Page 50 of Twice as Twisted

Baron hops out, grabs a few things from the backseat, and comes around just as I’m climbing out of the car. He hands me a bottle of water, then starts for the pit. I drag my feet, trying to work up the nerve to go close to the edge. Baron strides over with all the confidence in the world, like it’s impossible to fall. I edge my way after him, then peek down in. The world swims sickeningly before me, and I sway on my feet.

“Whoa, steady there,” he says with a chuckle, taking my hand.

My first impulse is to jerk away, but he tightens his grip, and my fingers clench around his instinctively. He holds on while I lower myself to the ground on unsteady legs. Then he drops down next to me, letting his feet hang over the edge. I close my eyes and take a breath through frozen lips, trying to calm my whirling thoughts.

“You come up here to swim?” Baron asks, and I hear the sound of the seal being broken on his bottle as he unscrews the cap.

I slowly open my eyes, focusing on the gravel in front of my knees so I won’t see the pit and feel my stomach drop out again. “No,” I admit. “I have before, but there’s a lot of little kids, and they stir up all this silt in the swimming hole.”

“You don’t like to get dirty?” he asks, cocking his head.

“It’s not that,” I say. “I’d just rather see the bottom.”

“You think a lake monster is going to snatch you?” he teases. He makes a playful grab for me, and I startle backwards.

“No,” I say with a shaky little laugh. I don’t want him to think I’m high maintenance. And it’s not exactly true. I know rationally that there’s probably nothing going to get me if I wanted to swim in deep water or the milky swimming hole. I just don’t want to. I don’t like the thought of not being able to see what’s down there. It’s too much like lying in the dark, waiting.

“Half my cousins have swimming pools,” I explain. “They’re closer and more convenient, I can see through the water, and there’s not a bunch of feral children urinating in them.”

“Fair enough,” Baron says.

“Now you,” I say. “Tell me why you don’t like phones.”

“They have their place,” he says. “But this is not it.”

“You don’t want to take a picture of the view?” I ask. “Or remember this date later?”

“People take pictures to post on social media for validation,” he says. “Neither of us need that, do we?”

“No,” I admit, pleased that he thinks we’re alike, that he thinks I’m above such things.

“No one needs to know what we’re doing, anyway,” he says, giving me a secret little smile, like we’re up to no good. “People are always so busy documenting their lives that they forget to live them.”

“I don’t even use social media,” I assure him.

“I like that about you,” he says. “You’re different from most girls. You don’t care about status. You don’t need everyone to know you’re out with a Dolce.”

“Of course not,” I say, affronted by the suggestion.

“Good,” he says. “I’m very selective about who I share myself with, online and in real life. No one deserves access to me, least of all strangers on the internet. It’s a privilege that very few enjoy.”

“Wow,” I say. “How did I get lucky enough to catch your eye?”

“By not trying to,” Baron says with a shrug. “But that doesn’t mean you can share me with the world. We both have enough money to know it’s not what matters. The truly valuable things are intangible. I protect what’s important—my company, my time, my image, my name… I don’t even let people take pictures of me, if I can help it.”

“I think you’re the one who’s different,” I say. “Everyone I know posts everything they do online.”

“If you share every part of your life with the entire world, it’s not special to anyone, especially the people in it.”

I can see his point, but I also see why everyone shares their pictures, not just for validation but to show that they were there, they belong, they are an accepted part of the group. But now that he mentions it, I’ve never seen a picture accompanying any of the rumors about his dates and conquests, the parties he attends, or anything else. It’s as if he’s afraid of incriminating evidence, confirmation of his whereabouts. Either that, or he’s a vampire who doesn’t show up on camera.

Baron leans back to pull out one of the lumps in his pockets. “Orange?” He holds out his hand, palm flat, with the fruit waiting on his palm.

I shake my head.

He digs in his other pocket and pulls out a red apple. He holds it on his other palm, offering me the choice.

I take the apple and take a small bite, feeling self-conscious as he watches me.

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