Twisted by Emma Chase Page B

film I grew up watching. Just before the girl walks away or gets in the car, the guy comes sprinting down the street.
    Chasing after her.
    Calling her name.
    Telling her he didn’t mean it. Not any of it.
    And then they kiss. And the music plays and the credits roll.
    That’s what I want right now. The happy ending that everyone
    knew was coming.
    So I hold my breath. And the doors open.
    You want to guess who’s in there? Go ahead—I’ll wait.
    . . .
    It’s empty.
    And I feel my chest cave in on itself. My breaths come quick,
    panting through the pain—like when you twist an ankle. And my
    vision blurs as the elevator doors 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 shoul-
    der.
    “Yeah, Lou. I’m ready now.”
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Chapter 8
    A sshole. 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.
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    86
    E m m a c h a s E
    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 lon-
    ger 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 kid-neys.
    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 bath-
    room. Too many memories there. Fun, sweet memories.
    Kooch .
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    t w i s t E d
    87
    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 con-
    trol 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