Paper Cranes (Fairytale Twist #1)

by Jordan Ford

  Flinging it back, he glared at his mother, grimacing when he spotted Curtis behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “What! What is so important that I need to eat a meal with you guys to discuss it?”

  Curtis forced a calm smile. Tristan could tell by the way his right eye twitched that it was an effort. “Son—”

  “I’m not your son,” he spat, gripping the door handle so tightly the metal ridge dug into his palm.

  “It’s just an expression, Tristan,” his mother snapped. “Would you just shut your mouth and listen, please?” Her biting tone disappeared, nervous energy pulsing from her as she looked up at Curtis and gave him a tender smile.

  Curtis met her gaze, his expression so loved-up it made Tristan want to gag. He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve asked your mother to marry me.” His eyes remained on Shannon while Tristan’s stomach plummeted down to his shoes. He clenched his fist, fighting the dizzy spell trying to drop him to the floor.

  That would kill his father.

  Curtis looked across to him, his gooey smile making Tristan sick. “We wanted to tell you before we told anyone else.”

  Tristan swallowed, sour words clogging his windpipe. His gaze danced from the guy who’d come in like a leech and torn their family apart to the two-faced woman he was struggling to call ‘mother.’

  “Well?” His mother smiled, her eyes dancing with expectant hope. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  All Tristan could do was swallow and slam the door closed. He shut out their deluded happiness, even going as far as locking the door to prevent them from trying to win him over. The buds were back in his ears as soon as he reached the bed and he cranked the volume so high he was sure his eardrums would be damaged by the morning, but he didn’t care. Anything to drown out the nightmare unfolding even further.

  Irritating was the best way to describe Tristan’s drive home from Albany on Sunday afternoon. After the rude way he’d treated his mother and her boyfriend over the weekend, she should have been bawling him out and not inviting him back, but in her usual fashion she decided the best form of discipline was to try and woo him with extravagant offers and gifts.

  “Curtis and I were thinking of buying you a car.”

  “Why?” Tristan tore his gaze away from the scenery outside.

  “So you can get around more easily.” Her chipper voice was strained tight, the plastic veneer already cracking.

  “I don’t even have my license yet,” he muttered, slumping further into his seat.

  “Why not?” Her voice pitched high.

  He shrugged, his jacket rustling. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “Well, get around to it.”

  “I like my bike.”

  “You can’t bike to Albany.” Her manicured fingers slashed through the air. “This is a long way for me to come every two weeks, and it’d be great if you could drive yourself down.”

  It was logical reasoning and Tristan really should have said yes, but he was still in a belligerent mood after his plastic-coated weekend.

  “I don’t want Curtis buying me a car,” he finally muttered, his gaze traveling back to the window.

  “What is your problem with Curtis? He’s been nothing but nice to you!”

  Tristan clenched his jaw and stayed silent.

  His mother huffed and tapped her nails on the steering wheel.

  “The car would be from both of us, not just him.”

  Tristan still didn’t budge, his blue eyes trained on the tractor rumbling through a field in the distance.

  “You can’t punish me for wanting to move on with my life,” his mother snapped.

  He gripped his knee, his fingers digging into the denim as he fought the urge to explode. He kept his gaze out the window and eventually his mother gave in with a loud tut and a huff.

  The irritating vibes buzzing through the car were replaced with an icy silence for the rest of the trip. Thankfully they reached the borders of Burlington soon enough. Tristan sat up in his seat, eager to get the hell out of the BMW.

  With another disgusted tut, his mother pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, snatching at Tristan’s jacket sleeve before he could escape.

  “Look, I’m sorry if the engagement has come as a shock to you, but Curtis makes me really happy and it would mean the world to me if you could please get on board with this.”

  Slowly turning to her, he studied her desperate expression, locking away his feelings. His head jerked with what could have been deciphered as a nod, but the movement was minimal enough to be questionable. After a thick swallow, he muttered, “Mom, it’s your life. You can do what you want with it.”

  Her head tipped with a cynical frown. “That’s what your mouth is saying, but your eyes tell me something different. Are you ever going to forgive me?”

  His jaw worked to the side, his tongue feeling thick and pasty. Clearing his throat, he shouldered the door open and mumbled, “Thanks for the weekend.”

  “Wait, let me walk you in.” His mother scrambled to undo her seatbelt.

  He paused by the back door of the car, a sudden anxiety whistling through him. “Why?”

  “So I can see how you’re doing. I want to see your room.” She smiled, flicking her door closed.

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits, his mouth pulling into a tight line. She didn’t care about his room. She wanted to check up on Dad. He yanked the car door open and snatched out his bags, shuffling towards the house on reluctant feet. His mind scrambled for ways to get rid of her.

  “Mom, you don’t need to come in. My room is boring, just a desk and a bed.”

  “Really? What about all your baseball posters?” Her hand rested on the thick wooden railing as he brushed past her and up the front steps.

  He dropped his bags on the front porch with a sigh. “You don’t care about the posters, Mom. You just want to check on Dad.”

  Her cheeks grew red, her lips spreading with a strained smile as she looked to the ground and fiddled with the chunky car key in her hand. “All right, fine.” She glanced at him, clipping up the steps. “I want to make sure he’s looking after my son.”

