Twisted

  Slowly, Drew smiles back. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  Yep—cue the warm and fuzzy. My heart melts just a little. Because every girl wants her mother to see the good in the man she loves.

  I breeze into the kitchen. “Morning.”

  “Morning, honey. How are you feeling?” my mother asks.

  “I’m good. Really good.”

  I walk up to Drew, who kisses me softly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “What are you doing up? Didn’t you get my note?”

  “I did. But I wanted to see what you were up to. How’s it going?”

  He winks. “We’re getting there.”

  We stay in Greenville for another day before taking a late-night flight back to New York. First thing Saturday morning, we step over the threshold together into our apartment.

  I glance around the living room as Drew puts our bags in the corner. The apartment is freshly cleaned, sparkling, and smells of lemon-scented furniture polish. It looks exactly the same as when I walked out a week ago. Unchanged.

  Practically reading my mind, Drew offers, “I had the cleaning people come by.”

  I look down the hall toward the bathroom. “And the bonfire?”

  We’d talked about Drew’s foray into pyromania. He said he’d burned a few pictures, but there are copies. Nothing was lost that can’t be replaced.

  Kind of poetic, don’t you think?

  Somberly, I tell him, “Drew, we need to talk.”

  He regards me cautiously. “No conversation in the history of the world that started with that phrase has ever ended well. Why don’t we sit down.”

  I sit on the couch. He takes the recliner and swivels to face me.

  I get right to the point. “I want to move out.”

  He rolls my words around in his head as I brace myself for the argument that I know is coming.

  But he just nods slightly. “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah, of course.” He looks around the room. “I should have thought of this before. I mean, this is where your worst nightmare came true. Like the Amityville Horror house—who the hell would want to live there?”

  He’s taking this much better than I thought. Until he continues, “My sister has a great real estate agent. I’ll call her right away. We can stay at the Waldorf if you want, until we find a new place. In this market, it shouldn’t take long.”

  “No, Drew—I said I want to move out. Alone. I want to get my own apartment.”

  His brow furrows. “Why would want to do that?”

  You’re probably wondering the same thing. I’ve been thinking about it, planning it out in my head, since I decided I wanted to keep the baby, with or without Drew. Because there are different kinds of dependence. I’ve always wanted to be financially secure, and now I am. But I’ve never been emotionally independent. On my own. And at this point in my life, it’s something I want.

  If only to prove to myself that I’m capable of it.

  “I’ve never lived by myself. Did you know that?”

  Still bewildered, he says, “O-kay?”

  “First year of undergrad, I lived in the dorms. Then Dee, Billy, and I and a bunch of other people got a place off campus. After that, it was always me and Billy or me, Dee, and Billy sharing a house or an apartment. And then, I moved in here with you.”

  Drew leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s your point, Kate?’

  “My point is, I’ve never not had someone to come home to. I’ve never decorated or bought a piece of furniture without consulting someone. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve practically never slept alone.”

  He opens his mouth to argue, but I go on, “And . . . I think you made a valid point about us rushing into things. We went from a weekend hook-up to living together overnight.”

  “And look how great that turned out! I know what I want, and I want you. There was no point in waiting, because—”

  “But maybe there would’ve been a point in waiting, Drew. Maybe we would’ve had a stronger foundation to our relationship if we had just . . . dated . . . for a while before moving in together. Maybe, if we had gone slower, none of this would’ve happened.”

  He’s annoyed. And a little panicked. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s there.

  “You said you forgave me.”

  “I have. But . . . I haven’t forgotten.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s just chick-speak for you’re going to hang this shit over my head for the rest of our lives!”

  He’s got a point. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that wants to drive the point home—that he can’t treat me any way he wants to. That there are consequences to his actions.

  That if he ever screws up again, I can—and will—leave him.

  But it’s not just about that.

  “You want to redecorate?” he asks. “Be my guest. You want to paint the walls pink and put fucking unicorn sheets on the bed? I won’t say a word.”

