Twisted

  Or maybe that’s just my own guilt.

  Remember about twenty years ago, when that Susan Smith lady drowned her two children, because her boyfriend didn’t want a woman with kids? Like the rest of the country, I thought she should’ve been strung up by her fingertips and had the skin scraped off her body with a cheese grater.

  I mean, what kind of woman does that? What kind of woman chooses a man over her own flesh and blood?

  A weak one.

  And that’s a characteristic I’ve already admitted to, remember?

  It’s been in my mind for a while now—like a cobweb that’s clinging to a corner but you walk on past because you just don’t have the time to deal with it.

  I’m a businesswoman, first and foremost. I’m analytical.

  Practical.

  If one of my investments isn’t turning out the way I thought it would? I get rid of it. Cut my losses. Simple mathematics—if you take the emotion out of it, it’s a no brainer.

  I know. I know what you’re thinking. But what about that little boy you pictured? That beautiful, perfect boy with dark hair and the smile you love?

  The truth is, there is no little boy. Not yet. Right now, it’s nothing more than a cluster of dividing cells. A mistake that’s standing in the way of me and the life I was supposed to have.

  I don’t know if Drew and I can ever get back to where we were—but I know giving birth to a child he obviously wants nothing to do with isn’t going to win me any points. And it would make everything so much easier.

  Like getting my eyebrows waxed. A simple procedure for a lifetime of convenience.

  You think that makes me a cold bitch, don’t you?

  Yeah . . . well . . . I guess you’re right.

  Billy’s voice is cautious. Hesitant. Like he doesn’t want to ask the question, and he wants to hear the answer even less. “For him? You’re gonna get an abortion because of him?”

  I wipe at the wetness on my cheeks. I didn’t even know I was crying. “I can’t do this on my own. Alone.”

  It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?

  Billy grabs my hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

  I do.

  And his eyes are burning. With tenderness. And determination. “You are not alone, Kate. And you never will be. Not as long as I’m breathing.”

  I bite my lip. And shake my head slowly. And the lump in my throat makes my voice raspy and frail. “You know what I mean, Billy.”

  And he does. Billy understands better than anyone, because he was there. He knows how hard it was, how bad it felt. All those nights when I went out with him, for ice cream or to the movies—leaving my mother home in an empty house.

  All the awards and graduation ceremonies, when my mother’s face glowed with pride, but her eyes shone with sadness. Because she had no one to share it with.

  Every holiday—New Year’s Eves and Thanksgivings and Easters—when I couldn’t make it home from college, and I’d cry in his arms after getting off the phone with her, because it killed me that she was spending the day by herself.

  Billy was there for all of it.

  And Amelia. He saw his aunt struggle—financially, emotionally—trying to be two parents in one for him and Delores. He watched her date guy after guy, looking for a Mr. Right who never showed up.

  Theirs were the anti-lives. The ones I never wanted for my own.

  And yet, here I am.

  Billy nods. “Yeah, Katie—I know what you mean.”

  I rub my eyes hard. Frustrated. Aggravated . . . with myself. “I just need to make a goddamn decision. I have to figure out a plan and stick with it. I just . . .” My voice breaks. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Billy breathes deep. Then he stands up. “All right, screw this. Let’s go.”

  He walks around the corner and digs into the cabinet under the kitchen sink. I have no idea what he’s looking for.

  “What do you mean? Go where?”

  He pops up holding up a screwdriver. “To the place where our problems can’t touch us.”

  Billy pulls the truck into the parking lot. And the headlights illuminate the huge, darkened sign.

  Can you see it?

  ROLLER RINK

  We climb out. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Billy.”

  “Why not?”

  We walk to the side of the building. Here’s some advice I learned young: When you’re walking in the dark? Or running from the cops through the woods? Step high. It’ll save your shins and the palms of your hands a world of pain.

  “Because we’re adults now. This is breaking and entering.”

  “It was breaking and entering when we were seventeen too.”

  We get to the window. I can just barely make out Billy’s face in the moonlight.

  “I know. But I don’t think Sheriff Mitchell’s going to be so quick to let us off the hook now.”

  He scoffs. “Oh, please. Amelia said Mitchell’s been bored out of his gourd since we left. He’d kill for some excitement. Kids today . . . too lazy. There’s no creativity to their vandalism.”

  Wait. What?

  Let’s back up a moment.

  “What do you mean, ‘Amelia said’? Since when does Amelia talk to Sheriff Mitchell?”

  Billy shakes his head. “Trust me—you don’t want to know.” He holds up the screwdriver. “You still got it? Or have you lost your touch?”

  For the second time tonight, I accept his challenge. I snatch the screwdriver and walk up to the window. And under twenty seconds later, we’re inside.

  Oh, yeah—I’ve still got it.

  The roller rink was our place: breaking in after closing, our national pastime. Idle hands really are the devil’s tools. So—for God’s sake—get your kids a hobby.

  Ten minutes later I’m flying across the slick floor in worn, size-six skates.

  It’s a wonderful feeling. Like floating on air—spinning on big, puffy clouds.

  The stereo system plays the eighties’ greatest hits in the background. Billy leans against the wall—toking up and blowing the smoke out the open window.

