A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(38) Silent Night

Kirstie and I's boarding passes and plane tickets and licenses and social security cards say Richard Lewis and Taylor Lewis, respectively. Avi's and Kevin's say Benjamin Johnson and Oluwole Johnson. Because it certainly wouldn't be pretty if the attendants saw the names Scott Hoying and Kirstin Maldonado, or Avriel Kaplan and Kevin Olusola. I can bet they'd ask us what really happened to Mitch—because, by now, since we've been keeping quiet, there's only a handful of people who still believe he was killed in a car crash. Some people think one of us killed him, some people think he committed suicide, some people think he was kidnapped, some people think he was murdered,... and others think he didn't even die at all.

It seems to be the question of the century—What happened to Mitch Grassi?—and it's, like,... can people ever just leave us alone?

I lift my eyes from my phone screen to watch a couple of tired-looking businessmen walk by, lazily pulling their suitcases behind them. I follow them with my eyes until they're out of sight and I'd have to move my head to see them again.

Suddenly, Kirstie speaks. "Scott," she says quietly, in such a way that it almost reminds me of that security guard last December. I turn to look at her, but her eyes are still trained on her phone.

"What?" I ask.

"You're doing it again," she says in return, still not looking up from the screen. Her voice is thick with exhaustion, monotonous, and for once I can't wait to get on the plane so we can at least try to get some sleep—even though I highly doubt that's actually going to happen.

"I'm doing what again?" I say, genuinely confused as to what she's referring to.

She sighs, double-clicking the home button to get rid of the last couple of apps she's visited, and then locking her phone. She sits up, finally turning to look at me. "Right before you were arrested back before... well, back before all of this, I guess. You were closed-off, just like you are now."

I swallow. "Well, I am also trying to recover from my best friend's suicide." My voice is low, but, because I'm so exhausted and broken inside, it doesn't sound as menacing as I would like it to.

Kirstie isn't fazed, though. She only blinks, and then continues, "You think I'm not trying to recover, too? Scott, we've talked about this before—you're not the only one hurting."

"Why are we bringing this up now?" I ask, my volume low and teeth pressed together. "When we're both already on-edge, not to mention the fact that it's two-thirty in the morning and we're not asleep."

"Yeah, but we wouldn't be sleeping anyways, Scott, even if we were at home. Remember what you told me a few weeks ago? That nighttime is when your 'demons' come out, and you're unable to sleep? There's a reason we're on sleeping pills," Kirstie points out, and I can't help but admit she's right.

I bite the inside of my lip, but don't say anything. She sighs again, then, and says, "It's been seven months since he left. Back after we went on a much-needed hiatus following the world tour? It was seven months before something, like, clicked in you and you spiraled out of control. The drinking, the driving while intoxicated." She shakes her head. "All five of us were pretty touchy and on-edge, especially with, you know, Trump in office and everything going on in the world at the time. But I wasn't blind to everything that was going on with you and Mitch, even if you liked to keep things hidden. I bailed you out once, didn't I?"

I still don't say anything. "Scott, I don't know what it is. I don't. And I don't know if you even do, but I think you need to find out. Talk to somebody, I don't care if it's me or not." She swallows, her eyes looking behind me for a moment before returning to mine. When she speaks again, she's even quieter, and I have to strain to hear her voice over the announcers and other passengers.