Chapter 17
When my eyes open the next morning, it’s early. Gray light seeps through the curtains, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.
And the space beside me is empty. I’m alone.
For one horrible, irrational moment, I think it was all a dream.
Drew’s coming here to Greenville, our reconciliation—just a vivid delusion brought on by too many Lifetime television miniseries and Julie Garwood romance novels.
Then I see the note on the end table.
Don’t panic. Went downstairs to get coffee and breakfast. Be back ASAP. Stay in bed.
Relieved, I turn on my back and close my eyes. I know from experience that if I get up too quickly, the nausea will hit with a vengeance. I don’t mind the morning sickness so much anymore.
Sure, no one enjoys heaving their intestines out, but in a weird way it’s reassuring. Like my body’s way of telling me we’re A-OK. All systems go.
Ten minutes later, I rise slowly and slip on my robe. Then I make my way downstairs, following the scent of fresh brewing coffee.
Outside the rear kitchen entrance, I hear Drew’s voice.
Instead of going in, I peek through the crack near the door hinge.
Drew’s at the counter, whisking flour in a stainless steel mixing bowl. My mother sits stiffly at the table in the corner. Looking at bills, punishingly pushing the buttons on a large calculator. her face is stern, angry—hell bent on ignoring the other person in the room.
I listen and watch, catching the end of Drew’s story. “And I said ‘Two million? I can’t bring my client that offer. Come back when you’re serious.’”
he glances at my mother, but there’s no reaction. he goes back to whisking and says, “It’s like I was telling Kate a few weeks ago— some guys need to learn when they’re beaten.”
My mother slaps a bill on the table and picks up the next one in the pile.
Drew sighs. Then he puts the bowl on the counter and sits down across from my mother. She doesn’t acknowledge him at all.
he thinks for a moment, rubbing his knuckles against the scruff of his chin. Then he leans toward my mother and says, “I love your daughter, Carol. Like . . . I’d-take-a-bullet-for-her kind of love.”
My mother snorts.
Drew nods. “Yeah, I get it. That probably doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot to you. But . . . it’s true. I can’t promise that I won’t screw up again. But if I do, it won’t be as epic as my most recent clusterf*ck. And I can promise I’ll do everything I can after to make it up to Kate . . . to make it right.”
My mother continues to stare at the bill in her hand like it has the cure for cancer on it.
Drew sits back, gazes toward the window, and smiles a little.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be my father. he always wore these awesome suits and he went to work at the top of a huge building.
And he always had everything together, like the whole world was at his fingertips. When I met Kate . . . no . . . when I realized Kate was it for me, all I wanted to be was the guy who made her happy.
Who surprised her, made her smile.”
For the first time, my mother looks at Drew. he returns her stare and tells her in a determined voice, “I still want to be that guy, Carol. I still think I can be. And I hope, one day, you’ll think that too.”
After a moment, Drew stands and goes back to making breakfast at the counter.
I wait, watching, as my mother continues to sit at the table, silent and unmoving. Isn’t that what every parent wants to hear?
That the singular goal of the person their child loves is to make them happy? I can’t believe she’s not moved by Drew’s words.
She says, “You’re doing that wrong.”
Drew stops whisking and turns to my mother. “I am?”
She stands and takes the bowl from his hands. “Yes. If you stir too much, the pancakes will be heavy. Too thick. You need to mix it just enough to blend the ingredients.” She gives Drew a small smile. But it’s enough. “I’ll help you.”
Slowly, Drew smiles back. “That would be great. Thank you.”
Yep—cue the warm and fuzzy. My heart melts just a little.
Because every girl wants her mother to see the good in the man she loves.
I breeze into the kitchen. “Morning.”
“Morning, honey. how are you feeling?” my mother asks.
“I’m good. Really good.”
I walk up to Drew, who kisses me softly and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “What are you doing up? Didn’t you get my note?”
“I did. But I wanted to see what you were up to. how’s it going?”
he winks. “We’re getting there.”
We stay in Greenville for another day before taking a late-night flight back to New York. First thing Saturday morning, we step over the threshold together into our apartment.
I glance around the living room as Drew puts our bags in the corner. The apartment is freshly cleaned, sparkling, and smells of lemon-scented furniture polish. It looks exactly the same as when I walked out a week ago. Unchanged.
Practically reading my mind, Drew offers, “I had the cleaning people come by.”
I look down the hall toward the bathroom. “And the bonfire?”
We’d talked about Drew’s foray into pyromania. he said he’d burned a few pictures, but there are copies. Nothing was lost that can’t be replaced.
Kind of poetic, don’t you think?
Somberly, I tell him, “Drew, we need to talk.”
he regards me cautiously. “No conversation in the history of the world that started with that phrase has ever ended well. Why don’t we sit down.”
I sit on the couch. he takes the recliner and swivels to face me.
I get right to the point. “I want to move out.”
he rolls my words around in his head as I brace myself for the argument that I know is coming.
But he just nods slightly. “You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, of course.” he looks around the room. “I should have thought of this before. I mean, this is where your worst nightmare came true. Like the Amityville Horror house—who the hell would want to live there?”
he’s taking this much better than I thought. Until he continues, “My sister has a great real estate agent. I’ll call her right away.
