Twisted(53)

She says, “You’re doing that wrong.”

Drew stops whisking and turns to my mother. “I am?”

She stands and takes the bowl from his hands. “Yes. If you stir too much, the pancakes will be heavy. Too thick. You need to mix it just enough to blend the ingredients.” She gives Drew a small smile. But it’s enough. “I’ll help you.”

Slowly, Drew smiles back. “That would be great. Thank you.”

Yep—cue the warm and fuzzy. My heart melts just a little. Because every girl wants her mother to see the good in the man she loves.

I breeze into the kitchen. “Morning.”

“Morning, honey. How are you feeling?” my mother asks.

“I’m good. Really good.”

I walk up to Drew, who kisses me softly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “What are you doing up? Didn’t you get my note?”

“I did. But I wanted to see what you were up to. How’s it going?”

He winks. “We’re getting there.”



We stay in Greenville for another day before taking a late-night flight back to New York. First thing Saturday morning, we step over the threshold together into our apartment.

I glance around the living room as Drew puts our bags in the corner. The apartment is freshly cleaned, sparkling, and smells of lemon-scented furniture polish. It looks exactly the same as when I walked out a week ago. Unchanged.

Practically reading my mind, Drew offers, “I had the cleaning people come by.”

I look down the hall toward the bathroom. “And the bonfire?”

We’d talked about Drew’s foray into pyromania. He said he’d burned a few pictures, but there are copies. Nothing was lost that can’t be replaced.

Kind of poetic, don’t you think?

Somberly, I tell him, “Drew, we need to talk.”

He regards me cautiously. “No conversation in the history of the world that started with that phrase has ever ended well. Why don’t we sit down.”

I sit on the couch. He takes the recliner and swivels to face me.

I get right to the point. “I want to move out.”

He rolls my words around in his head as I brace myself for the argument that I know is coming.

But he just nods slightly. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, of course.” He looks around the room. “I should have thought of this before. I mean, this is where your worst nightmare came true. Like the Amityville Horror house—who the hell would want to live there?”

He’s taking this much better than I thought. Until he continues, “My sister has a great real estate agent. I’ll call her right away. We can stay at the Waldorf if you want, until we find a new place. In this market, it shouldn’t take long.”

“No, Drew—I said I want to move out. Alone. I want to get my own apartment.”

His brow furrows. “Why would want to do that?”

You’re probably wondering the same thing. I’ve been thinking about it, planning it out in my head, since I decided I wanted to keep the baby, with or without Drew. Because there are different kinds of dependence. I’ve always wanted to be financially secure, and now I am. But I’ve never been emotionally independent. On my own. And at this point in my life, it’s something I want.

If only to prove to myself that I’m capable of it.

“I’ve never lived by myself. Did you know that?”

Still bewildered, he says, “O-kay?”

“First year of undergrad, I lived in the dorms. Then Dee, Billy, and I and a bunch of other people got a place off campus. After that, it was always me and Billy or me, Dee, and Billy sharing a house or an apartment. And then, I moved in here with you.”

Drew leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s your point, Kate?’

“My point is, I’ve never not had someone to come home to. I’ve never decorated or bought a piece of furniture without consulting someone. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve practically never slept alone.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I go on, “And . . . I think you made a valid point about us rushing into things. We went from a weekend hook-up to living together overnight.”

“And look how great that turned out! I know what I want, and I want you. There was no point in waiting, because—”

“But maybe there would’ve been a point in waiting, Drew. Maybe we would’ve had a stronger foundation to our relationship if we had just . . . dated . . . for a while before moving in together. Maybe, if we had gone slower, none of this would’ve happened.”

He’s annoyed. And a little panicked. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s there.

“You said you forgave me.”

“I have. But . . . I haven’t forgotten.”

He shakes his head. “That’s just chick-speak for you’re going to hang this shit over my head for the rest of our lives!”

He’s got a point. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that wants to drive the point home—that he can’t treat me any way he wants to. That there are consequences to his actions.

That if he ever screws up again, I can—and will—leave him.

But it’s not just about that.