Free Twisted by Lisa Harrington

up. Put it all away .
    There’s a horrible taste in my mouth. I wonder if bad memories produce some kind of chemical reaction in your body.

CHAPTER 11
    A single strand of spaghetti hangs from Aidan’s fork. He watches the sauce drip back onto his plate. “Is this from a can?”
    â€œYeah,” I say, shaking some parmesan onto my pile of pasta. “But it’s the good kind — thick and rich, that’s what the label said.”
    Looking doubtful, he puts down his fork. “So why the fancy dinner?”
    It’s impossible to ignore the sarcasm in his voice. I sigh and lean back in my chair. He’s all bent out of shape because I took the job at the coffee shop. He’s barely said a word to me in two days.
    â€œI thought it’d be nice to cook for you for a change.” I shrug. “I made good tips today. Stopped at the grocery store on the way home.”
    â€œI could have gotten you a job at the bar, you know,” he says for the hundredth time.
    â€œThanks, but I think the coffee shop’s more my style.”
    He pushes the plate away. “You’d make more tips in one night at the bar than you would in a week at that coffee shop.”
    â€œHow? I’m only eighteen. I can’t serve liquor.”
    â€œYou can bus, or hostess.”
    â€œI don’t want to have to work late nights, especially once I start school.”
    â€œI’m the manager. I could have fixed your schedule,” he argues.
    There’s no point continuing the conversation, so I don’t. I can’t figure out why he’s so against the coffee shop. What difference does it make to him where I work?
    I study him while he glares at the spaghetti. I’ve been doing that every chance I get — studying, searching for some kind of sign. What do people who’ve been in a psych ward look like? Act like?
    He catches me staring, and I scramble to say something. “Remember when Mom used to cut up salami and put it in our spaghetti?”
    â€œYeah,” he says, finally smiling. “She was an awful cook. No amount of salami could save her sauce.”
    â€œI’ll never forget that time she made it in the pressure cooker.”
    He sucks in a breath. “Yes! Holy shit. She forgot about it and it exploded all over the kitchen. The cast iron lid was embedded in the ceiling.”
    I nod. “Yup. Then she had us on chairs with paint scrapers, scraping it off the walls.”
    â€œI couldn’t move my arms for a week.”
    We both burst out laughing. It feels good.
    I pick up a napkin and wipe my eyes. “Baking was more her thing, I guess.”
    He’s quiet for a second. “You must miss her.”
    â€œI feel like she was gone way before she died. She wasn’t herself … wasn’t all there … for a long time.”
    â€œAnd I bet Vince wasn’t much help.”
    â€œNo.” I stab my fork into a clump of noodles and twist. “No, he wasn’t.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he says. “About Vince. And for not being there for you. I mean, I remember what it was like when my mom died. I could have helped maybe. Like with what you were going through.”
    My eyebrows shoot up. Aidan never talks about his mom. All I know is that she died in a house fire, in Vancouver, when Aidan was thirteen. I keep twisting my spaghetti, hoping he’ll say something more about her.
    But he doesn’t. “Your mom was a nice lady. She deserved better than Vince.”
    I twist and twist, staring at the growing ball of pasta. “I can’t understand how she ended up with him. How she couldn’t see what he was.”
    â€œYou mean a nasty drunk?”
    I don’t answer.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to watch what you say around me.”
    â€œHe’s still your father.”
    â€œAnd because of that, I know better than anyone.”
    The ticking of the