We can stay at the Waldorf if you want, until we find a new place.
In this market, it shouldn’t take long.”
“No, Drew—I said I want to move out. Alone. I want to get my own apartment.”
his brow furrows. “Why would want to do that?”
You’re probably wondering the same thing. I’ve been thinking about it, planning it out in my head, since I decided I wanted to keep the baby, with or without Drew. Because there are different kinds of dependence. I’ve always wanted to be financially secure, and now I am. But I’ve never been emotionally independent. On my own. And at this point in my life, it’s something I want.
If only to prove to myself that I’m capable of it.
“I’ve never lived by myself. Did you know that?”
Still bewildered, he says, “O-kay?”
“First year of undergrad, I lived in the dorms. Then Dee, Billy, and I and a bunch of other people got a place off campus. After that, it was always me and Billy or me, Dee, and Billy sharing a house or an apartment. And then, I moved in here with you.”
Drew leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s your point, Kate?’ “My point is, I’ve never not had someone to come home to.
I’ve never decorated or bought a piece of furniture without consulting someone. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve practically never slept alone.”
he opens his mouth to argue, but I go on, “And . . . I think you made a valid point about us rushing into things. We went from a weekend hook-up to living together overnight.”
“And look how great that turned out! I know what I want, and I want you. There was no point in waiting, because—”
“But maybe there would’ve been a point in waiting, Drew.
Maybe we would’ve had a stronger foundation to our relationship if we had just . . . dated . . . for a while before moving in together. Maybe, if we had gone slower, none of this would’ve happened.”
he’s annoyed. And a little panicked. he’s trying to hide it, but it’s there.
“You said you forgave me.”
“I have. But . . . I haven’t forgotten.”
he shakes his head. “That’s just chick-speak for you’re going to hang this shit over my head for the rest of our lives!”
he’s got a point. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that wants to drive the point home—that he can’t treat me any way he wants to. That there are consequences to his actions.
That if he ever screws up again, I can—and will—leave him.
But it’s not just about that.
“You want to redecorate?” he asks. “Be my guest. You want to paint the walls pink and put unicorn f*cking sheets on the bed? I won’t say a word.”
Now I’m shaking my head. “I need to know I can do this, Drew. For me. And . . . when our son or daughter moves out on their own, I want to know what that feels like, so I can help them.”
At this point, I expect Drew to agree to pretty much anything I want him to.
Women know when they have the upper hand. You know what I mean. The days after your husband forgot your anniversary, or your boyfriend spent one too many hours at the bar with his boys watching the game. The days following an argument, when the win is in the female’s column, are peaceful. Loving. Men go out of their way to be thoughtful and considerate. They put their shoes in the closet, take out the garbage without being asked, and remember to put the seat up before they pee.
So although I realize Drew’s not going to be happy with my reasoning, I imagine he’ll still be understanding and helpful.
“Well, that’s f*cking stupid!”
Not exactly what I’d imagined.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Not to me, it’s not.”
he jumps to his feet. “Then you’re insane!” he pushes a hand through his hair and regains his composure.
When he speaks, his words are calm, reasonable; the levelheaded businessman making his pitch. “Okay . . . let’s agree the last few days have been pretty emotional. And you’re pregnant—you’re not thinking clearly. When Alexandra was pregnant she wanted to chop all her hair off, Miley Cyrus style. The hairdresser talked her out of it, and in the end she was glad. So . . . let’s put a tack in this idea . . . and revisit it later.”
I sigh. “This will be good for us. We’ll still see each other every day, but a little time apart, some space . . .”
“You told your mother you didn’t need space. That we needed to be frigging together to work through this.”
“That was then,” I say with a shrug. Then I go for the old reliable, “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours.”
he pinches the bridge of his nose. “So . . . you’re going to prove you’re never going to leave me . . . by leaving me?”
“No. I’m going to prove I’ll never leave you . . . by coming back to you.”
Drew pulls the front of his pants away from his waist and looks down. “Nope—still got a dick. Which explains a lot, because your reasoning would only make sense to a woman.”
I roll my eyes. And Drew presses on, “You’re f*cking pregnant, Kate! We’re having a baby. Now is not the time to take a step back and figure out if you want to be in a relationship!”
I take his hand and sit him down next to me on the couch.
“Do you remember everything you did, before I moved in here?
The flowers, the balloons, the Sister B pep talk, the home office overhaul—they were beautiful gestures. Showing me how much you wanted me, and how willing you were to change your life for me.”
I look down at our joined hands. “But they also made for an offer I couldn’t refuse. No woman could. And I think part of you believes that you manipulated me into moving in with you. That if you hadn’t pestered me and laid it on so thick, I never would have chosen you.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“See what I mean? And that’s just not true. It may have taken time for me to trust you again, to believe that you were ready for a relationship, but I would have. I still would have been in love with you and wanted a life with you, because of who you are. Not because of the things you did for me. This will fix that, Drew. So you’ll never doubt why I’m with you.”
he takes his hand back and rubs it over his face. “So . . . you want to pay for an apartment, pack up all your stuff, buy furniture, go to all the trouble of relocating . . . just to prove to me and to yourself that you can? Knowing that at some point, you’re just going to move back in with me anyway?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“Yes! Thank you. Take out all the psycho, emo-babble bullshit and it is ridiculous!”
