Getting It Twisted (Unforgivable Needs #1)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Daniel

The party swarms all around me. I’m one with the music, moving to the sound of that wicked beat . . .

A look to the side sends my head spinning from one too many sips from the keg. The spot next to me is empty. Where the hell is Nathan? He was here a minute ago. Or maybe ten minutes ago. He should be here and celebrate with me.

My unsteady legs lead me to the hallway. From the furthest door comes a loud thud and a muffled voice I don’t recognize.

“Get him on the bed.”

Then a voice I’d know anywhere, from any distance, in any plane of time.

Nathan. He groans, but it’s not a groan of pleasure. Not at all.

Laughter, and a third voice. “That’s it. Keep him like that.”

What the hell?

My chest rises with a shaky breath. In and out. I close my hand around the doorknob and turn . . .

“Hello? Earth to Daniel.” Lydia’s fingers snap in front of my face. “You could at least kiss me back, you know. I’m trying here.”

I drag a hand over my face, trying to wipe off the remnants of the daydream. I haven’t thought about that night in a long time. What the hell set it off? Even after five years, the memory is so easily summoned.

“Sorry,” I say. “Work wrung me out.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Her ass presses into my groin as she straddles me on the bed and peels back the zipper of my work uniform. “Let me help you feel better, baby.”

I consider letting her do it—focusing on her hands trailing down my body and stroking my thighs, because what guy in his right mind would turn down a blow job? But it’s no use. My dick is soft with disinterest, and I’m not in the mood to steer my thoughts to where it’ll go hard.

It becomes clear to me then: it’s not just the in-this-moment sex I don’t want.

It’s her. It’s us .

Lydia’s nice enough, she’s pretty enough, and when she smiles, her eyes twinkle in a way that makes me think of soap bubbles in the open summer sky. But there’s nothing in me that burns for her. There’s lust but only the automatic reactions of my body. There’s no longing when she’s not around. There’s no love, no hate, no happy, no sad. Nothing. I’m coursed through with numbness, all the way to my core. I know what could thaw me, but he is a thousand miles away, or dead for all I know.

Lydia, who must feel my stiffness everywhere except for where it should be, glances up. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah,” I say. “This isn’t working.”

“Oh. Well, tell me what you want me to do, then. What’ll make you feel good.”

“No, Lydia.” I push her gently off me and slide off the bed. “ This .” I point between me and her. “It’s not gonna work.”

Her frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

Am I gonna have to spell it out to her? We’ve been together for, what, two months? Long enough for her to notice how my eyes glaze over when she tells me about her pet chinchilla and tarot readings and the news. Long enough for her to notice my unenthusiastic hugs when I greet her after work.

“You’re breaking up with me?” She straightens her blouse and bounces off the bed. Her accusatory glare is a relief, strangely enough. Out of anger or sadness, I prefer the former.

“You can still come here and hang out at parties,” I offer half-heartedly. “Tonight, for example, we—”

“No, thanks,” she snaps. “I don’t wanna hang out with your roommates , Daniel.”

Something in the way she says it makes my hackles rise, and I no longer care about letting her down or being hospitable—not if she’s gonna make snide comments about my friends. She’s in my bedroom, in my house, and I want her gone.

“Suit yourself.” I turn my back on her and start rearranging the pile of books on my windowsill, hoping she’ll get the message.

“You’re not the nice guy everyone thinks you are, you know.”

“No?” I say in a dull voice, suspecting where this conversation is going. Might as well humor her; I owe her that much. “What am I, then?”

“You act like you’re so mysterious, with your drawings and your brooding eyes. Guess what, you’re just an asshole who thinks you’re better than everyone else!”

Brooding? I cross my arms and face her. “All right. So I’m not nice, I’m an asshole and all-around uncool. Anything else, or are you done?”

“No, I’m not done.” She balls her hands into fists at her sides, and for a moment, she looks like she wants to hit me. “How about you make something of your life and go to college like the rest of us? Or are you planning to be a janitor for the rest of your life?”

