twisted | ✔️

chapter thirteen

I was in a long, dark hallway that was thick with cigarette smoke, and I could barely see anything except the light at the end of the hall, a soft glow that was illuminating Noah's face. His voice was muffled, but I heard him speaking, my name spilling out from his lips. I stopped moving, hoping to hear him better, but I was suddenly aware of a body behind me.

It was hot, sweaty in the space between us, and the hands were circled around my hips, tugging me. I turned around, coming face-to-face with another guy. I didn't recognize him, but his grip was strong on me and his words were sweet and his lips were plummeting toward mine, and I felt myself melting into him. But Noah was still at the end of the hall, and the hands were trying to pull me back further into the dark, and I found myself screaming out for help, screaming Noah's name.

That's when I'd woken up. The dream had been bothering me for two days now, and I was never someone who could really remember them, let alone do a Freudian analysis of them, but this one had stuck with me these past couple days as I forced myself through work, as I floated across the floor in the dance studio, as I tried not to stare at my phone helplessly, hoping Noah would realize I was just waiting on the other end of the line. Finally, last night, I had opened up my laptop and did a Google search.

"Dreams allow us to process real-life information or events that may be painful or confusing in a way that is physically unreal, but at the same time emotionally real," one website said.

"Dreams are the bridge between the conscious and the unconscious mind," another said. "We are constantly being called on by our unconscious mind to delve further into our thoughts, actions, and emotions so we can better understand them."

The thing was, I couldn't understand what I was feeling at all. That stupid dream had only muddled things even more, and I couldn't stop thinking about how it felt to scream out for Noah like he would come rescue me from that pair of hands I didn't want on me-like he would rescue me from myself. It had felt so real, how much I wanted him, how much I needed him.

Now, it was New Year's Eve, and I was scrolling through the Facebook profile for the party for the millionth time, hoping that Noah's "Invited" would have switched to "Going" by now, but it hadn't. I threw my phone face-down on my vanity and resumed my makeup routine. I brushed a gold shade across my eyelids, reminding myself that I had to be normal Hillary tonight, who shrouded her face in darkness and wore tight-fitted skirts and pretended like everything was okay.

I pulled my dress down from the closet and slipped it over my head. It matched my makeup, a glittery gold that hit mid-thigh with a mesh insert down the middle of my chest. I looked in the mirror-if Noah was here tonight, this would be enough to get his attention.

I hoped.

Ian was in the dining room when I went downstairs, letting out a whistle of approval at how I looked. I twirled around on the balls of my feet, my dress fanning out at my sides.

"Where are you going all fancy?" he asked, setting down his spoon in his bowl. He was eating cereal for dinner, the box propped up beside him like this wasn't his first round, and I felt bad that there wasn't anything better I could give to him.

"Casey's party," I replied, sitting down beside him and slipping into my pumps. "What are you doing tonight?"

"I think I'm going to Lucas's," he said. "He's having some people over."

"Lucas, huh?" I probed. "How is that?"

"We're having fun," he said, and a smile snuck across his lips. "It's not really too serious, and I don't know. I kind of like it."