“No—it’s not. Because, later, when we decide to live together again, we’ll be on equal footing. It won’t be you making room in your life for me—it’ll be us making a decision together. For all the best reasons.”
he looks away toward the door, thinking. Then he turns back to me. “No. I’m sorry, Kate: I want to make you happy, I do. But I can’t support something that’s so pointless. I won’t agree with it.
I won’t. Just—no.”
he crosses his arms and pouts. Like a two-year-old refusing to move until he gets his way.
There was a time, not so long ago, that his refusal would have swayed me. That I would’ve let his opinion become my opinion. That I would’ve given in for the sake of our relationship and my sanity.
But not anymore.
I stand up. “I’m doing this, Drew, with or without you. I really hope it can be with you.”
Then I walk down the hall to the bedroom.
I stand in the middle of the room for a few minutes, remembering.
Some of the most wonderful, and romantic, moments of my life have taken place in this room.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it.
But I’m firm in my belief that my moving out will be good for us. That, at some point, it will make the difference between us crumbling under the weight of our own passion and stubbornness or becoming an even stronger pair than we were before.
I just wish Drew would see it that way.
With a sigh, I move to the closet to get my luggage. I only took one small bag with me when I left a week ago, so there are a lot of clothes to be packed. I spot the large beige leather suitcase on the top shelf.
Walk-in closet shelves really weren’t designed with the petite in mind. I stretch on my tippy-toes, trying to grasp the handle. I consider getting a chair from the other room, but I try jumping for it first.
As I bend my knees for my second attempt, I hear Drew come up behind me. he reaches over my head, easily taking hold of the suitcase, and brings it down.
“You shouldn’t stretch your arms over your head. It’s not good for you . . . for the baby.” he walks out of the closet and lays the suitcase on the bed.
“how do you know that?” I ask as I trail behind him.
he shrugs. “When Alexandra was pregnant, I read a lot. I wanted to be prepared in case she went into labor at a family function, or if we got stuck in a cab together during rush-hour traffic.”
he unzips the bag and adds, “I would’ve had to gouge my f*cking eyeballs out afterward, of course, but it would’ve been worth it.”
I smile.
he takes me by the shoulders and sits me down on the edge of the bed. “Just . . . put your feet up. Rest.”
Then he turns toward the dresser and takes a stack of my T-shirts out of the drawer, placing them neatly in the suitcase. he doesn’t look at me as he works.
“You’re helping me pack?”
he nods stiffly. “Yep.”
“But you still don’t want me to move out?”
“Nope.”
“And . . . you still think it’s a stupid idea?”
“Yep. You don’t have many stupid ideas—but even if you did, this would be the dumbest of them all.”
he takes another pile from the drawer as I ask, “Then why are you helping me?”
he drops the pile in the bag and makes eye contact. And his face says everything that he’s feeling—frustration, resignation . . .
devotion.
“In the last two years, I’ve probably told you a dozen times that I would do anything for you.” he shrugs. “It’s time I put up or shut up.”
And this . . . this is why I love him. I suspect it’s why you love him too.
Because despite his faults and flaws, Drew is bold enough to give me everything he’s got. To put his heart on the chopping block and hand me the ax.
he’ll do things he hates, just because I ask him to. he’ll go against his instincts and better judgment, if it’s what I need. he puts his well-being, his happiness, second to my own.
I stand up, wrap my arms around his neck, and press my lips to his. A moment later, my feet leave the floor and his hand buries in my hair. his mouth captures my moan as he presses me closer.
I pull back and tell him, “You’re amazing.”
he gives me a soft smirk. “That is the general consensus.”
I smile. “And I love you.”
he sets my feet on the floor but keeps his arms around my waist. “Good. Then you’re going to let me put three locks on the door of whatever apartment you decide to move into. And a chain.
And a dead bolt.”
I smile wider. “Okay.”
Drew slowly steps forward, backing me up toward the bed.
“And you’re not going to bitch when I have a security system installed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We take another step together, almost like we’re dancing.
“I’m thinking about buying you one of those ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ necklaces too.”
My eyes squint as I pretend to think about the idea. “We’ll talk about it.”
“And . . . you’re going to let me walk you home from work every night.”
“Yes.”
The back of my legs make contact with the bed frame.
“I’m also going to come to every doctor’s appointment with you.”
“I didn’t for a second imagine you wouldn’t.”
Drew cups my face in his hands. “And one day, I’m going to ask you to marry me. And you’re going to know it’s not because you’re pregnant, or because of some misguided attempt to keep you.”
Tears spring into my eyes as we gaze at each other.
In a rough voice, he continues, “You’re going to know I’m asking because nothing would make me prouder than to be able to say, “This is my wife, Kate.” And when I do ask, you’re going to say yes.”
When I nod, one tear trails down my cheek. Drew wipes it away with his thumb as I promise, “It’s a sure thing.”
And then he’s kissing me, with all the passion and desire he’s held in check the last two days. Drew cradles my head as we fall on the bed together. Then I arch up, and heat spreads across my stomach and down my thighs as I rub myself against where he’s already hard and ready.
