Twisted (25 page)

I stocked up on lip balm—didn’t want to chafe.

You’ve missed a lot. I’ll try and fill you in.

What do you know about rebuilding years? Every great base-

ball team has them. hell, the Yankees have one every other year.

The goal of a rebuilding year isn’t to win the World Series. It’s to develop your strengths, recognize your weaknesses. Make your

team solid . . . strong.

That’s what those weeks were like for Kate and me after she

moved the fuck out. It didn’t take her long to find a new apartment.

One bedroom, furnished, decent part of town. It was small . . . my sister called it quaint. If I was being objective, I’d say it was pretty nice.

But objectivity’s not exactly my strong suit, so it was a dump.

I hated it—every square inch.

That first Monday when Kate and I returned to work wasn’t

pleasant. My father hauled us into his office and sat us both down for The Lecture.

It’s a punishing technique he developed during my teen years,

when he realized smacking me for my transgressions wasn’t as effective as it used to be. The old man’s a talker—Wendy Davis has got

nothing on him—and he could go on for hours. There were times

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when I actually would’ve preferred him to hit me; it would’ve been so much easier.

The long verbal flogging he employed that particular day with

me and Kate involved words like “disappointed” and “bad judg-

ment,” “immaturity” and “self-reflection.”

In the end, he explained there were two great loves in his life—

his family and our firm—and he wouldn’t allow one to cannibalize

the other. So, if Kate or I ever let our personal lives affect our professional performance again, one or both of us would be looking

for a different place of employment.

Overall, I thought it was pretty benevolent of him. If I’d been

in his shoes, I would’ve fired my ass. Afterward, when we told him he was going to be a grandpa for the third time . . . Well, let’s just say that news went a long way to mending our fences.

Kate and I saw each other every day, at work and after. There

were no sleepovers, but there were dates—dinners, shows, walks in

Central Park, marathon 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.

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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 guar-

anteed.

Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me you actu-

ally
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.

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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 syn-

drome. 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.

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After all that was out of way, we got to the good stuff. The mak-

ing 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 feel-

ing 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.

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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 apart-

ment. 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 empow-

erment 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

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moldings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and two balconies that over-

look 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.

Still 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?” Dolores

asks.

Matthew rubs his protruding belly, like a grandpa on Thanks-

giving 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 super-

vise. Solid cherrywood—that’s some heavy shit. Take my advice:

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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.