by Emma Chase
He holds my gaze another moment, then shakes his head and raises his hands in surrender. “For the record? You two need buckets of therapy, like yesterday. Trust me, I know dysfunctional when I see it.”
I nod once. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
Drew scoffs, “Whatever.”
Delores stands up next to Billy and addresses Drew. “I’m gonna enjoy watching you try to claw your way out of the shit-filled septic tank you’ve dug for yourself. That’s going to be better than anything I can think of to do to you.” She adds as an afterthought, “And if it’s not . . . I’ll have to get really creative.”
Don’t be too disappointed in Dee’s lack of retribution. Like the true friend she is, she respects my choices, even if she doesn’t agree with them. She knows when to back off and let me handle things.
Or . . . she’s just biding her time.
Dee pulls me into a hug and says in my ear, “Don’t let him fuck his way out of this one. Multiple orgasms are just a Band-Aid, not a cure.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, Dee.”
She turns to Billy. “Come on. Let’s see if Amelia can stop doing the dirty with Sherriff Mitchell long enough to make us some dinner.”
Billy grimaces. “Way too soon to joke about that.”
They walk out the back door, leaving Drew and me on our own.
I run my hand up his bicep. “George isn’t the only one who’s glad to see you. In case I didn’t say it earlier . . . I’m really happy you’re here.”
Drew smiles tenderly and touches my cheek. “I know.”
We go upstairs to my room, and I close the door behind me. I walk around the bed and slip off my shoes, pushing them under. The shades are drawn, and I turn on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, dim glow.
“It may take some time for my mother to understand everything. She probably won’t be very nice to you in the meantime.”
Drew sits on the edge of the bed and shrugs. “I’m not concerned about your mother.”
“No?”
“She loves you. She’ll fall in line when she realizes I’m what you want. That I make you happy. Accomplishing that is really my only concern at the moment.”
We’re silent for a few seconds. I sit on the bed next to Drew, tucking my feet under my legs. Drew rubs his palms on his thighs. Thinking.
Then he speaks what’s obviously on his mind. “So . . . has Warren been here the whole time?”
Although Drew spoke with Billy before he came to find me at the park, I’m guessing his presence didn’t fully register until now.
“Billy came home to visit Amelia. He stopped by the restaurant a few days after I came home.”
“And you two have been . . . hanging out?”
I know where he’s going with this. Like an expert lawyer, setting up his cross-examination with a witness he’s trying to trip up. Laying the groundwork, building up to the question that will blow the case wide open.
I look down at my bed, unable to meet Drew’s eyes. Feeling guilty, even though technically, I shouldn’t.
Drew’s habits aren’t the only ones that die hard. Like always, procrastination is my friend.
“Is this a conversation you really want to have right now?” I ask him.
He chuckles harshly. “For the record? This isn’t a conversation I want to have ever. But it’s better to get all the shit out of the way now.” He shakes his head slightly. “What did you do, Kate?”
My head snaps up. And I feel insulted—defensive—at his implied accusation.
“What did I do? You’ve got some set of balls, asking me that question.”
He shrugs. “I think they’re pretty impressive, thanks. But my balls aren’t the topic of this particular discussion. Did you fuck him?”
“Did you fuck the stripper?”
“I asked you first.”
That brings me up short. And I’d probably laugh, if this all wasn’t so sad.
In a resigned voice I tell him, “No. No, I did not fuck Billy.”
Drew blows out his held breath. And his voice softens. “Me neither. I mean . . . not Warren . . . I didn’t fuck the stripper either.”
I stand up from the bed. “Did you want to?”
Given Drew’s past preference for variety, I think it’s a fair question. The way I see it, this was his chance to relive the days when diversity was his norm.
“Not even a little.”
He slips a finger into the belt of my jeans and pulls me between his open knees. His hands rest on my hips as he looks up at me. “Do you remember that awful chick flick you made me watch last year? The one with the guy from The Office?”
He’s talking about Crazy, Stupid, Love. I nod.