  Tristan tried to block her way, subtly shifting into her path. “He is.”

  Her blues eyes narrowed, her right eyebrow arching high—never a good sign. Her painted nail tapped him lightly on the chest. “You know, when you say it like that, it makes me think you’re lying. What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.” Tristan frowned. “I just don’t want you guys to fight.”

  “Oh come on, we’re over that now.” She breezed past him, opening the door and waltzing in the front entrance like she owned the place.

  Tristan grabbed his bags and hustled in after her, a little freaked out by what she might find. His head popped up behind her shoulder and he cringed.

  His father was on the couch, his socked feet on the coffee table, his big toe exposed through the fraying fabric. Three beer cans were lined up next to his feet, one fallen over and empty while another was resting on the arm of the couch, his long fingers wrapped around it. A baseball game was blaring out of the TV so loud he didn’t even hear them come in.

  “Hey, Dad,” Tristan called.

  “Oh hey, buddy!” Dad raised his hand and started talking before he turned to face them. “Come check this out, the Yankees are killing these gu—” His eyes hit Shannon and he lurched off the sofa, tugging at his shirt in a feeble attempt to make himself presentable. “Shay.” The edge of his mouth rose with a gentle smile, his gaze softening at the corners as he whispered her nickname.

  Tristan’s heart splintered and it was an effort not to let the emotion show. Clearing his throat, he pointed at his father’s dirty shirt behind his mother’s back. It took his dad a second to work out what he was silently saying, but he finally glanced down and let out a bashful chuckle, brushing the chip crumbs onto the floor.

  Tristan’s mother crossed her arms, a marked frown on her narrow, pointed face.
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  Scratching the short locks on the side of his head, Leon looked at his ex-wife—fleeting hope dancing in his eyes. “So, what—what are you doing here?”

  “Dropping Tristan off, of course.” His mother’s hard tone dashed any promise of reconciliation. If only his father knew the whole truth. Tristan silently begged his mother not to say anything about the engagement.

  His father sensed the hostile vibes and his defenses went up, surrounding him in quick formation like they always did. His chin bunched, his gaze turning stormy. “I mean what are you doing in my house?”

  Shannon rolled her eyes, doing nothing to help the situation. “Oh please, Leon. I’m just making sure it’s clean.”

  He stood a little taller, pushing out his broad chest while his nostrils flared. “We’re doing okay. You don’t have to worry.”

  “How many empty beer cans are on the coffee table right now?” She pointed past his father’s scrappy jean-clad legs to the littered table at his knees.

  “Mom, leave it, please.” Tristan’s whisper was ignored as she stepped farther into the room, noting another two cans at the foot of the sofa.

  “Geez, Leon! Are you drunk?” Her hands flew into the air before slapping onto her hips.

  “Of course I’m not drunk. I’ve had a few beers while watching the game! Everybody does that.” His father’s hands started waving in the air as well. A storm was brewing and Tristan couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

  “If you are intoxicated I am taking this back to court.” Shannon’s pointer finger looked like a wand, aimed straight at her ex-husband’s heart. “I will not have my son in your house if you can’t look after him!”

  “It was his choice to come with me!” his father barked. “The court said he could decide. You take this back there, it’s just going to cost us a shitload of money we don’t have!”

  “Watch your mouth! And I don’t care what it costs. This is about the well-being of my child, who seems to have turned into a surly mute since moving in with you! And why hasn’t he started up baseball again? His talent is being completely wasted!” Her pointer finger landed on Tristan. He flinched away from it, slowly backing out of the room.

  “That is his choice.” His father’s deep voice grew a notch louder, sounding like thunder in the small living space. “I’m not going to force him into something he doesn’t want to do anymore.”

  “He’s sixteen; he doesn’t even know what he wants. He needs guidance and if you loved him—”

  “If you think I care about him any less than you, you’re delusional. He’s my son too, Shannon! I’m not the one who started screwing my boss, okay? You’re the reason he quit. You broke up this home, not me!”

  “Do you think I would’ve been interested in anybody else if you’d paid any attention to me? A little conversation goes a long way, Leon!”

  It shouldn’t have surprised Tristan that the old arguments reared their ugly heads within ten minutes of his parents being in the same room.

  With a resigned sigh, he slipped away from the maelstrom, making a beeline for the back door and escape. He didn’t know where he wanted to go; he just didn’t want to be near them.

  Closing the kitchen door behind him, he dropped onto the concrete steps and sucked in a few lungfuls of chilly air. His breath puffed out of his mouth like white smoke. He followed the disappearing wisps and found his gaze on the dark green tower next door.

  Images of Helena’s dancing smile played in his mind and before thought could stop him, he lurched from his spot and traipsed towards the fence, climbing the wood and jumping into the unkempt backyard.

  11

  Tell Me Your Sorrows

  The climb was easier the second time around. He remembered his footholds and managed to make it up the tower without too much effort. The only problem he encountered was at the top when he found the window firmly shut.

  He tapped on the glass, hoping Helena was inside. His fingers started to ache as he hung onto the sill and he was ten seconds away from giving up when a smiling, pale face appeared behind the glass.

