I raise my chin stubbornly, “No, Matthew—don’t. Drew is obviously happy right where he is. Why drag him away?”

Immature? Possibly.

Do I care? Nope.

Matthew looks back and forth between us. Then he rushes off in Drew’s direction.

Dee Dee has him so well trained. She puts the Dog Whisperer to shame.

I hug her good-bye. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And then I head for the door without looking back.

I’ve never lived by myself.

At eighteen, I went from my parents’ house to a dorm room.

Sophomore year, Billy joined Delores and me in Pennsylvania, and we leased a huge dilapidated house off campus with four other students. The roof leaked and the heat sucked, but the rent was right.

After Delores left for New York, while I was still at Wharton, Billy and I got a place of our own. Then we moved to the city too—and you know the rest.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I’m not as independent as I come off. I’m one of those women. The kind who turns on every light in the house when she’s home by herself. The kind who sleeps over at a friend’s when her boyfriend’s out of town.

I’ve never been alone. Never not had a boyfriend. It’s one of the reasons Billy and I lasted so long—because I preferred an expired relationship to none at all.

When I get back to the apartment, I head to the bedroom and change into a tank top and cherry-colored pajama pants. As I finish washing the makeup off my face, I hear the front door open and close.

“Kate?”

I don’t answer.

his footsteps come down the hall, and a moment later Drew fills the bathroom doorway. “hey. Why’d you leave? I came back with the drinks and Delores starts chucking ice cubes at my head, calling me a shit heel.”

I don’t make eye contact. And my voice is stiff. Dismissive. “I was tired.”

Why don’t I just tell him what’s bothering me? Because this is the game women play. We want you to drag it out of us. To show us you’re interested. It’s a test—to see how much you care.

Drew follows me into the bedroom. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would’ve come with you.”

I raise my eyes to his. My face is tight, my body tense, ready for battle. “You were otherwise occupied.”

he looks down, eyes squinting. Trying to decode my words.

Then he gives up.

“What are you talking about?”

I spell it out for him.

“The blonde, Drew. At the bar?”

he regards me with curiosity, “What about her?”

“You tell me. Did you f**k her?”

Drew scoffs. “Of course I didn’t f**k her. I left two minutes after you did. We both know I last a hell of a lot longer than that.

Or do you need a reminder?”

No, he’s not as obtuse as he seems. It’s kind of brilliant, actually. he’s trying to be cute. Sexy. Trying to distract me.

It’s what he does. And usually it works. But not tonight.

“have you ever f**ked her?”

Drew rubs the back of his neck. “You really want me to answer that?”

That’s a big fat yes, in case you were wondering.

I throw my hands up. “Of course! Of course you screwed her—because God forbid we go one day without seeing someone that your dick isn’t intimately acquainted with! Not that you even remember them, half the time.”

Drew’s eyes narrow, “So which is it? Are you pissed off when I do remember them, or when I don’t? Throw me a clue here, Kate, so I can give you the fight you’re obviously hell-bent on having.”

I pick up my body lotion and rub it swiftly over my arms. “I don’t want to fight—I just want to know why you remember her.”

Drew shrugs, and his tone turns neutral. “She’s a model. her billboard’s in the middle of Times Square. It’s a little hard to forget someone when you see her picture every day.”

And doesn’t that just make me feel so much better.

“how nice for you. Why are you even here then? Why don’t you go back and find your little model, if she means so much to you?”

A small part of me realizes I’m being irrational, but my anger is like a mudslide—now that it’s started, there’s just no way to hold it back.

Drew looks at me like I’ve gone crazy and holds out his hand.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me. You know that. Where the f**k is this coming from?”

And then a thought occurs to him.

he takes a step back before asking, “Are you due for your period? Don’t freak out—I’m only asking because, the way you’ve been acting lately, I think Alexandra’s title is in jeopardy.”

he could have a point. In high school, there was this hallway, the L wing, that was always really crowded between classes. And I knew my period was coming when I’d walk down that hallway and want to jab my pencil into the neck of the person in front of me.

however—for you guys out there? Even if your girlfriend’s tirade is PMS derived? Don’t point that out to her. It won’t end well for you.

I pick up my shoe and throw it, hitting Drew right between his bright blue eyes.

his hands go to his forehead. “What the shit?! I told you not to freak out!”

Every relationship has a screamer. A thrower. A breaker of things. In this one, that would be me. But it’s not my fault. You can’t blame the nuclear missile for going off after all its buttons have been pushed.