Twisted (8 page)

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And Amelia realized she was pregnant.

Joey took the news well, and Amelia was thrilled. Now they’d

be a real family.

But the next morning, all she woke up next to was a note. It

read:

It was fun.

Sorry.

Amelia never saw him again.

Some kids need to get burned a few times before they

stop playing with matches. But Amelia was never that kind

of kid. One lesson was all she needed. From then on, she

only dated a certain type of man—humble, simple—not

smooth or flashy or arrogant. Guys who were nothing like

Joey.

Who were nothing like Drew.

It’s why she doesn’t like him.

No—that’s not quite right. It’s why Amelia doesn’t trust

him.

She took me aside that first Christmas, when she and my

mother came up to visit. She told me to go slow, to watch

myself with Drew.

Because she’d seen his kind before.

Anyway—story time’s over, kids.

We’re here.

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Bob’s office is nice—a homey-looking brownstone with a real, live

parking lot. Those are hard to come by in the city, in case you didn’t know. It’s a busy lot, shared with the building next door. Cars come and go and jockey for spaces.

I kill the engine and grip the steering wheel. And take a deep

breath.

I can do this.

I mean, really—it’s only the next eighteen years of my life,

right?

I get out of the car and stare at the small sign in the window

of the building.

ROBERTA ChANG

GYNECOLOGY AND OBSTETRICS

As I try to get my feet to move, two large hands come from

behind me and cover my eyes. A familiar voice whispers in my ear,

“Guess who?”

I turn around, bursting at the seams. Living with someone,

particularly during the college years, creates a bond born of shared experiences and precious memories.

“Daniel!”

Daniel Walker is a mammoth-sized guy. he and Arnold

Schwarzenegger could totally be brothers. But don’t let that fool

you. he’s like one of those Werther’s candies—hard on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside.

he’s affectionate. Giving. Compassionate.

During our junior year, a mouse decided to move into our

ramshackle house. All of us voted to kill it—except Daniel. he

constructed a trap with string, cardboard, and a stick that would

have made the Little Rascals proud.

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And he actually caught the little bugger. We kept him. In a cage,

kind of like a mascot. We named him Bud after our favorite beer.

Daniel pulls me into a bear hug, picks me up, and spins me

around. Then he sets me on my feet and kisses my cheek. “It’s so

good to see you, Kate. You look great!”

I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts. “Thanks, Daniel. You too.

You haven’t changed a bit. how’s everything going?”

“Can’t complain. Things are good—busy. I’m still interviewing

at hospitals.”

Daniel’s an anesthesiologist. Whenever they can, he and Bob

work together. Like me and Drew.

he goes on. “But Bobbie’s practice is booming, so I’m the gofer

boy for now.” he holds up a bag of Chinese takeout.

When the smell hits my stomach, it twists, letting me know it

is not pleased. I swallow hard.

he throws a heavy arm over my shoulders and we chat for a

several minutes. About their move , about Delores and Billy. I tell him about Drew and how I want the four of us to get together for

dinner.

And then there’s a loud screech of rubber tires.

We both turn and watch the taillights of a speeding car disap-

pear out of the parking lot.

Daniel shakes his head. “And I thought Philadelphia drivers

were bad.”

I chuckle. “Oh, no—New Yorkers have the monopoly on bad

driving. And crazy baseball fans. Don’t wear your Philly’s jersey

here; it could end in bloodshed.”

Daniel laughs and we head into the building.

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Well, it’s official.

Life as I know it is over.

I’m pregnant. Knocked up. The bun is in the oven and that bad

boy is baking. I wasn’t really surprised. Just hoping I was wrong.

According to Bobbie, my antibiotics were the culprit. They

lower the effectiveness of birth control pills.

So you see what I was saying about those pamphlets? Read

’em. Learn ’em. Live ’em.

It’s too soon to do an ultrasound, so I have to come back in

two weeks. And every day I also have to take prenatal vitamins that are big enough to choke a large elephant.

Lucky me.

I park my car in the garage, but I don’t go up to the apartment.

One of the best parts of living in the city is that there’s always someplace that’s open, somewhere to walk to with people around.

I head out onto the sidewalk and walk a few blocks, trying to

clear my head. Trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to

do now.

If you’re wondering why I don’t sound happy, it’s because I’m

not. You have to understand—I was never
that
girl. I didn’t play with baby dolls; I played with my parents’ cash register. When the other kids wanted to go to Toys“R”Us? I wanted to go to Staples.

Even before my craving for financial independence began, my

dreams revolved around office buildings and desks—not cradles

and baby carriages. It’s not that I don’t want children. I just don’t want one
now
. Now was not part of the plan.

And then there’s Drew. he loves me, I know. But pregnancy

changes things. It means stretch marks and saggy boobs and sleep-

less nights. No more spontaneous vacations. No more sex mara-

thons.

he’s going to freak out. Definitely.

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I sit down on a bench and watch the cars drive by.

Then a voice to my right grabs my attention.

“Who’s a good boy? Andrew is! My sweet boy.”

It’s a woman with soft blond curls and dark eyes, about my age.

And she’s holding a doe-headed bundle of drool.

Do you believe in signs? I don’t.