Drew continues, “And at the end, how he said ‘Even when I hated you, I loved you.’ ”
I nod again.
“It was like that. It was never about what I wanted—it was what I thought I had to do. It was always all about you. You were in my head, in my heart . . . even when you weren’t there anymore . . . you were still fucking there.”
There’s never going to be a good time to say it. Lying or not telling him isn’t a possibility.
“Billy and I kissed.”
His hands grip my hips tighter. The words hang in the air, like a heavy stench.
When he doesn’t respond, I insist, “It didn’t mean anything.”
Drew smirks bitterly. “Sure, it didn’t.”
“I was hurt. And confused. It was only a few seconds. And it wasn’t about desire or attraction. It was just . . . comfort.”
Drew moves me to the side and stands up. Then he starts to pace sharply. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight and contracted. “I told you this would happen. All this time, I fucking told you. That fuckface has just been waiting for the opportunity to sneak his way into your pants again.”
“It’s not like that, Drew. It was innocent.”
The image of Drew’s salacious kiss with the stripper slams to the forefront of my thoughts. And my anger is right behind it. “It wasn’t anything like what you did. What I had to watch you do.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better! I’m trying to explain what happened. So we can put it behind us and move on. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
The desperation in my voice must have gotten through to him. Because he stops pacing and looks at me for several moments.
His blue eyes show warring emotions of indignation and begrudging understanding. With the desire to give in to a fury that will serve no purpose—a fury that Drew must know he has no right to feel.
He blows out a breath and sits back on the bed. “Yes, that’s what I want.”
I smile sadly. “Me too.”
He doesn’t look at me, but stares straight at my bedroom door. “It was just a kiss?”
“Yes.”
“No second base? No sliding into third?”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
Tensely, he nods. “Okay . . . okay. That evens things out, I guess.” He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says firmly, “I don’t want you talking to him again. Ever.”
“Drew—”
“I mean it, Kate. I don’t want him calling the apartment or emailing you. I don’t want you meeting him for a goddamn lunch date or girls’ night out.” His eyes burn into mine as he pleads, “I want Billy Warren out of our life. Permanently.”
I close my eyes. Because I knew this was coming. And don’t think I don’t understand how Drew feels. Maybe you even agree with him.
But choosing between Billy and Drew isn’t an option. Maybe it’s selfish, but I need them both. Drew is my lover, the love of my life, the father of my child. But Billy is my best friend—right up there with Dee Dee.
“He’s my friend.” My expression is stoic, telling him without words that I won’t give in. Not about this, not this time.
His jaw clenches. “How can you ask me to do th
is? How can you fucking expect me to see him and watch you talk to him and not obliterate him?”
I take Drew’s hands in mine, holding them tight. “If you and I decided to not be together anymore, I still wouldn’t be with Billy again. Ever. And he wouldn’t want to be with me.
“And when I first came here, I believed you didn’t want this baby. And I didn’t think I could have it alone. Billy made me see that I could. And more importantly, he helped me realize that I wanted to.”
Drew turns away.
I cup his face in my hands and bring him back to me. “If Billy hadn’t been here for me, there’s an excellent chance I would’ve had an abortion before you came. Think about that. Think about what we would’ve lost, Drew. And that I never would have been able to forgive myself—or you. I owe him for that. We owe him for that.”
He closes his eyes tightly. I don’t really expect him to agree with me. It’s a hard pill for any man to swallow, especially a man like Drew. But he listened. And I can only hope that he’ll think about what I said and realize that my life—our life—is better with a friend like Billy in it.
The fact that he’s not actively disagreeing with me is enough for now.
He rubs his eyes wearily with the palms of his hands. When they drop, he asks me a question. And there’s despondent curiosity in every syllable. “Why didn’t you just tell me, Kate? When you first thought you could be pregnant. Why didn’t you say anything?”
It’s something you’ve been wondering about too, isn’t it? None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t kept my suspicions to myself.
