I mean, if she's ready for round two, who am I to deny her?

I tackle her. We roll around on the bed for a minute until I pin her down-sitting on her waist-trapping her hands over her head. The physical exertion defuses some of the tension, and Kate looks a little less devastated. When I'm sure she won't try to escape, I grab the comforter and pull it over both of us, so we're shielded in a conversation-muting coc.o.o.n.

I flop down on my side facing Kate, and in a half-whispered tone I get right to the point. "If the idea of strippers being part of the entertainment bothers you so much, why the h.e.l.l did you say it was okay to have my bachelor party in Las Vegas?"

Strippers in Las Vegas are like corn in Iowa. They're kind of what the city is known for.

Kate squirms. Then she sighs. "Because everyone was so excited about going to Las Vegas. I didn't want to be the downer. Bachelor and bachelorette parties in Vegas are like . . . tradition, right?"

Not too long ago, sacrificing goats was a tradition too. Doesn't make it a good idea.

"Not all traditions have to be followed. If you're really that uncomfortable about it, I'll tell the guys no. We'll stick to gambling, cigars, and alcohol."

She pauses a moment-thinking. "You would do that for me?"

I chuckle. Because by now, how can she not know? "Of course I would."

Kate tucks her hands under her cheek. It makes her look young, vulnerable. My chest tightens with the desire to protect her. From anything-everything-that could cause her pain.

Including my own tongue.

"I don't really care about the strippers, Drew."

Now I'm confused. "Are you saying that because you really don't care-or because you think that's what I want you to say?"

I have to ask, because in my experience, women will tell you to do something and then slit your f.u.c.king throat when you actually do it. Since you were supposed to know they didn't really want you to do it. That they don't really mean what they say.

Except for the times when they do.

It's like an undiscovered form of schizophrenia. G.o.d gave you a mouth for a reason, ladies. Well . . . several reasons actually.

But the point is-use it. Be up-front. It'll save us all a lot of time and energy.

"No-I'm being honest. Now that I know you don't want to go to a strip club, it doesn't bother me so much if you do."

"Then why were you upset?"

"I think, deep down, I'm just . . . afraid."

"Of what?"

"You."

Ouch. Gotta say, that one kind of hurts. Like an old knee injury that acts up so infrequently, you almost forget it's there. Until it reminds you. And you're bedridden for a week.

Kate sees my expression and elaborates. "I'm afraid you're going to do something . . . that you're going to see something, or hear something, and that you'll take it the wrong way. That there'll be a misunderstanding, and you'll react . . . badly."

I rub my eyes. And sigh. "I thought we were past all that, Kate."

She grabs my hand and squeezes. "We are past it. We forgave each other, and we're so good now. But . . . you have to admit . . . there's a pattern."

Rose Kennedy once declared, "It has been said, 'Time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."

Preaching to the choir, Rosie. Preaching to the choir . . .

My hand trails out and cups Kate's cheek to rea.s.sure her. "I'm not that guy anymore, Kate."

Okay, you're right: deep down I am still that guy. But I'm smarter now. More. I'm a father. In a week, I'll be a husband. And I would cut my d.i.c.k off before I would ever hurt Kate like that again.

I've grown, G.o.d d.a.m.n it.

"I love you, Kate. And I trust you. I trust us. We talk about things-I don't just react now. So I'm not gonna screw this up. Not this weekend; not ever again."

Oh, irony. You ugly b.i.t.c.h.

Kate's hand covers mine. She stares into my eyes, looking for truth or sincerity or I don't know what. Whatever it is, she finds it. Because she smiles. And kisses me softly. "I believe you."

Then she pulls back and asks, "Would you feel better if I tell Dee to cancel any stripper plans she may have made for us?"

Yes.

"No."

h.e.l.l yes.

"Well . . . maybe."

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

"No. No. I want you to have fun with the girls. You know, do what ganders do."

See? If that's not evidence of f.u.c.king growth, I don't know what the h.e.l.l is. Besides, male strippers aren't that big a deal. Because most of them are aspiring dancers. And we all know what that means. . . .

Anyway, no girl wants to bang a guy in a banana hammock. I don't care if you're built like a brick s.h.i.thouse and hung like a freaking horse-if you're wearing a man-thong? You look like a tool.

As we sit up, Kate tells me, "Watching a greased-up guy shaking his a.s.s is not really my idea of fun, Drew." She wiggles her eyebrows my way. "Now, you greased up and dancing, on the other hand, that sounds like a good time."

This is why I love her.

"You're the perfect woman."

I pull her in for a kiss-longer than the last one. But just as our tongues come out to play, a small voice chirps out from the monitor.

"Mummy? Daaaddy? Up-o. Up-o."

I pull back. "The beast has risen. You shower first, I'll get him."

"Okay."

I slide on a pair of sweats as Kate pulls some clothes from the drawer.

"Daaddy! Mummy! Up-o. Up-o. Up-o!"

My son is not a big fan of patience. Wonder where he gets that from?

"Oh, and Drew?"

I turn toward Kate. "Yeah?"

"My grandmother used to say, 'Look with your eyes, not with your hands.' When you're at that strip bar? Make sure you do that."

I nod. "Got it, boss." I stride forward and grab her chin, freeing her lip from her teeth's grip. Then I kiss it better-making her just a little dazed and confused. "Stop f.u.c.king worrying. We're gonna have a great time with our friends this weekend. Nothing bad is gonna happen. I promise."

