Twisted(56)

I open my legs wider, nestling Drew between them. “It’s definitely make-up sex, maybe a little bit of take-a-break sex. And a whole lot of last-day-in-the-apartment sex. That’s a lot to cover—so it’s going to take a really, really long time.”

Drew smiles. And it’s his boyish, delighted smile—one of my favorites—that only comes out on very special occasions.

“I adore the way you think.”

And we don’t leave the bed for the rest of the day.





Epilogue


Eight months later


So . . . I’ve gone back to church. Every week. Sometimes twice a week.

Yeah—it’s me, Drew.

Long time no see. Miss me? Judging from the “I’d like to shove your dick in an automatic pencil sharpener” look on your face . . . I’m guessing that’s a no.

Still pissed, huh? Can’t say I blame you. It was a solid three weeks before I could look at my reflection in the mirror and not want to kick my own ass. In fact, one night I was out with the guys celebrating a massive deal Jack closed, and after one too many shots of J?ger, I begged Matthew to punch me in the nuts as hard as he could.

Because I couldn’t stop seeing the look on Kate’s face when she walked in the door that horrible night. It replayed in my head over and over, like one of those awful films on cable that’s constantly on, but no one ever watches.

Lucky for me, Matthew refused. Even luckier is that fact that Delores wasn’t with him, since I’m sure she would’ve been more than happy to oblige. Yeah—the list of asses I’ve had to kiss over the last few months is long. Assembly-line worthy. Kate, Delores, Carol, my father, Alexandra . . .

I stocked up on lip balm—didn’t want to chafe.

You’ve missed a lot. I’ll try and fill you in.



What do you know about rebuilding years? Every great baseball team has them. Hell, the Yankees have one every other year. The goal of a rebuilding year isn’t to win the World Series. It’s to develop your strengths, recognize your weaknesses. Make your team solid . . . strong.

That’s what those weeks were like for Kate and me after she moved the f*ck out. It didn’t take her long to find a new apartment. One bedroom, furnished, decent part of town. It was small . . . my sister called it quaint. If I was being objective, I’d say it was pretty nice.

But objectivity’s not exactly my strong suit, so it was a dump. I hated it—every square inch.

That first Monday when Kate and I returned to work wasn’t pleasant. My father hauled us into his office and sat us both down for The Lecture.

It’s a punishing technique he developed during my teen years, when he realized smacking me for my transgressions wasn’t as effective as it used to be. The old man’s a talker—Wendy Davis has got nothing on him—and he could go on for hours. There were times when I actually would’ve preferred him to hit me; it would’ve been so much easier.

The long verbal flogging he employed that particular day with me and Kate involved words like “disappointed” and “bad judgment,” “immaturity” and “self-reflection.”

In the end, he explained there were two great loves in his life—his family and our firm—and he wouldn’t allow one to cannibalize the other. So, if Kate or I ever let our personal lives affect our professional performance again, one or both of us would be looking for a different place of employment.

Overall, I thought it was pretty benevolent of him. If I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve fired my ass. Afterward, when we told him he was going to be a grandpa for the third time . . . Well, let’s just say that news went a long way to mending our fences.

Kate and I saw each other every day, at work and after. There were no sleepovers, but there were dates—dinners, shows, walks in Central Park, marathon telephone conversations that rivaled the yappiest teenaged girl’s. We talked a lot. Guess that was kind of the point.

Nothing was off limits. Everything was on the table. We talked about our insecurities—self-doubts are like weeds; if you don’t deal with them right away, they multiply. And before you know it, your garden looks like a jungle in Vietnam.

Kate accused me of using sex as a weapon and a security blanket. And I told her she freezes me out—she shuts down, so I have no way to know what she’s really thinking. Between the two of us, we had enough issues to fill a whole season of Dr. Phil.

Who knew?

Getting it all out in the open helped. I talked so much about my feelings, it’s a wonder I didn’t sprout tits.

You know when you’re cleaning your garage? And you have to gut it—dump out boxes of shit, clear the shelves—before you can put it all back together again? It was a lot like that.

We talked in-depth about what we’d been up to during our hiatus. And let me tell you—those conversations were about as fun as getting a goddamn colonoscopy.

Her tongue-tangle with Warren was dissected in the finest detail.

Was I mad?

Is kerosene f*cking flammable?

I wanted to put my hand through the wall—and his face. I still wanted to draw a line in the sand and tell Kate she was never talking to that son of a bitch again. Never seeing him again.

Ever.

But I didn’t. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, Douche Bag was there for her when I . . . wasn’t. He picked her up after I kicked her in the ribs with a steel-tipped boot. So in a weird, screwed up, the-universe-doesn’t-make-any-sense-at-all kind of way, he did me a favor. Plus, the * means a lot to Kate. And even though I want to be everything for her, I can’t bring myself to deny her something—someone—that makes her happy.