Resting his elbows on the bed above my shoulders, Drew lifts his head and pants, “So . . . is this make-up sex . . . or break-up sex?
Because I have really fantastic ideas for either one.”
I open my legs wider, nestling Drew between them. “It’s definitely make-up sex, maybe a little bit of take-a-break sex. And a whole lot of last-day-in-the-apartment sex. That’s a lot to cover—so it’s going to take a really, really long time.”
Drew smiles. And it’s his boyish, delighted smile—one of my favorites—that only comes out on very special occasions.
“I adore the way you think.”
And we don’t leave the bed for the rest of the day.
Epilogue
Eight months later
So . . . I’ve gone back to church. Every week. Sometimes twice a week.
Yeah—it’s me, Drew.
Long time no see. Miss me? Judging from the “I’d like to shove your dick in an automatic pencil sharpener” look on your face . . .
I’m guessing that’s a no.
Still pissed, huh? Can’t say I blame you. It was a solid three weeks before I could look at my reflection in the mirror and not want to kick my own ass. In fact, one night I was out with the guys celebrat-ing a massive deal Jack closed, and after one too many shots of J?ger, I begged Matthew to punch me in the nuts as hard as he could.
Because I couldn’t stop seeing the look on Kate’s face when she walked in the door that horrible night. It replayed in my head over and over, like one of those awful films on cable that’s constantly on, but no one ever watches.
Lucky for me, Matthew refused. Even luckier is that fact that Delores wasn’t with him, since I’m sure she would’ve been more than happy to oblige. Yeah—the list of asses I’ve had to kiss over the last few months is long. Assembly-line worthy. Kate, Delores, Carol, my father, Alexandra . . .
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 baseball 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 f*ck 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 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 judgment,” “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.
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 f*cking 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 a*shole 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 f*ck 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 f*cked 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.
Still don’t believe me?
That’s okay. Time will tell. And besides—Kate believes me.
And that’s all that really f*cking 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 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.
“Asslickingturdballmotherf*ckerbitch. 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 Weeble Wobbles 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 playby-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 f*cking 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 f*ck?”
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 f*cking 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 . . . f*ck 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 f*ck 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 another deep kiss. Then I lay her out on the bed.
I take my time opening the buttons on the front of her dress, one by one. Not to tease her—but to show her. “‘Don’t look at me,’ my ass! Looking at you is the best f*cking part.”
Okay, it’s not the best part. But it’s a really good part.
She wiggles impatiently and I unhook her bra. She slides it off her arms. I take a moment to admire my handiwork, caressing every inch of her bare body with my eyes. Stunning.
Then I bury my face between her tits, laving and sucking, giving each bountiful mound its due.
Kate arches her back and pulls at my hair. Writhing. I rip my shirt over my head.
her arms wrap around my back—kneading—pulling me closer. I moan and nibble a trail up her throat to plant another long kiss on her mouth. I don’t want her thinking about the baby right now, but I can’t pass by the hump without paying it homage.
My lips press against it once, reverently.
Then I stand up. I tear at my belt and slide my pants and boxers to the floor. Kate is breathing fast. her lips are parted and swollen. And her eyes are on fire—on me.
I grab her ankles and drag her to the edge of the bed, wrapping her legs around my hips.
I slide my cock up and down between her lips, coating the head with her wetness.
Then I stop and our eyes lock. I know she wants a bumpy ride, and I aim to please, but first: “If I hurt you—if you’re uncomfortable at all—you have to tell me.”
She nods quickly. And it’s the only reassurance I need before I slam into her. F*ck. We moan together, long and low. My head rolls back and I thrust again.
She’s tighter now. I don’t know if it’s the baby pressing everything together or just the fact that God is good, but her cunt grips me like a Venus f*cking flytrap savoring its last meal. My hips pound against hers, crashing and rubbing, as rough as I dare.
It feels primitive. Raw. And so exquisitely intense, it could be illegal. her massive breasts bounce with each push. She’s gasping and groaning, loving every second of it. Kate reaches for my hips, but they’re too far out of range. She grips the bed sheets instead and mangles them.
Keeping the pace swift and steady, I slide my hand between us and rub her *, just the way she likes. Then I move higher, pinching those gorgeous dark nipples. Kate’s tits have always been a hot spot, but lately they’ve been extra sensitive.
her mouth opens, but only small whimpers come out. And that’s just unacceptable.
“Come on, baby, you can do better than that.”
I give each pointy peak a good, long tug. And she screams, “Drew . . . Drew . . . yes . . .”
So much f*cking better.
I move my hands to her knees and hold on for leverage. Pulling her toward me as I push forward. Skin slapping skin. “God . . . Kate . . .”
I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer. At this rate I really didn’t expect to. My chin drops to my chest and I reach down and grab her ass. Lifting her up—plunging deeper. Moving faster.
Kate’s legs tighten on me and I know she’s close too. And she’s moaning . . . chanting . . . it’s a beautiful thing. And then she goes rigid under me. Clenching around me. Taking me down with her.
I grip her waist, holding her close as we come together.
Later, when our breaths finally return to normal, I collapse on the bed next to her. “God damn. That never gets old.”
