Twisted(23)

Right before takeoff, he’d get moody. Tense. And then, after the seat belt sign went off, he’d suggest a joint trip to the lavatory. To relieve some of that tension.

I could never say no.

The Mile High Club? I’m a gold member now.

Leaky discharge.

After the cart moves past me, I recline my seat back and close my eyes. And I think about what every scorned woman dreams of.

Payback.

Suffering.

Punishment.

Molester of Llamas.

Not that I’m going to go all Lorena Bobbitt on him. A woman’s most powerful weapon is guilt—much more lethal than a machete. So my revenge scenarios revolve around . . . death.

My death.

Sometimes it’s cancer; sometimes it’s childbirth. But in every one, Drew is banging on my deathbed door, begging to come in, to tell me how assholishly wrong he was.

How sorry he is.

But he’s always too late. I’m already gone. And that knowledge destroys him—leaves him wrecked. Ruined.

The guilt eats at him slowly, like a tooth in a glass of Coca-Cola.

Nutsack puller.

And he spends the rest of his life alone wearing black, like an eighty-year-old Italian grandma.

Orca fingerer.

I smile.

It’s such a nice thought.

Pillow-biting pansy.

That’s a double-word score.

Delores would be so proud.

Queef.

Oh, yeah—I went there.

Rim job.

You know, I think it’s better this way. No bullshit. If I look at the situation objectively, I’m better off this way.

Drew did me a favor.

Smegma eater.

Because even though he likes to play dress-up in Daddy’s big-boy suits? Emotionally, he’s an adolescent. A child.

Testicle licker.

The kind no one else likes to play with. Because when a game’s not going his way? He smashes the board to pieces.

Urinary tract infection.

And who needs that?

Not me. No, sir. I deserve more.

Vagina.

I’m going to get through this. I’m Kate Fucking Brooks.

I will succeed.

I will survive.

I will persevere.

Whoreboy.

Even if it’s just to spite him. Stubborn is my middle name.

X-tra absorbent maxipad.

I was fine before Drew, and I’ll be fine after him.

Just because I’ve never been alone doesn’t mean I can’t be.

I. Don’t. Need. Him.

Really.

Yeasty seepage.

Are you convinced?

Zithead.

Yeah.

Me neither.



I know what you’re thinking. Why? That’s the big question, isn’t it? The one Nancy Kerrigan made famous. The one everyone wants answered when tragedy strikes.

Why, why, why?

Human beings like explanations. We crave reasons, something to blame. The levees were too low, the driver was drunk, her skirt was too short—the list is endless.

The drive from Akron to Greenville takes about three hours. That’s a lot of time to drive. And think. And I spent the whole trip thinking about why.

If I had it to do all over again, I would have asked him. I wish I could say it was all some terrible mistake. A misunderstanding—like in Romeo and Juliet or West Side Story.

But really, what are the chances of that? If I had to guess, I’d say Drew just wasn’t ready to grow up—to take on that level of responsibility. Of commitment.

Look at my hand. Do you see a ring? That’s not an accident.

He’s a wonderful uncle to Mackenzie. Dedicated. Nurturing. The kind of man who would beat the hell out of another shopper for the last Tickle Me Elmo or Cabbage Patch Kids doll, two days before Christmas. He’d do anything for her.

But being a father is different. It’s all on you and yet nothing is ever about you again. And that’s the part I think Drew couldn’t handle.

Personally, I blame Anne and Alexandra. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good people, but . . . let me put it this way: Last summer, Alexandra had us all up to her parents’ country place for Mackenzie’s birthday. Drew and I got there late because we pulled over on a deserted road to make out.

By the way—car sex? It’s a wonderful thing. If you ever want to feel young and uninhibited, do it in the backseat. But I digress.

So there we are, hanging out by the pool, and I get up to grab a slice of pizza. But does Drew get up? Of course not. Because his mother has already heated him a crispy, fresh slice in the kitchen. And his sister brought it right to his lounge chair—with a cold beer.

Were his legs broken? Was he suffering from some early onset Parkinson’s disease that made it impossible for him to heat up his own food? Or—God forbid—eat it cold? No. That’s just the way they are with him, the way they’ve always been.

Coddling. Overindulgent.

And I can’t help but think that if Anne and Alexandra had let him get his own goddamn pizza once in a while, then maybe he would have taken the news better. Been more prepared.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Knowing why doesn’t change anything. So as I passed the WELCOME TO GREENVILLE sign, I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever ask why again. I wouldn’t waste the energy.

But you know something? God has a sick sense of humor.