Twisted(45)

It’s like an episode of Jerry Springer.

“How would that work exactly, Drew? A quick f*ck on our lunch break? A midnight booty call? No talking allowed—no questions asked?”

He looks ill. “If that’s what you want.”

And I’m so . . . disappointed. Disgusted.

With him.

“Go home, Drew. You’re wasting your time. I have no desire to play the field at this particular point in my life.”

That takes him by surprise. “But . . . why not? I thought . . .” He trails off. And then his eyes harden. “Is this about him? Are you seriously f*cking telling me he means that much to you?”

I don’t appreciate his tone. It’s derogatory, mocking. Did I say I was a butterfly before? Nope. I’m a f*cking lioness.

“He means everything to me.” I point my finger. “And I won’t let you make me feel bad about it.”

He flinches, like I’ve Tasered him with a stun gun. Five thousand volts straight to the chest. But then he recovers. And he folds his arms obstinately. Completely unapologetic. “I don’t care. It doesn’t frigging matter.”

If you fill a tire with too much air, push it past its limit, do you know happens?

It explodes.

“How can you say that! What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

He comes right back at me. “Are you serious? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Do you have some split-f*cking-personality disorder that I haven’t picked up on? Two years, Kate! For two goddamn years I’ve given you everything . . . and you . . . you’re just so f*cking eager to throw it away!”

“Don’t you dare say that! The last two years have meant everything to me!”

“Then act like it! Fucking Christ Almighty!”

“How am I supposed to act, Drew? What do you want from me?”

He yells, “I want any part of you that you’re willing to give me!”

We both fall quiet.

Breathing hard.

Staring each other down.

And his voice drops low. Defeated. “I’ll take anything, Kate. Just . . . don’t tell me it’s over. I won’t accept that.”

I fold my arms across my chest, and sarcasm crackles in the air like static. “You didn’t seem to have a problem accepting it when your tongue was down that stripper’s throat.”

“Hypocrisy really isn’t a good look for you, Kate. You gutted me. I think you deserved a taste of your own f*cked-up medicine.”

You see it all the time. In celebrity magazines, on TV. One minute, couples are all soul mates, never felt this way before, jump up and down on Oprah’s couch in love. And the next, they’re at each other’s throats—dragging out the lawyers to battle over money, or houses . . . or children. I always wondered how that happens.

Take a good look. This is how.

“Well, pat yourself on the back, Drew. You wanted to hurt me? You did. Feel better now?”

“Yeah, I’m thrilled. A regular happy camper. Can’t you tell?”

“Can you stop acting like a child for five minutes?”

“Depends. Can you stop acting like a heartless bitch?”

If he was close enough, I’d slap him. “I hate you!”

He smirks coldly. “Consider yourself lucky. I wish I could hate you—I prayed for it. To get you out of my system. But you’re still there, under my skin, like some fatal f*cking disease.”

Have you ever worked on one of those crossword puzzles in the newspaper? And you’re determined to finish it—you start off so sure that you can? But then it just gets too hard. Too exhausting. So you give up. You’re just . . . done.

I press a hand to my forehead. And even though I try to put up a strong front, my voice comes out small. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Drew. I don’t want to fight. We can go around and around like this all day, but it’s not gonna change a thing. I won’t have half a relationship with you. It’s nonnegotiable.”

“Bullshit! Everything is negotiable. It just depends on how far the parties are willing to bend.” And then he’s begging. “And I will, Kate—I’ll bend. Hate me all you f*cking want, but . . . don’t . . . leave me.”

And he sounds so despondent. Desperate. I have to stop myself from comforting him. From giving in, from saying yes. A few days ago, I would have. I would have jumped at the chance to eat his crumbs. To keep him in my life—any way I could.

But not today.

Because this isn’t just about me anymore. “I’m a package deal now. You have to want both of us.”

His fists flail in the air, searching for something to hit. “What the f*ck are you talking about?” he roars. “It’s like I’m stuck in some screwed-up Tim Burton movie, where nothing makes sense! None of this makes any f*cking sense!”

“I’m talking about the baby! I won’t bring a baby into a relationship where he’s not wanted! It’s not fair. It’s not right.”

I didn’t think it was possible for a person to be any paler than Drew was when he first got here, and still be alive. But I was wrong. Because his face just got whiter. About two shades.

“What baby? What are you . . .” He scrutinizes me, trying to see the answer before he asks, “Are you . . . pregnant?”