But my grandmother did. She was an incredible woman—a

respected archeologist who did extensive study on the southern

Native American tribes. I worshipped my grandma. She once told

me that signs were all around us. Guides to point us in the right

direction, toward our fate. Our destiny. That all we had to do was open our eyes and our hearts, and we would find our way.

So I watch the young mother and her child. And then a man

comes up to them.

“hey. Sorry I’m late. Damn meeting ran over.”

I assume he’s her husband. he kisses her. Then he takes the

bundle from her and holds it up over his head.

“There’s my guy. hey, buddy.”

And his smile is so warm, so beautiful, it literally takes my

breath away. The golden couple lean against each other tenderly,

the baby between them, pulling them together like a magnet.

I feel like a voyeur, but the moment is so precious I can’t look

away.

And that’s when it hits me. I’m not just pregnant. I’m having a

baby
. Drew and I made a
baby
. A whole new person.

And an image appears in my head. So clear. So perfect.

A dark-haired little boy, with Drew’s smart-ass smile and my

sparkling personality. A part of each of us.

The best parts.

I think about the way Steven looked at Alexandra last night

when they announced the big news. I picture the way Drew watches

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me when he thinks I’m not looking. And the way he cuddled with

Mackenzie when she fell asleep beside him on the couch. I remem-

ber how wonderful it feels to teach her to play the guitar.

And how amazing it would be to teach a baby . . . everything.

Drew would adore having a small someone to show things to—like

how to play chess, and basketball.

And how to curse in four different languages.

Drew isn’t Joey Martino. his family means everything to him.

I
mean everything to him.

And I’m having his baby.
Oh my God
. The pregnancy hor-

mones must be on overload, because tears fill my eyes and stream

down my cheeks. happy tears.

Because it’s going to be okay.

Maybe I will have stretch marks, but this is New York—the

plastic surgery capital of the world. And sure, there are things I want to accomplish professionally. And I will. Because Drew will

be there to help me. To support me. Like he has since the day I

met him.

he’s going to be excited—like a kid getting an unexpected gift

on Christmas morning. It’ll be a shock at first, but can’t you just see him? Elated. Overjoyed.

“Excuse me, miss, are you all right?” I must be crying louder

than I thought, because Baby-Daddy is looking at me with concern.

I wipe at my cheeks, embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just . . .”

I gaze at their child. “he’s just so beautiful. You’re all so beautiful.”

I break down in a round of fresh sobs, and the mother takes a

step back.

Great. Now I’m the crazy lady on a bench.

She asks, “Is there someone you need us to call?”

I take a breath and pull myself together. And then I smile. “No.

I’m all right. Really. It’s just . . . I’m having a baby.”

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There.

I said it.

Sure, I just said it to two perfect strangers, which is a little

messed up, but still. Am I scared? Of course I am. But I’ve never

run from a challenge in my life—why would I start now?

“Well, congratulations, and good luck to you, miss.”

“Thank you.”

The family turns and walks down the street together. As I watch

them go, a store display to the right catches my eye. It’s a Yankee merchandise store, and in the window is a teeny-tiny T-shirt that

says, FUTURE YANKEES PITChER. And my excitement blooms like a

flower in a rainforest.

Because now I know just how I’m going to tell Drew.

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What do you know about ESP? Extrasensory Perception; the

knowledge of an incident before it takes place. We all have a

little bit of it—that other ninety percent of our brains we don’t use.

It’s those times in the car when you think of a song you haven’t

heard in years, and it’s the next one that comes on the radio. It’s those mornings when you picture an old friend and at dinnertime

the phone rings, and it’s the friend you were thinking of.

I was never a big believer in that sort of thing. But as the store clerk handed me my change for the tiny T-shirt, a ball of anxiety

settled deep in my gut.

And it wasn’t normal butterflies. It was urgent. Desperate

unease, like when you realize you forgot to pay a credit card bill.

I had to get to Drew. I had to talk to him—to tell him—and

it had to be now. I walked quickly down the street. Well . . . as

quickly as I could in three-inch heels.

As every step carried me closer to our building, the worry

increased exponentially.

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At the time I chalked it up to the news I was about to break.

But looking back now, I think it was something else.

Precognition.

By the time I stood outside our apartment door, my knees

were shaking and my palms were sweaty. Then I reached for the

knob. . . .

If you have a weak stomach? You may not want to watch this.

It won’t be pretty.

I step into the apartment. The lights are out. I put my keys on the table and take off my coat. I flick the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light.

And that’s when I see him.

Them.

Drew is standing in the middle of our living room, his dress

shirt unbuttoned, exposing the chest that I’ve traced my fingers

over a thousand times. The warm, bronze skin I love to touch. he

has a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand. And the other hand is hidden. Buried.

In a mane of wavy auburn hair.

She’s the opposite of me in every way. Thick red tresses, breasts

the size of watermelons, perky in their fakeness. She’s tall—as tall as Drew—even without the stilettos. her lips are red and lush,

plump enough to make Angelina Jolie envious.

And those plump red lips are moving against Drew’s mouth.

Good kissers, really good kissers, don’t just use their lips. They utilize their entire body—their tongue, their hands, their hips.

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Drew is a good kisser.

But I’ve never had the chance to observe him in action. I’ve

never seen him kiss anyone. Because I’ve always been on the receiving end. The kissee.

But that’s not the case now.

I stand there—stunned. Watching. And though it’s only for a