Twisted (9 page)

few seconds, it feels like forever. Like an eternity.

In hell.

Then Drew pulls back. And almost as if he knew I was here

all along, his eyes find mine immediately. They’re hard. Merciless.

And his voice is as cold as the steel of an outdoor gate in a

snowstorm.

“Look who’s home.”

Lots of women imagine how they would react if they caught

their boyfriend or husband cheating. What they would say. how

strong they’d be.

Righteous and indignant.

But when it’s for real? When it’s not just pretend predictions?

Those emotions are peculiarly absent.

I’m numb inside.

Dead.

And my voice is nothing more than a whispered stutter.

“What . . . what are you doing?”

Drew shrugs. “Just having a little fun. I figured, why should

you be the only one who gets to?”

I hear the words, but I don’t understand them. My eyes squint

and my head tilts, like a bewildered dog.

Drew steps away from the redhead and takes a swig from the

bottle. he flinches as he swallows.

“You look confused, Kate. I’ll explain. The first rule of lying is always get the alibi straight. See—right now, Matthew and Dolo-Twisted_1P.indd 70

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res are on a plane to Vegas. Matthew’s been planning the trip for

weeks—a surprise second honeymoon. So I knew you were full of

shit this afternoon. I just needed to see if you’d actually go through with it. So I followed you. Gotta love the GPS.”

Last year, a woman named Kasey Dunkin disappeared after

a night out with friends in the city. It was all over the news. The police were able to trace her cell to an abandoned warehouse in

Brooklyn, and even though she’d been stabbed multiple times, she

survived. Drew and I had the same kind of program installed on

our phones the next day.

“You followed me?”

he followed me to Bob’s office. he knows where I went. Does

that mean . . .

“Yep. I know where you were. I know everything. I fucking

saw you.”

he knows. . . . Drew knows I’m pregnant.

And obviously he’s not pleased.

My voice rises as I speak, gaining momentum. “You know?” I

point at the woman who’s watching us like we’re her own personal

soap opera. “And
this
is how you react?”

Drew looks confused. “Do you frigging even know me at all?

how the fuck did you think I’d react?”

I’ve seen Drew annoyed before.

Thoughtless.

Frustrated.

But this is different.

This is . . . cruel.

he asks me, “You’re not even gonna try and deny it? Make

me think I’m delusional?” For a moment his face crumples. And

he looks . . . anguished—like a torture victim about to break his

silence. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m wrong, Kate?”

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he blinks and the anguished look is gone. And I’m pretty sure

I just imagined it.

Wishful thinking.

I fold my arms across my chest. “I won’t discuss this with you

in front of an audience.”

Drew’s jaw locks stubbornly. “Are you going to end it?”

My feet move back away from him, all on their own.

And my hand drops protectively to my abdomen.

“What?”

he repeats himself, impatient with my shock. “I said—are you

going to fucking end it?”

Politically, Drew is pro-choice. Despite his Catholic upbring-

ing, he respects and loves the women in his family far too much to let some old man on Capitol hill dictate what they can or can’t do with their bodies.

But emotionally—morally—I’ve always thought he was pro-

life. So the fact that he’s standing here telling me to abort a child,
our child,
is just . . . incomprehensible.

“I haven’t . . . I haven’t had time to think about it.”

he laughs bitterly. “Well, you better start thinking, because

until your little indiscretion is out of the picture? I don’t even want to fucking look at you—let alone discuss
anything
.”

his words hit me like a gust of wind on a cold day. The kind

that leaves you breathless.

Drew isn’t Joey Martino.

he’s worse.

Because he wants me to choose. An ultimatum. Like he did

with Billy.

And what the hell is he talking about—
my
indiscretion? Like I made it happen all by myself?

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And then it sinks in—his anger. his vindictiveness. It starts to

make sense.

“Do you think I
planned
this? That I did it on purpose?”

he smirks, and even a deaf person would be able to hear the

sarcasm. “No—of course not. These things
just happen
sometimes, right? Even when you don’t mean them to.”

I open my mouth to argue, to explain, but the stripper’s giggle

cuts me off. I glare at her. “Get out of my house before I put you out with the rest of the trash.”

In situations like this? Women can cut each other down faster

than a tree dealer on Christmas Eve. But it’s not because we’re

petty. Or catty.

It’s because it’s easier to go after a nameless woman than to

admit that the true fault lies with the man who was supposed to

love you. Who was supposed to be committed. Faithful.

And wasn’t.

She says, “Sorry, honey, you’re not paying for this show. I go

where the money man tells me.”

Drew loops an arm around her waist and smiles proudly. “She’s

not going anywhere. We’re just getting started.”

I find the strength to raise a brow. And try to land a shot of

my own.

“Paying for it now, Drew? Isn’t that pathetic.”

he smirks. “Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart—I’ve been pay-

ing for it for the last two years too. You’ve just been slightly more expensive than the average whore.”

I should have known better. Arguing with Drew is like dealing

with a terrorist. he has no boundaries; nothing’s off limits. There are no depths he won’t sink to to win.

Then he looks thoughtful.

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“Although I must say, despite how everything’s turned out, you

were money well spent. Especially that night, against the kitchen

sink”—he winks—“worth every penny.”