Maintenance technician. Not janitor. But what’s the use in correcting her if it won’t be enough to make her leave? What would Nathan say? Fuck off, I’m bored of you now, leave?

But I’m not like him, and there’s no use in wishing I was.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am.

I could’ve dragged our relationship on forever, and despite what insults she’s hurled at me now, I’m pretty sure she would’ve let me. I suppose that’s the problem; I’m cursed to forever pine for what I can’t have and be bored to tears once I have it in my hands. Unless it’s him . But it’s never going to be him.

Getting the message at last, Lydia yanks the door open and turns around to send me a final, seething glare.

“You know what, Daniel? Fuck you. You don’t deserve me anyway.”

“Bye, Lydia.”

If Nathan taught me anything, it’s to always get the last word.

The front door slams shut, shaking the walls of the entire house. I wait until I hear the rumble of Lydia’s car before I make my way downstairs. As expected, George—my cousin and roommate—is there waiting for me.

“What the fuck was that about?”

“What?” I make a beeline for the kitchen, intent on a quick dinner to wolf down.

“What do you think?” George says, following behind me. “Lydia! I’ve never seen her that pissed off. What the fuck did you do?”

There’s nothing of note in the fridge other than April’s almond milk, George’s protein shakes, and days-old takeout pizza I don’t dare to touch. I give up and face George.

“Things weren’t working.” Better be vague and let him think I just need a little encouragement and not—

“ What wasn’t working? You’re never going to find something long-lasting if you don’t look into these things, you know. Reflect and all that.”

Oh yeah? As if you know so much about it? I want to quip at him, but then again, I suppose he does know a thing or two about relationships. He and April must’ve been together for over a year now, and I still have trouble wrapping my head around how those two make it work.

“I didn’t feel anything when I looked at her or thought about her, all right?” I say with a shrug. “Wasn’t her fault. Just wasn’t right.”

“And what would it take to make it right?”

His tone is too patronizing, too “I know best, little cousin,” too . . . worried. All it does is make me want to worry him some more, in some stupid surge of rebellion.

“You want to know why it didn’t work out between me and Lydia? She wasn’t him . Is that what you want me to say?”

He squints, staring at me as if he can’t be quite sure he heard right. “What did you just say?”

I clench my jaw and try to ignore the creeping sense of regret for what I just said. But George doesn’t do well with being ignored.

“Hey! What the hell did you mean by that?”

I shrug again, mouth a thin, tense line.

“Daniel, don’t you dare. Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about him . Seriously?” He throws his hands in the air, the vein in his temple already red and bulging. “Have you forgotten how he treated you?”

“No.” I haven’t forgotten. And I don’t want to.

“Look.” George puts his hands on my shoulders. I fight the urge to shake them off. “You don’t need to figure out what went wrong with Lydia just yet. April’s biology class is coming to the party tonight. Maybe you can find someone there—a rebound or whatever.”

Find someone else who’ll disappoint me so I can disappoint them in return? No, thanks. My sullen expression seems enough to convey my line of thought, because George sighs and lets go of me.

“On the subject of . . . Nathan ”—he says the last word carefully, jaw tight, as if the name itself pisses him off—“did you hear about his mom?”

“What about her?”

“She’s dead. She was found in her house. Overdose, probably. Choked on her own vomit.”

My stomach turns over, and images start flashing across my mind. The first time I saw Nathan’s mom, she sat on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. Her long dark hair glistened in the sun, her slender limbs exposed in a tight black dress. I remember my twelve-year-old self thinking, Wow, she looks like a movie star. Nathan hopped off the back of my bike, and she stormed over to us and snatched his upper arm. Nails digging into his flesh, she dragged him toward the house while he glared daggers at her.

Theresa Antler, beautiful but terrible. I imagine her now cold and pale, lips blue, on the floor of Nathan’s childhood home.

“When?”

“About a week ago. Dad called me on Monday.”

“A week ago? What the hell?”

