by Emma Chase
“Have you ever fucked her?”
Drew rubs the back of his neck. “You really want me to answer that?”
That’s a big fat yes, in case you were wondering.
I throw my hands up. “Of course! Of course you screwed her—because God forbid we go one day without seeing someone that your dick isn’t intimately acquainted with! Not that you even remember them half the time.”
Drew’s eyes narrow. “So which is it? Are you pissed off when I do remember them, or when I don’t? Throw me a clue here, Kate, so I can give you the fight you’re obviously hell-bent on having.”
I pick up my body lotion and rub it swiftly over my arms. “I don’t want to fight—I just want to know why you remember her.”
Drew shrugs, and his tone turns neutral. “She’s a model. Her billboard’s in the middle of Times Square. It’s a little hard to forget someone when you see her picture every day.”
And doesn’t that just make me feel so much better.
“How nice for you. Why are you even here then? Why don’t you go back and find your little model, if she means so much to you?”
A small part of me realizes I’m being irrational, but my anger is like a mudslide—now that it’s started, there’s just no way to hold it back.
Drew looks at me like I’ve gone crazy and holds out his hand. “She doesn’t mean anything to me. You know that. Where the fuck is this coming from?”
And then a thought occurs to him.
He takes a step back before asking, “Are you due for your period? Don’t freak out—I’m only asking because, the way you’ve been acting lately, I think Alexandra’s title is in jeopardy.”
He could have a point. In high school, there was this hallway, the L wing, that was always really crowded between classes. And I knew my period was coming when I’d walk down that hallway and want to jab my pencil into the neck of the person in front of me.
However—for you guys out there? Even if your girlfriend’s tirade is PMS derived? Don’t point that out to her. It won’t end well for you.
I pick up my shoe and throw it, hitting Drew right between his bright blue eyes.
His hands go to his forehead. “What the shit?! I told you not to freak out!”
Every relationship has a screamer. A thrower. A breaker of things. In this one, that would be me. But it’s not my fault. You can’t blame the nuclear missile for going off after all its buttons have been pushed.
I pick up the other shoe and throw that one too. Drew grabs a pillow and uses it as a shield. I retreat to the closet for more ammo, but he grabs my arm before I can get there.
“Would you fucking stop! Why are you being like this?”
I glare up at him. “Because you don’t even care! I’m really upset here—and you don’t give a shit!”
His eyes open wide, incredulous.
“Of course I give a shit—I’m the one getting Jimmy Choos thrown at my head like Chinese freaking stars!”
“If you care so much, why don’t you apologize?!”
“Because I didn’t fucking do anything! I have no problem crawling on my hands and knees when I screw up. But if you think I’m gonna beg because you’ve been possessed by the Hormone Demon, you’re out of your mind, sweetheart.”
I break out of his hold and push him on the chest with both hands. “Fine. That’s fine, Drew. I don’t care what you do anymore.” I grab a blanket and pillow and shove them at him. “But you’re sure as shit not sleeping next to me after you do it. Get out!”
He looks down at the linens. Then back at me. And his face relaxes, turning calm.
Too calm—like the kind before a storm.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He throws himself on the bed, spreading his arms and legs wide like a kid making a snow angel.
“I happen to like this bed. It’s comfy. Cozy. I’ve made some great memories here. And this is the only place I’m sleeping.”
There’s no point in arguing when Drew gets like this—willful and childish. Sometimes I actually expect him to hold his breath until he gets his way.
I whip the pillow out from under his head, leaving him flat on the mattress, looking up at me.
His brow furrows. “What are you doing?”
I shrug. “I said I’m not sleeping with you. So if you won’t take the couch, I will.”
He sits up. “This is frigging insane, Kate—tell me you realize that. We’re fighting over nothing!”
My voice rises. “So now my feelings mean nothing?”
“I didn’t fucking say that!”
I point a finger at him. “You said we’re fighting over nothing, and we’re fighting about how you made me feel—so that means you think my feelings are nothing!”
His mouth opens, like a fish searching for oxygen.
“You lost me. I have no idea what you just said.”
I close my eyes. And just like that, my anger deflates.
Hurt fills me instead.
“Forget it, Drew.”
As I walk down the hall, his voice follows me.
“What the fuck just happened?”
I’m too tired to try and explain it anymore. Usually when we argue, I have a hard time falling asleep. I’m too charged up with adrenaline, with passion.
But that’s not a problem tonight. I’m out like a narcoleptic as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Sometime later—could be three minutes or three hours—a warm, hard chest presses against my back, waking me up. I feel his hand on my stomach. He presses his face into my hair and inhales.
“I’m sorry.”
See, boys, that’s all you have to do. Those really are the magic words—capable of overcoming any obstacle.
Even PMS.
I turn in his arms, and look into his eyes. “What are you sorry for?”
