Blue Colla Make Ya Holla (16 page)

W
e talked at
midnight with the stars in the sky and smiles in our eyes. Twist loved the night and the darkness; he said it made him feel alive and safe. I never understood the safe part. I couldn’t imagine him feeling scared or threatened by anything. He was a six-foot warrior, usually dressed in ripped jeans, black biker boots, and a tight black T-shirt that wrapped around his muscled chest and arms like a second skin. Even at seventeen, he was strong and dangerously beautiful.

Twist and I never met, at least not at a time in our lives that we could actually remember. Our families lived next door to each other, and we were three years apart in age. Our mothers were best friends back then, so we were together from the very start, our mothers putting us to bed together, bathing us together, feeding us together. His real name is Tristen, but I couldn’t pronounce it when I was little and could only manage to call him Twist, which became his permanent nickname.

Twist has always been consistently laid back and unnerved. He watches the world around him like a languid black cat, blinking slowly and taking in every detail. He notices everything and forgets nothing. He seems decades older than me and our friends and always looks older than he really is somehow. When the other boys his age were scrawny and pimply, Twist was already muscular from lifting weights with his older brother, Riley.

Twist’s father, Mr. Jacobs, is a biker and owns a motorcycle shop in town, so he was always tearing a motorcycle apart in their garage, teaching Riley and Twist how to put them back together again while I sat on a cinder block in the corner and watch for hours. When I was big enough, Twist taught me to ride his dirt bike, something my parents weren’t exactly happy about, but I absolutely loved it because I wanted to be involved in everything Twist loved.

As we got older and Twist started high school, I was afraid we would drift apart and he would start to hang out with his friends and date a bunch of pretty girls, but that didn’t happen. He still hung out with me every night, watching movies in my parents’ basement or sitting by the bonfire in his backyard, talking way past midnight. The girls in school were gaga over him, loving his gray eyes, dark messy hair, and tattoos he was way too young to have. He smoked cigarettes, and the occasional joint, and got into a little bit of trouble, like boys do. My girlfriends were jealous that an older, hot boy in high school would be waiting to walk me home after school every day, but to me, he was just my best friend. I didn’t yet view him as the cool, hot guy next door like they did.

But when I turned fourteen, things started to change. Twist held my hand when he walked me home, and it made me tingle and blush. We sat closer together when we watched television on the old couch in the basement, and he started to pull me against him halfway through the movie. I loved how it felt to be so close to him, to feel his arm around me. I didn’t even pay attention to the movies anymore; I would just sit in quiet anticipation, waiting for him to finally put his arm around me, hoping the movie would never end. I just wanted to bury my face into him and breathe his scent for hours.

After six months of holding hands and snuggling on the couch, Twist gave me my very first kiss. I wasn’t sure if it was his first, and I was too scared to ask, but I hoped it was, because I wanted us to share all of our firsts together. Being kissed by Twist was like nothing else I had ever felt before. He gave me butterflies and made me shiver when I wasn’t even cold. Spending time with him took on a whole new meaning. I started to dress prettier and wear a tiny bit of makeup. He made me feel special and adored, always noticing little things I did, like changing my hair or wearing a new outfit. Our friendship grew into something much stronger, and even at such a young age, we knew there was something so much deeper happening between us. We spent every waking moment together, and when we weren’t together, all I could think about was when I would see him again. My best friend turned into my first love, and it felt so
right
, like it was always meant to be.

When I turned fifteen, we made love for the first time, and it was perfect. He was gentle and slow and made me feel loved and cherished. He told me he loved me over and over. After that, he brought me flowers and stuffed bears and hid little love notes in my room. We made plans to get our own place after I graduated high school. Yeah, we were young, but we were so in love and believed we were soul mates. Neither one of us could imagine ever being apart. Even if one of us was sick, the other would sneak over for a short visit until our moms shooed us home. We were living the perfect fairytale romance all little girls dream of, and Twist was the prince in my happy world.

And then my father found out we were having sex, and to say that knowing his baby girl was having sex with the bad boy next door upset him would be a severe understatement. He called Twist’s parents. And the police. And my uncle, who was good friends with a judge and the DA. They dredged up the two times he got caught with a little weed. They painted him as a bad kid who took advantage of the sweet, shy girl next door.
Who was a minor.
I was too young to understand what a sexual misdemeanor was and all the legalities of it, but apparently our age difference was an issue. A week after Twist got sent to jail for a twelve-month sentence, my father shipped me off to my aunt’s house halfway across the country.

To get away.

From the boy I loved.

To start over.

Without the boy I loved.

To forget.

My best friend. The one I loved.

Marlie

‡

I
stare at my
phone, long after I ended the call, until my vision blurs. I know the offer was a bribe of sorts. A peace offering. An apology, even. I’m certainly not above making deals with the devil, though. Especially if I have a lot to gain from it, and in this case, I do.

