Twisted(52)

I place the shirt in his hands. He unfolds it slowly, and as he reads the words, his lips curve into an elated, proud smile. His voice is rough with emotion as he says, “That’s really, really good.”

He sets the shirt aside. Then he pulls the covers back from the bed. He grasps the hem of my shirt and lifts it over my head. Undressing me, baring me to him. My jeans go next, and I stand before him in my beige lace bra and underwear. I unbutton his shirt slowly. My hands skim his shoulders and chest, reacquainting myself with the body I missed so much.

But there’s nothing sexual about it. When Drew is clad only in boxers, he turns the lamp off and we climb under the covers. I’m so looking forward to a good, deep sleep. Finally. I see the same weariness in Drew.

Emotional exhaustion can be more draining than any of those sixty-day insanity workout programs.

Drew lies on his back; my head rests against his chest. He kisses the top of my head as he smooths the hair down my back.

My voice is small as I ask, “Do you still think I’m perfect?”

“What do you mean?” he asks in a sleepy voice.

I lift my head to look at him. “You say it all the time. When we’re at work, when we’re making love—sometimes I don’t know if you even realize it. You tell me I’m perfect. After everything now, do you still think that?”

I know I’m actually far from perfect. No one is. But I’m not interested in reality—I just want to know if his opinion of me has changed. If in his eyes, I’m less than I was.

He touches my face, tracing my lips with his thumb. “I still think you’re perfect for me. Nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

I smile and lie back down. Then, with our limbs entwined, we fall asleep.





Chapter 17


When my eyes open the next morning, it’s early. Gray light seeps through the curtains, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.

And the space beside me is empty. I’m alone.

For one horrible, irrational moment, I think it was all a dream. Drew’s coming here to Greenville, our reconciliation—just a vivid delusion brought on by too many Lifetime television miniseries and Julie Garwood romance novels.

Then I see the note on the end table.

Don’t panic. Went downstairs to get coffee and breakfast. Be back ASAP. Stay in bed.

Relieved, I turn on my back and close my eyes. I know from experience that if I get up too quickly, the nausea will hit with a vengeance. I don’t mind the morning sickness so much anymore. Sure, no one enjoys heaving their intestines out, but in a weird way it’s reassuring. Like my body’s way of telling me we’re A-OK. All systems go.

Ten minutes later, I rise slowly and slip on my robe. Then I make my way downstairs, following the scent of fresh-brewing coffee.

Outside the rear kitchen entrance, I hear Drew’s voice. Instead of going in, I peek through the crack near the door hinge. Drew’s at the counter, whisking flour in a stainless steel mixing bowl. My mother sits stiffly at the table in the corner. Looking at bills, punishingly pushing the buttons on a large calculator. Her face is stern, angry—hell bent on ignoring the other person in the room.

I listen and watch, catching the end of Drew’s story. “And I said ‘Two million? I can’t bring my client that offer. Come back when you’re serious.’?”

He glances at my mother, but there’s no reaction. He goes back to whisking and says, “It’s like I was telling Kate a few weeks ago—some guys need to learn when they’re beaten.”

My mother slaps a bill on the table and picks up the next one in the pile.

Drew sighs. Then he puts the bowl on the counter and sits down across from my mother. She doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

He thinks for a moment, rubbing his knuckles against the scruff of his chin. Then he leans toward my mother and says, “I love your daughter, Carol. Like . . . I’d-take-a-bullet-for-her kind of love.”

My mother snorts.

Drew nods. “Yeah, I get it. That probably doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot to you. But . . . it’s true. I can’t promise that I won’t screw up again. But if I do, it won’t be as epic as my most recent clusterf*ck. And I can promise I’ll do everything I can after to make it up to Kate . . . to make it right.”

My mother continues to stare at the bill in her hand like it has the cure for cancer on it.

Drew sits back, gazes toward the window, and smiles a little. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be my father. He wore these awesome suits and he went to work at the top of a huge building. And he always had everything together, like the whole world was at his fingertips. When I met Kate . . . no . . . when I realized Kate was it for me, all I wanted to be was the guy who made her happy. Who surprised her, made her smile.”

For the first time, my mother looks at Drew. He returns her stare and tells her in a determined voice, “I still want to be that guy, Carol. I still think I can be. And I hope, one day, you’ll think that too.”

After a moment, Drew stands and goes back to making breakfast at the counter.

I wait, watching, as my mother continues to sit at the table, silent and unmoving. Isn’t that what every parent wants to hear? That the singular goal of the person their child loves is to make them happy? I can’t believe she’s not moved by Drew’s words.