  Now I’m shaking my head. “I need to know I can do this, Drew. For me. And . . . when our son or daughter moves out on their own, I want to know what that feels like, so I can help them.”

  At this point, I expect Drew to agree to pretty much anything I want him to.

  Women know when they have the upper hand. You know what I mean. The days after your husband forgot your anniversary, or your boyfriend spent one too many hours at the bar with his boys watching the game. The days following an argument, when the win is in the female’s column, are peaceful. Loving. Men go out of their way to be thoughtful and considerate. They put their shoes in the closet, take out the garbage without being asked, and remember to put the seat up before they pee.

  So although I realize Drew’s not going to be happy with my reasoning, I imagine he’ll still be understanding and helpful.

  “Well, that’s fucking stupid!”

  Not exactly what I’d imagined.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Not to me, it’s not.”

  He jumps to his feet. “Then you’re insane!” He pushes a hand through his hair and regains his composure.

  When he speaks, his words are calm, reasonable; the level-headed businessman making his pitch. “Okay . . . let’s agree the last few days have been pretty emotional. And you’re pregnant—you’re not thinking clearly. When Alexandra was pregnant she wanted to chop all her hair off, Miley Cyrus style. The hairdresser talked her out of it, and in the end she was glad. So . . . let’s put a tack in this idea . . . and revisit it later.”

  I sigh. “This will be good for us. We’ll still see each other every day, but a little time apart, some space . . .”

  “You told your mother you didn’t need space. That we needed to be frigging together to work through this.”

  “That was then,” I say with a shrug. Then I go for the old reliable, “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “So . . . you’re going to prove you’re never going to leave me . . . by leaving me?”

  “No. I’m going to prove I’ll never leave you . . . by coming back to you.”

  Drew pulls the front of his pants away from his waist and looks down. “Nope—still got a dick. Which explains a lot, because your reasoning would only make sense to a woman.”

  I roll my eyes. And Drew presses on, “You’re fucking pregnant, Kate! We’re having a baby. Now is not the time to take a step back and figure out if you want to be in a relationship!”

  I take his hand and sit him down next to me on the couch. “Do you remember everything you did, before I moved in here? The flowers, the balloons, the Sister B pep talk, the home office overhaul—they were beautiful gestures. Showing me how much you wanted me, and how willing you were to change your life for me.”

  I look down at our joined hands. “But they also made for an offer I couldn’t refuse. No woman could. And I think part of you believes that you manipulated me into m
oving in with you. That if you hadn’t pestered me and laid it on so thick, I never would have chosen you.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “See what I mean? And that’s just not true. It may have taken time for me to trust you again, to believe that you were ready for a relationship, but I would have. I still would have been in love with you and wanted a life with you, because of who you are. Not because of the things you did for me. This will fix that, Drew. So you’ll never doubt why I’m with you.”

  He takes his hand back and rubs it over his face. “So . . . you want to pay for an apartment, pack up all your stuff, buy furniture, go to all the trouble of relocating . . . just to prove to me and to yourself that you can? Knowing that at some point, you’re just going to move back in with me anyway?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

  “Yes! Thank you. Take out all the emo psychobabble bullshit and it is ridiculous!”

  “No—it’s not. Because, later, when we decide to live together again, we’ll be on equal footing. It won’t be you making room in your life for me—it’ll be us making a decision together. For all the best reasons.”

  He looks away toward the door, thinking. Then he turns back to me. “No. I’m sorry, Kate: I want to make you happy, I do. But I can’t support something that’s so pointless. I won’t agree with it. I won’t. Just—no.”

  He crosses his arms and pouts. Like a two-year-old refusing to move until he gets his way.

  There was a time, not so long ago, that his refusal would have swayed me. That I would’ve let his opinion become my opinion. That I would’ve given in for the sake of our relationship and my sanity.

  But not anymore.

  I stand up. “I’m doing this, Drew, with or without you. I really hope it can be with you.”

  Then I walk down the hall to the bedroom.

