by Emma Chase
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 fucking 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 asshole 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.
So, in light of my own behavior, I’m willing to give the jerk-off a pass. This time.
Of course, the next time I see him, all bets are off. If Dickweed gets on my nerves, I’ve got free rein to knock his teeth down his throat. And given his talent for annoyance, it’s pretty much guaranteed.
Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me you actually like the guy now? Jesus Christ, that Kool-Aid must be pretty tasty—everybody’s drinking it these days.
Anyway . . . next topic . . . you know I didn’t fuck the stripper. But what you don’t know is . . . it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Before you take my head off, let’s keep in mind that Kate had just ripped my heart out with her bare hands. She said she was leaving me, that we were done.
And I believed her.
Which brings me back to my opening statement. That’s right—church. The simple fact is, I owe God. Big time. And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking.
What do you know about erectile dysfunction? Limp dick syndrome. Failure to launch. It’s a condition every poor bastard with a cock is going to have to face at some point in his life. It’s horrifying. And like space rocks hitting the earth, it’s bound to happen eventually.
But for me, it’s only happened once. Want to guess when? That’s right—that terrible night. After Kate took off, the stripper did her little show for about fifteen minutes. Then she offered to take things up a notch—for us to get better acquainted on the couch, in the bedroom, from the dining-room chandelier.
But I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t happen. Because I was about as hard as a chewed wad of bubblegum.
Now, maybe I couldn’t get it up because I was devastated about Kate. Maybe it was because I’d consumed enough alcohol to kill a horse. But I prefer to think of it as an act of God.
A divine intervention to save me from my own stupidity.
And it worked. Because today, Kate and I are better than ever. And I’m pretty positive that wouldn’t be the case if I had actually fucked another woman. I don’t know if Kate could’ve forgiven me for that. I know I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.
After all that was out of way, we got to the good stuff. The making up. The winning her back. I was always awesome at that part, remember?
But I don’t like to repeat myself; it’s unimaginative. So this time there was no deluge of flowers. No balloon-filled office. No three-man bands.
There were, however, affectionate text messages. Small but meaningful gifts. Notes on her apartment door. Every time I thought of her when she wasn’t there, each time I missed the feeling of her lying beside me, I let her know it. Poetry may or may not have been involved.
And Kate wasn’t idle either. Despite her obvious joy over her independent living situation, she made it known she was lonely without me. She insisted we talk on the phone right before bed. More often than not, she’d end up nodding off while I was still on the other end, and I’d spend longer than I care to admit listening to her breathe.
Is that pitiful?
Screw it—I’m way beyond caring.
Kate also cooked dinner for us at her place three nights a week. Then we’d work together at her kitchen table, like two high school honors students cramming for finals.
But around week eight, I felt a grand gesture was called for. And I made my master move.
Have you ever seen Say Anything? Remember when John Cusack held that boom box over his head? I took a page from his book. But instead of a CD player, I stood on Kate’s sidewalk with a karaoke machine.
You remember how I feel about karaoke, don’t you? There’re lot of things I do well—singing isn’t one of them. But I sucked it up and belted out every pansy-ass love song I could come up with.
Matthew and Steven and Jack showed up and sat on the curb and heckled me, but I didn’t give a shit. Because the whole time I was singing, Kate was standing on her balcony, watching me, a small smile on her perfect lips.
And public humiliation goes a long way.
Because halfway through “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake, Kate came downstairs, took me by the hand, and led me inside her apartment. I flipped the guys the bird on the way in. And once we were there, Kate rode me like a warrior princess charging into battle.
What? You didn’t think we weren’t having sex, did you? Me, go two months without getting laid?
Why don’t you just pull my brain through my nose with a pair of pliers? I’m sure it would be less painful.
We’d been having sex. But like I said before, there were no overnighters. Which was kind of like eating a sundae without sprinkles. It’s still good, but there’s definitely something missing.
That night, however, changed everything. Because when I opened my eyes, it was morning, and Kate was already awake. Watching me. She traced my chest with her fingers and kissed me. And then she told me she was ready—she wanted us to move in together again.
That . . . was the second best day of my life.
We found a new apartment pretty fast. I’d been looking for a while and had it narrowed down to three choices.
It was important to Kate that we have a place that was “ours” in every sense of the word. For her, it represented a new start to our relationship. A symbol of whatever female empowerment she somehow thought she was lacking before. I’d always thought Kate was strong, independent—I never realized she didn’t think that.
The building is more than a hundred years old, with original moldings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and two balconies that overlook Central Park. Plus, Bon Jovi lives a few floors below us, which is cool. Kate is a big fan of his.
So, I think that covers it all. Did I leave anything out?
I’ve learned my lesson. For good this time. Seriously. If I come home and Kate is screwing some random guy in our bed? I won’t freak out—I won’t say a word.
