Twisted

by Emma Chase

  Amelia grew up in California. Can’t you just picture it? Amelia the surfer chick—young and tan, lean and laid-back.

  When she was seventeen, she met a guy at the Santa Monica Pier—dark hair, chiseled arms, and eyes the color of jade. His name was Joey Martino. They had an instant “connection,” and like Juliet before her, Amelia fell fast and hard.

  Then it came time for Joey to move on, and he asked Amelia to come with him. Her mother told her if she walked out the door, she wouldn’t be allowed to walk back in.

  Ever.

  Amelia hugged her little sister good-bye and hopped on the back of Joey’s Harley. About six weeks later, they were passing through Greenville, Ohio.

  And Amelia realized she was pregnant.

  Joey took the news well, and Amelia was thrilled. Now they’d be a real family.

  But the next morning, all she woke up next to was a note. It read:

  It was fun.

  Sorry.

  Amelia never saw him again.

  Some kids need to get burned a few times before they stop playing with matches. But Amelia was never that kind of kid. One lesson was all she needed. From then on, she only dated a certain type of man—humble, simple—not smooth or flashy or arrogant. Guys who were nothing like Joey.

  Who were nothing like Drew.

  It’s why she doesn’t like him.

  No —that’s not quite right. It’s why Amelia doesn’t trust him.

  She took me aside that first Christmas, when she and my mother came up to visit. She told me to go slow, to watch myself with Drew.

  Because she’d seen his kind before.

  Anyway —story time’s over, kids.

  We’re here.

  Bob’s office is nice—a homey-looking brownstone with a real, live parking lot. Those are hard to come by in the city, in case you didn’t know. It’s a busy lot, shared with the building next door. Cars come and go and jockey for spaces.

  I kill the engine and grip the steering wheel. And take a deep breath.

  I can do this.

  I mean, really—it’s only the next eighteen years of my life, right?

  I get out of the car and stare at the small sign in the window of the building.

  ROBERTA CHANG

  GYNECOLOGY AND OBSTETRICS

  As I try to get my feet to move, two large hands come from behind me and cover my eyes. A familiar voice whispers in my ear, “Guess who?”

  I turn around, bursting at the seams. Living with someone, particularly during the college years, creates a bond born of shared experiences and precious memories.

  “Daniel!”

  Daniel Walker is a mammoth-sized guy. He and Arnold Schwarzenegger could totally be brothers. But don’t let that fool you. He’s like one of those Werther’s candies—hard on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside.

  He’s affectionate. Giving. Compassionate.

  During our junior year, a mouse decided to move into our ramshackle house. All of us voted to kill it—except Daniel. He constructed a trap with string, cardboard, and a stick that would have made the Little Rascals proud.

  And he actually caught the little bugger. We kept him. In a cage, kind of like a mascot. We named him Bud after our favorite beer.

  Daniel pulls me into a bear hug, picks me up, and spins me around. Then he sets me on my feet and kisses my cheek. “It’s so good to see you, Kate. You look great!”

  I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts. “Thanks, Daniel. You too. You haven’t changed a bit. How’s everything going?”

  “Can’t complain. Things are good—busy. I’m still interviewing at hospitals.”

  Daniel’s an anesthesiologist. Whenever they can, he and Bob work together. Like me and Drew.

  He goes on. “But Bobbie’s practice is booming, so I’m the gofer boy for now.” He holds up a bag of Chinese takeout.

  When the smell hits my stomach, it twists, letting me know it is not pleased. I swallow hard.

  He throws a heavy arm over my shoulders and we chat for a several minutes. About their move, about Delores and Billy. I tell him about Drew and how I want the four of us to get together for dinner.

  And then there’s a loud screech of rubber tires.

  We both turn and watch the taillights of a speeding car disappear out of the parking lot.

  Daniel shakes his head. “And I thought Philadelphia drivers were bad.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, no—New Yorkers have the monopoly on bad driving. And crazy baseball fans. Don’t wear your Phillies jersey here; it could end in bloodshed.”

  Daniel laughs and we head into the building.

  Well, it’s official.

  Life as I know it is over.

  I’m pregnant. Knocked up. The bun is in the oven and that bad boy is baking. I wasn’t really surprised. Just hoping I was wrong.

  According to Bobbie, my antibiotics were the culprit. They lower the effectiveness of birth control pills.

  So you see what I was saying about those pamphlets? Read ’em. Learn ’em. Live ’em.

  It’s too soon to do an ultrasound, so I have to come back in two weeks. And every day I also have to take prenatal vitamins that are big enough to choke a large elephant.

  Lucky me.

  I park my car in the garage, but I don’t go up to the apartment. One of the best parts of living in the city is that there’s always someplace that’s open, somewhere to walk to with people around.