  Her grin was magnificent, making Tristan feel instantly better. Sliding the window up, Helena reached out and helped Tristan inside. He tried to come through gracefully but ended up catching his foot on the sill and thumping onto the floor.

  Helena giggled, the delightful sound chasing away his humiliation.

  “Welcome back.” She bent over him, offering her hand. Tristan gazed at her milky white fingers and shot her a quick smile before gently wrapping his icy digits around hers.

  She didn’t say anything, giving his hand a little squeeze before pulling him over to the sofa. She plopped onto the plush cushions and tugged him down beside her. It wasn’t until he was nestled down and facing her that she let go of his hand.

  Tristan hadn’t expected to feel any kind of loss, but it was an effort not to reach out and take her warm fingers back into his. He sufficed by stretching his arm across the back of the sofa and picking at a loose thread poking out of the seam.

  Helena tucked her legs up beneath her, bouncing a little as she got herself comfortable. Her playful smile coaxed Tristan’s lips into a grin.

  “I was hoping to see you again. I’ve been looking out for you.”

  “I’ve been away this weekend.” Tristan stared out the window over Helena’s shoulder and mumbled, “At my mom’s place.”

  He scratched at his hairline, pushing the ribbed beanie farther up his head. He didn’t want to look at Helena. He feared his troubled gaze might somehow mar her pure beauty. She didn’t need to be tainted by the crap he was going through.

  “Tristan, I’m so sorry.” Her delicate fingers caressed his arm, her thumb rubbing slow circles over his jacket.

  Confused by her response, Tristan ran the words he’d just said over in his head but couldn’t find any cause for her reaction.

  “What are you—? Sorry for what?”

  She shifted her head, catching his eye and magically holding his gaze. He blinked, trying to break the spell, but each time his lids popped open his gaze tracked straight back to her compassionate smile.

  “Your parents are divorced, aren’t they? I can see how much it hurts you, and I’m sorry you have to live with it.”

  Unnerved by her intuition and the weird power she seemed to have over him, he settled for a nonchalant head wobble. “I’m okay. It doesn’t—I’m good.”

  “No, not really.” She chuckled and then winked at him. “But you will be one day. As long as you don’t let it eat you alive.”

  Her posh accent made him grin. He wanted to reach up and brush his fingers down her porcelain cheek.

  What? Where was that coming from?

  He let go of the thread and curled his fingers into a ball, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

  “So, where are you from?” He lifted his chin at her. “Your accent’s pretty strong.”

  Her green eyes sparkled and she brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. “My mother is from Cambridge in England.”

  “How long have you been living in America?”

  “About ten years.” She grinned. “You’re probably wondering why I don’t talk more like you…but I like the sound of my voice. It’s very regal, don’t you think?”

  Tristan’s face bunched with a nonplussed expression that made Helena giggle. He couldn’t help grinning. She wore joy with more beauty than anyone he’d ever known.

  “Your two front teeth have a very small gap between them.” She leaned towards his face, trying to eye his teeth more closely.

  He clamped his lips together and scratched his upper lip.

  “Oh don’t be like that. I like it.” She dipped her head, her skin blooming with a velvety redness. “Sorry, I really must learn to hold my tongue. I have a terrible habit of blurting out whatever’s on my mind.”

  “It’s okay.” Tristan shrugged, wiping his mouth again and giving her a closed-mouth smile.

  She grinned. The light filtering i
n from the window behind her made the edges of her hair glow with an ethereal quality that he couldn’t help studying. He ran his gaze over her shimmering outline before coming to rest back on her perfect face.

  “You really are very handsome, you know?” She studied him with open scrutiny. “With your dark hair and chiseled face. And those eyes, like a restless ocean.”

  Tristan looked down at his jeans, unnerved by her soulful whispering.

  She tapped her long fingers on his knee, her short, unpolished nails scratching the denim.

  “Come, my new friend, tell me your sorrows.”

  Tristan glanced up at her. “Why do you talk like that?”

  “Talk like what?” Her pale eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t know, in that weird, old-fashioned way.”

  Her eyes sparkled. Curling her fingers around her ear, she gave Tristan a shy smile and pointed at the overstuffed bookcase to his left. “I read a lot of fairytales and I like the way they talk. There’s a magical musicality to the words that makes me smile. And why shouldn’t I try to fill my life with things that make me happy?” Her grin grew with confidence, turning into a colorful bloom that reminded Tristan of tulips in the spring.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” His whispered words were tinged with a wonderment he couldn’t hide.

  She giggled, her slender shoulders hitching. “That is a beautiful compliment and I shall treasure it.”

  “I was kind of saying you were weird.” He snickered, embarrassed at the way he simply blurted the truth. He pressed his lips together and looked at the coffee table, trying to read the title on the spine in an attempt to hide his faux pas.

  She forgave him with a pat to the knee, her eyes twinkling as she bent forward and grabbed his gaze with that magnetic power of hers. “Weird is unique, and unique is good. I don’t want to be like anybody else.”

  He didn’t know how to respond and ended up looking like a fool as he gave her a quizzical frown.