“I haven’t . . . I haven’t had time to think about it.”
He laughs bitterly. “Well, you better start thinking, because until your little indiscretion is out of the picture? I don’t even want to fucking look at you—let alone discuss anything.”
His words hit me like a gust of wind on a cold day. The kind that leaves you breathless.
Drew isn’t Joey Martino.
He’s worse.
Because he wants me to choose. An ultimatum. Like he did with Billy.
And what the hell is he talking about—my indiscretion? Like I made it happen all by myself?
And then it sinks in—his anger. His vindictiveness. It starts to make sense.
“Do you think I planned this? That I did it on purpose?”
He smirks, and even a deaf person would be able to hear the sarcasm. “No—of course not. These things just happen sometimes, right? Even when you don’t mean them to.”
I open my mouth to argue, to explain, but the stripper’s giggle cuts me off. I glare at her. “Get out of my house before I put you out with the rest of the trash.”
In situations like this? Women can cut each other down faster than a tree dealer on Christmas Eve. But it’s not because we’re petty. Or catty.
It’s because it’s easier to go after a nameless woman than to admit that the true fault lies with the man who was supposed to love you. Who was supposed to be committed. Faithful.
And wasn’t.
She says, “Sorry, honey, you’re not paying for this show. I go where the money man tells me.”
Drew loops an arm around her waist and smiles proudly. “She’s not going anywhere. We’re just getting started.”
I find the strength to raise a brow. And try to land a shot of my own.
“Paying for it now, Drew? Isn’t that pathetic.”
He smirks. “Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart—I’ve been paying for it for the last two years too. You’ve just been slightly more expensive than the average whore.”
I should have known better. Arguing with Drew is like dealing with a terrorist. He has no boundaries; nothing’s off limits. There are no depths he won’t sink to to win.
Then he looks thoughtful.
“Although I must say, despite how everything’s turned out, you were money well spent. Especially that night, against the kitchen sink”—he winks—“worth every penny.”
I’m dying. Each horrible word cuts into me like a blade slicing skin. Can you see the blood? Oozing slowly with every atrocious syllable. Drawing it out, making it more painful than it ever needed to be.
You look surprised. You shouldn’t be.
Drew Evans doesn’t burn bridges. He sets dynamite to them. Decimating the bridge, the mountains it connects, and any other living thing unlucky enough to be within a fifty-mile radius.
Drew never does anything halfway. Why should destroying me be any different?
I turn to walk down the hall before I crumble in front of him like an Egyptian pyramid.
But he grabs my arm. “Where are you going, Kate? Stick around—maybe you can learn a new trick.”
You know how someone’s personality can make him more attractive? Like that kid in high school who, despite the lack of muscle tone and the case of mild acne, was able to run with the popular crowd? Because he told the funniest jokes and had the best stories.
I wish I could tell you it worked in reverse. I wish I could say that Drew’s words magically transformed his face into the monstrosity he sounds like.
But I can’t.
Look at him.
I imagine this is what Lucifer looked like when God tossed him out of heaven. Bitter and broken.
But still so achingly beautiful.
I pull my arm free. And my voice is high-pitched, almost hysterical. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever fucking touch me again!”
He smiles slowly, the very picture of serenity. He wipes his hand on his pants, like he just handled something dirty.
“That really won’t be a problem for me.”
I’m going to be sick. I’m going to throw up all over his black Bruno Magli shoes.
And it’s got nothing to do with the pregnancy.
I go down the hall, forcing myself to walk. Because I refuse to let Drew see me run from him.
I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
I drop to my knees and hold on to the toilet for dear life. A nail breaks and my knuckles turn white. My stomach contracts and I heave violently. Blood pounds in my ears and acid burns my throat.
I cough and I sob, but my eyes are dry. There are no tears.
Not yet. That part comes later.
How can he do this? He told me he wouldn’t . . . and I trusted him. When he said he loved me. When he promised he’d never hurt me.
I believed him.
We never talked about having kids. We never talked about not having them either. But if I had known he’d be this way, I would have been more careful. I would have . . .
God.
Listen to me. My boyfriend is in the living room with another woman on his lap, and I’m sitting here thinking of all the things I could have done to keep it from happening?
And I called Drew pathetic.
When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I pull myself up to the sink and look in the mirror. Splotchy cheeks and dull red-rimmed eyes stare back at me from a face I don’t recognize.
I douse my face with cold water, over and over. Drew may have ripped me apart—turned me into a quivering mass of shame and self-recrimination—but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let him see that.
