Tied(6)

I’m surprised. And aching. Like I got shot in the heart with a rock-size rubber bullet.

Kate throws the sheets off and moves to get out of bed. But I’m faster—Flash Gordon can eat my dust. Before her feet hit the floor, I’m in front of her, hands up. Remorseful and apologetic.

And naked.

When you’re trying to plead your case? Being naked doesn’t hurt.

“Kate . . . wait . . . just slow down. Back up a minute.” I grab for her wrist.

But she pulls away. “Stop touching me!”

Right—like that’s gonna happen.

But I don’t get a chance to tell her that. A dreaded sound echoes across the room and halts all action, grabbing our full attention. Because it’s coming from the baby monitor.

It’s a rustling, the sound of cotton rubbing cotton. Like snipers in the jungle, we don’t move a muscle. We don’t say a word. We wait. Until the rustling stops. And all is quiet again.

That was a warning sign—a shot across our bow. A “shut the hell up.”

We don’t have to be told twice.

What ensues next is a comical soundless argument only true parents will understand. It’s all mouthing and miming, facial expression and hand flailing. Until eventually, Kate flips me the finger.

Then I smile. And mouth, “Okay.”

I mean, if she’s ready for round two, who am I to deny her?

I tackle her. We roll around on the bed for a minute until I pin her down—sitting on her waist—trapping her hands over her head. The physical exertion defuses some of the tension, and Kate looks a little less devastated. When I’m sure she won’t try to escape, I grab the comforter and pull it over both of us, so we’re shielded in a conversation-muting cocoon.

I flop down on my side facing Kate, and in a half-whispered tone I get right to the point. “If the idea of strippers being part of the entertainment bothers you so much, why the hell did you say it was okay to have my bachelor party in Las Vegas?”

Strippers in Las Vegas are like corn in Iowa. They’re kind of what the city is known for.

Kate squirms. Then she sighs. “Because everyone was so excited about going to Las Vegas. I didn’t want to be the downer. Bachelor and bachelorette parties in Vegas are like . . . tradition, right?”

Not too long ago, sacrificing goats was a tradition too. Doesn’t make it a good idea.

“Not all traditions have to be followed. If you’re really that uncomfortable about it, I’ll tell the guys no. We’ll stick to gambling, cigars, and alcohol.”

She pauses a moment—thinking. “You would do that for me?”

I chuckle. Because by now, how can she not know? “Of course I would.”

Kate tucks her hands under her cheek. It makes her look young, vulnerable. My chest tightens with the desire to protect her. From anything—everything—that could cause her pain.

Including my own tongue.

“I don’t really care about the strippers, Drew.”

Now I’m confused. “Are you saying that because you really don’t care—or because you think that’s what I want you to say?”

I have to ask, because in my experience, women will tell you to do something and then slit your f*cking throat when you actually do it. Since you were supposed to know they didn’t really want you to do it. That they don’t really mean what they say.

Except for the times when they do.

It’s like an undiscovered form of schizophrenia. God gave you a mouth for a reason, ladies. Well . . . several reasons actually.

But the point is—use it. Be up-front. It’ll save us all a lot of time and energy.

“No—I’m being honest. Now that I know you don’t want to go to a strip club, it doesn’t bother me so much if you do.”

“Then why were you upset?”

“I think, deep down, I’m just . . . afraid.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

Ouch. Gotta say, that one kind of hurts. Like an old knee injury that acts up so infrequently, you almost forget it’s there. Until it reminds you. And you’re bedridden for a week.

Kate sees my expression and elaborates. “I’m afraid you’re going to do something . . . that you’re going to see something, or hear something, and that you’ll take it the wrong way. That there’ll be a misunderstanding, and you’ll react . . . badly.”

I rub my eyes. And sigh. “I thought we were past all that, Kate.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes. “We are past it. We forgave each other, and we’re so good now. But . . . you have to admit . . . there’s a pattern.”

Rose Kennedy once declared, “It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

Preaching to the choir, Rosie. Preaching to the choir . . .

My hand trails out and cups Kate’s cheek to reassure her. “I’m not that guy anymore, Kate.”

Okay, you’re right: deep down I am still that guy. But I’m smarter now. More. I’m a father. In a week, I’ll be a husband. And I would cut my dick off before I would ever hurt Kate like that again.

I’ve grown, God damn it.