I’ll just pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her to the nearest DNA lab to make sure it’s actually Kate, and not some evil long-lost twin hell-bent on wrecking our lives.
I’ll never doubt Kate again. Or us, for that matter.
St
ill don’t believe me?
That’s okay. Time will tell. And besides—Kate believes me. And that’s all that really fucking matters, isn’t it?
Now that you’re up to speed, I won’t bore you with anymore recaps. But the story’s not over yet. You can watch the rest of the action—live.
“I can’t eat another bite. I think my stomach’s going to rupture.”
“God, Matthew—another slice! How can you even?” Delores asks.
Matthew rubs his protruding belly, like a grandpa on Thanksgiving day. “It’s a gift.”
She rolls her eyes.
The gang’s all here. The guys came over to help me arrange the furniture in the nursery, and the girls tagged along to supervise. Solid cherrywood—that’s some heavy shit. Take my advice: go with imitation wood. It looks just as nice and is a hell of a lot easier to move.
Shamu stares at Matthew as he picks up his fifth slice of pizza. “Seriously, Matthew—you need to stop.”
Shamu? Oh, that’s Alexandra—new temporary nickname. Matthew and I came up with it a few weeks back when she made the unfortunate choice of wearing a one-piece black-and-white maternity bathing suit to the beach.
Don’t tell Steven, though. He’s got zero sense of humor when it comes to us ragging on my sister these days.
With his mouth full, Matthew tells her, “Don’t be jealous, Sham—just because you’re too puffed up to enjoy this fine delicacy.”
Uh-oh. Did you catch his slipup?
Alexandra sure did.
“What did you call me?”
“What?”
“Sham. You called me Sham. What the hell does Sham mean, Matthew?”
I’ve never seen someone lined up before a firing squad, but now I know just what they’d look like. Matthew chokes down his bite like he’s swallowing a brick. And his wide eyes turn to me for help.
You’re on your own, man. I’ve got a kid on the way. It’d be nice to have four functioning limbs when he’s born.
“I . . . ah . . . I’m coming down with Tourette’s.”
Delores looks confused. Alexandra’s eyes narrow.
“Asslickingturdballmotherfuckerbitch. See?”
Shamu turns away. “Whatever.”
Huh. That was disappointing. The pregnancy must be wearing her out. And speaking of pregnancy—Kate waddles into the room.
Her hair is long and shiny. It sways left to right as she moves. Her brow’s wrinkled tiredly, and one hand rests on her lower back to help support the immensity that is her front.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s adorably round. Like one of those Weebles I played with as a kid. She plops down on the couch next to me and puts her swollen Fred Flintstone–like feet on the coffee table.
“I’m so huge.”
I smile and put my hand on her firm mound, rubbing it like a bald head for good luck. Knowing there’s a real live baby in there, seeing him or her move beneath Kate’s skin, is pretty frigging amazing.
When there’s a Yankee game on, I talk to it—give him a play-by-play, like a seeing-eye sportscaster. And at night, when Kate is asleep, I balance the TV remote on her stomach just to watch the baby kick it off from the inside. Cool, right? In a weird Aliens kind of way, but still cool.
“You really are huge,” I say. “I think you’ve doubled in size since breakfast.”
The whole room goes eerily silent.
And Kate stares at my hand a second too long. “Excuse me . . . I have to . . . go . . .” She stands up and shuffles as quickly as she can down the hall.
Probably going to piss—she does that a lot lately.
Then Delores slaps me.
Smack.
In the fucking ear. “Ow!” I rub my stinging lobe.
Shamu lets out an exasperated sigh. “Could you give him one from me, Delores? I don’t think I can get up.”
Smack.
“Jesus! What the fuck?”
Alexandra’s all over me. “What are you thinking? You don’t tell a woman who’s three days from her due date that she’s huge!”
“I didn’t. She said it. I just agreed with her.”
“Delores.”
Smack.
“Christ almighty!”
If the ear-ringing is any indication, there’s an excellent chance I’ve just gone deaf.
“Kate knows I didn’t mean it like that.”
Delores crosses her arms smugly. “Sure she does, Dipshit. That’s why she’s in the bathroom crying her eyes out right now.”
I swallow hard and look down the hall. It’s possible that Delores is just screwing with me. It’s her favorite pastime these days, making me feel guilty for all the shit that Kate has already forgiven me for. Delores Warren is the Mickey Mantle of grudge holding.
Alexandra pulls herself from the couch. “And on that note—roll me home, Steven. As fun as it is to watch my little brother grovel, I’m too tired to really enjoy it at the moment.”
Delores and Matthew get up to go too, so the four of them can share a cab. Though I really don’t know how that’s going to work—Alexandra’s gonna need the entire backseat for herself.
I’ll keep that little observation to myself, however.
Besides, I have more important matters to deal with. Like finding my girlfriend.