I stumble to the bedroom, grab a duffel bag out of the closet, and blindly fill it with the first things my hands touch. I have to get away. From him. From everything that reminds me of him.
I know what you’re thinking. “Your career, everything you’ve worked for—you’re throwing it all away.”
And you’re right—I am. But none of that matters anymore. It’s like . . . like those poor people who jumped from the towers on September eleventh. They knew it wouldn’t save them, but the fire was too hot and they had to do something, anything, to get away from the pain.
I zip the bag shut and put it on my shoulder. Then I brace my hand against the door and I breathe. Once. Twice. Three times. I can do this. I just have to make it to the door. It’s only a dozen steps away.
I walk down the hall.
Drew is sitting on the couch, legs spread, eyes on the dancing woman swaying in front of him, the bottle of Jack beside him. I focus on his face. And for just a moment, I let myself remember.
Grieve.
I see his smile—that first night in the bar—so boyishly charming. I feel his lips, his touch, the first night we made love, here, in this apartment. All heat and need. I relive every tender word, every loving moment since then.
And I lock it all away.
In a box of steel, banished to the farthest corner of my mind. To be opened later. When I’m able to fall apart.
I step into the room and stop just a few feet from the couch. Redhead dances on, but I don’t look at her. My eyes never leave Drew’s face.
My voice is raw. Scratchy. But surprisingly resolute.
“I’m done. With you, with all of this. Don’t track me down a week from now and tell me you’re sorry. Do not call me and say you’ve changed your mind. We. Are. Over. And I never want to see you again.”
How many parents have told their teenagers that they’re grounded forever? How many teenagers have responded that they’ll never speak to them again?
Over. Forever. Never.
Such big words. So final.
So hollow.
We don’t really mean them. They’re just things you say when you’re looking for a reaction. Begging for a response. The truth is, if Drew came to me tomorrow or next month, or six months from now, and told me he’d made a mistake? That he wanted me back?
I’d take him back in a heartbeat.
So do you see now what I was saying before? I’m not a strong woman.
I’m just really good at acting like one.
Drew’s voice is blunt. “Sounds good.” He toasts me with the bottle. “Have a rotten fucking life, Kate. And lock the door on your way out—I don’t want any more interruptions.”
I want to tell you he hesitated. That there was a hint of regret on his face or a shadow of sadness in his eyes. I would stay if there was.
But his face is blank. Lifeless—like a dark-haired Ken doll.
And I want to scream. I want to shake him and slap him and smash things. I want to, but I don’t. Because if you try and hit a brick wall? All you’ll get is a broken hand.
So I pick up my bag and lift my chin. And then I walk out the door.
Chapter 7
The defining characteristic of a Type-A personality is having goals and having the strategies to achieve those goals. I’m most definitely a Type A.
Planning is my religion; the To-Do List is my bible.
But as I reach the middle of the lobby of the building that has been my home for the last two years, I freeze. Because for the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do next. No direction.
And it’s terrifying. It feels weightless—like an astronaut cut from his anchor, drifting out into space. Desolate. Doomed.
My life revolves around Drew. And I never thought I’d need a contingency plan.
My hands start to shake first, then my arms, my knees. My heartbeat spikes and I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating.
It’s the adrenaline. The fight-or-flight response is an amazing phenomenon. It’s action without thought—movement without permission from the brain.
And mine is in full swing. Every limb screams at me to move. To go. My body doesn’t care where, as long as it’s not here. Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.
The gingerbread man was lucky. He had someone chasing him.
“Miss Brooks?”
I don’t hear him at first. The sound of my own panic is too deafening—like a thousand bats in a sealed cave.
Then he touches my arm, grounding me, bringing me back down to earth. “Miss Brooks?”
The gray-haired gentleman with the concerned green eyes and dashing black cap?
That’s Lou, our doorman.
He’s a nice guy—married twenty-three years, with two daughters in college. Have you ever noticed that doormen are always named Lou, or Harry, or Sam? Like their name somehow predetermined their occupation?
“Can I get you anything?”
Can he get me anything?
A lobotomy would come in handy right about now. Nothing fancy—just an ice pick and a hammer, and I’ll be a happy member of the spotless mind club.
“Are you all right, Miss Brooks?”
You know that saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”
That’s a crock. Whoever said it didn’t know a fucking thing about love. Ignorance is better; it’s painless.
But to know perfection—to touch it, taste it, breathe it in every day—and then have it taken away? Loss is agony. And every inch of my skin aches with it.
“I need . . . I have to go.”