George shrugs. “I’ve been busy. Family law classes started this week. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Now that he mentions it, he looks exhausted, his brown hair more ruffled than styled, and his usual sun-kissed complexion is chalky and pale.

“What about her house?” I ask.

“What about it?”

“She had no husband and no other children. It’s gonna go to him . Isn’t it?” Realization strikes, and my eyes go wide. “George, you don’t think he’ll . . .”

“Do I think he’ll come here to sort out the house?” George clicks his tongue. “I dunno. Not that it’s much of a house anyway. Might as well level it to the ground and sell off the land. Besides, why go through the effort when he could get it done with a few phone calls?” George looks at me, really looks at me, and his face twists into a strange expression. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

He scowls and looks away. “Never mind.”

I clench my jaw, trying hard to shut the floodgates of memories that threaten to resurface. If I’m not careful, they’ll be as clear in my mind as the day they happened. For all I don’t want to forget the good moments we shared, the bad ones are enough to make me damn near catatonic.

A twinkle in vivid green eyes. A mocking tilt to perfect lips. What did you think—that we’re some lovey-dovey couple now? Fucking is just fucking.

All I want now is to vegetate for a few hours before the party starts. Maybe continue the work on my latest drawing to keep my mind off the things I’ve learned.

“By the way,” George says. “Weren’t you supposed to have dinner at Gillian’s tonight?”

“Oh, right. Shit.” After Lydia and the breakup, the dinner with my mom totally slipped my mind.

The thing with her is it’s never just dinner. The question is what she really wants.

“Danio!” My sister stretches her arms toward me in her wheelchair, smiling the brightest of smiles.

“How are you, sis?” I embrace her thin shoulders and stroke her pale cheek. At least she’s happy to see me. My mom, on the other hand . . .

“I see you finally decided to show up,” she says and nods to the table, hair bunched into a tight knot. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

I gesture toward Jessie. “Let me help her.”

“No. Sit down and eat.”

I do as she says to shut her up. Jessie smiles at me from the edge of the table as Gillian feeds her small spoonfuls of chili.

“I wasn’t aware your job worked you late,” Mom says.

“It didn’t.” I won’t tell her dinner slipped my mind, but I don’t feel like lying either.

“Still no plans to return to college, I presume?”

I roll my eyes. First Lydia, and now my mom too? “At least I’ve got a job now, haven’t I?”

Compared to the year I could barely get out of bed, I’m doing well. Better, at least. My job at Springvale Community Center gets me working with my hands, keeps me fit and on my feet. The pay is abysmal, and though I don’t want to be stuck doing it forever, it’s fine for now. At least until I feel well enough to start studying again. My days of dreaming of an ambitious career were numbered to begin with, but my attempts at starting college right after high school . . . Well, they went down the drain, to say the least.

Gillian averts her eyes from her daughter, and for once, she looks at me. Unlike George, who takes after my uncle and father in appearance, I take after my mother. We have the same dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, and square jaw. By this time of year, the skin around our noses and cheeks is dotted with freckles from the summer sun.

But that’s where our similarities end. Gillian’s hair is graying around her temples, and she looks perpetually stressed—almost ill. Frown lines are etched deep between her brows, as has been the case ever since the divorce. Or now that I think about it, ever since Jessie’s dramatic birth.

“I just thought you’d make something of yourself,” Mom says, “now that you don’t have that awful boy nipping at your heels anymore.”

I choke on a mouthful of food. That awful boy . . .

“Danio,” Jessie says, fighting to get her words out. “Wh-Who does she mean?”

I force the food down my throat and swallow thickly. “Nathan. She means Nathan.” Because curse the day my mother would ever take his name into her mouth. My dad was even worse. I’ve never seen him so angry as when he found out Nathan was gay. God forbid his son would have a faggot for a best friend.

Jessie giggles. “But Nathan isn’t awful.”

“At least you cut your hair.” Gillian nods at my hairstyle: a short undercut with a messy, longer part at the top. It isn’t new though. I cut my signature shoulder-length hair off when I left college four years ago. “Did you hear about his mother?”