  He inhales deeply. And tufts of white puff out from his lips as he says, “You know, you could come to California with me. Set up your own shop. I have friends—guys with money—they’d invest with you. My friends are your friends. Mi casa es su casa—and all that.”

  I stop sliding as I consider his words. “Actually, that means, ‘My house is your house.’ ”

  Billy’s eyebrows come together. “Oh.” He shrugs. “I always did suck in Spanish. Señorita Gonzales hated me.”

  “That’s because you crazy-glued her Lhasa Apsos together.”

  He giggles, remembering. “Oh, yeah. That was a great night.”

  I chuckle too. And go into a spin that any Olympic ice skater would be proud of. The song changes to “Never Say Goodbye” by Bon Jovi. It was our prom song.

  Raise your hand if it was yours too. I’m pretty sure, after 1987, it’s been the prom song of every high school in America at least once.

  Billy snuffs out the joint with his fingertips. Then skates up to me. He holds out his arm, doing his best Beetlejuice impression.

  “Shall we?”

  I smile. And take his arm. I put my hands on his shoulders, and while Bon Jovi sings about smoky rooms and losing keys, we start to sway.

  Billy’s hands sit low on my back. I turn my head and rest my cheek against his chest. He’s warm. His flannel shirt is soft and smells like pot and earth . . . and home. I feel his chin against the top of my head as he asks me quietly, “Remember prom?”

  I smile. “Yeah. Remember Dee Dee’s dress?”

  He laughs. Because Delores was the original trendsetter—even then. Lady Gaga’s got nothing on her. Her dress was white and stiff, like a ballerina’s tutu. And it had a string of twinkling lights along the hem. It was really pretty.

  Until it caught on fire.

  Her date, Louis Darden, put it out with the punch bowl of spiked Koo
l-Aid. She spent the rest of the night sticky and smelling like a doused campfire.

  I continue our trek down memory lane. “Remember the last day of junior year?”

  Billy’s chest rumbles as he snickers. “Not my stealthiest moment.”

  It was the final day of school—and about one hundred and three degrees inside our sadly under-air-conditioned school. But Principal Cleeves refused to let us out early. So Billy pulled the fire alarm.

  Right down the hall from where the principal was standing.

  A hot pursuit ensued, but Billy successfully avoided capture. So the principal went on the intercom system and tried paging him. “Billy Warren, please report to the main office. Immediately.”

  “I know I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but come on. Did they really think I was stupid enough to actually go?”

  I laugh against Billy’s shirt. “And then as soon as you walked in senior year, Cleeves grabbed you and was all like, ‘Mr. Warren, there’s a chair in detention with your name on it.’ ”

  And there really was. They stenciled his name on the back of a chair, like a director’s chair on a movie set.

  Billy sighs. “Good times.”

  I nod. “The best.”

  And as words about favorite songs and loves that would never end swirl around us, I close my eyes. Billy’s arms tighten around me just a bit, pulling me closer.

  Do you see where this is going? I didn’t.

  “I’ve missed this, Katie. I miss you.”

  I don’t say it back, but it’s nice to hear. And it’s even nicer to be held.

  To be wanted.

  I haven’t felt anything more than friendly affection for Billy in a long, long time. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. The girl I used to be. The one who thought there was nothing sweeter than looking into Billy Warren’s eyes. Nothing more romantic than hearing him sing. Nothing more exciting than riding in his car, late at night, after curfew.

  I remember what it feels like to love him. Even though I don’t love him in quite the same way anymore.

  I gaze up at Billy’s face as he sings the song’s words softly. To me.

  Looking back now, I’m not exactly sure who leaned where, who moved first. All I know is one minute we were dancing in the middle of the skating rink . . . and the next, Billy was kissing me.

  And it only took a second before I was kissing him back.

  Chapter 12

  Kissing Billy is . . . nice. It’s familiar. Sweet.

  Like finding your old Strawberry Shortcake house in your parents’ attic. And you smile when you see it. You run your hand over the balcony and remember all the days you spent wrapped up in its make-believe world. It’s nostalgic. A part of your childhood.

  But it’s a part you’ve left behind. Because you’re a grown-up now.

  So no matter how dear the memories are, you’re not going to bust out Apple Dumplin’ and Plum Puddin’ and start playing.

  The kiss ends and I lower my head. And I stare at Billy’s shirt. You know that line—I think it’s from a song—if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with?

  That could fit really well in this situation.

  Except for the fact that I already love Billy. Too much to take advantage of his devotion—too much to use him to heal my broken heart and bruised ego. He deserves better than that. Billy Warren is no one’s consolation prize. And I’d happily scratch the eyes out of any woman who tried to make him one.

  He once told me I wasn’t the girl he fell in love with anymore. And as much as it hurt to hear, as inadequate as it made me feel at the time—he was right.

  I’m not that girl anymore.

  I drag my eyes from his shirt to his face. “Billy . . .”

  He puts his finger to my lips, brushing them softly. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Neither of us moves for a moment, caught up for a few final seconds in the enchantment of the past.

