Twisted (12 page)

his glasses sit crookedly on his face as he holds up a tray. “Your mother’s swamped downstairs, but she thought you might like a

cup of tea.”

Running your own business isn’t as easy as it looks. Yeah, you’re

your own boss—but that means no calling out sick, no playing

hooky. And if an employee doesn’t show up? You’re the one who

has to pick up the slack.

George tries hard to help out with the diner. Last week my

mom had to drive Jose, the cook, to the hospital after he sliced his hand open chopping potatoes. And George tried to fill in for him.

No one was injured—but the fire department had to come to

put out flames, and the diner closed early because of the smoke.

Still, I guess it’s the thought that counts.

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I sit up and adjust the pillows behind me. “Tea would be great.

Thank you.”

he puts the tray on my nightstand and hands me a warm cup.

Then he wipes his hands on his pants nervously.

“May I sit?”

I take a sip and nod. And George plops down in the beanbag

chair beside my bed. he adjusts his glasses and wiggles around to

get comfy.

I almost smile.

Then he looks at me for a few seconds, trying to find a way to

start. I save him the trouble. “Mom told you, didn’t she?”

he nods solemnly. “Don’t be upset with her. She’s worried

about you, Kate. She needed to vent. I would never divulge your

personal information to anyone.” he taps his temple with one fin-

ger. “It’s in the vault.”

I actually manage to chuckle, because he reminds me so much

of his son, Steven.

And then my smile fades, because he reminds me so much of

Steven.

“John called me. Asking about you. I told him you were here.”

My eyes rise sharply. Questioning.

“I didn’t tell him why you were here—not exactly. I told

him you were worn out. Burnt out. It’s not uncommon in our

field.”

I don’t have a plan regarding the Evans. Technically, I’m car-

rying their grandchild, a part of their family. And even if their son feels otherwise, I have no doubt that Anne and John will want to

be a part of its life.

But I can’t think about that. Not yet.

George continues. “he’d like you to call him when you’re feel-

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ing up to it. And he wanted me to tell you that he unequivocally

rejects your resignation.”

My brow furrows. “Can he do that?”

George shrugs. “John does what John wants.”

Boy, does that sound familiar.

“he said he can’t afford to lose both of his best investment

bankers.”

Wait—
both
?

“What does that mean? has Drew not been going to work?”

A small, wishful flame flickers in my stomach. Maybe Drew

is just as devastated as I am. Maybe he’s gone into hibernation

again—like he did the last time.

George quickly douses my poor little flame. “No, no he’s been

there . . .”

Damn it.

“. . . twice, actually. And drunker than a longshoreman on

leave, from what I heard. When John asked him about your resig-

nation letter, Drew told him to mind his own business—in his own

colorful way, of course. Needless to say, his future at the firm is . . .

fluid . . . at the moment.”

I interpret this information the only way I can, considering

who Drew was keeping company with the last time I saw him.

“Wow. he must be having a really good time if he’s still drunk the morning after.”

George tilts his head to the side. “I wouldn’t quite look at it

that way, Kate.”

I clench my jaw stubbornly. And lie. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t

care anymore.”

There’s a moment of silence, and George stares at the pattern

on the teacup. Then he purses his lips. And his voice is hushed—

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reverent—like talking in church. “I don’t know how much Drew

told you about my Janey.”

Quite a lot, actually. Janey Reinhart was a wonderful woman—

kind, bright, warm.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer when Drew was ten and

fought it for four years. Drew told me the day she passed away was the day he realized that bad things really happen—and not just to

people you read about in the newspaper.

“When she died . . . I wanted to die too. And I would have,

if it wasn’t for Steven. Because that’s what children are, Kate. Life renewed.”

I know he means well. Really I do. But I can’t handle this.

I’m not ready to deal with the speech about how lucky I am to be

pregnant.

And alone.

“Still . . . it was . . . awful. For a long time, it was just one

terrible moment after the next. You know Steven has his mother’s

eyes. Looking at him is like looking at Janey. And there were some days—really bad days—that I almost hated him for it.”

I suck in a quick breath. This isn’t the pep talk I was expecting.

“But still, time marched on. And things became . . . bearable.

I gained a daughter-in-law and a beautiful granddaughter. And

eventually, it didn’t hurt to breathe.”

Tears creep into my eyes. Because I know what he’s saying. I

know that pain.

“But it wasn’t until I met your mother that the part of me that

died with Janey came back to life. That I was whole again.”

I rub my eyes dry and scoff, “So what are you telling me,

George? I’ll find another Drew again? It may just take fifteen years or so?”

Bitterness? Not attractive. Yeah—I know.

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George’s shakes his head slowly. “No, Kate. You’ll never find

another Drew. Just like I’ll never have another Janey, and your

mother will never have another Nate. But . . . what I’m trying to

tell you is . . . the heart heals. And life goes on . . . and brings you with it . . . even if you don’t want to go.”

I bite my bottom lip. And nod my head. I put the cup back on

the tray, ending the conversation. George pulls himself out of the beanbag chair and picks up the tray. he walks to the door, but he

turns back to me before he goes through it.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but . . .

I’ve known Drew his whole life. I watched him grow up with Mat-

thew and Steven and Alexandra. I’m not defending him; I have no

idea why he’s made the choices he has. But . . . I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Because one day he’s going to open his eyes and realize that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. And because I love him like a son . . . the pain he’s going to feel that day . . . well . . .

it breaks my heart.”

he’s right.

