Twisted

slowly close.

It seems so symbolic.

I guess I’ve got my own doors to close now, huh?

I wipe my eyes. And sniff. And I adjust the bag on my shoulder.

“Yeah, Lou. I’m ready now.”





Chapter 8


Asshole.

They say grief is a process. With stages.

Bastard.

And breakups are a lot like a death. The demise of the person you were, of the life you’d planned to have.

Cocksucker.

The first stage is shock. Numbness. Like one of those trees in a forest—after a fire has ripped through it—that are scorched and hollow, but somehow still standing.

Like someone forgot to tell them you’re supposed to lay down when you’re dead.

Dick toucher.

Care to hazard a guess what the second stage is?

Oh yeah—it’s anger.

What have you done for me lately—I’m better off without you; I never liked you anyway—anger.

Ear-fucker. No, that’s lame. Eater-of-ass.

Better.

The alphabetical naughty name-calling? It’s a game Delores and I made up in college. To vent our frustration against the out-of-touch, stick-up-the-ass professors who were giving us a hard time.

Feel free to jump in anytime. It’s cathartic.

And for some reason, a lot easier when you’re a high college student.

Fuckface.

Anyway—what was I saying? That’s right—anger.

Gooch.

Fury is good. Fire is fuel. Steam is power. And rage keeps you standing, when all you really want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor like a frightened armadillo.

Herniated Intestine.

Here’s a fact for you: Married men live seven to ten years longer than bachelors. Married women, on the other hand, die about eight years earlier than their single counterparts.

Are you shocked? Me neither.

Infected dick cheese.

Because men are parasites. The life-sucking variety from the rainforest that burrow up your genitalia, then lay eggs in your kidneys.

And Drew Evans is their leader.

Jerk-off.

The flight attendant asks me if I would like a complimentary beverage.

I’m on the plane. Did I not mention that?

I don’t take the drink; I’m trying to avoid the airplane bathroom. Too many memories there. Fun, sweet memories.

Kooch.

See—Drew doesn’t like to fly. He never came out and said it, never let it stop him, but I could tell.

Flying requires you to hand someone else the reins—to let go of the illusion of control. And we all know Drew has enough control issues to fill the Grand Canyon.

Right before takeoff, he’d get moody. Tense. And then, after the seat belt sign went off, he’d suggest a joint trip to the lavatory. To relieve some of that tension.

I could never say no.

The Mile High Club? I’m a gold member now.

Leaky discharge.

After the cart moves past me, I recline my seat back and close my eyes. And I think about what every scorned woman dreams of.

Payback.

Suffering.

Punishment.

Molester of Llamas.

Not that I’m going to go all Lorena Bobbitt on him. A woman’s most powerful weapon is guilt—much more lethal than a machete. So my revenge scenarios revolve around . . . death.

My death.

Sometimes it’s cancer; sometimes it’s childbirth. But in every one, Drew is banging on my deathbed door, begging to come in, to tell me how assholishly wrong he was.

How sorry he is.

But he’s always too late. I’m already gone. And that knowledge destroys him—leaves him wrecked. Ruined.

The guilt eats at him slowly, like a tooth in a glass of Coca-Cola.

Nutsack puller.

And he spends the rest of his life alone wearing black, like an eighty-year-old Italian grandma.

Orca fingerer.

I smile.

It’s such a nice thought.

Pillow-biting pansy.

That’s a double-word score.

Delores would be so proud.

Queef.

Oh, yeah—I went there.

Rim job.

You know, I think it’s better this way. No bullshit. If I look at the situation objectively, I’m better off this way.

Drew did me a favor.

Smegma eater.

Because even though he likes to play dress-up in Daddy’s big-boy suits? Emotionally, he’s an adolescent. A child.

Testicle licker.

The kind no one else likes to play with. Because when a game’s not going his way? He smashes the board to pieces.

Urinary tract infection.

And who needs that?

Not me. No, sir. I deserve more.

Vagina.

I’m going to get through this. I’m Kate Fucking Brooks.

I will succeed.

I will survive.

I will persevere.

Whoreboy.

Even if it’s just to spite him. Stubborn is my middle name.

X-tra absorbent maxipad.

I was fine before Drew, and I’ll be fine after him.

Just because I’ve never been alone doesn’t mean I can’t be.

I. Don’t. Need. Him.

Really.

Yeasty seepage.

