioning look. This is his chance to back out before his fate is sealed. “Or… We might be going?”

“No, we’re ready,” Geoff says. “I’ll take a bottle of your best red, and two steaks well done with a side of mashed potatoes for me and French fries for her.”

When she’s gone, I sit back, letting out a sigh that sounds relieved. Inside, there’s a different feeling.

Disgust that he wants a girl who he thinks is only sixteen.

Triumph that he’s firmly in my snare.

And the slightest whisper of disappointment, the same one I feel every time a man proves to me that he’s just like other men. Sometimes, I tell them before we meet in person and let them back out if they want to. So far, not one man has. Sometimes I present myself as sixteen or even fourteen online and let them approach me already knowing. Disturbingly, that honey draws the most flies. While I’m never surprised by them anymore, a little sliver of disappointment still hangs around, even now. That’s the surprise—that after everything that’s happened to me, I’m able to maintain even a single thread of hope that maybe one day, one of them will be different.

“So what does this mean for us?” I ask peering up through my lashes again.

“Like you said…” Geoff’s voice lowers an octave, a conspiratorial smile twisting his lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

A little shiver of exultation runs through me, and I offer him a smile, ducking my head and creeping my fingers acrossthe table. I run my fingertip along his thumb, forcing myself not to react at the contact. The Dolces mostly cured me of my touch aversion, but I still don’t like the texture of skin. It reminds me of raw chicken.

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