  Then he speaks, breaking the spell. “Being here with you? It’s awesome. As good as I remember—better, even. It feels . . . it feels like we got to take a ride in the DeLorean.” His hand holds my face tenderly. “But it’s okay, Kate. It was just for a minute. And now we’re back to the future. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. It doesn’t have to change what we have now, ’cause that’s pretty awesome too.”

  I nod, relieved. Thankful that Billy knows what I feel without me having to say the words. And that he feels the same.

  “Okay.”

  He smiles. “I should get you home, before Carol calls out the dogs. Or worse—Amelia.”

  I chuckle. And hand in hand, we leave the roller-skating rink and all of its memories behind.

  Twenty minutes later, Billy pulls into the back parking lot of my mother’s diner. We sit in the truck silently, side by side.

  “You want me to walk you up?”

  “No—it’s all right. I can manage.”

  He nods slowly. “So . . . is there gonna be like . . . weirdness between us now? Because we tongue-wrestled for a couple minutes?”

  Like I said before—Billy always did have a way with words.

  “No. No weirdness. No worries.”

  He needs further confirmation. “You still my girl, Katie?”

  He doesn’t mean in the girlfriend way. He means in the friend—the best friend, who happens to be a girl—kind of way. In case you were wondering.

  “I’ll always be your girl, Billy.”

  “Good.” He turns his head to the windshield and looks out. “You should really think about California. I think it would be a nice change for you. A clean break.”

  He’s right, in a way. California would be a blank page for me. No memories. No painful run-ins. No awkward conversations. And with my résumé, I don’t foresee finding a new job to be too much of a problem.

  That being said . . . I have connections in New York. Roots. And I’m not sure I want to sever all of them. So like every other aspect of my life at the moment, I don’t know what the hell I want to do.

  Sound like a broken record, don’t I? Sorry.

  I put my hand over his on the gearshift. “I’ll think about it.”

  He puts his other hand on top of mine. “You’ll figure it out, Kate—I know you will. And it gets better. You won’t hurt like this forever. I speak from experience.”

  I smile gratefully. “Thanks, Billy. For everything.” Then I climb out of the truck and he drives away.

  After letting my mother know I’m back, I head to my room. I shut the door behind me and lean against it. Exhausted.

  Talk about a long frigging day.

  My mother’s cleaned my room. Not that it was messy before, but I can tell. The pillows are fluffed just a bit more, and my cell phone sits neatly on the nightstand.

  I kick off my shoes, pick it up, and turn it on. Despite my hissy fit earlier, it still works. I stare at the numbers. They’re lit up. Calling to me. Taunting me.

  It would be so easy. Just ten quick digits and I could hear his voice. It’s been forever since I heard his voice. My hands shake a little. Like a junkie, needing a fix—just a taste.

  Do you think he’d pick up?

  Do you think he’d be alone if he did?

  And that’s the thought that kills the craving. There’s no way I’m calling.

  Still . . . I don’t listen to my voicemails often. Usually I just check the missed call list. I delete my voicemails even less.

  I scroll down the screen, to the date I need.

  And press play.

  “Hey, babe. The golf outing ran over. I was gonna stop and pick up a bottle for later. You want Dom or Philipponnat? You know what? On second thought—screw the Champagne. You taste better than both of them put together. I’ll be home in five minutes.”

  I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. Drew has an amazing voice. Calm and soothing—but devilishly seductive at the same time. He totally could’ve gone into radio.

  I press another button
.

  This time his tone is teasing. “Kaate, you’re late. Tell Delores to pick out her own goddamn shoes. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s sitting in a big, frothy Jacuzzi all by his lonesome. Come home, sweetheart. I’m here waiting for you.”

  If only that was true today.

  There’s more—some are quick and to the point, some are downright dirty. And I listen to every single one. He doesn’t say “I love you” in any of them—but he doesn’t have to. I hear it in every word. Every time he says my name.

  And I can’t help but wonder how this all happened? How did we get here? And can we ever go back?

  I don’t cry. There just aren’t any tears left. I curl up in the middle of my bed. And Drew’s voice lulls me to sleep.

  The next afternoon, Billy and I are in the back room of the diner, sharing a plate of fries. He’s working on a new song and he thinks better on his feet.

  See him there? Walking from one end of the room to the other, mumbling and humming, and occasionally strumming the guitar strapped across his chest?

  I sit at the table. Trying to think my way out of the pit of despair that is now my life.

  As Billy crosses toward the door that leads to the diner, something catches his eye in the round window at the top. And he backs away. “Oh, shit.”

  I look up. “What? What’s wrong?”

  Then the door bursts open. It slams against the wall and then stays in place—afraid to move an inch. Because there, standing in the doorway in all her pissed-off glory, is my best friend.

  Delores Warren.

  Oh, shit indeedy.

  She’s wearing red knee-high leather boots, tight black pants, an embellished black top, and a short, black-and-white faux fur jacket. A myriad of Louis Vuitton bags hang off her shoulders, matching the large wheeled one trailing behind her.

  And the anger in her amber eyes makes them sparkle like freshcut topaz stones . “Does someone want to tell me why I had to hear from my mother that there was a