Before I can have a moment to contemplate this, she shoves me away and reaches for the cocktail on the nightstand. “Come here, lover.”
“Sorry, not available,” I say. Not interested, I remind myself.
Katherine ignores my admittedly lame joke and takes a sip of her drink, letting out a content sigh. “Now we’re talking. This is the one thing you always did right.”
She takes another sip.
“Let’s go easy on that,” I say, reaching for the drink. “Until we can see how your concussed, medicated body can handle it.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Thinking about my body, are you?”
“Hardly.” Maybe. I reach for the drink again, but she pulls it out of my reach with remarkable grace, given her current condition.
“You know,” Katherine muses. “It’s strangely comforting. The way you haven’t changed from your bossy, rules-abiding self over the years. Still a goody-goody.”
“You know what’s less comforting? You drinking whiskey with a concussion. And that I’ve been tasked with taking care of you for two days, even though you won’t agree to a single one of my suggestions. Though, I guess you never did.”
“Not true.” She takes another sip and looks at me over the rim of her cocktail. “I agreed when you asked me to marry you.”
I go still. Wary. “True.”
She continues to gaze at me with eyes that have always seen just a little bit more of me than I want people to see.
“I said yes when you asked for a divorce too,” Katherine says quietly. “I’d say that makes me downright agreeable, wouldn’t you?”
I open my mouth, then close it. I’m not often a man short on words, but I have no idea how to respond to that.
She waves a hand and sets her drink aside. “Forget it. Let me just go grab my toiletries from the bathroom and throw some clothes in a bag so we can get you to the airport in time to sit and wait at the gate for a solid hour.”
I roll my eyes, watching as she exits the room to make sure she’s steady on her feet. Not to check out her ass.
And then, because I need it, I reach for my cocktail, only to swear softly when I see the puddle of bourbon that I spilled when I set the overfilled glasses down.
I open the nightstand drawer, hoping to find a tissue or something to mop up the mess.
I freeze when I see it. Her. Us.
With a quick glance to the door to make sure she’s still in the bathroom, I lift the picture of Katherine and me on vacation in St. Moritz.
As with the moment I saw Joel, I’m immediately flooded with memories long buried. Deliberately buried.
Memories not only of the moment itself, though I remember standing atop that mountain on that beautiful day with almost painful clarity. But memories of the even more poignant moments leading up to it.
I remember the months of planning, the anticipation not only of the destination but the prospect of having Katherine to myself for once, her attention on me instead of work.
I remember the champagne on the plane that made both of us a little bit giggly, a little unlike our usual buttoned-up selves.
Chicago isn’t exactly known as a skiing destination, but when I was growing up, my family had taken regular trips to winter resorts in Michigan often enough that I knew my way around the slopes. Enough to teach Katherine how to ski the first winter after we got married and for her to fall in love with the sport.
Neither of us was particularly good, but we were proficient enough to enjoy the powdery perfection of the Alps. The trip wasn’t about the skiing, though. Because what I remember with far greater clarity than racing Katherine down a double black diamond is the moments surrounding the skiing.
The conversations on the chairlift where we talked about nothing and everything. The way she felt curled up against my side in the lodge as we sipped cocktails by the fire.
I remember the hot tub in our room. I remember what came after the hot tub back in the room.
I hear her footsteps approaching from the bathroom and hurriedly put the frame back in the drawer. Partially because I don’t want her to know I saw. Partially because I don’t want to think about what it means that she still has it.
But putting the frame out of sight doesn’t put it out of my mind, and even after I close the drawer, my brain is reluctant to set it aside. Katherine is hardly the sentimental type. It always bothered me, a little, how indifferent she was to keepsakes, how reluctant to keep anything that would trigger emotional memories. When I discovered an old box of Christmas decorations from her childhood, she practically bit my hand when I tried to drag it out of the closet.
And yet, she kept Joel. And this photo.
I’d have thought she’d have done everything possible to remove every trace of our marriage from her life. The fact that she hasn’t is . . . intriguing.
And it shouldn’t be.
I’m carrying around an engagement ring with me, for Christ’s sake. I’m about to propose to another woman. A woman who is everything that Katherine is not. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
“What’s with the face?” Katherine asks, startling me out of my reverie.
“What face?”
“That one.” She points at my head. “You only look like that when you’re constipated or trying to shove back thoughts that don’t fit into your tidy little life plan.”
The assessment is piercingly accurate, so naturally, I give her a scathing put-down. “Maybe you should be a little less worried with my face, and a little more worried about the fact that this suitcase is still empty?”
I give it a shake, hoping to hurry her along. Hoping also to remind myself that although Katie and I had a few good times, in the end, they’d done nothing to save us.
SIXTEEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 4:12 p.m.
It doesn’t take the instincts and experience of an ex-wife to know that Tom is irritated about something. He keeps shifting uncomfortably in his plane seat and has gotten up to check his bag in the overhead compartment five times already.
Maybe he really is constipated.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, not looking up from the message I’m typing to my boss. It’s not technically urgent enough to warrant an after-hours text. It can easily wait until tomorrow morning. Hell, it can wait until after the holidays.
But now that all the distraction of my untimely hospital visit is behind me, I’m back on track. Partner track. I missed a handful of calls due to that pesky accident, and though none were from Harry, I want to make sure my boss knows I’ve got my phone on me. For whenever he decides to get off his ass and make the call already.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Tom’s snippy tone contradicts his words, but I know him well enough not to point this out. Here’s what I know about my ex: either he’ll decide he wants to talk or that he doesn’t.
Poking the bear while the bear stews is futile. Because despite the charming, if a little sarcastic, Disney prince persona that Tom puts on for the rest of the world, here’s a little secret about the man:
Tom Walsh is a champion stewer. When something wiggles past his smiling facade and latches on to the real Tom, 100 percent of his focus goes to chewing on whatever’s annoying him. He silently assesses it. Wrestles with it. Tries to banish it.