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t have the patience to feel sorry for Drew.

But I appreciate his effort. “I’m really glad you’re with my

mom, George. I’m . . . grateful that she has you. Thank you.”

he smiles warmly. “I’ll be close by. Just give a call if you need

anything.”

I nod. And he closes the door behind him.

I want to be moved by George’s words. Inspired. Motivated

to drag my ass out of this bed. But I’m just too . . . tired. So I lay back down, wrap myself up in my blanket cocoon, and go to sleep.

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On the third day, I rise again.

I don’t really have much of a choice anymore. Lying around

and breathing your own stench isn’t exactly effective in lifting

the spirits. Oh—and I’ve still been having morning sickness, like

clockwork, in the same bucket my mother used to put beside my

bed when I had a stomach virus.
Yummy.
Plus, I’m pretty sure if I squeeze my hair, I’ll have enough grease to cook up a large fry at McDonald’s.

Yeah—I’d say it’s time to get up.

I drag myself to the bathroom, my movements stiff and slow.

I take a long, hot shower—almost scalding. And the steam billows

out behind me as I walk back into my room.

My mom’s a saver. Not like the hoarders you see on that TLC

show, but she’s kept all the little mementos I didn’t take with me to college and beyond.

See them? On those freshly dusted shelves? Little League tro-

phies, science fair medals, and field day ribbons, next to framed

photos of Delores, Billy, and me at graduation and halloween and

Delores’s eighteenth birthday party.

I grab my bottle of body lotion out of my bag, but as the smell

hits me I freeze. Vanilla and lavender. Drew’s favorite scent. he

can’t get enough of it. Sometimes he drags his nose up my spine,

sniffing and tickling me.

My chest tightens. And I toss the bottle in the trash can.

Glancing back to my bag, I notice my cell phone. It had been

lying under the bottle of lotion, almost as if it were hiding on purpose.

It’s been off since the flight. I consider calling Delores, but

I quickly scrap that idea. Why ruin her vacation so she can rush

home to commit premeditated murder?

Okay—you’re right—I’m lying. I haven’t called Delores

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will change his mind. That he’ll find a way to fix this. And I won’t have to give my best friend a reason to hate him. Well . . . another reason.

I turn the phone on to find four messages waving back at me.

And there it is again.

Hope.
It’s becoming rather pathetic now, isn’t it?

I bite my lip and take a steadying breath. And I punch in my

code—praying to all the angels and saints that Drew’s voice comes

out of the speaker.

But of course it doesn’t.

“Kate? It’s Alexandra. I need you to call me right away.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Alexandra has a sixth sense

when it comes to Drew. Don’t get me wrong—she’s first in line

to hand him his ass when he screws up. But if she thinks he’s in

trouble? She swoops in like Batgirl on crack.

“Kate? Where are you and what the hell is going on with my

brother? Call me back.”

Drew and Alexandra are a lot alike. I wonder if it’s genetic.

Delayed gratification is not popular among the Evans offspring.

“Kate Brooks—don’t you dare ignore my phone calls! I don’t know
what happened between you and Drew, but you just can’t abandon
someone like this! Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? If these are your
true colors, then . . . then he’s better off without you!”

Neither, apparently, is emotional stability. I could say her

words don’t bother me—but I’d be lying. That last line hurt.

One more message to go.

“Kate . . . it’s Alexandra again . . .”

her voice is different. Less urgent and impatient.

Almost a whisper.

“. . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I’m just worried.

He won’t talk to me, Kate. He’s never not talked to me before. I don’t
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know what’s going on between you two . . . and I don’t need to know,
but . . . just . . . please come back? Whatever happened . . . wherever
you are . . . I know you two can work it out. You don’t have to call
me . . . just . . . please . . . please come home. He loves you Kate . . . so
much.”

I stare at the phone, breathing hard. Of course Drew won’t

talk to her. There’s no way in hell he’s going to look his pregnant sister in the eye and tell her he all but kicked me out because I’m pregnant too.

he’s a lot of things. Stupid isn’t one of them.

I throw the phone across the room out of self-preservation,

because I
want
to call. I
want
to go back. But apparently I do have some dignity left, even if it’s just a shred. Why should I extend

the olive branch? I’m not the one who burnt down the tree. John

knows where I am now. If Drew wants me, it won’t be hard for him

to find me.

I push my hands through my quickly drying hair and open my

closet door. And there, staring back at me, is my good, old waitress uniform—plaid skirt, lace top, white cowgirl hat.

It’s been ten years since I last wore it. I take out the hanger,

smiling. I had a lot of good times in this uniform.

Easy, uncomplicated times.

I put it on—like a bride trying on her wedding dress a year

after the wedding—just to see if it still fits. It does. And as I look at myself in the full-length mirror, I know just what I’m going to do next. Because routine is good. Any routine. Even an old one.

I may not have a plan for the rest of my life.

But at least I’ve got one for the rest of today.

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Feeling a lot less like a corpse than I have the last few days, I make my way toward the back stairs that lead to the break room. On the

second step, I overhear my mom and George talking below.

Brace yourselves, this one’s a doozy.

“Goddamn him! Who does he think he is? When Billy and Kate

broke up, I was relieved—a blind man could’ve seen that they had