Life With The Twist Boys

You're From London??

What Louis is wearing^^

Louis P.O.V

"About earlier,” Zayn said as he led me through the cluttered house. “This whole you-moving-in thing kinda came out of nowhere. Caught me off guard.”

“I get it,” I told him. It wasn’t exactly an apology for his unfriendly behavior, but hopefully it was the reason behind most of the boys’ unenthusiastic reactions toward me. “You don’t need to explain.”

“So my mom said you’re from London.” He paused at the bottom of the staircase to look at me.

 
“Yeah,” I answered, and suddenly my stomach bottomed out. What else did he know about me? The accident…had he heard? If there was one good thing about moving to Colorado, it was that nobody knew who I was. I could go back to just Louis, not the boy whose family died. I didn’t want the boys to know. What if they acted funny around me? “Did she tell you guys anything else?” I added, trying to sound nonchalant.

 
He paused then, and it was all the confirmation I needed. One small moment of hesitation, and I knew he knew about my family.

“Not much,” he recovered quickly, and a smile slipped onto his face with such ease that the upward curve of his lips almost looked genuine. “Just that the son of her friend was moving in. You’re pretty much a mystery kid.”

“I see.” The thought of all the them knowing about what happened made my mouth dry, but at least Zayn was making the effort to act normal.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Sixteen.”

“Are you always this shy?”

“Shy?” I echoed in confusion. What did he expect? It wasn’t like he had been the president of my welcoming committee. Besides, the fact that he practically had abs down to his toes didn’t help calm my nerves.

“Never mind,” he said, laughing, his eyes dancing in amusement as he shook his head at me. “Come on. I’ll show you upstairs.”

We started up the steps, which was more difficult than it sounded. Stacks of books and board games, dirty clothes, a deflated basketball, and a pile of movies made reaching the second floor without knocking anything over harder than completing an obstacle course. Next was the maze of hallways that I knew I would get lost in. They seemed to twist and turn in strange places as if there was no real floor plan. When we reached the farthest corner of the house, Zayn finally stopped.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” he said, pushing open a door. Putting my hand on the wall, I searched for the light switch. We found it at the same time, our fingers fumbling over each other’s in the dark. The contact sent a pulse down my arm, and I ripped my hand back in shock. Zayn chuckled, but the lights flickered on and a warm glow lit up the room, making me forget my embarrassment.

“Oh wow.”

Every inch of the wall was painted in vivid colors. A mural of a tropical rain forest started on one end of the room, and by the time it wrapped around to the other side, it transformed into an ocean filled with sea creatures. One half of the ceiling was painted to look like the night sky and the other daytime. Even the wooden panels on the ceiling fan had been decorated. I stood, mouth open, and gaped at my new room.

“This was my mom’s art studio,” Zayn said.

A large desk was painted as brightly as the rest of the room. On top was a collection of glass jars and coffee mugs that were filled with paintbrushes, charcoal pencils, and markers. A sketchbook was open to a rough-draft sketch of the painting on an easel in the middle of the room. Light brushstrokes covered the canvas, depicting a scene that I recognized from my drive from the airport—the rolling hills of Colorado.