Twisted(22)

And that year, my father thought I was too good to play softball with the girls. That the boy’s league would be more of a challenge.

And I believed it. Because he believed it.

Because he believed in me.

Billy made fun of me; he said I was going to get my nose broken. Delores came to watch and paint her nails on the bleachers. I made the team. And when the season ended, I had the best pitching record in the whole league. My dad was so proud, he put my trophy next to the cash register at the diner and bragged to anyone who wanted to listen. And even to those who didn’t.

Three years later, he was gone.

And it was crippling because, like a blind person who at one time could see, I knew exactly what I was missing. I never played baseball again.

Then later, I met John Evans. He picked me—chose me—out of a thousand applicants. He nurtured my career. He was proud of every deal I closed, every success.

And for just a moment, I knew how it felt to have a father again.

And John brought me to Drew. And our lives intertwined, like ivy around a tree. You know how it is—his family became my family, and all that comes with it. Anne’s gentle admonishments, Alexandra’s protectiveness, Steven’s jokes, Matthew’s teasing . . . sweet Mackenzie.

And now I’ve lost all them too.

Because although I don’t think they’ll agree with what Drew has done, how he’s treated me, you know the saying: Blood is thicker than water. So in the end, no matter how distasteful they find Drew’s choices, they won’t be siding with me.

“Miss Brooks, your car’s outside. Are you ready?”

Before I fold the letter, I scribble two words under my signature. Two painfully inadequate words.

I’m sorry.

Then I force my legs to stand, and I hand Lou the addressed envelope. I walk toward the door.

From behind me, the elevator chimes. And I stop and turn to the big gold double doors.

I wait.

Hope.

Because this is how it always happens in the movies, isn’t it? Some Kind of Wonderful, Pretty in Pink, and every other John Hughes film I grew up watching. Just before the girl walks away or gets in the car, the guy comes sprinting down the street.

Chasing after her.

Calling her name.

Telling her he didn’t mean it. Not any of it.

And then they kiss. And the music plays and the credits roll.

That’s what I want right now. The happy ending that everyone knew was coming.

So I hold my breath. And the doors open.

You want to guess who’s in there? Go ahead—I’ll wait.

.

.

.

It’s empty.

And I feel my chest cave in on itself. My breaths come quick, panting through the pain—like when you twist an ankle. And my vision blurs as the elevator doors slowly close.

It seems so symbolic.

I guess I’ve got my own doors to close now, huh?

I wipe my eyes. And sniff. And I adjust the bag on my shoulder.

“Yeah, Lou. I’m ready now.”





Chapter 8


Asshole.

They say grief is a process. With stages.

Bastard.

And breakups are a lot like a death. The demise of the person you were, of the life you’d planned to have.

Cocksucker.

The first stage is shock. Numbness. Like one of those trees in a forest—after a fire has ripped through it—that are scorched and hollow, but somehow still standing.

Like someone forgot to tell them you’re supposed to lay down when you’re dead.

Dick toucher.

Care to hazard a guess what the second stage is?

Oh yeah—it’s anger.

What have you done for me lately—I’m better off without you; I never liked you anyway—anger.

Ear-f*cker. No, that’s lame. Eater-of-ass.

Better.

The alphabetical naughty name-calling? It’s a game Delores and I made up in college. To vent our frustration against the out-of-touch, stickup-the-ass professors who were giving us a hard time.

Feel free to jump in anytime. It’s cathartic.

And for some reason, a lot easier when you’re a high college student.

Fuckface.

Anyway—what was I saying? That’s right—anger.

Gooch.

Fury is good. Fire is fuel. Steam is power. And rage keeps you standing, when all you really want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor like a frightened armadillo.

Herniated Intestine.

Here’s a fact for you: Married men live seven to ten years longer than bachelors. Married women, on the other hand, die about eight years earlier than their single counterparts.

Are you shocked? Me neither.

Infected dick cheese.

Because men are parasites. The life-sucking variety from the rainforest that burrow up your genitalia, then lay eggs in your kidneys.

And Drew Evans is their leader.

Jerk-off.

The flight attendant asks me if I would like a complimentary beverage.

I’m on the plane. Did I not mention that?

I don’t take the drink; I’m trying to avoid the airplane bathroom. Too many memories there. Fun, sweet memories.

Kooch.

See—Drew doesn’t like to fly. He never came out and said it, never let it stop him, but I could tell.

Flying requires you to hand someone else the reins—to let go of the illusion of control. And we all know Drew has enough control issues to fill the Grand Canyon.