Anything to get him back to the person he wants to be.
Yes, Tom is personable. And he’s funny, though, of course, I’ll die before admitting it aloud. He’s easy to be around, kind to strangers, and likes to take care of the people he cares about, blah blah blah.
But he’s also crafted that version of himself. I don’t mean to imply that he’s disingenuous because, much as it pains me to admit, Tom really is a decent guy.
Exhibit A: man takes an ex-wife that he loathes home for the holidays out of the goodness of his heart.
But it’s just . . . how to explain?
Tom is as charming as he is because he works at it. It’s as though he takes time each day to deliberately weed out the bad thoughts and replace them with more pleasant ones.
And during that time? He’s downright brooding.
Now, I’ve never minded this about him.
Actually, that brooding version of the man was always my favorite. Not because he’s particularly pleasant to be around, but because if you’re subjected to it, it means you’re in the inner circle.
It means he trusts you. He’s comfortable around you.
So yeah. The fact that after all these years, I’m still privy to Brooding Tom? It warms my shrunken Grinch heart just a little bit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he impatiently tugs at the knot of his tie. Another tell.
I stay silent. Waiting him out.
“I still can’t believe your ticket had precheck approved, and mine didn’t,” he mutters.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. That’s not what’s bothering him.
“I’m the one that bought the tickets,” he continues. “On this airline’s credit card. So someone please explain to me why I’m the one who had to wait in a mile-long security line and take off my shoes?”
“Someone already did explain it to you,” I say. “You gave that same speech, verbatim, to the poor woman working the counter at our gate, and she explained that it was a systems error and apologized. Don’t worry, though, she obviously had lots of time to listen to your tantrum as she dealt with an overbooked, delayed flight.”
He doesn’t respond, and I glance over. “What’s this really about? Did the TSA agent not compliment your Santa socks?”
He frowns at me. “How do you know I’m wearing Santa socks?”
I lift my purse from beneath the seat in front of me and begin digging around for my sleep mask. “Because it’s December. That means your socks are going to be Santa, elves, snowmen, or gingerbread men. Unless your mom went crazy and added reindeer to the mix this year?”
Tom is visibly startled, and I know why. It’s because his mom did give out reindeer socks this year, and he wants to know how I know that.
Nancy Walsh has a long-standing Thanksgiving tradition. After the turkey’s put away and the pumpkin pie comes out, she gives out a pair of Christmas socks to everyone at her table.
I may not have been a guest at that table in a long time, but I still get the socks in the mail every November, along with a pumpkin-pie-scented candle. It’s the highlight of my entire holiday season, though I’m loath to admit such mawkishness.
“Speaking of reindeer,” he says, “that sweatshirt really brings out your eyes.”
Yes, I’m still wearing the hideous sweatshirt from the hospital. Not because it’s grown on me. It hasn’t. But because I wasn’t able to wiggle out of it, given the gash on my back, and Tom refused to help me change.
I ignore him and reach down to pull up his pant leg slightly. “Santas. Nailed it.”
He jerks his leg away, and I sit back up, wincing when I move too fast and my back stings.
“I still think we should have changed the bandage back at your place,” he says, noticing my discomfort.
“You were too anxious to get to the airport. I didn’t want you to do a rush job. Wait.” I look over at him. “You grabbed the gauze off the counter, didn’t you? I asked—”
“I got it,” he interrupts. “Even managed to fashion it into a nice, sturdy noose fitted just for you.”
A flight attendant comes over the intercom to make the inevitable announcement that all the overhead space is full and that anyone with a roller bag will have to check it.
There’s a chorus of angry groans, and for a split second, I’m almost grateful for Tom’s insistence that we board early and with plenty of time to secure a spot for our bags. There aren’t many things I could name that could make this horrible day any worse, but losing my luggage would be on the short list.
I put the sleep mask onto my head, staging it on my forehead as I turn my attention to the cheap inflatable neck pillow I bought in the airport. I’d much prefer the expensive one I normally use, but Tom rushed me out of my apartment before I was able to grab my usual flight accoutrements.
I lift the standin pillow to my face, then wince at the rubbery smell. Since it’s Tom’s fault I’m stuck with it, I flap it in front of his face. “Here. Blow this up for me.”
He pushes my hand back toward me and pulls his phone out of his suit pocket. “Pass.”
“Such a gentleman,” I mutter. “Making the invalid do it.”
I loop the floppy thing over my neck and open the little valve. I bring it to my mouth, but the process is awkward and uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you inflate it before you put it on, genius?” he says, not looking up from his phone.
“You sure you don’t want to do it?” I offer it to him again. “You seem to be full of hot air.”
“I don’t know why you even insisted on buying that damn thing. It’s meant for sleeping, and you can’t sleep. Concussion, remember?”
“No, Tom. I forgot,” I say sarcastically. “And I had to find something to keep myself busy at the airport, considering we basically arrived at the gate before our plane had even left its departure city.”
“Well, you know what, Katherine, if it weren’t for you and your stubborn insistence on cabs, I wouldn’t have missed my original flight and would already be in Chicago by now. So sue me for wanting to make sure I didn’t miss this one.”
“Sue you?” I repeat. “I would love to be the defense attorney on that ridiculous excuse for a lawsuit,” I say. “Slam dunk.”
I make a motion like I’m shooting a basketball, and Tom shakes his head. “That shot would have never gone in.”
“Would too.”
“Nope. I’m a die-hard baseball guy, and even I know that would have been an air ball.”
My eyes go very, very wide. “No! You played baseball? I had no idea! Have you ever mentioned that?!”
“Ha. Ha.” He sets his head back on the headrest and closes his eyes.
I smirk. Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve made it this far in the day without a baseball reference. Tom loves to talk about his baseball glory days. Hearing him talk about his RBI or whatever at a cocktail party, you’d think he started for the Yankees and not simply played “college ball,” which is a phrase he repeats with increased frequency if you make the mistake of serving him gin.
“I forget,” I say, leaning toward him. “How many bases did you steal at that state championship game?”