“Yes.” I stare gloomily into my plate, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

“It was just as well if you ask me. Bad seeds the lot of them, those Antlers. Her father used to lurk around downtown, clearly drunk or high off his mind. Did you know?”

“Mom,” I say, clenching my hand around my barely used spoon. “Why did you invite me again?”

She pins me with a cold look. “Don’t be smart with me, Daniel.”

“I’m not. Remember?” My sarcastic smile makes her mouth purse as if she’s eaten something sour, and she turns her attention back to my sister.

“I’m remaking your old bedroom into a rehab room for Jessie. This is your chance to retrieve any items you might miss. Most of it is junk, of course.”

“Of course,” I say between gritted teeth. Never mind that I might not be in the mood to revisit my old room, but explaining why would only invite my mother to bring up my past again.

And so, after dinner, I walk down the corridor to my room.

Not much remains of the state I left it in two years ago. My bed, desk, and art supplies are all transferred to my new bedroom in the two-story house George inherited from his grandmother.

What remains is the bookcase I neglected to bring and the stuff in the closet I haven’t laid eyes on in years. The very thought of opening that box of worms has my heart pumping harder in my chest.

Most of the shelves are filled with artwork I drew when I was young. Animals. People. The view outside my window. But there’s other stuff too, like a coal pencil sketch depicting two boys holding hands, standing on top of a hill that overlooks the city.

Under the sketch is a plastic folder of Polaroids. An invisible hand squeezes my heart at the sight.

The first photo is of the two of us. Nathan makes an exaggerated grimace for the camera and holds up two fingers in the peace sign, arm slung over my shoulders. Nathan with his studded belt, dyed hair, and silver earrings, and me with my long dirty-blond hair and baggy T-shirt. Another photo is of me alone, perhaps from the same occasion. My eyes are half-lidded and dazed as I exhale a cloud of smoke from the joint in my hand.

Then come the class photos. Why my mom made sure to save them I can only guess at. Perhaps she still had faith in me back in middle school.

The fifth-grade child version of myself glares impassively at the camera, mouth downturned in a frown. I look so depressed it’s almost funny. Experiencing it, however? That was far from fun. Dark thoughts of harming myself came almost daily, and I was invisible even to my parents. Especially to my parents.

The difference between my fifth- and sixth-grade photos is so striking I have to do a double take. From one year to the next, my eyes are noticeably brighter, the corners of my mouth upturned in a smile. It’s as if the hard dark shell of me has cracked. What happened between those two years to cause a change so fundamental?

Nathan. Nathan happened.

Two months into the fall semester of sixth grade, a new boy waltzed into the classroom. Backpack askew over one shoulder, he had a toothpick in his mouth and a messy mop of dark curls for hair. He looked utterly bored, lacking the nerves you’d expect from a transfer student. There was a thin-boned sharpness to him, and a jaded look in his eyes that the rest of us lacked. It made him seem older than his age. Mature in an unsettling sort of way. A twelve-year-old kid was not supposed to have seen as much as he had.

His gaze swept over the classroom and landed on me. I might have imagined the way his eyebrows lifted or the minute twist to the corner of his mouth. Or maybe he knew, even then, that all it would take was for him to sit next to me during recess and ask, “What’s that you’re drawing?,” and we’d be joined at the hip for the following six years.

Even in the school photos, his striking features and boyish charm are plain to see. Not that I noticed at that age how stunning he was—at least not in that way. But other people’s reactions to him were impossible to miss.

How he placated the teachers when he hadn’t done his assignments on time. Or how he blamed one of the school’s bullies for pulling the fire alarm during math class when the culprits were none other than me and him. His ease in charming people when he had the mind for it. When he didn’t have the mind for it, well . . . Let’s just say his looks couldn’t help him with everything.

He was a dick to everyone else but not to me, and that was dangerous for a kid who’d never had anyone pay him the time of day.