She laughs. “Yeah. I needed that.”
Then she bites her bottom lip and looks at me sideways. Bashfully.
“Want to do it again?”
Like she really needs to ask.
A few hours later, I wake up from my sex-induced coma to the sound of Kate’s voice.
“Ugh . . . goddamn pizza. Damn whoever invented it.”
I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance out the window. It’s still dark outside, just a couple hours after midnight. Kate is pacing across the room, rubbing her belly. Breathing hard.
“Kate? What’s going on?”
She stops in her tracks and looks my way. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” She moans softly. “Just indigestion.”
Just indigestion?
Famous last words.
And the next thing you know, Uncle Morty’s lying on a slab in the morgue from the massive heart attack he never knew he was having. Not on my watch, buddy.
In a flash, I’m out of bed—sweatpants on. I stand next to Kate, my hand on her shoulder.
“Should we call the doctor?”
“What? No . . . no, I’m sure it’s just . . . ugh . . .” She bends over, holding her midsection. “Oh . . . ow . . .”
And a gush of water bursts from between her legs. Like ten gallons’ worth.
The two of us just stand there. Stupidly. Watching as droplets fall from the edge of her nightgown onto the rug. And then, like a snake slithering in the grass, reality winds its way through our brains.
“Oh. My. God.”
“holy shit.”
Remember that water balloon I mentioned?
Yep—that sucker just popped.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
When I was sixteen, my school’s basketball team was in a dead heat for the State Championship. During the final game we were down by one, with three seconds left on the clock. Guess who they passed the ball to? Who sank the winning three-pointer?
Yep—that would be me. Because even back then, I was a rock.
Steady on the draw. I don’t get stressed. Fear? Panic? They’re for losers.
And I’m no loser.
So why are my hands shaking like an un-medicated Parkinson’s patient?
Anyone ever tell you, you ask too many frigging questions?
My knuckles are white, wrapped in a death grip around the steering wheel.
Kate is in the passenger seat—with a towel under her ass— implementing every breathing technique those wacked-out, hippie Lamaze instructors told us about.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Whoo.
Then, mid-whoo, she screams. “Oh, no!”
I almost slam the car into a goddamn telephone pole. “What! What’s wrong?”
“I forgot the sour apple lollipops!”
“The what?”
her voice is heavy with disappointment. “The sour apple lollipops. Alexandra said they were the only thing that quenched her thirst when she was in labor with Mackenzie. I was going to pick some up this afternoon, but I forgot. Can we stop and get some?”
Okay. It seems that Kate’s common sense has gone bye-bye— so it’s up to me to be the voice of reason. Which is pretty frigging frightening, considering I’m hanging on by a thread over here.
“No, we can’t f*cking stop and get some! Are you out of your mind?”
Kate’s big brown eyes immediately fill with tears. And I feel like the world’s biggest dick.
“Please, Drew? I just want everything to be perfect . . . and what if I want a lollipop during the delivery, and you go to get me one, and then I have the baby while you’re gone? You’ll miss it.”
Tears course down her cheeks like two little tributaries. “I couldn’t bear it if you missed it.”
Please don’t let it be a girl. For God’s sake, please don’t let it be a girl. All this time, I’ve been praying for a healthy baby without specifying a sex.
Until now.
Because if I have a daughter, and her tears cut me off at the knees like Kate’s do? I’m totally f*cking screwed.
“Okay, Kate. It’s all right, baby. Don’t cry—I’ll stop.”
She sniffles. And smiles. “Thank you.”
I jerk the wheel to the right, make an illegal U-turn, and pull onto the curb in front of a 7-Eleven. Then, faster than a pit stop at the Indy 500, I’m back on the road, with the coveted sour apple lollipops rolling around in the backseat.
And Kate is back to her breathing.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Until she’s not.
“Do you think the nurses will know we had sex?”
I look pointedly at her stomach. “Unless you plan on claiming an immaculate conception, I think they’ll have a pretty good idea.”
Then I lean on the horn. “The gas is the one on the right, grandma!” I swear to Christ, if your gray poufy hair is the only thing that can see over the dashboard? You’ve got no business driving.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
“No—do you think they’ll know we had sex tonight?”
Kate is funny about things like this. Shy. Even with me sometimes. The other day, I happened to catch a passing glimpse of her sitting on the toilet and it was like the end of the world. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous. But I’m not about to argue the point with her now.
“It’s a maternity ward, Kate, not CSI. They’re not gonna to be down there with a black light looking for my swimmers.”
Hee Hee.
Hee Hee.
“Yeah, you’re right. They won’t be able to tell.” She seems calmed by the idea. Reassured.
Whooooo.
And I’m happy for her. Now if I can just keep myself from going into cardiac arrest, we’ll be in pretty good shape.
An hour later, Kate is settled into a private room at New York Pres-byterian, hooked up to more beeping contraptions then a ninetyyear-old on life support. I sit down in the chair next to the bed.
“Can I get you anything? Back rub? Ice chips? Narcotics?”
I know I could go for a glass of whiskey at the moment. Or a whole bottle.
