Because while there are about a million reasons why I should be heading to the elevator, I find myself loitering outside her hospital room, blatantly eavesdropping on her conversation with the nurse.
A mistake. Because her quiet plea makes my chest ache.
“I can’t spend Christmas in the hospital. Please.”
I drag a hand over my face because I know—I am perhaps one of the only people on the planet who does—that her entreaty is more than the standard hospital aversion.
I never met Daniel Tate. Katherine’s father passed away a couple years before we met. If I’m being honest, I hate that I didn’t have a chance to meet the man who raised a woman like Katherine all on his own. A man who sacrificed everything to get her through law school. Who loved her, even when, let’s be honest, it wasn’t the easiest thing to do.
But I’ve heard enough of Daniel to feel like I know the important things about the man. I know he was short and fair and looked nothing like his daughter—Katherine got her dark hair and eyes and taller-than-average height from her mother, who passed away when she was a child.
I know that Daniel was kind and patient. That his favorite Christmas movie was Scrooge from the 1950s. And that he vehemently discounted Die Hard as a Christmas movie, and I regret never having the opportunity to state my case because I’m confident I could have convinced him.
I know that Daniel Tate got sick with terminal pancreatic cancer.
And I know that he died.
On Christmas.
In a hospital.
I close my eyes. Damn it.
My phone buzzes, notifying me of what should be good news. My Uber driver has made better time than estimated and will be here in three minutes.
I force myself to conjure Lolo’s face in my mind. My girlfriend, who at this minute is with my family, all of them eagerly awaiting my arrival. My girlfriend, who in two days will become my fiancée, and eventually . . .
My wife.
I set my hand on my computer bag, feeling for the slight bulge of the ring box, and let it serve as the impetus I need to move toward the elevator doors. To put my past behind me, once and for all.
Katherine will be fine on her own. She prefers it that way.
Something I repeat to myself over and over in the elevator. And as I wheel my suitcase toward the exit.
For good measure, I remind myself that the woman legitimately hates my guts.
My sticking around would merely be a selfish way of assuaging my own conscience.
And my leaving is the best Christmas gift Katherine could ask for.
There. My good-guy status is restored.
If only I could believe it.
The sliding doors of the hospital open, and even though I’ve seen the forecasts, the blast of snow that hits me in the face still catches me by surprise.
When I got to the hospital half an hour ago, flakes had just started to fall. Now, everything’s covered in white. Luckily, it looks to be a thin layer. Not the type to cancel flights. Not enough to prevent me from getting to Chicago to propose.
I don’t see my car yet, so I move under the awning to dodge the worst of the whipping snow. Two guys dressed in scrubs and winter coats are on their break, sipping from steaming paper cups.
“This is nothing,” one of them says in a bored voice, glancing out at the snow. “I thought this was supposed to be a blizzard.”
“Yeah, but it’s early yet,” the other says, looking up at the sky. “It wasn’t even supposed to start snowing for another couple hours, and an inch has already accumulated in thirty minutes.”
His companion gives him a look. “The weather guy from Channel Seven called. He wants his job back.”
The snow watcher smiles and shrugs. “I’m from Phoenix. The white stuff still fascinates me.”
“Well, I’m from Buffalo. Trust me, it gets old.” The other guy drains the rest of his cup and tosses it into the nearby trash. “I almost don’t mind getting stuck here for another eight hours.”
“You pulling a double?”
The first nods.
“That sucks. But at least you didn’t get the Christmas Eve shift. I hate being in a hospital for the holidays.”
“I can’t spend Christmas in the hospital. Please.”
I check my phone. Two minutes to go. Come on, Uber.
“Whenever my mom gives me shit for missing Christmas to work, I remind her I’m one of the lucky ones,” their conversation continues, torturing me. “Much as it sucks to be changing the beds, at least I’m not in one on Christmas.”
I swallow. Damn it.
I lift my phone once again. And when I tap the Delta app, I tell myself I’m checking availability on later flights only as a backup plan. Not the plan.
But when I try to come up with an excuse to explain to myself why I’m searching availability for two tickets to Chicago instead of one, I’m faced with the awful, unavoidable truth:
I’m taking my ex-wife home for Christmas.
THIRTEEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 1:04 p.m.
“Listen up, Tate. This is how it’s going to go, and if you argue, I swear to God, I really will strangle you with your shredded bra.”
I jolt awake.
I’ve just started to doze off, so at first I think the bossy, horrible voice is a dream.
“Katherine.” Tom’s fingers on my cheek are none too gentle and all too real. “I don’t think you’re supposed to fall asleep with a concussion.”
He’s right. I’m not. Cookie Nurse made that very clear. He also promised to come in every five minutes to make sure I stayed awake.
Which at the time the nurse threatened it had seemed fairly terrible, but this is way, way worse.
I struggle into a more upright position, still trying to orient my thoughts. “Tom? What are you—”
He holds up a finger, and there’s something in his expression that, for once, has me shutting my mouth.
“This is how it’s going to go,” he repeats. “We’re leaving the hospital, together. I will make sure you don’t fall asleep. I will horrify both of us by making sure the wound on your back doesn’t ooze or whatever. But the second the timer’s up and you don’t need to be babysat? You’re on a flight back to New York. You got that?”
I must have hit my head even harder than they thought because all of this feels impossible to compute.
I latch on to the easiest of his statements, and the most crucial.
“What do you mean flight back to New York? I’m not leaving New York,” I say.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says in a chiding tone, wagging his finger. “No arguing, remember? I’m heading to Chicago. Ergo you’re heading to Chicago.”
I stare at him as the reality of what he’s saying sinks in, and even then, my brain rebels at the idea. “You can’t be serious. You want me to spend Christmas with your family?”
“Want? God, no.” Tom doesn’t shudder, but I sense he has to hold himself back.
“But,” he continues, “it’s either this, or you completely ruin my holiday by making me feel guilty for leaving you in the hospital.”
“Yeah, because you’re clearly the victim here. I hope this hasn’t been too hard for you.”
Tom’s expression doesn’t show even a flicker of sympathy. “Please,” he says. “It’s hardly my fault you insist on rolling around in cabs while simultaneously refusing to wear a seat belt in one.”