Yes, that was my voice. The dazed and confused version, like a casualty in some massive car wreck, who keeps telling anyone who’ll listen that the light was green.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end at all. He wrote it in the clouds for me, remember?
Forever.
Lou glances at the bag on my shoulder. “You mean to the airport? Are you late for a flight?”
His words echo in the bottomless pit that is now my mind. Airport . . . airport . . . airport . . . flight . . . flight . . . flight.
When Alzheimer’s patients start to lose their memories, it’s the newest ones that go first. The old ones—the address of the house they grew up in, their second-grade teacher’s name—those stick around, because they’re ingrained. So much a part of the person that the information is almost instinctual, like knowing how to swallow.
My instincts take over now. And I start to plan.
“Yes . . . yes, I need to get to the airport.”
You know anything about wolves? They’re pack animals. Familial.
Except when they’re injured.
If that happens, the wounded wolf sneaks off in the night alone, so as not to attract predators. And it goes back to the last cave the group occupied. Because it’s familiar. Safe. And it stays there to recover.
Or die.
“Lou?” He turns toward me from the doorway. “I need some paper and a pen. I have to send a letter. Could you mail it for me?”
New York City doormen don’t just open doors. They’re deliverymen, mailmen, bodyguards, and gofers.
“Of course, Miss Brooks.”
He hands me a clean sheet of paper and a high-end ballpoint pen. Then he goes outside to hail my cab. I sit down on the bench and write quickly. Any nine-year-old can tell you that’s the best way to rip off a Band-Aid.
Kind of feels like a suicide note. In a way, I guess it is.
For my career.
Mr. John Evans:
Due to unforeseen personal circumstances, I will no longer be able to fulfill the terms of my contract with Evans, Reinhart and Fisher. I hereby submit my resignation without notice.
Regretfully,
Katherine Brooks
It’s cold, I know. But professionalism is the only shield I have left.
You know, for a girl, there’s something special about a father’s approval. Maybe it’s some evolutionary leftover from the times when daughters were just property, to be bartered and sold to the highest bidder. Whatever the reason, a father’s endorsement is important—it carries more weight.
When I was ten, the Greenville Parks and Recreation Department had Little League tryouts. Without a son to pour his baseball dreams into, my dad spent his time teaching me the finer points of the game. I was a tomboy anyway, so it wasn’t hard.
And that year, my father thought I was too good to play softball with the girls. That the boy’s league would be more of a challenge.
And I believed it. Because he believed it.
Because he believed in me.
Billy made fun of me; he said I was going to get my nose broken. Delores came to watch and paint her nails on the bleachers. I made the team. And when the season ended, I had the best pitching record in the whole league. My dad was so proud, he put my trophy next to the cash register at the diner and bragged to anyone who wanted to listen. And even to those who didn’t.
Three years later, he was gone.
And it was crippling because, like a blind person who at one time could see, I knew exactly what I was missing. I never played baseball again.
Then later, I met John Evans. He picked me—chose me—out of a thousand applicants. He nurtured my career. He was proud of every deal I closed, every success.
And for just a moment, I knew how it felt to have a father again.
And John brought me to Drew. And our lives intertwined, like ivy around a tree. You know how it is—his family became my family, and all that comes with it. Anne’s gentle admonishments, Alexandra’s protectiveness, Steven’s jokes, Matthew’s teasing . . . sweet Mackenzie.
And now I’ve lost all them too.
Because although I don’t think they’ll agree with what Drew has done, how he’s treated me, you know the saying: Blood is thicker than water. So in the end, no matter how distasteful they find Drew’s choices, they won’t be siding with me.
“Miss Brooks, your car’s outside. Are you ready?”
Before I fold the letter, I scribble two words under my signature. Two painfully inadequate words.
I’m sorry.
Then I force my legs to stand, and I hand Lou the addressed envelope. I walk toward the door.
From behind me, the elevator chimes. And I stop and turn to the big gold double doors.
I wait.
Hope.
Because this is how it always happens in the movies, isn’t it? Some Kind of Wonderful, Pretty in Pink, and every other John Hughes film I grew up watching. Just before the girl walks away or gets in the car, the guy comes sprinting down the street.
Chasing after her.
Calling her name.
Telling her he didn’t mean it. Not any of it.
And then they kiss. And the music plays and the credits roll.
That’s what I want right now. The happy ending that everyone knew was coming.
So I hold my breath. And the doors open.
You want to guess who’s in there? Go ahead—I’ll wait.
.
.
.
It’s empty.
And I feel my chest cave in on itself. My breaths come quick, panting through the pain—like when you twist an ankle. And my vision blurs as the elevator doors