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)
“Right.” She opens the rickety closet door to hang her coat but finds no hangers. “You have to admit, though. A black light would be illuminating in more ways than one.”
I’m looking at my phone and don’t respond. I have a flurry of messages from Lo, each more panicked than the last at my lack of updates. And my family has now joined in on the concern.
My mom thinks I’ve been kidnapped, my brother wants me to know that Mom held out until 9:00 p.m. before finally letting the family eat the Bolognese without me. Kayla wants to know if I need to talk. Meredith thinks I’ve killed Katherine and wants to know if I need help burying the body.
And my dad—what do you know, he does text—wants to know if I need money or a lawyer.
“Everything okay?” Katherine asks, studying me.
I look up. “I missed Bolognese.”
Out loud, the thought sounds childish. And though Katherine would have every right to mock me, she instead comes to sit beside me on the bed.
There are several inches between her hip and mine. But I’m still aware of the proximity anyway, and maybe a little grateful for it. Hellish as this day has been, at least I haven’t been in it alone.
“I’m tempted to tell you that it always tastes better the second day, as leftovers. After the flavors meld together in the fridge.” Her voice is quiet. “However, I know that it’s more about the moment than the dish itself. I’m sorry you missed it.”
“Thanks.” I lean forward slightly and stare at the floor. Sure enough. Brown and green.
“How’d Lolo like pasta night?”
“She’s a vegetarian.”
“Ah. I was going to guess no carbs,” Katherine says.
I wince because Lolo is that too. Katherine must have caught my reaction because she lets out a light laugh but, once again, opts not to mock. “How’s she getting along with your family? First meetings can feel . . . big.”
“I have no idea, Katherine. I’m not there.” I hate myself a little for snapping at her when she’s clearly trying to be nice, but it feels crucial, somehow, that I don’t let her too close.
I hear her swallow. “Right.” She gives a single nod and starts to stand.
Damn it.
“Wait.” I reach out, my palm instinctively landing on her knee. We both go still, and I’m thrown a little off-balance at how reluctant I am to remove my hand. How long it seems to take me to pull it back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Pointing out the obvious isn’t going to make the situation any better.”
“Probably not. But you know what does improve the situation?” She pats the too-soft mattress. “Two beds.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” I say. “I was not looking forward to the chair.”
“I sort of envisioned you curled up in the tub, but I’m glad you weren’t actually thinking we might share. I still have night terrors about your pawing.”
I can’t resist looking over with a sly smirk. “As I remember, you liked my pawing.”
Her eyes narrow in warning, but she doesn’t reply. Probably for the best. That is one trip down memory lane I should absolutely not be traveling.
Katherine stands and nods in the direction of the bathroom. “You want first shower?”
“Nah. Go for it.” I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. The mattress is even more horrible than I expected, but I’m too grateful to be out of the snow and to finally be done with this day to care.
“Take your time,” I tell her sleepily. “Perhaps if you stay in there long enough, it’ll rinse away the rough edges of your personality.”
“One can hope.” She unzips her suitcase. “And if I’m really lucky, maybe the shower can also wash away the memories of our marriage.”
I start to smile until I remember that she’s the enemy. When we were married, the never-ending supply of quips this woman had at the ready thrilled me, even when they were a little razor-sharp. It’s uncomfortable to realize they still do. Uncomfortable, mainly, because they summon an almost choking sense of guilt, because she isn’t the one I’ll be proposing to tomorrow night.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut before I force myself out of the sinkhole of a mattress and into a sitting position. Needing to adjust my thinking, to refocus my attention on my future wife, I grab my briefcase and set it on the edge of the bed.
With a quick glance toward the closed bathroom door, I pull out the ring box and flip it open. It feels incomprehensible that I purchased it just this morning; it feels like ages ago. Strange, too, that this ring, which should be so recent in my memory, looks foreign. Whereas I can remember every detail of my grandmother’s ring that once was on Katherine’s finger.