Kate takes my hand and holds it tight, like we’re on a plane that’s about to take off. “No. Just—talk to me.” Then her voice turns hushed. Small. “I’m scared, Drew.”
My chest tightens painfully. And I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.
But I do my damnedest to hide it. “hey, this whole delivery thing is a piece of cake. I mean, women have babies all the time.
I read this article once that said in the olden days, they’d pop a kid out right in the middle of the fields. Then they’d clean it off, put it in their backpack, and go right back to work. how hard can it be?”
She snorts. “Easy for you to say. Your part was fun. And over.
Females got royally screwed in this deal.”
She’s not wrong. But women are stronger than men. No, really, I’m being serious. Sure, we can outdo them in upper-body strength, but in every other way—psychologically, emotionally, cardiovascu-larly, genetically—women come out on top.
“That’s because God is wise. he knew if we had to go through this shit, the human race would’ve died the f*ck out with Adam.”
She chuckles.
Then a voice comes from the doorway. “how are we doing this evening?”
“hi, Bobbie.”
“hey, Roberta.”
Yes—I only use her full name. Post-traumatic stress? Possibly.
All I know is that hearing the name Bob? Pretty much makes me want to slit my wrists open with a box cutter.
Roberta checks the chart at the end of the bed. “Everything looks good. You’re about three centimeters dilated, Kate, so we’ve still got a while to go. Do you have any questions for me?”
Kate looks hopeful. “Epidural?”
here’s some advice—don’t be a masochist. Get the epidural.
I’ll repeat that in case you missed it: GET ThE EPIDURAL.
According to my sister, it’s a miracle drug. She’d gladly jerk off the guy who invented it—and Steven would probably let her. Would you get a tooth pulled without novocaine? Would you get your appendix removed without anesthesia? Of course not.
And don’t give me that bullshit about having the “full experience” of childbirth. Pain is pain—there’s nothing “wondrous” about it.
It just f*cking hurts.
Roberta smiles soothingly. “I’ll get it set up right away.” She makes a few notes on the clipboard, then returns it to its hanging place. “I’ll come back in a little while to check on you. have the nurses page me if you need anything.”
“Okay. Thanks, Roberta.”
Once she’s out the door, I stand up and grab my cell phone.
“I’m going to go call your mom—I can’t get any reception in here. Will you be all right till I get back?”
She waves her hand. “Sure. Not going anywhere. We’ll be right here.”
I bend over and kiss Kate’s forehead. Then I lean down and kiss the hump, telling it, “Don’t start without me.”
Then I’m out the door—jogging to catch up with Kate’s doctor down the hall. “hey, Roberta!”
She stops and turns. “hi, Drew. how are you?”
“I’m good—good. I wanted to ask you about the baby’s heart rate. Isn’t one-fifty a little high?”
Roberta’s voice is tolerant, understanding. She’s used to this by now.
“It’s well within the normal range. It’s common to see some minor fluctuations in the fetal heart rate during labor.”
I nod. And go on. “And Kate’s blood pressure? Any sign of preeclampsia?”
Knowledge is power. The more you know, the more control you have over a situation. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last eight months.
“No, like I told you on the phone yesterday—and the day before that—Kate’s blood pressure is perfect. It’s been steady the entire pregnancy.”
I rub my chin and nod. “have you ever actually delivered a baby with shoulder dystocia? Because you realize you won’t know it’s happening until the baby’s head is already—”
“Drew. I thought we agreed you were going to stop watching ER reruns?”
ER should come with a warning label. It’s disturbing. If you’re a mild hypochondriac or a parent to be, expect to lose a shitload of sleep after just one episode.
“I know, but—”
Roberta puts her hand up. “Look, I know how you feel—”
“Do you?” I ask sharply. “have you ever taken your whole life and put it in someone else’s hands and asked them to take care of it for you? To bring it back to you in one piece? ’Cause that’s what I’m doing here.” I push a hand through my hair and look away.
And when I speak again, my voice is shaky. “Kate and this baby . . .
if anything ever . . .”
I can’t even finish the thought, let alone the sentence.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Drew, you have to trust me. I know it’s difficult, but try and focus on the positives. Kate is young and healthy—we have every reason to believe that this delivery will progress without any complications at all.”
I nod my head. And the logical part of my brain knows she’s right.
“Go back to Kate. Try and enjoy the time you have left. After tonight, it’s not going to be just the two of you anymore—not for a long time.”
I force myself to nod again. “Okay. Thanks.”
I turn and walk back toward the room. I stop in the doorway.
Can you see her?
Surrounded by pillows—buried under the puffy down comforter she insisted on bringing from home. She looks so tiny. Almost like a little girl hiding in her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm.
And I need to say the words—to make sure she knows.
“I love you, Kate. Everything that’s good in my life, anything that really matters, is only there because of you. If we hadn’t met? I’d be f*cking miserable—and probably too clueless to even realize it.”
She looks at me, totally straight faced. “I’m having a baby, Drew—I’m not dying.” Then her eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, I’m not dying, am I?”
And that’s all it takes to snap me out of my panic.
“No, Kate. You’re not dying.”
She nods. “Okay, then. And just for the record, I love you too.
