because I love him like a son . . . the pain he’s going to feel that day . . . well . . .
it breaks my heart.”
he’s right.
I don’t want to hear this. I don’t have the patience to feel sorry for Drew.
But I appreciate his effort. “I’m really glad you’re with my
mom, George. I’m . . . grateful that she has you. Thank you.”
he smiles warmly. “I’ll be close by. Just give a call if you need
anything.”
I nod. And he closes the door behind him.
I want to be moved by George’s words. Inspired. Motivated
to drag my ass out of this bed. But I’m just too . . . tired. So I lay back down, wrap myself up in my blanket cocoon, and go to sleep.
Twisted_1P.indd 101
11/18/13 11:47 AM
102
E m m a c h a s E
On the third day, I rise again.
I don’t really have much of a choice anymore. Lying around
and breathing your own stench isn’t exactly effective in lifting
the spirits. Oh—and I’ve still been having morning sickness, like
clockwork, in the same bucket my mother used to put beside my
bed when I had a stomach virus. Yummy. Plus, I’m pretty sure if I squeeze my hair, I’ll have enough grease to cook up a large fry at McDonald’s.
Yeah—I’d say it’s time to get up.
I drag myself to the bathroom, my movements stiff and slow.
I take a long, hot shower—almost scalding. And the steam billows
out behind me as I walk back into my room.
My mom’s a saver. Not like the hoarders you see on that TLC
show, but she’s kept all the little mementos I didn’t take with me to college and beyond.
See them? On those freshly dusted shelves? Little League tro-
phies, science fair medals, and field day ribbons, next to framed
photos of Delores, Billy, and me at graduation and halloween and
Delores’s eighteenth birthday party.
I grab my bottle of body lotion out of my bag, but as the smell
hits me I freeze. Vanilla and lavender. Drew’s favorite scent. he
can’t get enough of it. Sometimes he drags his nose up my spine,
sniffing and tickling me.
My chest tightens. And I toss the bottle in the trash can.
Glancing back to my bag, I notice my cell phone. It had been
lying under the bottle of lotion, almost as if it were hiding on purpose.
It’s been off since the flight. I consider calling Delores, but
I quickly scrap that idea. Why ruin her vacation so she can rush
home to commit premeditated murder?
Okay—you’re right—I’m lying. I haven’t called Delores
because there’s still a small, shriveled part of me that’s hoping Drew Twisted_1P.indd 102
11/18/13 11:47 AM
t w i s t E d
103
will change his mind. That he’ll find a way to fix this. And I won’t have to give my best friend a reason to hate him. Well . . . another reason.
I turn the phone on to find four messages waving back at me.
And there it is again.
Hope. It’s becoming rather pathetic now, isn’t it?
I bite my lip and take a steadying breath. And I punch in my
code—praying to all the angels and saints that Drew’s voice comes
out of the speaker.
But of course it doesn’t.
“Kate? It’s Alexandra. I need you to call me right away.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Alexandra has a sixth sense
when it comes to Drew. Don’t get me wrong—she’s first in line
to hand him his ass when he screws up. But if she thinks he’s in
trouble? She swoops in like Batgirl on crack.
“Kate? Where are you and what the hell is going on with my
brother? Call me back.”
Drew and Alexandra are a lot alike. I wonder if it’s genetic.
Delayed gratification is not popular among the Evans offspring.
“Kate Brooks—don’t you dare ignore my phone calls! I don’t know what happened between you and Drew, but you just can’t abandon someone like this! Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? If these are your true colors, then . . . then he’s better off without you!”
Neither, apparently, is emotional stability. I could say her
words don’t bother me—but I’d be lying. That last
it breaks my heart.”
he’s right.
I don’t want to hear this. I don’t have the patience to feel sorry for Drew.
But I appreciate his effort. “I’m really glad you’re with my
mom, George. I’m . . . grateful that she has you. Thank you.”
he smiles warmly. “I’ll be close by. Just give a call if you need
anything.”
I nod. And he closes the door behind him.
I want to be moved by George’s words. Inspired. Motivated
to drag my ass out of this bed. But I’m just too . . . tired. So I lay back down, wrap myself up in my blanket cocoon, and go to sleep.
Twisted_1P.indd 101
11/18/13 11:47 AM
102
E m m a c h a s E
On the third day, I rise again.
I don’t really have much of a choice anymore. Lying around
and breathing your own stench isn’t exactly effective in lifting
the spirits. Oh—and I’ve still been having morning sickness, like
clockwork, in the same bucket my mother used to put beside my
bed when I had a stomach virus. Yummy. Plus, I’m pretty sure if I squeeze my hair, I’ll have enough grease to cook up a large fry at McDonald’s.
Yeah—I’d say it’s time to get up.
I drag myself to the bathroom, my movements stiff and slow.
I take a long, hot shower—almost scalding. And the steam billows
out behind me as I walk back into my room.
My mom’s a saver. Not like the hoarders you see on that TLC
show, but she’s kept all the little mementos I didn’t take with me to college and beyond.
See them? On those freshly dusted shelves? Little League tro-
phies, science fair medals, and field day ribbons, next to framed
photos of Delores, Billy, and me at graduation and halloween and
Delores’s eighteenth birthday party.
I grab my bottle of body lotion out of my bag, but as the smell
hits me I freeze. Vanilla and lavender. Drew’s favorite scent. he
can’t get enough of it. Sometimes he drags his nose up my spine,
sniffing and tickling me.
My chest tightens. And I toss the bottle in the trash can.
Glancing back to my bag, I notice my cell phone. It had been
lying under the bottle of lotion, almost as if it were hiding on purpose.
It’s been off since the flight. I consider calling Delores, but
I quickly scrap that idea. Why ruin her vacation so she can rush
home to commit premeditated murder?
Okay—you’re right—I’m lying. I haven’t called Delores
because there’s still a small, shriveled part of me that’s hoping Drew Twisted_1P.indd 102
11/18/13 11:47 AM
t w i s t E d
103
will change his mind. That he’ll find a way to fix this. And I won’t have to give my best friend a reason to hate him. Well . . . another reason.
I turn the phone on to find four messages waving back at me.
And there it is again.
Hope. It’s becoming rather pathetic now, isn’t it?
I bite my lip and take a steadying breath. And I punch in my
code—praying to all the angels and saints that Drew’s voice comes
out of the speaker.
But of course it doesn’t.
“Kate? It’s Alexandra. I need you to call me right away.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Alexandra has a sixth sense
when it comes to Drew. Don’t get me wrong—she’s first in line
to hand him his ass when he screws up. But if she thinks he’s in
trouble? She swoops in like Batgirl on crack.
“Kate? Where are you and what the hell is going on with my
brother? Call me back.”
Drew and Alexandra are a lot alike. I wonder if it’s genetic.
Delayed gratification is not popular among the Evans offspring.
“Kate Brooks—don’t you dare ignore my phone calls! I don’t know what happened between you and Drew, but you just can’t abandon someone like this! Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? If these are your true colors, then . . . then he’s better off without you!”
Neither, apparently, is emotional stability. I could say her
words don’t bother me—but I’d be lying. That last
Similar Books