  I head out onto the sidewalk and walk a few blocks, trying to clear my head. Trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

  If you’re wondering why I don’t sound happy, it’s because I’m not. You have to understand—I was never that girl. I didn’t play with baby dolls; I played with my parents’ cash register. When the other kids wanted to go to Toys “R” Us, I wanted to go to Staples.

  Even before my craving for financial independence began, my dreams revolved around office buildings and desks—not cradles and baby carriages. It’s not that I don’t want children. I just don’t want one now. Now was not part of the plan.

  And then there’s Drew. He loves me, I know. But pregnancy changes things. It means stretch marks and saggy boobs and sleepless nights. No more spontaneous vacations. No more sex marathons.

  He’s going to freak out. Definitely.

  I sit down on a bench and watch the cars drive by.

  Then a voice to my right grabs my attention.

  “Who’s a good boy? Andrew is! My sweet boy.”

  It’s a woman with soft blond curls and dark eyes, about my age. And she’s holding a doe-headed bundle of drool.

  Do you believe in signs? I don’t.

  But my grandmother did. She was an incredible woman—a respected archaeologist who did extensive study on the southern Native American tribes. I worshipped my grandma. She once told me that signs were all around us. Guides to point us in the right direction, toward our fate. Our destiny. That all we had to do was open our eyes and our hearts, and we would find our way.

  So I watch the young mother and her child. And then a man comes up to them.

  “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Damn meeting ran over.”

  I assume he’s her husband. He kisses her. Then he takes the bundle from her and holds it up over his head.

  “There’s my guy. Hey, buddy.”

  And his smile is so warm, so beautiful, it literally takes my breath away. The golden couple lean against each other tenderly, the baby between them, pulling them together like a magnet.

  I feel like a voyeur, but the moment is so precious I can’t look away.

  And that’s when it hits me. I’m not just pregnant. I’m having a baby. Drew and I made a baby. A whole new person.

  And an image appears in my head. So clear. So perfect.

  A dark-haired little boy, with Drew’s smart-ass smile and my sparkling personality. A part of each of us.

  The best parts.

  I think about the way Steven looked at Alexandra last night when they an
nounced the big news. I picture the way Drew watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. And the way he cuddled with Mackenzie when she fell asleep beside him on the couch. I remember how wonderful it feels to teach her to play the guitar.

  And how amazing it would be to teach a baby . . . everything. Drew would adore having a small someone to show things to—like how to play chess, and basketball.

  And how to curse in four different languages.

  Drew isn’t Joey Martino. His family means everything to him.

  I mean everything to him.

  And I’m having his baby. Oh my God. The pregnancy hormones must be on overload, because tears fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks. Happy tears.

  Because it’s going to be okay.

  Maybe I will have stretch marks, but this is New York—the plastic surgery capital of the world. And sure, there are things I want to accomplish professionally. And I will. Because Drew will be there to help me. To support me. Like he has since the day I met him.

  He’s going to be excited—like a kid getting an unexpected gift on Christmas morning. It’ll be a shock at first, but can’t you just see him? Elated. Overjoyed.

  “Excuse me, miss, are you all right?” I must be crying louder than I thought, because Baby-Daddy is looking at me with concern.

  I wipe at my cheeks, embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just . . .” I gaze at their child. “He’s just so beautiful. You’re all so beautiful.”

  I break down in a round of fresh sobs, and the mother takes a step back.

  Great. Now I’m the crazy lady on a bench.

  She asks, “Is there someone you need us to call?”

  I take a breath and pull myself together. And then I smile. “No. I’m all right. Really. It’s just . . . I’m having a baby.”

  There.

  I said it.

  Sure, I just said it to two perfect strangers, which is a little messed up, but still. Am I scared? Of course I am. But I’ve never run from a challenge in my life—why would I start now?

  “Well, congratulations, and good luck to you, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  The family turns and walks down the street together. As I watch them go, a store display to the right catches my eye. It’s a Yankee merchandise store, and in the window is a teeny-tiny T-shirt that says, FUTURE YANKEES PITCHER. And my excitement blooms like a flower in a rainforest.

  Because now I know just how I’m going to tell Drew.

  Chapter 6

  What do you know about ESP? Extrasensory Perception; the knowledge of an incident before it takes place. We all have a little bit of it—that other ninety percent of our brains we don’t use.

  It’s those times in the car when you think of a song you haven’t heard in years, and it’s the next one that comes on the radio. It’s those mornings when you picture an old friend and at dinnertime the phone rings, and it’s the friend you were thinking of.

  I was never a big believer in that sort of thing. But as the store clerk handed me my change for the tiny T-shirt, a ball of anxiety settled deep in my gut.

