Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (20 page)

“Oh, she looks just like her mother did at that age,” Mrs. Bedwin says to the old man. He nods.

“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter, but no one seems to hear me.

Mrs. Bedwin takes my bag from James and offers to show me to my room. I follow her up the wide staircase, as out of place as Alice in Wonderland.

Down a long hallway, she stops at the fourth door and turns the handle. “This is your room. I didn’t have much time, so it’s a little plain, but I thought you and I could sit down to look at paint and fabric to come up with something that is more you.” She pushes the door open.

The room is about three times the size of my room at Bernadette’s. In fact, it’s about the size of some of the foster homes I’ve stayed in. I walk over to the four-poster bed and sit on the flowery comforter, taking in the mauve walls and floral print on the settee. Not my taste, but if I were to decorate according to how I feel right now, the room would be painted black.

Mrs. Bedwin is watching me closely, so I say, “Thank you. It’s really nice.” It’s like déjà vu. I just did this a few short months ago at the Carters’. And again at Monroe Street.

Just another house, another place to sleep for as long as it lasts.

Mrs. Bedwin smiles and points to a door behind me. “Your bathroom connects to this room. Like I said, feel free to make this as comfortable as you’d like. It’s been a while since I’ve had teens around, so I don’t know what your tastes are. Paint it black, if you want.”

She grins. Maybe she reads minds. That would make as much sense as everything else. “Thank you,” is all I say again.

When Mrs. Bedwin leaves me to “get comfortable,” I approach a set of French double doors on the other side of the room’s sitting area. I turn the latch and pull the doors open to a balcony. A light breeze sweeps across my face as I walk to the railing and cross my arms over it, peering down. It looks onto the quiet street, semi-blocked by one of the huge oak trees. It’s so peaceful here. It’s perfect within the surreal confines of this dream.

But when the dream ends and I wake up, what will I have?

Not Jack.

Not love.

Just myself and the longing for something that no longer exists.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.”

–Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

Jack

During the next weeks, I move around Monroe Street like a zombie, not saying much to anyone. The times I don’t spend working, I’m on my Ducati, trying to steer clear of the rest of my family. I can’t take their sympathetic looks, their ridiculous attempts to cheer me up. Most of them think Liv ran. They have no idea I chased her away. Sam knows what really happened and makes several attempts to draw me out, to talk to me, but I ignore her, too.

A light tapping sounds at my door. I ignore it, knowing that whoever it is will eventually give up and go away like every other time.

“Z, open up,” Nancy’s voice calls, startling me. She never visits me here. “You can’t stay in there forever.”

I hear several clicking noises, then the door opens. I forget how good she is at opening locked doors. I swivel my chair around to face the window, laptop across my legs. The hot summer sun streams through the panes, baking my face. I don’t care.

Nancy places a hand on my shoulder. “She’s gone. It’s what you wanted, what you needed to do. I know you miss her, but this has gone on long enough. Talk to me.”

I remain still, withdrawn. “Jack,” she finally says softly, touching my cheek gently. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

I don’t know if it’s the motherly touch or that she used my name for the first time in seven years, but I lean into her and let her stroke my hair as if I’m a small child. It’s a feeling that’s surprisingly more comforting than annoying.

“I made a mistake, letting her go,” I manage to say, my voice cracking from disuse.

“You didn’t, and you know you didn’t. Liv doesn’t belong here. She has family,” Nancy says. I had told her about Liv’s grandfather when I returned. And she helped me cover with Bill. “She should be safe. Bill doesn’t know who she is. He believes she just ran away.”

I know this, but I can’t stop hating myself for letting her go.

“Come on,” she says. “You look like hell. You need to take a shower and shave. And eat something. You’re getting skinny.”

I wait until she’s left the room before I go into my bathroom and look at my reflection. She’s right; I do look like hell. I run my hand along the whiskers on my cheeks and chin. Maybe I should switch to the grunge look. Fits my grunge feelings at the moment. I shake my head and start the shower.

Downstairs, the warm aroma of bacon and eggs is inviting for someone who’s avoided eating much for so long. At the table, everyone except Nancy looks surprised at my sudden, and maybe clean, appearance. Not that I care what they think. I slouch in one of the chairs and Jen immediately sits next to me. Her hand is on my knee, slowly moving upward under my shorts.
Why not,
I think to myself, eyeing the deep line of cleavage beneath her tank as she leans over to get the salt.
It’d be easy, no strings attached.

Why not? Because I’m not interested.

I push her hand away and move to the other side of the table, ignoring the daggers her eyes are casting my way. I have no idea why she still wants me, considering the way I treated her.

After breakfast, Sam corners me as I head toward my bike. She looks around to make sure no one is listening, then asks, “How is she?” in a low voice.