I’m dying. Each horrible word cuts into me like a blade slic-

ing skin. Can you see the blood? Oozing slowly with every atro-

cious syllable. Drawing it out, making it more painful than it ever needed to be.

You look surprised. You shouldn’t be.

Drew Evans doesn’t burn bridges. he sets dynamite to them.

Decimating the bridge, the mountains it connects, and any other

living thing unlucky enough to be within a fifty-mile radius.

Drew never does anything halfway. Why should destroying me

be any different?

I turn to walk down the hall before I crumble in front of him

like an Egyptian pyramid.

But he grabs my arm. “Where are you going, Kate? Stick

around—maybe you can learn a new trick.”

You know how someone’s personality can make him more

attractive? Like that kid in high school who, despite the lack of muscle tone and the case of mild acne, was able to run with the popular crowd? Because he told the funniest jokes and had the best stories.

I wish I could tell you it worked in reverse. I wish I could say

that Drew’s words magically transformed his face into the mon-

strosity he sounds like.

But I can’t.

Look at him.

I imagine this is what Lucifer looked like when God tossed

him out of heaven. Bitter and broken.

But still so achingly beautiful.

I pull my arm free. And my voice is high-pitched, almost hys-

terical. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever fucking touch me again!”

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he smiles slowly, the very picture of serenity. he wipes his

hand on his pants, like he just handled something dirty.

“That really won’t be a problem for me.”

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to throw up all over his black

Bruno Magli shoes.

And it’s got nothing to do with the pregnancy.

I go down the hall, forcing myself to walk. Because I refuse to

let Drew see me run from him.

I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

I drop to my knees and hold on to the toilet for dear life. A

nail breaks and my knuckles turn white. My stomach contracts

and I heave violently. Blood pounds in my ears and acid burns my

throat.

I cough and I sob, but my eyes are dry. There are no tears.

Not yet. That part comes later.

how can he do this? he told me he wouldn’t . . . and I trusted

him. When he said he loved me. When he promised he’d never

hurt me.

I believed him.

We never talked about having kids. We never talked about
not

having them either. But if I had known he’d be this way, I would

have been more careful. I would have . . .

God.

Listen to me. My boyfriend is in the living room with another

woman on his lap, and I’m sitting here thinking of all the things
I
could have done to keep it from happening?

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And I called
Drew
pathetic.

When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I pull myself up

to the sink and look in the mirror. Splotchy cheeks and dull red-

rimmed eyes stare back at me from a face I don’t recognize.

I douse my face with cold water, over and over. Drew may have

ripped me apart—turned me into a quivering mass of shame and

self-recrimination—but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let him see that.

I stumble to the bedroom, grab a duffel bag out of the closet,

and blindly fill it with the first things my hands touch. I have to get away. From him. From everything that reminds me of him.

I know what you’re thinking. “
Your career, everything you’ve

worked for—you’re throwing it all away.”

And you’re right—I am. But none of that matters anymore.

It’s like . . . like those poor people who jumped from the towers on September eleventh. They knew it wouldn’t save them, but the fire

was too hot and they had to do something,
anything,
to get away from the pain.

I zip the bag shut and put it on my shoulder. Then I brace my

hand against the door and I breathe. Once. Twice. Three times.

I can do this. I just have to make it to the door. It’s only a dozen steps away.

I walk down the hall.

Drew is sitting on the couch, legs spread, eyes on the dancing

woman swaying in front of him, the bottle of Jack beside him. I

focus on his face. And for just a moment, I let myself remember.

Grieve.

I see his smile—that first night in the bar—so boyishly charm-

ing. I feel his lips, his touch, the first night we made love, here, in this apartment. All heat and need. I relive every tender word, every loving moment since then.

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And I lock it all away.

In a box of steel, banished to the farthest corner of my mind.

To be opened later. When I’m able to fall apart.

I step into the room and stop just a few feet from the couch.

Redhead dances on, but I don’t look at her. My eyes never leave

Drew’s face.

My voice is raw. Scratchy. But surprisingly resolute.

“I’m done. With you, with all of this. Don’t track me down a

week from now and tell me you’re sorry. Do not call me and say

you’ve changed your mind. We. Are. Over. And I never want to see

you again.”

how many parents have told their teenagers that they’re

grounded forever? how many teenagers have responded that they’ll

never speak to them again?

Over. Forever. Never.

Such big words. So final.

So hollow.

We don’t really mean them. They’re just things you say when

you’re looking for a reaction. Begging for a response. The truth is, if Drew came to me tomorrow or next month, or six months from

now, and told me he’d made a mistake? That he wanted me back?

I’d take him back in a heartbeat.

So do you see now what I was saying before? I’m not a strong

woman.

I’m just really good at acting like one.

Drew’s voice is blunt. “Sounds good.” he toasts me with the

bottle. “have a rotten fucking life, Kate. And lock the door on

your way out—I don’t want any more interruptions.”

I want to tell you he hesitated. That there was a hint of regret

on his face or a shadow of sadness in his eyes. I would stay if there was.

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But his face is blank. Lifeless—like a dark-haired Ken doll.

And I want to scream. I want to shake him and slap him and

smash things. I want to, but I don’t. Because if you try and hit a brick wall? All you’ll get is a broken hand.

So I pick up my bag and lift my chin. And then I walk out the

door.

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The defining characteristic of a Type-A personality is having