I love that you’re funding Mackenzie’s future because you won’t stop cursing. I love how you tease your sister unmercifully but would kill anyone who hurt her. But most of all . . . I love how you love me. I feel it every moment . . . every day.”
I walk up to her and cup her cheek. Then I lean over and softly kiss her lips.
She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. And then her jaw tightens with determination.
“Now, let’s do this thing.”
Turns out all the worrying was for nothing. Because at 9:57 this morning, Kate gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. And I was right next to her the whole time. Sharing her pain.
Literally.
I’m pretty sure she broke my hand.
But who cares? A few broken bones don’t mean much—not when you’re holding a seven-pound, nine-ounce miracle.
And that’s just what I’m doing.
I know every parent thinks their child is adorable—but be honest—he’s one good-looking kid, don’t you think? A patch of black hair lays smoothly on top of his head. his hands, his nose, his lips—looking at them is like looking in a mirror. But his eyes, they’re all Kate.
he’s exquisite. Perfection made flesh.
Granted, he didn’t come out looking like this. A few hours ago, he bore a strong resemblance to a screaming featherless chicken.
But he was my screaming featherless chicken, so he was still the most beautiful f*cking thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s unreal. The adoration. The worship that’s so overwhelming, it almost hurts to look at him. I mean, I love Kate—more than my own life. But that took time. I gradually fell in love with her.
This . . . was instantaneous. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew I’d gladly jump bare-assed into a pool of battery acid for him.
Insane, right? And I can’t wait to teach him things. Show him . . .everything. Like how to change a tire, and sweet talk a girl, how to hit a baseball, and throw a right hook. Not necessarily in that order.
I used to make fun of those guys at the park. The dads with their strollers and goofy smiles and man purses.
But now . . . now I get it.
Kate’s voice pulls me from my baby gazing. “hey.”
She sounds worn out. I don’t blame her.
“how are you feeling?”
She smiles sleepily. “Well . . . imagine peeing out a watermelon. ”
I flinch. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
her eyes fall to the pale-blue-blanketed bundle in my arms.
“how’s the little guy?”
“he’s good. We’re just hanging out. Shooting the shit. I’m telling him about all the important things in life, like chicks and cars and . . . chicks.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
I look down at our son. And my voice is awed. “You did such a great job, Kate. he has your eyes. I love your eyes—did I ever tell you that? They were the first thing I noticed about you.”
She cocks one brow. “I thought my ass was the first thing you noticed?”
I laugh, remembering. “Oh yeah, that’s right. But then you turned around and just . . . blew me away.”
The baby lets out a sharp squawk, capturing our attention.
“I think he’s hungry.”
Kate nods and I pass him over. She undoes the clasp of her pajama top, exposing one ripe, juicy breast. She brings the baby close and he latches onto her nipple—like an expert.
Did you expect anything less? This is my son, after all.
I watch them for a moment. Then I have to reach down to adjust the tent pole that’s sprung up in my pants.
Sick. Yeah—I know.
Kate throws me a smirk and glances toward my crotch. “Got a problem down there, Mr. Evans?”
I shrug. “Nope. No problem. Just looking forward to my turn.”
See—there’re two kinds of women in this world: The ones who figure if they can’t get any below-the-waist action for six weeks after giving birth, neither can their guy. Then there’s the second group.
The ones who look forward to those hand jobs, blow jobs, and then some—because they know the favor will be returned when the ban is lifted.
Kate definitely falls into the second group. I know this, and apparently so does my cock.
“After the massacre you witnessed in the delivery room? I didn’t think you’d ever want to have sex with me again.”
My mouth falls open. In shock.
“Are you frigging kidding me? I mean, I thought your cunt was magnificent before, but now that I’ve see what it’s really capable of?
It’s reached superhero status in my book. In fact, I think that’s what we should name it.” I lift my hands, envisioning a giant billboard.
“Incred-a-p-ssy.”
She shakes her head. And smiles down at the baby. “Speaking of naming things . . . we should probably come up with one for him, don’t you think?”
Kate and I decided to wait on the name game until after the baby was born—to make sure it was a good fit. Names are crucial. They’re the first impression the world has of you. That’s why I’ll never understand why people curse their kids with labels like Edmund, or Albert, or Morning Dew.
Why don’t you just cut to the chase and call the kid Shit head?
I lean back in the chair. “Okay—you can start first.” her eyes roam the baby’s face. “Connor.”
I shake my head. “Connor’s not a first name.”
“Of course it is.”
“No—it’s a last name.” In my best Terminator voice I say, “Sarah Connor.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Then she says, “I’ve always liked the name Dalton.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“O-kay. Colin.”
I scoff, “No way. Sounds too much like ‘colon.’ They’ll be calling him A*shole the minute he steps foot on the playground.”
Kate looks at me incredulously. “Are you sure you went to Catholic School? It sounds like you grew up in juvie hall.”
Life is one big school playground. Remember that.
Wolf-pack mentality. You need to learn early how not to be the weakest link. They’re the ones who get eaten. Alive.
“Since you don’t approve of my choices, what do you suggest?” she asks.
I look at the sleeping face of our son. his perfect little lips, his long dark lashes.
“Michael.”
“Uh-uh. In third grade, Michael Rollins threw up all over my penny loafers. Whenever I hear that name I think of regurgitated hot dogs.”