My mother and I have had a very formal relationship since she and my father sent me to live with my aunt. I know that was all my father’s doing, and my mother just went along with it because she really had no choice due to the fact that my dad made the rules. That was that. It doesn’t stop me from holding a grudge against both of them, however. My father expected I would “get over it” in a few months, maybe a year, tops. He completely underestimated the depth of the damage he created—not only for me and Twist but also between me and my parents. Ten years later, I still have not forgiven them, and what he caused.

So today they are extending an olive branch in the form of a lifelong dream of mine—to own and operate a pet shelter. My mother recently inherited a very large amount of money from her great uncle, and she wants to use a portion of it to help me fund the shelter. Of course there is a catch. The shelter is in my hometown. Apparently, it’s a start-up shelter that lost its funding. Everything is in place—a new building on four acres of land, a van, transport cages, safe traps, a few volunteers and foster homes, everything. I’ve worked in fundraising for the past few years. I could really do this. I’ve loved animals since I was a little girl. I volunteered at a shelter for eight years after I moved; my aunt got me involved to keep my mind busy, and it turned into a huge passion for me. After losing Twist and everything else I went through, I needed to thrust myself into something that would consume me and help heal my broken heart. That came in the form of a bunch of little broken animals that needed love, and I had a lot of love to give. And I’ll admit, I missed being loved. The way those puppies wagged their tails when they saw me and the kittens purred when they rubbed on my face was the closest thing to love I had for a long time.

But…moving back to my hometown in New Hampshire scares the shit out of me. Starting over with my parents. Seeing my old friends again. Facing the old memories and ghosts. Possibly running into Twist, if he is still there.

Do I want to put myself there again?

Fuck yeah.

*

I waited seven
days to call my mother back to tell her I would come home. I knew right away I was going to accept, but I didn’t want her and my father to know how excited I was about their offer. I’m trying to let go of the grudge I’ve been holding against them, but it’s going to be a slow process.

“Marlie, this is going to be wonderful,” Mom says excitedly. “As soon as you get here, we’ll meet with the lawyer and get all the nonprofit documents signed, and the fund transfers—”

“Mom, that’s all great, but there is something else I want to be clear on. I’m not going to stay at your house.”

“What do you mean? We have your room—”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “Mom, I can’t stay there. For so many reasons that I can’t get into right now. I’m used to having my own place; I haven’t lived with you guys since I was fifteen. And there is just no way I can live next door…” I let my voice fade off because I can’t even say the words.

“Marlie, they don’t even live next door anymore. They moved to a different part of town a few months after everything happened. Why would you want to live alone when you can live here with us until you get settled?”

“This is non-negotiable, Mom. I’m sorry. I can’t live with you and Dad. I’m not a little girl anymore.” I flop down on the couch and pull a pillow into my lap. “I’m twenty-five years old. If you can try to find me an apartment—something nice and close to the shelter, it doesn’t have to be big, one bedroom is fine—then I can just move right in as soon as I get out there.”

“All right. If that’s what you want.” The disappointment in her voice makes me sad, but I can’t budge on this issue.

“I really appreciate everything you’re doing, Mom. I know things haven’t been great—”

She interrupts me before I can finish. “Marlie, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you’re giving me a chance. And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to buy you, because that’s not the case at all. I’m proud of everything you’ve done, and I want you to have this opportunity to do something that’s important to you.”

“I know. Thank you. I’ll call you in a few days? I need to start packing and all that fun stuff.”

“I’ll start looking for an apartment first thing tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I hang up and look around my tiny, sparse apartment. It isn’t going to take long to pack up my small amount of belongings. I have a living room and bedroom set, a bistro table, my clothes, and some odds and ends, like collectibles and wall art. That’s it. And my car of course. Oh—and the motorcycle. The motorcycle is kind of a funny story. Last summer I was dating a guy who was into bikes
(I know, I know, I should stay far away from bikers)
and we went to a bike show, and I saw this gorgeous black and chrome custom cruiser. It was so beautiful that I completely fell in love with it and kept going back to look at it. I always wanted a bike with an awesome paint job and lots of chrome, and this bike was absolutely beautiful, unlike my last bike which was a little beat up. My brain was already spinning with ideas of how I could have it painted. Jimmy had been nagging me since we started seeing each other to get a bike, and once he saw I was interested in this bike, he really started ramping up to convince me to buy it. Finally, I caved and bought it. The problem was I was too short for it and couldn’t reach both my feet to the ground, so I couldn’t ride it. Jimmy promised to have his mechanic lower it for me, but then I found out Jimmy was boning a stripper, so I had to dump his ass fast. I’m way more upset about my bike not getting fixed than I am about losing him, though. I’m going to put the bike in the U-Haul with the rest of my things and bring it to New Hampshire with me.

Before going to bed, I’m drawn to the small maple box on my dresser where I keep a few pieces of jewelry and little things I saved over the years that mean something to me. Underneath all the mementos is a handmade ring of thin twisted metal with a small chunk of polished green bottle glass set within. Twirling it in my fingers, I can remember the day Twist gave it to me, just a few weeks before it all ended.