Twist Me(50)

“But you have loved . . . someone, right?” I don’t know what makes me ask that, but I’ve apparently touched a nerve, because Beth’s entire body tightens, like I just struck her a blow.

To my surprise, however, instead of snapping at me, she just nods. “Yes,” she says quietly. “Yes, Nora, I have loved.” Her eyes are unnaturally bright, as though glittering with unspilled moisture.

And I realize then that she’s suffering—that whatever happened to her had left deep, indelible scars on her psyche. Her thorny exterior is just a mask, a way to protect herself from further hurt. And right now, for whatever reason, that mask has slipped, exposing the real woman underneath.

“What happened to this person?” I ask, my voice soft and gentle. “What happened to the one you loved?”

“She died.” Beth’s tone is expressionless, but I can sense the bottomless well of agony in that simple statement. “My daughter died when she was two.”

I inhale sharply. “I’m sorry, Beth. Oh God, I’m so sorry . . .” Setting down my brush again, I walk over to Beth’s couch and sit down, putting my arms around her.

At first, she’s stiff and rigid, as though not used to human contact, but she doesn’t push me away. She needs this right now; I know better than anyone how soothing a warm embrace can be when your emotions are all over the place. Julian delights in making me fall apart, so he can then be the one to mend me and put me back together.

“I am sorry,” I repeat softly, rubbing her back in a slow circular motion. “I am so sorry.”

Gradually, some of the tension drains out of Beth’s body. She lets herself be soothed by my touch. After a while, she seems to regain her equilibrium, and I let her go, not wanting her to feel awkward about the hug.

Scooting back a bit, she gives me a small, embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, Nora. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s all right,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry I was prying. I didn’t know—”

And then we both look at each other, realizing that we could apologize until the end of time and it wouldn’t change anything.

Beth closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them, her mask is firmly back in place. She’s my jailer again, as independent and self-contained as ever.

“Dinner?” she asks, getting up.

“Some of this morning’s catch would be great,” I say casually, walking over to put away my art supplies.

And we continue on, as though nothing had happened.





Chapter 17



After that day, my relationship with Beth undergoes a subtle, but noticeable change. She’s no longer quite so determined to keep me out, and I slowly get to know the person behind the prickly walls.

“I know you think you got a rough deal,” she says one day as we’re fishing together, “but believe me, Nora, Julian really does care about you. You’re very lucky to have someone like him.”#p#分页标题#e#

“Lucky? Why?”

“Because no matter what he’s done, Julian is not really a monster,” Beth says seriously. “He doesn’t always act in a way that society deems acceptable, but he’s not evil.”

“No? Then what is evil?” I’m genuinely curious how Beth defines the word. To me, Julian’s actions are the very epitome of something an evil man might do—my stupid feelings for him notwithstanding.

“Evil is someone who would murder a child,” Beth says, staring at the bright blue water. “Evil is someone who would sell his thirteen-year-old daughter to a Mexican brothel . . .” She pauses for a second, then adds, “Julian is not evil. You can trust me on that.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just watch the waves pounding against the shore. My chest feels as though it’s being squeezed in a vise. “Did Julian save you from evil?” I ask after a while, when I’m certain that I can keep my voice reasonably steady.

She turns her head to look at me. “Yes,” she says quietly. “He did. And he destroyed the evil for me. He handed me a gun and let me use it on those men—on the ones who killed my baby daughter. You see, Nora, he took a used-up, broken street whore and gave her her life back.”

I hold Beth’s gaze, feeling like I’m crumbling inside. My stomach is churning with nausea. She’s right: I didn’t know the real meaning of suffering. What she’s been through is not something I can comprehend.

She smiles at me, apparently enjoying my shocked silence. “Life is nothing more than a fucked-up roulette,” she says softly, “where the wheel keeps spinning and the wrong numbers keep coming up. You can cry about it all you want, but the truth of the matter is that this is as close to a winning ticket as it gets.”