Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
And yet somehow, I can’t stop thinking about her in said towel. And underwear.
“You’re an idiot,” Katherine mutters.
I blow on my hands and study her. The words are typical Katherine, but something seems slightly off about her tone.
Actually, for that matter, she’s seemed off ever since we got up this morning. She’s been prickly as ever, but her spikes seem dulled somehow.
“How’s your head?” I ask.
“Fine. A little headache, but I’ve had worse from tequila.”
“And your back?” The gash seemed better this morning when I changed the bandage, but I’m sure it still hurts like hell.
She shoots me an impatient look. “If you’re asking if I feel like I was in a car accident yesterday—two of them—yes. Okay? Interrogation over?”
“Not yet,” I say, crossing my arms. “Something is up with you. Is it our flight? Was it canceled again?”
Katherine booked us a little puddle jumper from a nearby regional airport that’ll take us to a regional airport in Gary, Indiana. It’s not exactly the first-class ticket of my original flight cruising into the C concourse at O’Hare yesterday, but after everything, I’m grateful.
“Nope, flight’s still on time,” she says, not looking up from her phone.
I’m more convinced than ever that something’s amiss. I feel like I’m getting a reflection version of Katherine instead of the real version. She’s distanced herself.
“Ah. Here we go,” she says, thumbs moving over her screen. “Got a car. You’ll still be at your parents’ by lunch.”
“We’ll be at my parents’ by lunch,” I correct.
“Nope.” She drops her phone back into her bag. “I’ll be on a plane to Boston. Out of O’Hare, so go ahead and get jealous.”
I stare at her. “Wait. What. Is this one of the concussion warning signs? Delusions?”
That earns me a little smile. “Nope. Dead serious.”
“What the hell is in Boston? And you’re supposed to have someone with you for at least another twenty-four hours to monitor that gash on your back.”
She pats me on the arm, dismissive and distant, and it bothers me.
“You’re off the hook, Walsh,” she says. “Irene repeated her offer for me to spend the holiday with her family, and I decided to take her up on it. And her daughter’s a nurse so she’s more qualified than you to be on infection patrol. Not that I didn’t appreciate your efforts. I’m thrilled to look like a mummy.”
That, at least, sounds a bit like the usual Katherine, but instead of being relieved, I feel . . . empty?
“So, you’re just . . . leaving?” I ask. “Just like that?”
“What. Mad I’m stealing your move?”
I swallow. That one landed. “C’mon,” I say quietly. “That’s not fair.”
I feel . . . wounded. I actually thought we were getting somewhere. Not that I know where. And it’s not like we could go anywhere together. But at the very least I thought we were coming to an understanding. Maybe even creeping toward that hard-to-find place of forgiving each other rather than just forgetting each other.
Though, the more time I spend with her, I realize I never did forget. Not really.
“Where the hell is our new Uber?” Katherine lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun and squints down the road. She’s obviously deliberately avoiding looking my way, and I finally decide I’ve had enough.
“Hey, Kates. Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About whatever you’re thinking! Feeling! I thought we were . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t know. You thought we were what, Tom?” she says, finally facing me, but her eyes are distant. “Two exes who can barely tolerate each other? Well spotted.”
I shake my head. “You’re retreating. Why?”
Instead of answering, she points off in the distance.
“Extreme urgency demands I go investigate that construction area and see exactly how disgusting the porta-potty is. If our Uber gets here, don’t let the car leave without me.”
“No promises,” I mutter.
Katherine trudges toward the porta-potty, holding her arms out to the sides for balance as she slip-walks away from me.
I pivot back toward the road. Annoyed. At her. Myself. The situation. Mostly, that I can’t even identify why I feel so angry at her. Yesterday, I would have jumped at the chance to off-load her onto Irene.
But yesterday, I didn’t know that I’d hurt her. Or that I missed her.
Katherine getting on that plane to Boston is the end of the line for us, and we both know it.
If we were both single, or even both happily married, there’s a chance, a very small chance, that we could be friendly-ish in the future.
But a newly engaged man does not keep in touch with his single, attractive ex-wife . . .
Attractive? When had that description for Katherine come back into play?
I dig my phone out of my pocket and call Lolo back. She picks up on the first ring. “Hey, finally! Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Merry Christmas Eve. How are things there?”