I was too shy and bookish to make other friends. George tried to take me under his wing, but his one-year-older jock buddies found me weird and withdrawn.

Nathan did what George could not. Nathan in turn had his own peculiarities, and we fit together like two jagged, leftover puzzle pieces. Him outgoing and reckless and endlessly bored. Me with a head full of ideas and a rebellious fire in my heart that Nathan happily stoked. Before long, we were burning in it, and that fire lasted for six whole years.

And then . . . poof. He was gone, and there was a time when I felt like nothing would ever fill the void he left behind.

I grit my teeth and dump the photos back into the box. I should let my mom throw them out. I definitely shouldn’t bring them with me.

But that’s exactly what I do.

The moment I step inside the hallway back home, George pushes a tequila shot into my hand. Judging by his flushed skin and his goofy smile, he’s already drunk.

Music and voices merge into one pulsating, headache-inducing force. It jacks up my heart rate, makes me sweat. But it beats being alone. When you’re trying to keep your mind off somebody, loneliness is the real killer.

At some point, April joins me by the awkward spot between the stairs, the kitchen, and the living room. Her wild mane of long black hair drapes over my shoulder as she leans to speak into my ear.

“I’m glad this many people showed up. The weather’s gone insane.”

It’s not an exaggeration. Outside the windows, the rain is absolutely pouring down, and thunder rumbles in the distance. September is a little late for thunderstorms in Oregon, even after the unusually hot summer we’ve had.

I turn to April. “Any potential roommates to vet?” Our last roommate moved out a month ago after George kicked him out for hiding hard drugs in his room.

“George takes care of that stuff,” April says with a dismissive wave. “But I’ve already told him we could use the spare room for a pet instead. Maybe a guinea pig.” Her tattooed fingers grab my upper arm. “I heard about Lydia, by the way.”

“George told you? Great.” I take another sip of beer, already drunker than I should be at this hour.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find someone new.”

“Yeah, sure.” But that someone won’t be him. And I shouldn’t wish it was him. I shouldn’t even think about him. Hating him annoys me, but missing him makes me hate myself.

April winks at me and sips her obscenely colorful drink through a straw. “Just say the word, and I’ll fix you up with someone. How about Hailey?” She nods at a brunette in high heels. “Her boyfriend broke up with her two weeks ago.” She grabs my hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you guys.”

She starts dragging me into the living room, but for some reason, the thought of talking with someone new makes my skin crawl.

“Maybe later.”

“Like I said, just say the word.” She winks again and elbows me in the side.

Sometimes—like right now—I feel like April and George act less like friends and more like some kind of parental figures, which is odd, considering they’re only one year my senior. But maybe I need it. God knows my real parents never paid much attention to me. Sometimes I feel like they’ve forgotten they even have a son. My dad has a new life with his new family in Portland, while my mom has spent the last fifteen years ignoring me in favor of her daughter.

As for April and George, however, the line between helpful and patronizing is thin, especially when I feel like I’m barely hanging on.

I take in the crowd again and spot the girl April mentioned, Hailey. She helps herself to a refill from the keg, meets my gaze, and smiles before she scurries off to rejoin her friends. She’s cute, I guess. But cute is not enough to sway me.

One-night stands bring me little satisfaction, although I’ve had them, and I do them. But it’s like scratching an itch that comes back tenfold a few days afterward. There’s no real point to it except to temporarily quell my loneliness, but even for that, it’s rarely helpful.

Maybe I should lay off sex for a while until I find someone I actually give a fuck about. Maybe I should crawl into a cave until I’m touch-starved enough to properly function. Or slither into a hole, change skin like a snake, and rise from the undergrowth . . . A new me, without a five-year-old hole in my heart.

Maybe I should forget about girls and look for a guy instead. The thing is every time I’ve tried has been a disaster.

It goes like this: They either remind me too much of Nathan, and I get all bogged down in old memories and emotions. Or they’re too unlike him and my attraction fizzles out like a doused match.