Famous last words, right? How's that for a jinx? Idiot.

I spin her back around and slap both cheeks with one hand. "Now get that a.s.s in the shower before I decide to tap it again."

Kate laughs, 'cause she thinks I'm kidding. Only- "Daaadddyyy! Up-o! Up-o!"

Right. Duty calls. Kate heads for the bathroom, and I go to spring James from his cage.

So that's how it started. Everything was awesome. We were talking. Laughing. Communicating.

f.u.c.king.

It was like a fairy tale, for Christ's sake.

Did you ever notice how fairy tales all start off great? The beautiful princess, the happy kingdom? Then it all turns to s.h.i.t. One minute Hansel's feeling no pain, chomping on a window made of sugar, and the next minute some old hag is trying to shove his a.s.s in an oven.

For any of you out there who still think I'm an unworthy, self-absorbed douche? I have a feeling you're going to enjoy this.

A lot.

Chapter 2.

James's room is dim. The shades are drawn and the only illumination comes from a Buzz Lightyear night-light in the corner. It's the mother of all boy's rooms. Yellow and green? No thanks. The walls are navy and cream, the furniture dark cherrywood. A toddler-size basketball net is against one wall, and a full-size train table against the other. A comfy rocking chair is stationed between two arched windows, with a well-worn copy of Goodnight Moon lying in wait on the seat. Framed pictures of family-and the new Yankee Stadium-hang on the walls. A Metallica poster is taped to the back of the door.

I wanted it front and center but Kate shot me down.

James's big, dark eyes light up when I walk in. He's the perfect mini-me-his nose, his chin, his black hair that sticks up at all angles.

"Morning, buddy."

He holds on to the rail of his crib and bounces like a cotton-clad chimpanzee.

His words are carefully p.r.o.nounced, with stresses on the consonants. Kind of like a robot. "Hel-lo, Dad-dee."

So f.u.c.king cute.

I pick him up, hold him high, and nibble on his belly, making him shriek. Then I bring him back down and give him a squeeze. His head turns and rests on my shoulder, and his breath tickles my neck. I kiss his hair again-just because I can.

I'll never understand those guys who refuse to hug and kiss their kids-particularly their male kids. Coldhearted p.r.i.c.ks, if you ask me. The idea that too much affection can make a boy soft is a big steaming pile of c.r.a.p.

If you want your kid to be confident-secure? You have to give them a good foundation-set the right example. Take my old man, for instance. I grew up knowing he was fully capable of kicking my a.s.s whenever I stepped out of line. Which he did. Frequently. But he also showed me every day that he had my back. That he loved me, was proud of everything I did or tried to do. James is gonna grow up the exact same way.

A rancid aroma invades my nose. "Jesus, James." I lay him on the table to get him changed.

You look surprised. You shouldn't be. Real men change diapers.

I'm thinking about putting that on a T-shirt.

In fact, anything Kate can do-bath time, bedtime, midnight feedings-I can do too. I kind of have to.

Kate was only twenty-eight when James was born. For a professional in our field, that's young. And as happy as she was to do the mom thing-and despite a boatload of guilt-she just wasn't ready to trade in the corporate ladder for Mommy and Me's and G.o.dd.a.m.n Wiggles songs.

A nanny or day care was out of the question. When I was young, I didn't even like to board our dogs. No way was I handing my kid off to some strangers, hoping every day that they didn't cause harm.

But I did promise Kate-once upon a time-that I'd make all her dreams come true. So, we compromised. Here's how that played out. You'll find the ending of this exchange particularly gratifying . . . or at least I did: James-four weeks old.

It's ten thirty by the time I walk through the door of our apartment. These may seem like late hours to you, but in the field of investment banking, it's pretty much par for the course. One seven o'clock meeting runs over, then a conference call with Indonesia, a couple more hours spent reviewing contracts, and here we are.

When James was first born, I took two weeks dad-ternity leave, but now I'm back at the office full speed ahead. Kate's doing the stay-at-home-mom thing. We used to alternate the middle-of-the-night feeding shifts, but because it's difficult to form a coherent sentence-let alone manage millions of dollars-when half your brain is asleep, they now fall on her, so I can get a night of decent shut-eye and not decimate my clients' fortunes.

I toss my keys on the table and nudge the door closed with my foot. I step into the living room-Kate's sitting on the couch with a basket of laundry at her feet, folding tiny pants that will join their onesie brethren stacked on the table. Her long, soft hair-which I relish feeling draped across my thighs-is tied up in a bun. She's wearing short pajama shorts and a navy T-shirt, and I can't help but notice her still-larger-than-normal-from-breast-feeding t.i.ts are free from the usual bra constraints.

Bonus.

In a louder voice than I'd intended, I say, "Hey, beautiful."

"Shhh!" She attacks. "If you wake that baby, I'll pluck out every pubic hair you have the next time you fall asleep."

My eyes widen. She's been spending way too much time with Delores these days.

I lower my voice. "Sorry." I sit beside her on the couch and lean over for a kiss.

My lips coax a smile from her-as usual. "Hi," she greets me in a much-happier-to-see-me tone. "Do you want me to heat you up a plate?"

"Nah, I'll just make myself a bowl of cereal."

Kate yawns as she picks up a my mom is hotter than your mom bib and continues to fold.