Page 43 of One Twisted Lie

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

I know I’m being clingy and obsessive as I help Avery move back into his dorm. Daniel and Mag are out gathering his missing assignments while I’m tasked with helping him put away all the stuff we brought Avery while he was at the institute.

Avery spent two weeks in Lausanne, so we’ve got a shit ton of clothes and trinkets to unload. I’ve spent the last ten minutes helping him while also being a total nag.

“For the last time, Oz. I’m fine,” Avery groans, rolling his eyes as he drinks his coffee.

“I can get you some nicer pillows. Yours suck,” I say, fluffing the insulting pillows. Avery takes another sip of his drink, and my eyes track the motion. “Is that coffee? I heard caffeine doesn’t help.”

Avery pouts, gripping his coffee possessively as if I’m going to snatch it from his hands. “If I don’t have coffee, I’ll die. I don’t think that will help anybody.”

Right. I let out a huff as I toss his pajamas at him. “I just want to make sure you’re settled and okay. You got your routine?”

After Avery was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I did some digging on the subject. I found a lot of useful information, a steady routine being one of the key methods of staying baseline.

He nods with a huff. “Yes,Mom. Wake up at six, pills, breakfast by eight, class, homework for thirty minutes, take a break, and have sex with Sebas—”

“Okay,” I say quickly, clapping my hands before he can go into more vivid detail.

He smiles softly, coming over to squeeze my bicep, big green eyes clear as day. “Ozzy, I appreciate this. You’ve been awesome.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I know it was you that got me into the Lausanne Center. Thank you.”

I blush and drop my gaze to the floor. “It was just a phone call—”

“One you didn’t have to make,” he insists, conviction in his voice as he gently punches my shoulder. “You’re one of the best people I know. Thank you for being my friend.”

“So fucking poetic over here,” I murmur, feeling uncomfortable with these gooey emotions.

“Therapy, man. It’s hot as fuck to be in touch with your emotions,” he says with a smirk. “Dr. Strauss taught me that.”

“I’m guessing not in those words.” My fingers still on the shirt I’m folding. I look at my friend, a swell of embarrassing emotions filling me, itching to get out. “Hey, Avery?”

He doesn’t look up from where he’s sorting through his medications. “Yeah?”

I started this, but I’m at a loss for words. It’s crazy, thinking that this even-tempered man in front of me just came out of a mental breakdown. Seeing how he is versus how he was makes me sentimental. It fills me with something foreign. New experiences seem to be something I’m going through a lot these days.

When I don’t speak, he looks up at me, eyes widening as he takes a step toward me. “Oh, my fuck. Am I seeing this?”

“What?”

He shakes his head, hitting the side of his temple. “I swear I took my pills this morning.”

I cringe. “That’s not fucking funny, man.”

“Sorry. Bad joke. Oz, why are you crying?”

I’m confused for a second. I’m not fucking crying. I don’t cry. The longer he continues to stare at me with bewilderment, the less confident I am. I bring my fingers up to my cheeks and Avery’s right. Iamcrying. I can’t remember the last time I cried. It must have been when I was little because Father never shied away from his repulsion to tears. Crying shows weakness, it shows no restraint, and it’s not suitable for an apex predator.

But now that it’s out, I can’t take it back. My hands are shaking, and my knees are weak, threatening to buckle under all the weight I thought I left behind. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He cocks his head to the side in confusion. “You’re freaking me out. What are you sorry for?”

“Sebastian tried to warn us,” I admit. “He tried to warn us, but we were too late. We saw all the signs—”

“Stop,” he says. “Ididn’t even know what the signs meant.”

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