  I stand in the middle of the room for a few minutes, remembering. Some of the most wonderful, and romantic, moments of my life have taken place in this room.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it.

  But I’m firm in my belief that my moving out will be good for us. That, at some point, it will make the difference between us crumbling under the weight of our own passion and stubbornness or becoming an even stronger pair than we were before.

  I just wish Drew would see it that way.

  With a sigh, I move to the closet to get my luggage. I only took one small bag with me when I left a week ago, so there are a lot of clothes to be packed. I spot the large beige leather suitcase on the top shelf.

  Walk-in closet shelves really weren’t designed with the petite in mind. I stretch on my tippy-toes, trying to grasp the handle. I consider getting a chair from the other room, but I try jumping for it first.

  As I bend my knees for my second attempt, I hear Drew come up behind me. He reaches over my head, easily taking hold of the suitcase, and brings it down.

  “You shouldn’t stretch your arms over your head. It’s not good for you . . . for the baby.” He walks out of the closet and lays the suitcase on the bed.

  “How do you know that?” I ask as I trail behind him.

  He shrugs. “When Alexandra was pregnant, I read a lot. I wanted to be prepared in case she went into labor at a family function, or if we got stuck in a cab together during rush-hour traffic.”

  He unzips the bag and adds, “I would’ve had to gouge my fucking eyeballs out afterward, of course, but it would’ve been worth it.”

  I smile.

  He takes me by the shoulders and sits me down on the edge of the bed. “Just . . . put your feet up. Rest.”

  Then he turns toward the dresser and takes a stack of my T-shirts out of the drawer, placing them neatly in the suitcase. He doesn’t look at me as he works.

  “You’re helping me pack?”

  He nods stiffly. “Yep.”

  “But you still don’t want me to move out?”

  “Nope.”

  “And . . . you still think it’s a stupid idea?”

  “Yep. You don’t have many stupid ideas—but even if you did, this would be the dumbest of them all.”

  He takes another pile from the drawer as I ask, “Then why are you helping me?”

  He drops the pile in the bag and makes eye contact. And his face says everything that he’s feeling—frustration, resignation . . . devotion.

  “In the last two years, I’ve probably told you a dozen times that I would do anything for you.” He shrugs. “It’s time I put up or shut up.”

  And this . . . this is why I love him. I suspect it’s why you love him too.

  Because despite his faults and flaws, Drew is bold enough to give me everything he’s got. To put his heart on the chopping block and hand me the ax.

  He’ll do things he hates, just because I ask him to. He’ll go against his instincts and better judgment, if it’s what I need. He puts his well-being, his happiness, second to my own.

  I stand up, wrap my arms around his neck, and press my lips to his. A moment later, my feet leave the floor and his hand buries in my hair. His mouth captures my moan as he presses me closer.

  I pull back and tell him, “You’re amazing.”

  He gives me a soft smirk. “That is the general consensus.”

  I smile. “And I love you.”

  He sets my feet on the floor but keeps his arms around my waist. “Good. Then you’re going to let me put three locks on the door of whatever apartment you decide to move into. And a chain. And a dead bolt.”

  I smile wider. “Okay.”

  Drew slowly steps forward, backing me up toward the bed.

  “And you’re not going to bitch when I have a security system installed.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  We take another step together, almost like we’re dancing.

  “I’m thinking about buying you one of those ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ necklaces too.”

  My eyes squint as I pretend to think about the idea. “We’ll talk about it.”

  “And . . . you’re going to let me walk you home from work every night.”

  “Yes.”

  The back of my legs make contact with the bed frame.

  “I’m also going to come to every doctor’s appointment with you.”

  “I didn’t for a second imagine you wouldn’t.”

  Drew cups my face in his hands. “And one day, I’m going to ask you to marry me. And you’re going to know it’s not because you’re pregnant, or because of some misguided attempt to keep you.”

  Tears spring into my eyes as we gaze at each other.

