It’s that my ex-wife will be in the same house where I’m proposing to my new wife.
It’s horrifying and wrong. On every level. From every person’s perspective.
I could warn her. I should warn her.
But I can’t stop seeing the hurt she tried to hide when we talked about her not being on the spreadsheet. That damn spreadsheet. A stupid thing I put together when I graduated from college and thought I could approach adult life the same way I had my econ major. As though life was something that could be aced with the proper study schedule.
One does not ace life. Or at least I’m not acing it. Case in point . . . I sniff my sleeve again. Still hammy.
Katherine shakes her head. “It’s your own fault. I told you not to risk it with a premade sandwich at the station. The refrigeration unit at that place wasn’t up to snuff.”
“Oh, so now, in addition to knowing how planes work, you’re a refrigeration expert?” My mention of planes makes me even grumpier. “You know, if it weren’t for you, I’d have had a first-class meal at thirty thousand, not a sketchy sandwich doing flips in my large intestine.”
Katherine scoffs. “Looking forward to that sweet, sweet airline food, were you?”
“At least they wouldn’t have served ham.”
“Oh my God. Still with the ham?”
Yes. Still with the ham because I’d rather obsess over that than risk a trip down memory lane that seems to beckon a little bit more every moment I spend in Katherine’s company.
And you know? The more I think about it? I think Katherine was right. The refrigeration unit in the train station didn’t feel all that cold. And I was hungry enough that it tasted fine at the time, but now I’ve got a distinctly tangy taste in my mouth. I make a slight smacking noise. Yep. Definite funk.
“Okay,” Katherine mutters, beginning to dig in her purse. “We are not doing that the whole way.”
She comes up with a little container of mints, dumps a few in her hand, and shoves three in my mouth. I scowl at her, appreciating the thought but not the execution.
The mint helps with the hammy aftertaste but not my mood. I know what I should be doing. Returning Lolo’s fleet of messages. The fact that I haven’t makes me feel like a coward, but it has less to do with lack of courage and more . . .
Lack of anything to say.
I’ve never had a problem talking with my girlfriend in the past. She’s easy to talk to, mostly because we talk about the easy stuff. She doesn’t like to talk about politics, so we don’t. She likes to separate work life and home life, so we don’t talk about our careers, which, believe me, is a welcome change from my marriage. Actually, the only thing Lolo is ever adamant about is that she doesn’t like to fight.
If there’s ever a girlfriend who will be understanding about the current situation, it’s her, and yet the more time I spend with the termagant beside me, the harder it is to focus on anyone or anything but her.
Katherine’s always been like that, drawing all my energy toward her without even trying. She never tried. In fact, times like now, I’m pretty sure she’d like nothing more than to have me never think about her again.
And yet.
Here we are.
I glance over at her. “So, before you decided to play it fast and loose with your seat belt in the back of a cab, what were your Christmas plans?”
The man to our left is clearly annoyed at me now, and Katherine is, for once, perceptive enough to notice this because she leans over and whispers, “This is the quiet car. Don’t you have something to read?”
“Nothing consuming enough to keep my mind off the musty ham currently on the express train through my colon. Only bickering with you can do that.”
The man can’t take it anymore, and he leans across the aisle. “Sir. It’s as the lady said, this is the quiet car.”
He points to the sign above my head to punctuate his point.
I do my best to summon Charming Tom and paste a conciliatory smile on my face. “Sorry,” I mouth silently.
He nods stiffly, appeased.
I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to tame my racing thoughts. Though they’re the only thing that’s racing. The train still hasn’t moved, though nobody’s bothered to explain why.
I try to focus my thoughts on the upcoming Christmas Eve, on my proposal. Just this morning, the script of how I was going to pop the question was perfectly clear in my head, but now I can’t seem to remember a single word of it.
I open my eyes again and look at Katherine. “Can I have another mint?”
This time it’s the lady in front of us who turns around, disapproving frown firmly in place, and lifts a finger to her lips, librarian style. “Shhhhhh!”
Katherine is smirking, clearly pleased not to be the object of society’s ire for once. She hands me the entire box of mints, and I try to tap a few into my hand.
They don’t come out, and I shake it harder, rattling all the mints, the noise earning me a new set of glares from my fellow passengers.
I give up on the mints and instead pull my bag out from under the seat in front of me. I reach inside, feeling around in the zipped interior pocket. I hope feeling the sturdy yet delicate ring box will center me. Focus me.
It doesn’t.
I flip the top open, careful not to let Katherine see the contents. The enormous diamond winks at me. That, too, fails to settle my nerves. I shut the box with a silent click, then fold over the flap of my messenger-style briefcase back into place.
I slide the buckle into the clasp, and it snaps with what I think is the tiniest of tiny clicks.
At least a half-dozen heads whip toward me, and there’s a chorus of irritated shhhhhs.
Katherine is watching this with an all-out grin on her face now, delighted at my atypical lack of popularity. “Actually,” she leans toward me. “Now that I think about it. You do smell like ham.”
She says this in her normal voice, not even an attempt at a whisper. But nobody on the damn train says a word.
I feel like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone where everyone has it out for me. Or one of those hidden-camera, practical-joke shows. Actually . . . I lean into the aisle and look for a camera toward the back, just in case.
My timing is horrendous, and instead of finding a hidden camera, I come face-to-face with a woman’s crotch as she makes her way down the aisle at the exact time I turn.
She makes a horrified noise, and I immediately apologize profusely. You can imagine how well that goes over with the crowd.
I turn back to Katherine, expecting to see her gloating. She’s asleep.
Nope. Can’t have that. Not letting her sleep is half the reason I got into this mess in the first place. I nudge her shoulder. Nothing. Setting a hand on her arm, I give her a little shake, and she waves me off.
“Katherine,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
“Go away,” she mutters in her usual voice, but again, nobody even looks at her, much less scolds her. Clearly, this train is operating in an alternate universe in which everything is backward.
I’m the likable one.
She’s . . . Katherine.
I am not enjoying this role reversal.
I give her cheek a tiny flick gentle enough not to hurt, sharp enough to have her eyes flying open in outrage.