They can’t be too . . . nice . Which sounds fucking weird when I think about it, but it’s true. There’s no reason to push them into the mattress if they don’t talk back and annoy me. With girls, I don’t need that angry switch to flip, but with guys it’s different. And I always found myself the most turned on by Nathan when he annoyed the shit out of me. Maybe he’s caused some permanent damage in my brain and made me unable to fuck any guy who isn’t him.

I bet he’d like that.

I clench my teeth. Damn it all. One more beer, then I’ll go talk to Hailey. I might never find someone I’m special to and who’s special to me, but at least I can drown my sorrows in booze and sex.

As I look for a beer opener, I catch a glimpse in the kitchen window.

A car down by the road. A red car. A red Ford Mustang, with a spray-painted black hood.

No way. It can’t be . . . can it? Either I’m drunker than I thought, or the rain’s playing tricks on me.

“Hey, where are you going?” George slurs in the hallway as I put my sneakers on. “The sky’s falling out there.”

A bolt of lightning strikes as soon as I get outside the front door, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I take shelter under the patio roof and peer into the rain-soaked darkness.

When we were sixteen, Nathan and I stumbled upon an old car in the middle of the forest. It was covered in branches and debris but not beyond saving. We set to work, educating ourselves in car mechanics and obtaining spare parts.

We were supposed to go on a cross-country road trip after high school. The car would be our escape car, we said. But when push came to shove, Nathan went on his own and left me behind. I haven’t seen that car for over five years. It’s almost surreal to see it here now.

I sway drunkenly on my feet, grabbing onto a support beam. Damp wooden splinters dig into my palm, and the hair at the back of my neck stands up.

“Looking for something?”

That voice . . .

I spin around. The world tilts on its axis, all misaligned and disjointed. A cloud of cigarette smoke dissolves, revealing green eyes, black hair, and the tilt of a perfect mouth.

No. No way . . .

The music and chatter from the party inside fade to a buzz in my ears, as does the rain. All I see and hear is him .

Nathan.

And five years of heartbreak and sorrowful anger rushes back to me all at once, as fresh and raw as when it first happened.

I dash forward and seize the collar of his leather jacket. There’s a dull thud as his back hits the wall, and the cigarette he was smoking drops from his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl.

His vivid green eyes glitter, his strong dark eyebrows contrasting his otherwise androgynous features. “I could ask you the same.”

His voice. That damn smooth drawl. I once told myself I’d forgotten his way of speaking, but I know now that wasn’t even remotely true. I’m stunned enough that I don’t even question what the hell he means. I could ask you the same. Why? What?

“Tell me,” I grit out. “What. Are. You. Doing here?”

“Didn’t hear the news? Dear Mother Theresa got herself shot up with enough dope to finally kill her. I’m here to sort out her shit.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here on my front porch.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

“So you thought you’d just hang out here and look through windows like a fucking creep? How did you even know I live here?”

I shove him one more time, hard against the wall, and this time, it gets a frown out of him and a buzz of satisfaction from me.

“What can I say, I just wanted to do some recon,” he says, and the corner of his lips curls into a smile. That damn smile . . . It’s the smile of someone who knows the secrets of the world—the smile of someone who knows us mortals will never understand what it’s like to have his good looks and unerring confidence.

The air crackles between us with another strike of lightning, followed by a rupture of thunder so loud I feel like my eardrums are gonna burst. At the same time, the front door opens wide.

“Yo, Danny,” George slurs, relying on the door handle to support his weight. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

A jolt of anxiety goes through me at the thought of him finding out what exactly I’m doing here—and with who—but when I look back to the space where Nathan just stood, it’s empty.

He’s gone. The fuck? How did he get away so fast?

George points to the still-burning cigarette by my feet. “I thought you’d quit?”

“I have.” I stomp it out and make for the door. “Come on.”

As soon as we get back to the lively chaos of drunken, happy people, what happened outside feels like some kind of fever dream.

Just to make sure, I look out the window. The rain is easing up, and the red Ford Mustang is gone, leaving nothing but a trail of wet leaves in its wake.