  In a rough voice, he continues, “You’re going to know I’m asking because nothing would make me prouder than to be able to say, ‘This is my wife, Kate.’ And when I do ask, you’re going to say yes.”

  When I nod, one tear trails down my cheek. Drew wipes it away with his thumb as I promise, “It’s a sure thing.”

  And then he’s kissing me, with all the passion and desire he’s held in check the last two days. Drew cradles my head as we fall on the bed together. Then I arch up, and heat spreads across my stomach and down my thighs as I rub myself against where he’s already hard and ready.

  Resting his elbows on the bed above my shoulders, Drew lifts his head and pants, “So . . . is this make-up sex . . . or break-up sex? Because I have really fantastic ideas for either one.”

  I open my legs wider, nestling Drew between them. “It’s definitely make-up sex, maybe a little bit of take-a-break sex. And a whole lot of last-day-in-the-apartment sex. That’s a lot to cover—so it’s going to take a really, really long time.”

  Drew smiles. And it’s his boyish, delighted smile—one of my favorites—that only comes out on very special occasions.

  “I adore the way you think.”

  And we don’t leave the bed for the rest of the day.

  Epilogue

  Eight months later

  So . . . I’ve gone back to ch
urch. Every week. Sometimes twice a week.

  Yeah—it’s me, Drew.

  Long time no see. Miss me? Judging from the “I’d like to shove your dick in an automatic pencil sharpener” look on your face . . . I’m guessing that’s a no.

  Still pissed, huh? Can’t say I blame you. It was a solid three weeks before I could look at my reflection in the mirror and not want to kick my own ass. In fact, one night I was out with the guys celebrating a massive deal Jack closed, and after one too many shots of Jäger, I begged Matthew to punch me in the nuts as hard as he could.

  Because I couldn’t stop seeing the look on Kate’s face when she walked in the door that horrible night. It replayed in my head over and over, like one of those awful films on cable that’s constantly on, but no one ever watches.

  Lucky for me, Matthew refused. Even luckier is that fact that Delores wasn’t with him, since I’m sure she would’ve been more than happy to oblige. Yeah—the list of asses I’ve had to kiss over the last few months is long. Assembly-line worthy. Kate, Delores, Carol, my father, Alexandra . . .

  I stocked up on lip balm—didn’t want to chafe.

  You’ve missed a lot. I’ll try and fill you in.

  What do you know about rebuilding years? Every great baseball team has them. Hell, the Yankees have one every other year. The goal of a rebuilding year isn’t to win the World Series. It’s to develop your strengths, recognize your weaknesses. Make your team solid . . . strong.

  That’s what those weeks were like for Kate and me after she moved the fuck out. It didn’t take her long to find a new apartment. One bedroom, furnished, decent part of town. It was small . . . my sister called it quaint. If I was being objective, I’d say it was pretty nice.

  But objectivity’s not exactly my strong suit, so it was a dump. I hated it—every square inch.

  That first Monday when Kate and I returned to work wasn’t pleasant. My father hauled us into his office and sat us both down for The Lecture.

  It’s a punishing technique he developed during my teen years, when he realized smacking me for my transgressions wasn’t as effective as it used to be. The old man’s a talker—Wendy Davis has got nothing on him—and he could go on for hours. There were times when I actually would’ve preferred him to hit me; it would’ve been so much easier.

  The long verbal flogging he employed that particular day with me and Kate involved words like “disappointed” and “bad judgment,” “immaturity” and “self-reflection.”

  In the end, he explained there were two great loves in his life—his family and our firm—and he wouldn’t allow one to cannibalize the other. So, if Kate or I ever let our personal lives affect our professional performance again, one or both of us would be looking for a different place of employment.

  Overall, I thought it was pretty benevolent of him. If I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve fired my ass. Afterward, when we told him he was going to be a grandpa for the third time . . . Well, let’s just say that news went a long way to mending our fences.

  Kate and I saw each other every day, at work and after. There were no sleepovers, but there were dates—dinners, shows, walks in Central Park, marathon