Twisted Hate (Twisted, 3)

The days after my mother’s death passed in a daze. When I woke up the next morning, Josh had already left for work, but I found breakfast waiting in the kitchen and a note with step-by-step instructions on what to do next. Which funeral home I should call, what questions I should ask, what I should pack for my trip.

It helped me more than any verbal platitudes could.

I checked off the items one by one, but I was like a robot going through the motions. I didn’t feel anything. It was like I showed up at Josh’s house, depleted every emotion, and now I was running dry.

I didn’t know what made me turn to Josh when our relationship was already so complicated, but he was the first person who popped into my mind when I was trying to figure out what to do.

Strong. Comforting. Logical. He was everything I needed when I needed it.

Now, as I listened to the Whittlesburg funeral home director rattle off last-minute details, I wished Josh was still with me. Of course, that was unreasonable. He had work; he couldn’t just up and join me in Ohio. Plus, he’d left for New Zealand that morning and wouldn’t be back until next week.

A pang pierced my heart at the thought.

“That’s everything we need. We should be all set for tomorrow.” The funeral home director stood and held out his hand. “Again, I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Ms. Ambrose.”

“Thank you.” I mustered a smile. I’d used Ambrose instead of Miller since it was my legal name, but it sounded strange coming from his mouth. Ambrose belonged to my life in D.C. Miller belonged here.

Two lives, two different people.

Except here I was, Jules Ambrose in Ohio, and it was even more surreal than I imagined.

I shook his hand and quickly left, my steps eating up the distance between his office and the exit until the sun’s golden warmth spilled over me. But once I was outside the dark, dreary confines of the funeral home, I didn’t know where to go.

Just two days ago, I’d walked across the stage in D.C.’s Nationals Park, shook my dean’s hand, and accepted my law school diploma.

Three years of hard work—seven, if you counted pre-law—distilled into one sheet of paper.

It was both glorious and anticlimactic.

In fact, I barely remembered my graduation. It’d passed in a blur, and I begged off dinner with my friends so I could pack for Ohio. I left the next morning, AKA yesterday, and had spent all my time thus far making funeral arrangements. It was a small, simple ceremony, but every decision exhausted me.

I was scheduled to fly back to D.C. after tomorrow morning’s funeral. Until then, I had to figure out how to fill the rest of my afternoon and evening. There wasn’t exactly a lot happening in town.

I stared at the lone flyer tumbling down the sidewalk, the used lot of rusted cars across the street, and the brown brick buildings squatting next to each other like weary travelers at a rest stop. Down the street, a group of children played hopscotch, their faint laughter the only signs of life in the stagnant air.

Whittlesburg, Ohio. A speck of a town near the relative behemoth of Columbus, extraordinary only in its utter ordinariness.

Being back was like walking through a dream. I expected to wake up any second, fumbling for the snooze button while the breathy scream of Stella’s hair dryer crept beneath my door.

Instead of an alarm clock, a public bus roared past, drenching me in its exhaust and wrenching me out of my trance.

Gross.

I finally moved again. The funeral home sat on the outskirts of downtown, and it didn’t take me long to reach Whittlesburg’s social and financial center. It consisted of only half a dozen blocks of businesses packed side by side.

Not a dream. 

I was actually here. There was the diner where my friends and I hung out after school dances. There was the bowling alley where we took field trips in elementary school, and the little antique shop with the creepy dolls in its window. Everyone was convinced the shop was haunted, and we would run every time we passed it, like the spirits who dwelled inside would reach out and snatch us if we lingered too long.

Returning to Whittlesburg was like entering a time capsule. Other than a shiny new chain restaurant and the cafe that had replaced old Sal’s laundromat, it hadn’t changed a bit in the past seven years.

I ducked my head and ignored the curious stares of a group of high school girls clustered on the street corner. By some miracle, I hadn’t run into anyone I knew yet, but it would only be a matter of time. I dreaded the questions that would arise once I did.

The thing about small towns was that they had long memories…for better or for worse.

I breathed a silent sigh of relief when I reached my hotel. Forget finding something to do in town. I just wanted to lock myself in my room, order room service, and watch pay-per-view all night long.

I reached into my bag, searching for my—

“Hey, Red.”

I froze, my hand still half in my tote. Disbelief twisted my heart and quickened its pace until every beat pounded in my head like a drum.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It couldn’t be him. Maybe the milkshake I’d gulped down at lunch warped my brain and I was currently in the middle of a sugar-induced hallucination.

Because there was no way that was him.

But when I lifted my head, I saw his favorite gray sweatshirt. His worn duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His distinctive dimple as his lips curved into a smile so soft it obliterated all the edges of my resistance.

“Surprise.” Josh’s voice seeped through me like warm honey. “Missed me?”

“I—you…” My mouth opened and closed in what I presumed was a deeply unflattering imitation of a goldfish. “You’re supposed to be in New Zealand.”

“Change of plans.” He shrugged with a casualness people reserved for a change in dinner orders, not international flights. “I’d rather be here.”

“Why?”

Thudthudthud. Was it normal for a human heart to beat this fast?

“I want to visit the crochet museum.”

Maybe I fell asleep at the funeral home and entered the Twilight Zone, because this was too absurd to be reality. “What?”

“The crochet museum,” he repeated. “It’s world famous.”

Whittlesburg’s crochet museum was the town’s biggest attraction, but it wasn’t world famous by any stretch of the imagination.

The Eiffel Tower, Machu Picchu, Great Wall of China…and the Betty Jones Crochet Museum? Yeah, no.

“World famous, huh?” Something strange and fluttery was happening in my stomach. I never wanted it to stop.

“Yep.” Josh’s dimple deepened. “Read about it in a magazine in an airport, and I was so inspired I changed flights last minute. I’ll take crochet over sailing the Milford Sound any day.”

A knot of emotion lodged itself in my throat. “Well, far be it for me to question your love for crochet.” Do not cry in the lobby. “Are you staying at this hotel?”

“Depends.” Josh stuffed his hand in his pocket, his eyes never leaving mine. “Do you want me to stay here?”

A small, scared part of me wanted to say no. It would be so easy to run up to my room and lock myself in there until my mom’s funeral, then leave and pretend the trip never happened.

But I was so tired of running. So tired of fighting the world and myself at the same time, of pretending everything was okay when I struggled just to keep my head above water.

It was okay to reach for a life raft, no matter what form it came in.

Mine happened to come in the form of Josh Chen.

I dipped my head in a small nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His face softened. “Come here, Red.”

That was all I needed.

I flew to him and buried my face in his chest while his arms closed around me. He smelled like soap and citrus, and his sweatshirt was soft against my cheek.

The curious stares of the receptionist and other hotel guests burned into my side. We would be the subject of town gossip by tomorrow, no doubt, but I didn’t care.

For the first time since I landed in Ohio, I could breathe.