Fair enough. I try again. “James. Not Jim or Jimmy—and sure as shit not Jamie. Just James.”
Kate raises her eyebrows. And tests it out. “James. James—I like it.”
“Yeah?”
She looks down at the baby again. “Yes. James it is.”
I reach into my back pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. “Fantastic. Now for his last name.”
She’s confused. “his last name?”
We’ve talked about using Brooks as the middle name. But let’s be honest—the only people who use a middle name are serial killers and pissed-off parents. So I came up with something much better.
I put the opened paper on Kate’s lap.
Take a look.
BROOKS-EVANS
She looks up, eyes wide with surprise. “You want to hyphenate his name?”
I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I think women should take their husband’s last names. Sure, it comes from the idea that a woman is property. And no, I don’t agree with that. In the future, if some punk comes along and implies that he owns my niece—I’m gonna buy him a shovel.
So he can dig his own grave before I put him in it.
But technically speaking, Kate is the last of the Brooks. Namesakes don’t mean as much anymore, but I have a feeling it means a lot to her.
“Well . . . he’s ours. And you did do most of the work. You should get half the credit.” her eyes soften as she reminds me, “You hate to share, Drew.”
I push some wayward hair behind her ear. “For you, I’m willing to make an exception.”
Plus, I’m banking on the fact that one day soon, Kate’s last name will match our son’s.
Of course, Kate deserves the best proposal ever—and the best takes time.
Planning.
It’s in the works right now. I’m taking ballooning lessons on Saturday afternoons, when she thinks I’m playing ball with the guys. Because I’m going to take Kate on a private hot-air balloon ride to the hudson Valley. There’ll be an elegant picnic ready for us when we land. And that’s where I’ll pop the question That way—on the outside chance Kate actually turns me down—I’ll have her in a totally secluded area until I can change her mind.
Genius, right?
I’ll have a limo waiting nearby—but not too near—to drive us back home, so we can sit back and relax on the way. And have limo-sex, of course. You should never pass up the opportunity to have sex in a limo—it’s always fun.
Kate’s eyes are shiny with tears. happy ones. “I love it. James Brooks-Evans. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I lean forward and kiss our son’s forehead. And then I kiss his mother’s lips. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby. I’m supposed to be thanking you.”
She looks down at James tenderly. And in that voice that could make an angel green with envy, she starts to sing.
There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me
So good night you moonlight ladies
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won1t you let me go down in my dreams
And rock-a-bye sweet baby James
There’s only a few times in a guy’s life that he’s allowed to cry without looking like a total chump.
This is one of those times.
When Kate is finished, I clear my throat. And rub the wetness from my eyes. Then I climb onto the bed beside her.
I’m pretty sure it’s against hospital policy, and I admit, some of those male nurses look pretty f*cking intimidating.
But come on—they’re nurses.
Kate turns toward me, so James lies between us. My arm lays over him, my hand on her hip, encircling them both.
Kate’s eyes are velvety warm. “Drew?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you think we’ll always be like this?”
I give her a small smile. “Definitely not.”
And then I touch her face—the one I plan on looking at every morning and every night, until death shows up to drag me away.
“We’re just gonna keep getting better.”
So there you have it.
how’s that for a happy frigging ending, huh? Or beginning . . .
I guess . . . depending on how you look at it.
Anyway, now’s about the time I start spouting off some pearls of wisdom.
Advice.
But given the events of the last year, it’s become increasingly obvious that I don’t know what the f*ck I’m talking about. I don’t think you should listen to anything I’ve said.
You still want me to give it a shot?
Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
here goes:
Number One—people don’t change. There’s no magic bullet.
No bibbidi-f*cking-boo.
What you see is what you get. Sure, certain habits can be tweaked. Reined in. Like my propensity for making snap judgments. The very idea of assuming I know everything—without checking with Kate first—now makes me sick to my stomach.
But other characteristics, they stick.
My possessiveness, Kate’s stubbornness, our collective competitiveness—they’re too much a part of who we are to be totally eradicated.
It’s kind of like . . . cellulite. You ladies can spend all day at the spa wrapped in mud and seaweed. You can throw a fortune away on those ridiculous creams and scrubs. But at the end of the day, that puckered, dimply skin is still gonna be there.
Sorry to be the one to break it to you; it’s just the way it is.
But if you love someone, really love them, you take them as is. You don’t try to change them.
You want the whole package—cottage cheese ass and all.
Number Two—life isn’t perfect. Or predictable. Don’t expect it to be.
One minute, you’re swimming along in the ocean. The water’s smooth and calm; you’re relaxed. And then—out of nowhere—an undertow sucks you down.
It’s what you do next that counts. Do you give it all you’ve got? Kick for the surface, even though your arms and legs are aching? Or do you give up and let yourself drown?
how you react to life’s twists and turns makes all the difference.
So Number Three—the important thing is, if you can make it through the rough, unexpected times? That light at the end of the tunnel is worth all the shit you had to wade through to get there.
That’s something I’ll never forget. I’m reminded of it every time I look at Kate. Every time I look at our son.
When it’s all said and done? The payoff is way more than f*cking worth it.