Are you convinced?

Zithead.

Yeah.

Me neither.



I know what you’re thinking. Why? That’s the big question, isn’t it? The one Nancy Kerrigan made famous. The one everyone wants answered when tragedy strikes.

Why, why, why?

Human beings like explanations. We crave reasons, something to blame. The levees were too low, the driver was drunk, her skirt was too short—the list is endless.

The drive from Akron to Greenville takes about three hours. That’s a lot of time to drive. And think. And I spent the whole trip thinking about why.

If I had it to do all over again, I would have asked him. I wish I could say it was all some terrible mistake. A misunderstanding—like in Romeo and Juliet or West Side Story.

But really, what are the chances of that? If I had to guess, I’d say Drew just wasn’t ready to grow up—to take on that level of responsibility. Of commitment.

Look at my hand. Do you see a ring? That’s not an accident.

He’s a wonderful uncle to Mackenzie. Dedicated. Nurturing. The kind of man who would beat the hell out of another shopper for the last Tickle Me Elmo or Cabbage Patch Kids doll, two days before Christmas. He’d do anything for her.

But being a father is different. It’s all on you and yet nothing is ever about you again. And that’s the part I think Drew couldn’t handle.

Personally, I blame Anne and Alexandra. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good people, but . . . let me put it this way: Last summer, Alexandra had us all up to her parents’ country place for Mackenzie’s birthday. Drew and I got there late because we pulled over on a deserted road to make out.

By the way—car sex? It’s a wonderful thing. If you ever want to feel young and uninhibited, do it in the backseat. But I digress.

So there we are, hanging out by the pool, and I get up to grab a slice of pizza. But does Drew get up? Of course not. Because his mother has already heated him a crispy, fresh slice in the kitchen. And his sister brought it right to his lounge chair—with a cold beer.

Were his legs broken? Was he suffering from some early onset Parkinson’s disease that made it impossible for him to heat up his own food? Or—God forbid—eat it cold? No. That’s just the way they are with him, the way they’ve always been.

Coddling. Overindulgent.

And I can’t help but think that if Anne and Alexandra had let him get his own goddamn pizza once in a while, then maybe he would have taken the news better. Been more prepared.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Knowing why doesn’t change anything. So as I passed the WELCOME TO GREENVILLE sign, I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever ask why again. I wouldn’t waste the energy.

But you know something? God has a sick sense of humor.

Because I would be asking why again in just a few short days. For a completely different and infinitely more devastating reason. Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but yes—it does actually get worse.

You’ll see.



Have you ever visited your high school years after you graduated? And the desks and the windows and the walls are the same . . . yet it still looks different? Smaller somehow.

That’s what this feels like.

Driving down Main Street, coming home, it’s all exactly like I remember it . . . but not. The red awning outside Mr. Reynold’s hardware store is green now. Falcone Pharmacy turned into a Rite Aid. But the gaudy pink palm tree is still in the window of Penny’s Beauty Salon where Delores and I got our nails done before prom. The old green park bench is still there, too, outside my parents’ restaurant, where I used to chain my bike after school.

I park the car and get out, my duffel bag hanging on my shoulder. It’s a little after noon, and the sun is high and hot, and air smells like sand and burning tar. I cross the street and open the door. The hum of conversation simmers down as I stand at the entrance, and a dozen friendly, familiar faces look me over.

Most of the people in this room have known me since I was born. To them, I’m Nate and Carol’s daughter—the small-town, dark-haired, pigtailed girl who made good. Who beat the financial odds and did her family proud. I’m the success story the grade school teachers tell their students about, in the hopes of inspiring them to bigger dreams than the automobile factory has to offer.

I force my lips to smile politely, nodding and waving brief greetings as I make my way between the tables, toward the door in the back. See the sign?

EMPLOYEES ONLY.

I blow out a big breath. And all the anger that kept me going—that got me here—goes out with it. Exhaustion swamps me. And I feel drained, empty. My limbs are boneless, like I just crossed the finish line of a ten-mile uphill marathon.

I push the door open. And the first thing I see is my mother, bent over a table, scanning a produce delivery list.

Beautiful, isn’t she? I know most daughters think their mothers are pretty—but mine really is. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, like mine. Her skin is fair and clear, with the barest of lines around her lips and eyes. If wrinkles are hereditary, I’ve hit the genetic jackpot.