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since she left.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “You haven’t even texted to see how she’s doing?”

“Have you?”

“No. Nancy asked me not to. But come on, I’m sure you’ve peeked in on her or something.”

I run my fingers through my hair. She’s so nosy. But then, Sam really did like Liv, even if she never approved of our relationship. At least she’s stopped being angry that I let Liv go. “Yeah, I checked on her once. She’s fine.”

The one day I went to see her, I sat for a long time on my bike beneath the cover of a large oak across from the house. She was reading on her balcony, twisting her soft brown hair over one shoulder, as she tended to do when she was deep in thought. I watched her for almost an hour, feeling like a stalker. I knew it would only make things worse, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t bring myself to call to her.

Sam sighs. “I’m glad she’s okay.” She cocks her head to one side. “Are
you
?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

She nods, but I know she doesn’t believe me. It’s strange, but I get the feeling she misses me. Still, she drops it and lets me leave.

I get on my bike and ride around aimlessly for a while, almost surprised when I find myself at the river. I park and follow the path to the waterfall, stripping off my clothes and sinking into the cold, clear water. It’s invigorating on my tired skin. I lie back in the water for a while, unable to clear my thoughts from the web of Liv. Her smile, her eyes, her kindness—everything haunts me. I’ve become useless—completely estranged from myself. And I can’t stand it. It would have been better if I
had
used and dumped her.

I wish she’d never come into my life. I wish I’d never let Sam talk me into twisting her.

I wade out of the pool and pull my clothes on, not caring that I’m getting them wet. I’ve got to see her, if she’s willing. I have to.

…

Liv

Three weeks and I still walk around in a fog, though mostly because I feel like a square peg in a round hole in this new life. Servants are always close at hand in case I need anything—new linens, lunch, even Starbucks lattes if I want. It’s disconcerting to say the least. They’re all polite and friendly, but they look at me like I’m some sad orphan from
Annie
. All except Mrs. Bedwin, who at least treats me like a member of the family, not whispering behind my back or tiptoeing around me like I might break.

My grandfather works most of the time, but we meet for lunch two days each week, more if he knows he’ll be late for dinner. He says he can’t stand the idea of me being alone all the time. He’s tried taking me shopping, to a play, to dinners at his country club. He’s tried introducing me to his friends’ granddaughters, but even though they’re polite, I haven’t really made a connection with any of them.

He tries different conversation starters with me. I’m respectful enough to answer his questions about school and stuff, but I don’t get into details about my past. I don’t want or need to open up to anyone. Not now, and maybe not ever.

I admit that I’m growing to like him more, though. He’s kind, the type of person who doesn’t understand how people can hurt each other. I know my mother hurt him when she ran away, but he never says anything other than wonderful things about her.

“Aggie shut down when my Olivia died,” my grandfather told me once. “That’s when she stopped calling her friends, when she started associating with kids I didn’t approve of. I made it pretty clear to her, especially about that one boy…”

He stopped short, flushing when he realized he was talking about my father. I didn’t care. I didn’t know my father, and since my mother ended up on the streets soon after she left, I’m guessing he sucked as a person. And I’ve kept the darkest side of his “sweet Aggie” from him. He doesn’t need to know she was pimping herself out, that she died of an overdose right in the middle of the street with her own little girl watching.

Grandfather doesn’t ask about my past, I’ll give him that. He made a comment when I first moved in about believing in fresh starts.

I once believed that, too. If I had met him before Jack, it might’ve been very different.

Jack. I spend my evenings staring out into the distance from my balcony. Once I thought I saw him on his motorcycle. It was dark, though, and I couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t someone else. And even though my grandfather gave me a new cell phone, I keep the old one charged up. I don’t have a clue as to why. It’s not like Jack will ever call. It’s not like I even want him to.

Mrs. Bedwin seems more understanding. She doesn’t bug me except for general questions about my health and comfort. She did find out over dinner that my favorite foods were tacos and pasta with meatballs, and now they’re on the weekly menu. Sometimes she tells me stories about my mother. The girl she describes sounds nothing at all like the sad, thin woman who never smiled.

I know my grandfather is disappointed that I haven’t gone out of my way to fit in here, but I appreciate that he’s trying to give me space. I can at least read in my room now without him hovering nearby like he did the first week, asking Mrs. Bedwin if I’m feeling okay. I could hear her through the door, telling him it’ll just take time. I don’t know about that. I guess I appreciate his effort, but a lifetime of shit can’t be washed away with tacos and a few smiles.

A knock sounds at my door, and Mrs. Bedwin pops her head in. “Mr. Brownlow wants to know if you can meet him for lunch today,” she says.