I knock softly at the bathroom door. “Kate?”
There’s shuffling behind the door. “I’ll be right out.”
Shit. Her voice is stuffy. Wet. Delores wasn’t screwing with me. I reach up and grab the key from its spot on top of the molding. I unlock the door and open it slowly, and there she is. Standing in front of the mirror, with tear tracks staining her cheeks.
Kate turns to look at me and hiccups. Her tone is pitiful. Sad. “I don’t want to be fat.”
She covers her face with her hands and sobs into them.
I try to hold in the laugh. Really. But she looks so cute and miserable, I don’t quite pull it off. I wrap my arms around her from behind. “You’re not fat, Kate.”
Her voice is muffled by her hands. “Yes, I am. I couldn’t put my shoes on yesterday. Dee Dee had to help me because I couldn’t reach.”
This time I can’t help laughing out loud. I rest my chin on her shoulder and pull her hands down from her face. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “You’re pregnant—not fat.” I think for a moment and then add matter-of-factly, “Alexandra’s fat.”
Her damp eyes squint. “She’s pregnant.”
“Not in her thighs.”
Kate shakes her head. “You’re so mean.”
“I’m not trying to be. I’m just trying to point out the fact that you’re gorgeous.” I rub my hands up and down her narrow hips. “Sexy as hell.”
And I’m not bullshitting her. The midsection might be at maximum capacity, but her legs are slim. Toned. And she’s still sporting the sweetest, tightest ass this side of the Hudson River.
Sure, she’s hormonal and irrational half the time—but the other half of the time, she’s horny. Hornier then I’ve ever seen her. Plus—there’s the boobs. Can’t forget them. They’re almost as big as her head. So much fun.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Kate’s everyday breasts—but pregnancy tits are like India. You don’t have to stay forever, but it sure is exciting to visit.
Kate doubts my sincerity. “Sexy? Please. Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Drew.”
I smirk. “Trust me sweetheart—if I’m thinking about slipping something up your ass? It’s not gonna be smoke.”
She turns in my arms, unconvinced. “How could you ever think this”—she points to her body—“is sexy?”
I hesitate. And rub the back of my neck. “It might make you mad.”
“Risk it.”
I shrug. “Well . . . I did this to you.” A fact I’m sure she won’t let me forget, once we’re in the delivery room. “I made you like this—left my mark. That’s my kid you’re incubating. It’s like a big neon sign that says PROPERTY OF DREW EVANS. Call me a caveman, but that
’s a major frigging turn-on for me.”
She’s quiet for a minute, then looks down at our joined hands. “What if I can’t lose the weight after the baby’s born?”
“You will.”
“But what if I don’t?”
I shrug again. “Then I’ll become a chubby chaser. A little extra cushion for the pushin’ isn’t a bad thing.”
She rolls her eyes, but then she laughs. I cup her face with both hands and bring her lips to mine. The kiss starts off sweet and tender.
And then it’s . . . not.
Her teeth nip at my lips. Hard and urgent. Begging for more. And my legs tremble with the need to please her.
It still amazes me—the power she has. This tiny woman can bring me to my knees with a look . . . a sigh. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve been to the other side. I’ve seen what freedom has to offer.
Misery.
Bring on the fucking chains; I’ll take slavery any day.
Kate pulls back, eyes closed. Panting. “Drew . . . Drew, I need . . .”
I push the hair back from her face. “What, baby, tell me? What do you need?”
Her eyes open. “Do you want me, Drew?”
I suck on her bottom lip. And hiss, “Yes.”
“Show me. Make me feel it. Don’t think about the baby . . . just . . . fuck me . . . like before . . .”
Holy Mary Mother of God.
Okay, at the moment, Kate is . . . stretched. Delicate. Like a water balloon that’s been filled too much.
I’ve had to make conscious effort to take it easy with her in the sex department. Slow and gentle, despite some fantastically creative positions. But now, the things she’s saying—her voice—Christ, it’s all I can do not to bend her over the sink and fuck her till we both go blind.
“I want it hard . . . please, Drew . . . like we used to . . .”
Jesus, this is what a deranged gorilla must feel like, right after he’s escaped the zoo.
“Just . . . don’t look at me, if . . .”
Like a piece of dried tinder, I snap. I grab her arms tighter than I should and spin her around. My hand tangles in her hair, yanking her head back so I can assault her neck. And my raging hard-on grinds against her ass. Kate moans. My other hand slides up her stomach, gripping her breasts roughly. They overflow in my palm. And our mouths fuse together, tongues plunging, wrestling. I hook an arm under her knees and sweep her up, heading straight for the bedroom.
Kate pushes against my chest. “Wait, Drew—I’m too heavy. You’ll hurt yourself.”
If I wasn’t so aroused, I’d be pretty freaking insulted. I cut her off with