But beyond her looks, my mother’s beautiful on the inside. It sounds clichéd, but it’s true. She’s unchanging. Steady. Dependable. Life hasn’t always been easy for her—or kind. But she moved forward, carried on, with dignity and grace. My mother isn’t an optimist. She’s stoic, like a statue that’s still standing after a hurricane.

The door swings closed behind me and she lifts her head. Her eyes light up and she smiles big. “Kate!” She puts the list down and moves toward me.

Then she sees my face. And the corners of her smile fall like a feather in the wind. Her voice is hushed and laced with concern. “Kate, what’s wrong?”

My arms give up, and my bag drops to the floor.

She takes another step.

“Katie? Honey? What happened?”

Now, there is an excellent question. I should answer—but I can’t. Because my hands are covering my face. And the only sounds that escape my lips are gasping sobs.

Her arms pull me forward, strong and warm and smelling of Downy April Freshness. And she holds me, tight and secure, like only a mother can.

Remember the steel box? Yeah, it’s open now. And everything that happened comes spilling out of it.





Chapter 9


The average human being spends a third of their life in bed. Eight thousand, three hundred, thirty-three days. Two hundred thousand hours.

Why am I telling you this? Because you should never feel bad about spending a lot of money on decent bed linens. A good blanket is priceless. When you’re young, it protects you from the boogeyman. And when you’re not so young, it keeps your old bones warm.

My mother pulls my down comforter up to my chin, tucking me into my childhood bed, like a six-year-old during a thunderstorm.

After my meltdown in the break room, she brought me upstairs to the small but quaint two-bedroom apartment above the diner where I was raised. Where my mother still lives. The home of my youth.

She wipes at the tears that stream down my cheeks. I hiccup and stutter, “I-I-I’m . . . s-so . . . s-s-stupid.”

I was valedictorian of my high school class. I graduated from Wharton Business School.

Ignorance is not something I’m familiar with. So I can’t help but feel that I should have known—should’ve seen this coming.

After all, I lived with Drew for two years. How long does it take for a leopard to change its spots?

Oh, that’s right—they don’t.

My mother brushes my hair back from my face. “Hush now, Katie.”

My eyes are swollen and my nose is stuffed, making my voice sound nasaly and childlike. “W-w-what . . . am I . . . g-g-going to do, Mom?”

She smiles calmly, like she has all the answers. Like she has the power to take away any hurt—even this one—as easily as she used to kiss away the pain of my bumped shins and scraped knees. “You’re going to sleep now. You’re so tired.”

She continues running her fingers through my hair. It’s soothing. Relaxing. “Sleep now. . . . Go to sleep, my sweet, sweet girl.”

My father taught me to play the guitar, but I get my voice from my mother. Lying in bed, I close my heavy eyes as she sings. It’s a Melissa Etheridge song about angels knowing that everything will be all right. It’s the same song she sang to me the night my father died—the night she slept in this bed with me. Because she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed alone.

With my mother’s voice in my ears, I finally let go.

And fall asleep.



You know when you have a fever? And you lie in bed, and toss and roll and twist the sheets around your legs? You’re not really sleeping, but you’re not really awake either. There’s moments of consciousness, when you open your eyes and realize with disoriented wonder that it’s dark outside. But for the most part it’s just a foggy blur.

That’s what the next two days were like for me. A montage of sunlight and moonlight, of tears and vomiting and trays of food being taken away untouched.

The moments in that space between wakefulness and slumber were the hardest. When I’d start to believe it was all some horrible nightmare conjured from watching too many 90210 reruns. I’d feel a pillow against my back and swear it was Drew behind me. He gives the best wake-up calls—it’s our own little tradition. Every morning he presses up against me and whispers in my ear, worshipping me with his words and with his hands.

But then I would open my eyes and see that the pillow was just a pillow. And it felt like a newly formed scab being torn off—I bled a little more each time.

There just aren’t words to describe how I missed him. None that could even come close.

I physically ached for his smile, his scent, his voice.

Imagine a car’s going sixty miles an hour down a country road and a tree falls and the car hits it. Boom—instant stoppage. But if the person in the driver’s seat isn’t wearing a seat belt? They’re still going sixty.

And that’s what love is like.

It doesn’t just stop. No matter how hurt or wronged or angry you are—the love’s still there.

Sending you right through the windshield.

On the evening of the second day, I open my eyes and stare out the window. It’s drizzling.