  And it wasn’t normal butterflies. It was urgent. Desperate unease, like when you realize you forgot to pay a credit card bill.

  I had to get to Drew. I had to talk to him—to tell him—and it had to be now. I walked quickly down the street. Well . . . as quickly as I could in three-inch heels.

  As every step carried me closer to our building, the worry increased exponentially.

  At the time I chalked it up to the news I was about to break. But looking back now, I think it was something else.

  Precognition.

  By the time I stood outside our apartment door, my knees were shaking and my palms were sweaty. Then I reached for the knob. . . .

  If you have a weak stomach? You may not want to watch this.

  It won’t be pretty.

  I step into the apartment. The lights are out. I put my keys on the table and take off my coat. I flick the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light.

  And that’s when I see him.

  Them.

  Drew is standing in the middle of our living room, his dress shirt unbuttoned, exposing the chest that I’ve traced my fingers over a thousand times. The warm, bronze skin I love to touch. He has a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand. And the other hand is hidden. Buried.

  In a mane of wavy auburn hair.

  She’s the opposite of me in every way. Thick red tresses, breasts the size of watermelons, perky in their fakeness. She’s tall—as tall as Drew—even without the stilettos. Her lips are red and lush, plump enough to make Angelina Jolie envious.

  And those plump red lips are moving against Drew’s mouth.

  Good kissers, really good kissers, don’t just use their lips. They utilize their entire body—their tongue, their hands, their hips.

  Drew is a good kisser.

  But I’ve never had the chance to observe him in action. I’ve never seen him kiss anyone. Because I’ve always been on the receiving end. The kissee.

  But that’s not the case now.

  I stand there—stunned. Watching. And though it’s only for a few seconds, it feels like forever. Like an eternity.

  In hell.

  Then Drew pulls back. And almost as if he knew I was here all along, his eyes find mine immediately. They’re hard. Merciless.

  And his voice is as cold as the steel of an outdoor gate in a snowstorm.

  “Look who’s home.”

  Lots of women imagine how they would react if they caught their boyfriend or husband cheating. What they would say. How strong they’d be.

  Righteous and indignant.

  But when it’s for real? When it’s not just pretend predictions? Those emotions are peculiarly absent.

  I’m numb inside.

  Dead.

  And my voice is nothing more than a whispered stutter.

  “What . . . what are you doing?”

  Drew shrugs. “Just having a little fun. I figured, why should you be the only one who gets to?”

  I hear the words, but I don’t understand them. My eyes squint and my head tilts, like a bewildered dog.

  Drew steps away from the redhead and takes a swig from the bottle. He flinches as he swallows.

  “You look confused, Kate. I’ll explain. The first rule of lying is always get the alibi straight. See—right now, Matthew and Delores are on a plane to Vegas. Matthew’s been planning the trip for weeks—a surprise second honeymoon. So I knew you were full of shit this afternoon. I just needed to see if you’d actually go through with it. So I followed you. Gotta love the GPS.”

  Last year, a woman named Kasey Dunkin disappeared after a night out with friends in the city. It was all over the news. The police were able to trace her cell to an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, and even though she’d been stabbed multiple times, she survived. Drew and I had the same kind of program installed on our phones the next day.

  “You followed me?”

  He followed me to Bob’s office. He knows where I went. Does that mean . . .

  “Yep. I know where you were. I know everything. I fucking saw you.”

  He knows. . . . Drew knows I’m pregnant.

  And obviously he’s not pleased.

  My voice rises as I speak, gaining momentum. “You know?” I point at the woman who’s watching us like we’re her own personal soap opera. “And this is how you react?”

  Drew looks confused. “Do you frigging even know me at all? How the fuck did you think I’d react?”

  I’ve seen Drew annoyed before.

  Thoughtless.

  Frustrated.

  But this is different.

  This is . . . cruel.

  He asks me, “You’re not even gonna try and deny it? Make me think I’m delusional?” For a moment his face crumples. And he looks . . . anguished—like a torture victim about to break his silence. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m wrong, Kate?”

  He blinks and the angui
shed look is gone. And I’m pretty sure I just imagined it.

  Wishful thinking.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “I won’t discuss this with you in front of an audience.”

  Drew’s jaw locks stubbornly. “Are you going to end it?”

  My feet move back away from him, all on their own.

  And my hand drops protectively to my abdomen.

  “What?”

  He repeats himself, impatient with my shock. “I said—are you going to fucking end it?”

  Politically, Drew is pro-choice. Despite his Catholic upbringing, he respects and loves the women in his family far too much to let some old man on Capitol Hill dictate what they can or can’t do with their bodies.

  But emotionally—morally—I’ve always thought he was prolife. So the fact that he’s standing here telling me to abort a child, our child, is just . . . incomprehensible.