Drew’s face goes blank, searching for the correct answer. Then he smirks. “Anything you want me to be sorry for.”
I laugh, but my words are sincere. “No. I’m sorry. You were right—I was just being a bitch. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m definitely premenstrual.”
He kisses my forehead. “It’s not your fault. I totally blame Eve.”
I kiss his lips softly. And then his neck. I trail a path across his chest, moving around his pecs, suddenly awake with the urge to please him. I look up at him. “You want me to make it up to you?”
His fingers trace what I’m sure are dark circles under my eyes.
“You’re exhausted. How about you make it up to me in the morning?”
I pull myself closer and rest my cheek against his skin. I close my eyes, ready to go back to sleep.
Until Drew’s voice breaks the silence.
“Unless . . . you know . . . you really want to make it up to me now. Because if you do, far be it from me to—”
I laugh out loud, cutting off his words as I duck my head under the covers, slowly traveling downward to make it up to him.
In his most favorite way.
Chapter 3
Two days later, we’re having breakfast at the kitchen table. Drew likes to exercise in the evening after work, to decompress and release the stress of the day. I, however, am one of those highly annoying people who love to go for a five a.m. run. Breakfast is where we meet in the middle. After which, Drew goes to the office and I shower.
“You know what I love about Cookie Crisp cereal?” He’s staring at his spoon.
I’ve never seen one person ingest so much cereal. I swear, if I didn’t cook, it’s all he would eat.
I swallow a mouthful of yogurt—Dannon Light & Fit. The commercials don’t lie; it’s really delicious. Strawberry banana is the best.
“What’s that?”
“It’s shaped like cookies. So, not only is it awesome, but I feel like I’m getting revenge on my parents for making me eat frigging oatmeal the first half of my life.”
A poet and a philosopher, Drew is truly a Renaissance man.
I open my mouth to
tease him, but I snap it shut as a wave of nausea strikes like a lightning bolt. I clear my throat and bring the back of my hand to my lips.
“Kate? You okay?”
As I try to answer, my stomach does a somersault that would make Nadia Comăneci jealous.
I’m going to throw up.
I hate throwing up.
It makes me feel claustrophobic. Suffocated.
To this day, when I have a stomach virus, I sit on the phone with my mommy while she talks me through the heaves.
I’m not going to make it to the bathroom, so I lunge for the kitchen sink. As I splatter my breakfast into it, Drew holds back the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail.
I want to tell him to go away, but another round of retching commences. Some women have no problem going to the bathroom, passing gas, or throwing up in front of their boyfriends.
I’m not one of them.
Maybe it’s stupid, but if I were to die suddenly, I don’t want the last image Drew has of me to be one where I’m sitting on the toilet.
Or in this case, barfing in the sink.
His voice is kind. Soothing. “Okay . . . easy. You’re okay.”
When it seems like the worst is over, Drew hands me a wet paper towel. Then he glances toward the drain. “Well, that’s colorful.”
I croak, “Ugh—I knew I was getting the flu.”
“Seems like it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have time be sick. I have the Robinson meeting today.” Anne Robinson is a client I’ve been courting for months. Old money—and I stress the word old. She’s like, ninety-five. If I don’t sign her today, it might literally be too late to sign her at all.
“You’re sick, baby. And I don’t think Mrs. Robinson will be impressed if you yak all over her antique brooch. Lucky for you, you have a genius boyfriend who performs exceedingly well in clutch situations. Give me the folder—I’ll run the meeting. Annie’s as good as yours.”
He scoops me up in his arms.
“Drew, no—”
He cuts me off. “Nope. No bitching. Don’t want to hear it. I’m putting you to bed.”
I smile weakly.
Drew tucks me in and leaves a glass of ginger ale on the nightstand.
I think he kisses my forehead, but I can’t be sure. Because I’m already drifting off to sleep.
Three hours later, I walk out of the elevator onto the 40th floor of our office building.
My stomach’s empty, but after a good nap, I woke up feeling better. Refreshed. Ready to take on the world and Anne Robinson. I walk to the small conference room and peer through the glass.
Can you see Drew? Sitting next to the little gray-haired lady in the wheelchair? While he’s speaking to the legal representation seated around the table, Mrs. Robinson’s hands disappear under it.
And a second later Drew flinches, like he’s been given an electric shock.
Old women have a thing for Drew.
It’s completely hilarious.
He gives Mrs. Robinson a harsh look. She just wiggles her eyebrows. Then he rolls his eyes before looking away, spotting me in the process.
Drew excuses himself and comes out into the hall, relief shining on his face like a beacon. “For the love of all that is holy—thank God you’re here.”
My lips slide into a smirk. “I don’t know; Mrs. Robinson seems to be enjoying your company.”
“Yeah—if she tries enjoying it any more, I’m going to staple her hands to the conference table.”
