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 doesn’t rain often in Greenville, but it’s drizzling now.
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Fitting—what with the black cloud over my head and every-
thing.
Then I hear my bedroom door open. I roll over. “Mom, could
you . . .”
Only it’s not my mother standing there. My voice is quiet,
softly surprised. “Oh—hey, George.”
You remember George Reinhart, don’t you? Steven’s widower
father? he and my mom are together. They hooked up at Matthew
and Delores’s wedding.
Don’t worry—I’ve tried to block that part out too.
But they’ve been going strong about a year now. In spite of
George’s best efforts, my mother refuses to move to New York. She
says Greenville is her home, that she likes her independence. So
George comes down here pretty often to visit—weeks at a time.
And my mom reciprocates when she can.
George is a good guy. he’s kind of like Jimmy Stewart in It’s
a Wonderful Life —a little on the dorky side, sure, but decent. The kind of man you’d want looking after your mom.
his glasses sit crookedly on his face as he holds up a tray. “Your mother’s swamped downstairs, but she thought you might like a
cup of tea.”
Running your own business isn’t as easy as it looks. Yeah, you’re
your own boss—but that means no calling out sick, no playing
hooky. And if an employee doesn’t show up? You’re the one who
has to pick up the slack.
George tries hard to help out with the diner. Last week my
mom had to drive Jose, the cook, to the hospital after he sliced his hand open chopping potatoes. And George tried to fill in for him.
No one was injured—but the fire department had to come to
put out flames, and the diner closed early because of the smoke.
Still, I guess it’s the thought that counts.
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98
E m m a c h a s E
I sit up and adjust the pillows behind me. “Tea would be great.
Thank you.”
he puts the tray on my nightstand and hands me a warm cup.
Then he wipes his hands on his pants nervously.
“May I sit?”
I take a sip and nod. And George plops down in the beanbag
chair beside my bed. he adjusts his glasses and wiggles around to
get comfy.
I almost smile.
Then he looks at me for a few seconds, trying to find a way to
start. I save him the trouble. “Mom told you, didn’t she?”
he nods solemnly. “Don’t be upset with her. She’s worried
about you, Kate. She needed to vent. I would never divulge your
personal information to anyone.” he taps his temple with one fin-
ger. “It’s in the vault.”
I actually manage to chuckle, because he reminds me so much
of his son, Steven.
And then my smile fades, because he reminds me so much of
Steven.
“John called me. Asking about you. I told him you were here.”
My eyes rise sharply. Questioning.
“I didn’t tell him why you were here—not exactly. I told
him you were worn out. Burnt out. It’s not uncommon in our
field.”
I don’t have a plan regarding the Evans. Technically, I’m car-
rying their grandchild, a part of their family. And even if their son feels otherwise, I have no doubt that Anne and John will want to
be a part of its life.
But I can’t think about that. Not yet.
George continues. “he’d like you to call him when you’re feel-
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99
ing up to it. And he wanted me to tell you that he unequivocally
rejects your resignation.”
My brow furrows. “Can he do that?”
George shrugs. “John does what John wants.”
Boy,
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 doesn’t rain often in Greenville, but it’s drizzling now.
Twisted_1P.indd 96
11/18/13 11:47 AM
t w i s t E d
97
Fitting—what with the black cloud over my head and every-
thing.
Then I hear my bedroom door open. I roll over. “Mom, could
you . . .”
Only it’s not my mother standing there. My voice is quiet,
softly surprised. “Oh—hey, George.”
You remember George Reinhart, don’t you? Steven’s widower
father? he and my mom are together. They hooked up at Matthew
and Delores’s wedding.
Don’t worry—I’ve tried to block that part out too.
But they’ve been going strong about a year now. In spite of
George’s best efforts, my mother refuses to move to New York. She
says Greenville is her home, that she likes her independence. So
George comes down here pretty often to visit—weeks at a time.
And my mom reciprocates when she can.
George is a good guy. he’s kind of like Jimmy Stewart in It’s
a Wonderful Life —a little on the dorky side, sure, but decent. The kind of man you’d want looking after your mom.
his glasses sit crookedly on his face as he holds up a tray. “Your mother’s swamped downstairs, but she thought you might like a
cup of tea.”
Running your own business isn’t as easy as it looks. Yeah, you’re
your own boss—but that means no calling out sick, no playing
hooky. And if an employee doesn’t show up? You’re the one who
has to pick up the slack.
George tries hard to help out with the diner. Last week my
mom had to drive Jose, the cook, to the hospital after he sliced his hand open chopping potatoes. And George tried to fill in for him.
No one was injured—but the fire department had to come to
put out flames, and the diner closed early because of the smoke.
Still, I guess it’s the thought that counts.
Twisted_1P.indd 97
11/18/13 11:47 AM
98
E m m a c h a s E
I sit up and adjust the pillows behind me. “Tea would be great.
Thank you.”
he puts the tray on my nightstand and hands me a warm cup.
Then he wipes his hands on his pants nervously.
“May I sit?”
I take a sip and nod. And George plops down in the beanbag
chair beside my bed. he adjusts his glasses and wiggles around to
get comfy.
I almost smile.
Then he looks at me for a few seconds, trying to find a way to
start. I save him the trouble. “Mom told you, didn’t she?”
he nods solemnly. “Don’t be upset with her. She’s worried
about you, Kate. She needed to vent. I would never divulge your
personal information to anyone.” he taps his temple with one fin-
ger. “It’s in the vault.”
I actually manage to chuckle, because he reminds me so much
of his son, Steven.
And then my smile fades, because he reminds me so much of
Steven.
“John called me. Asking about you. I told him you were here.”
My eyes rise sharply. Questioning.
“I didn’t tell him why you were here—not exactly. I told
him you were worn out. Burnt out. It’s not uncommon in our
field.”
I don’t have a plan regarding the Evans. Technically, I’m car-
rying their grandchild, a part of their family. And even if their son feels otherwise, I have no doubt that Anne and John will want to
be a part of its life.
But I can’t think about that. Not yet.
George continues. “he’d like you to call him when you’re feel-
Twisted_1P.indd 98
11/18/13 11:47 AM
t w i s t E d
99
ing up to it. And he wanted me to tell you that he unequivocally
rejects your resignation.”
My brow furrows. “Can he do that?”
George shrugs. “John does what John wants.”
Boy,
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