“I guess,” I say without enthusiasm, my eyes returning to
Sense and Sensibility.
I’ve read this book twice already, but it’s an easy escape without having to think.

Mrs. Bedwin sits next to me on the bed and smooths my hair over my shoulder. “You can’t shut him out forever, you know,” she says. “He loves you. He wants to get to know you.”

She gently removes the book from my hands and folds it over on the bed. “Olivia, your grandfather is trying. He just needs a little help from you. I’m afraid I insist.”

I gape at this usually quiet, unassuming woman. “You insist?”

She smiles, but her smile is of steel. “Yes. I don’t like to see him sad. So you will go to lunch, you’ll talk with him about something. Anything. Sports, music, art, theater, books, whatever you want. But you will talk.”

I groan and bury my head in my blanket, but she’s unmoved. “James will be ready in thirty minutes.” She strokes my hair again. “I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through,” she says. “But I watched your mother spiral down into the black pit of depression before she left. I can’t watch you do the same. Especially not at your age.”

She stands up. “Your grandfather loves you, Olivia. All he wants in return is for you to start living your life.”

She leaves, closing the door behind her. I hug my pillow close. Start living my life—a lifestyle of legitimate wealth and privilege—without Jack. Just like I’m sure he’s doing without me.

I walk over to my dresser and stare at the cell Nancy gave me. It’s plugged into the charger as always, with no incoming calls or text notifications. I unplug it and drop it into my top dresser drawer. I don’t intend on recharging it again.

…

Lunches with my grandfather usually happen at stuffy cafés near his office. I’ve picked through my fair share of salads and am practically a connoisseur of cucumber sandwiches and salad dressings.

But today, James drops me off at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, several streets away from his office in a shopping district. At first I question him, sure he’s got the wrong place, but he says, “No, ma’am, this is where Mr. Brownlow said to meet you.”

My grandfather is sitting on the bench just inside the door, reading a paper and looking completely out of place in his business suit and tie. Other patrons are wearing shorts and T-shirts.

“Ah, Olivia,” he says, smiling and standing. “We’re ready,” he says to the hostess, who escorts us to a small wobbly table near the window.

“Well, this is different,” I say, smiling slightly at the sight of the old man trying to look dignified as he slides into the red vinyl seat of the booth.

He laughs. “I wanted to find a place you’d enjoy. I think you’ve had enough of the business lunch spots, huh?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, I was getting used to cucumber and dill sandwiches.”

“Hey! I remember you ordering a hamburger or two, never a cucumber sandwich.” He winks and I laugh. His eyes brighten at my response. I guess laughing isn’t too hard to do if it makes him this happy.

The server approaches and takes our order. I ask for beef tacos and watch as my grandfather tries to make his way through a menu full of MSG. “They do have a salad,” I tell him, pointing to the extremely short section in the menu. He orders a salad from the server.

We sit in silence, fingers fiddling with sugar packets and chips while the mariachi band plays in the background. He’s made so many efforts before to draw me out that I get the feeling he’s giving up trying. Maybe he’s waiting for me. Mrs. Bedwin asked me to try harder.

“So I was thinking of going shopping for some clothes for school after lunch.”

The words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think about it.

He looks up in surprise. “School is still another couple months away, right?”

“Yes, but I thought I’d get started on it.”

He grins. “Let me give you my credit card.” He reaches into his suit jacket for his wallet.

“You already did, last week,” I remind him. The credit card he gave me sits idle in my purse.

“Oh. Perfect, then. Charge as much as you want. No limits, just have fun. Do you want to call Lisbeth or Elanor to go with you?”

“No, that’s okay. I like to shop alone.” Which is in itself a lie. I don’t like to shop at all. I think back to the theft at the mall with Sam—it seems like years instead of months ago. Still, I like the idea of walking around without everyone watching me.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re getting out. James will go with you.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just get a cab to go home.”

His brows knit. “Oh. Well, I don’t know.” He’s such a contradiction—wanting me to get out but worrying about everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up at home tonight with a can of mace for me to take on future shopping trips. At the same time, his concern touches me.

I smile brightly. Smiling never fails to soften him. “Please, stop worrying. I’ll grab a cab. It’ll be fine.”

He sighs. “Okay, go off shopping. Have fun. But promise me that you’ll call James to pick you up if you need. Or call me. I’m never too busy for you.”

I smile again, this time for real. He really is a kind man, someone I can see growing closer to over time. “Thanks, Grandfather.” I use the name on purpose, since most of the time I don’t refer to him by any name at all. It’s a little awkward, I guess, but I can’t picture calling this refined man “Grandpa.” And he frowned the one time I called him Mr. Brownlow. It made me sad to see his reaction. I might not be comfortable with this situation yet, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So “Grandfather” it is.