“I was . . . stunned. Scared. I didn’t even know how I felt about the possibility of being pregnant and . . . I wasn’t sure how you would feel about it. I needed time to process it. To accept it. To—eventually—be excited about it. And I was. After my appointment with Bobbie, I was happy. I was coming home to tell you . . . but . . . it was too late.”
Drew tells me, “I tried so goddamn hard not to jump to conclusions. Again. When I saw a guy’s name in your calendar and then you lied about where you were going . . . I was really pissed. But then I cooled off and I thought, maybe it was good thing. Maybe you were going to buy me something, or plan a surprise.”
“And instead of asking me, or waiting to see what the surprise was, you followed me?”
“I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do something. And then I saw you, in the parking lot, looking so happy to see that son of a bitch. I never thought you’d cheat on me. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was right there in front of me.”
“My grandmother used to say, ‘Don’t believe anything you hear, and only half of what you see.’ ”
Drew snorts. “She was fucking genius.”
I’m willing to accept the part I played in the situation, but I don’t have a martyr complex. So I ask, “If you thought I was cheating on you, why couldn’t you react like a normal guy? Punch a wall or get drunk. Why do you have to come up with these diabolical schemes, like some super-villain from Batman?”
He shakes his head and touches my hair. “When I thought I saw what I saw . . . it was a nightmare. It was hell. Nothing God or Satan could ever dream up would come close to feeling as awful as that.”
“I can relate.”
“And I just wanted it to go away. The fucking crushing pain. Even for a little while. So, after I bought the bottle of Jack, I went to this gentlemen’s club me and the guys used to go to in the old days. She was just . . . there. And you know what they say—the best way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else.”
“Nobody says that, Drew.”
“Well, they should. Anyway, I got the idea that if you saw me with someone else, you’d realize what you were losing. And then you’d . . . stop . . . and come back to me. Plead for mercy. Beg my forgiveness. I had it all planned out.”
Dryly, I reply, “Yeah, that worked out well.”
“I said it was a plan—I didn’t say it was a good plan.”
He turns somber. “When you walked out . . . I went a little insane. I just couldn’t believe . . . that you didn’t pick me.” And he sounds so broken, so unlike the man I’ve lived with for two years.
Guilt- and grief-laden tears fall from my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Drew pulls me into his arms. His lips rest against my neck as he professes, “I’m so sorry, Kate.” Then he pulls back and wipes my cheeks. “Please don’t cry. I don’t want to make you cry ever again.”
I sniffle and rub the wetness from my eyes. “That first night, after dinner at your parents’, what would you have said if I’d told you then?”
A small smile tugs at his lips as he imagines the wonderful what-if. “I would’ve gone to the pharmacy, no matter what time it was, and I would’ve bought one of those home pregnancy tests. Or ten! And I would’ve sat at the table with you while you drank a gallon of water so we could use every frigging one.”
I chuckle tearily, because that sounds about right.
“And when they all came back positive, I would’ve lined them up and taken a picture with my phone so we could text it to your mom and my parents, Matthew, and Alexandra. And then I would’ve picked you up and carried you to the bedroom, and I would’ve spent the next few hours wearing us both out. But it would’ve been slow, gentle, because I probably would’ve been worried about hurting you. And then, after, when we were lying there . . . I would’ve told you I can’t wait for the next nine months to go by.” His beautiful blue eyes shine with tenderness and passion. “Because I just know we’ll make the best kind of babies.”
With a laugh, I brush his dark hair off his forehead. Then I lean forward and seal his sweet dream with a kiss.
And he asks me, “If I’d been alone in the apartment that night, what would you have said? How would you have told me?”
My eyes fill up with tears again, and I get up from the bed and take the tiny baby T-shirt from my dresser drawer. I hold it behind my back as I move to stand in front of Drew.
I say softly, “I would’ve sat you down and told you that when I started working at the firm, I never expected to meet someone like you. And that I never expected to fall in love with you. I really never expected you’d love me every bit as much in return. And then I would’ve said that the greatest things in life are the ones you never expected. And then I would’ve given you this.”
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 gonn
a 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 clusterfuck. 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.
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.”
