Twisted Lives

Rain hammers the roof above me, loud and steady, like it’s trying to break into the attic. I’m sitting on the floor, legs crossed, my back against a wooden beam. The only light comes from a lamp in the corner, flickering like it’s tired. My notebook’s open on my lap, tattered and bent at the edges from years of secrets. My pencil moves fast, scratching out Alex’s face—his sharp jawline, the way his hair falls messy over his forehead. I’ve drawn him a hundred times, maybe more. My hand shakes, not from the cold but from something deeper. Three years under your roof, and I still can’t tell if you’re my savior or my curse, I think, the words circling my head like they’re stuck.

Downstairs, the bookstore’s quiet. It’s late, past closing, and Alex is probably locking up. I picture him turning the sign to “Closed,” his hands steady like always. That’s how he is—steady, solid, the guy who picked me up when everything fell apart. But now, when I look at him, it’s not just thanks I feel. It’s something else, something I shouldn’t. Something that makes my chest tight and my sketches dangerous.

Footsteps creak on the stairs. My heart jumps. I slam the notebook shut, the sound sharp in the small space, and shove it under a stack of old books—some dusty novels nobody’s bought in years. The door swings open just as I pull my hand back. Alex steps in, tall and tired, holding a mug of tea. Steam curls up from it, catching the dim light.

“Caught you hiding again,” he says, his voice warm, teasing. He’s got that easy smile, the one that makes people trust him. “What’s up here worth missing sleep for?”

I force a grin, hoping it looks real. “Just thinking,” I say, keeping my hands busy by brushing dust off my jeans. He steps closer and holds out the tea. I reach for it, and our fingers brush—just for a second. It’s nothing, but my heart stutters hard, like it’s tripping over itself. I pull back too fast, the mug sloshing a little, and mutter, “Thanks. Didn’t mean to spill.”

Alex laughs, soft. “You’re jumpy tonight. Bad day?” He leans against the wall, watching me, and I wish he wouldn’t. Not when I can still feel the pencil lines of his face under my fingers.

“Nah, just tired,” I lie, sipping the tea to hide my face. It’s hot, burns my tongue, but I don’t care. Anything to dodge his eyes. He nods like he believes me, though I’m not sure he does. That’s our thing—close, but not too close. Not close enough for him to know what’s in my head.

He turns to leave, then stops. “Get some sleep, Jamie. Class tomorrow.” His voice is gentle, like he’s still trying to fix me, three years later. I nod, and he’s gone, the stairs creaking again as he heads down. I wait until it’s quiet, then pull the notebook back out. My hands shake as I open it, staring at his face on the page. I shouldn’t feel this way. He’s my guardian, the guy who took me in. But I do.

It started after the accident. I don’t like thinking about it, but sometimes it sneaks up—like now, with the rain drumming and the attic closing in. I was seventeen, sitting in the hospital waiting room, numb. Mom and Dad were gone, just like that. A truck, a slick road, a crash. Alex showed up hours later, his coat soaked, eyes red like he’d been crying too. He’d been their friend since I was a kid, always around with books or dumb jokes. That night, he sat with me, didn’t say much, just stayed. When they told me I had nowhere to go, he stepped in. “You’re with me now,” he said, simple as that. He gave me a room above his bookstore, a life when mine was wrecked.

At first, it was just gratitude. He cooked terrible dinners, burned toast every morning, made me laugh when I didn’t want to. I’d sketch him sometimes, just to remember the good stuff. But over time, it changed. The way he’d look at me when I helped in the store, the way his hand felt clapping my shoulder—it stopped being simple. It got heavy, confusing. Wrong. I couldn’t tell him, so I told the notebook instead. Pages of him, of us, of things I’d never say out loud.

I close it now, tucking it into my backpack. The rain’s slowing, and I need to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day—college, normal stuff. I head downstairs, past the shelves of books Alex loves, and crash in my room. The notebook stays close, like always.

Morning comes fast. I’m at the community college by nine, backpack slung over one shoulder, still half-asleep. The library’s my spot between classes—quiet, safe. I drop into a chair at a study table, pulling out my books. Riley’s already there, lounging across from me, all easy smiles and bright eyes. She’s in my psych class, loud and charming in a way I’m not. Everyone likes her, but something about her makes me edgy.

“Hey, Jamie,” she says, leaning forward. “You look dead. Rough night?”

“Just didn’t sleep much,” I mutter, flipping open my textbook. I don’t want to talk, but Riley’s not the type to let it go.

She grins. “Alex keeping you up with bookstore drama?” Her voice is light, but his name hits me like a punch. She’s met him a few times—he picks me up after class when my car’s acting up. I don’t like how she says it, like she knows him better than she does.

“Nah, just rain,” I say, keeping my eyes on the page. I start doodling in the margins, anything to avoid her stare.

She doesn’t push, just watches me for a second too long. Class ends, and Alex’s truck pulls up outside—I spot it through the library window. He’s early, leaning against the hood, hands in his pockets. Riley notices too. She stands, stretching, and her eyes follow him.

“Alex ever talk about settling down?” she asks, casual but not really. It’s a weird question, sharp, like she’s fishing. My stomach twists.

“No,” I say, too quick. “Why would he?” I shove my books into my backpack, suddenly restless. She shrugs, smirking a little.

“Just curious. He’s cool, you know? Seems like the type.” Her voice lingers, and I don’t like it. I grab my stuff and head out, giving Alex a wave as I climb into the truck. Riley’s still in the window, watching us drive off. I shake it off, but her words stick.

Back at the library later, I’m alone. I’ve got an hour before my next class, so I spread out—textbooks, pens, my notebook. I sketch without thinking, Alex again, his truck this time. Riley’s question keeps buzzing in my head, making me sloppy. I don’t notice how long I’m there until my phone buzzes—time’s up. I pack fast, distracted, and head to class.