Then he looks me over, concerned. “Don’t think I’m not over-fucking-joyed to see you, ’cause I am. But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in bed.”
I shrug. “Must’ve been a three-hour bug. I feel fine now.”
Drew cups my cheek and palms my forehead, feeling for a fever. “You sure?”
“Yep. Right as rain.”
He nods, but his eyes are suspicious, not totally convinced. “All right. Oh—we’re supposed to have dinner at my parents’ tonight. Think you’ll be up for it, or do you want me to cancel?”
Dinner at the Evanses’ is always an interesting affair.
“I should be good to go.”
He hands me the Robinson folder. “Okay. Your investment strategies got them all quivery. They’re wet and spread-eagled, just waiting for you to nail them.”
His imagery is slightly disturbing.
“That’s gross, Drew.”
He’s unperturbed. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.” Then he kisses me quickly. “Go get ’em, killer.”
He walks away and I head into the conference room to seal the deal.
So you’re starting to get it now, aren’t you? The problem, the big picture? I know it’s taking a while, but we’re getting there.
Enjoy the good times while you can—they won’t be lasting much longer.
The reason I’m showing you all this, is so you’ll understand why I was so shocked. How accidental—unintended—it all really was.
I guess life is like that.
You think you have it all under control. Your path so perfectly mapped out. And then one day you’re driving along and bam! You get rammed from behind on the freeway.
And you never saw it coming.
People are like that too. Unpredictable.
No matter how well you think you know somebody? How confident you are of their feelings, their reactions? They can still surprise you.
And in the most devastating of ways.
Chapter 4
Visiting with Drew’s family is never boring. Coming from a single-child home, I found the family gatherings a little overwhelming at first. But now I’m used to it.
Drew and I arrive last.
Frank Fisher—Matthew’s father—and John Evans stand by the wet bar in the corner, trading stock quotes. Delores is perched on the arm of the recliner beside Matthew, watching the football game, while Drew’s sister, Alexandra, aka “The Bitch,” and her husband, Steven, sit on the couch.
Mackenzie, Drew’s niece, sits on the floor. She’s changed since the last time you saw her. She’s six years old now, her hair is longer, her face a little thinner—more girlish, less toddler, but still adorable. She’s playing with a gaggle of dolls and miniature nursery accessories.
Drew’s mother, Anne, and Matthew’s mom, Estelle, are most likely in the kitchen. And if you’re wondering where Steven’s widowed father, George Reinhart, is, we won’t be seeing him until later.
As we walk into the room, Steven greets us and offers us both a drink.
We settle on the love seat, drinks in hand, and watch the game.
Mackenzie pushes a button on one of her dolls, and an animatronic voice fills the room. “No, no, no! No, no, no!”
Mackenzie’s head tilts as she looks at the annoying doll. “I think you’re wrong, Daddy. No-No Nancy doesn’t sound like Momma at all.”
The comment gets Alexandra’s attention. “What do you mean, Mackenzie?”
Behind his wife’s shoulder, Steven shakes his head at his daughter, but unfortunately for him, she doesn’t get the message.
Instead she explains, “The other day, when you were out, Daddy said No-No Nancy sounds just like you. But instead of no, you say, ‘Nag, nag, nag.’ ” All heads turn to Alexandra, watching her like a ticking time bomb counting down to zero.
Steven tries valiantly to defuse her. He smiles and teases, “You have to admit, honey, the resemblance is uncanny. . . .”
Alexandra punches him in the arm. But he tightens his bicep before she makes contact, absorbing the blow. She punches him again, less playfully.
Steven just boasts, “You can’t dent steel, babe. Be careful—don’t want to hurt your hand on the gun.”
Faster than a speeding bullet, Alexandra’s fingers lash out and pinch the tender flesh on the back of his tricep, bringing him to his knees.
Drew grimaces and rubs the back of his own arm in sympathy. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
Alexandra�
�s voice is firm. And final. “I don’t nag. I’m a kind, nurturing, supportive wife, and if you would just do what you’re supposed to, I’d never have to say anything at all!”
He yelps, “Yes, dear.”
She releases his arm and stands. “I’m going to help my mother in the kitchen.”
After she leaves, Mackenzie looks down at the chastising doll thoughtfully, then up at her father. “Actually, you’re right, Daddy. Momma really does sound like Nancy.”
Steven puts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”
A while later, Drew, Matthew, Delores, and I are in the den for Mackenzie’s guitar lesson.
I’m teaching her to play. I was five when my father taught me. He told me music was like a secret code, a magical language that would always be there for me. To comfort me when I was sad, to help me celebrate when I was happy.
And he was right.
It’s a lesson I’ve treasured my entire life. A small piece of him that I was able to hold on to after he was gone. And I’m thrilled to be able to pass that knowledge on to Mackenzie.
She’s playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” right now.
