Free Twisted by Emma Chase Page B

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?
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    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 charm-
    ing. 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.
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    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