Lolo says all of this in a joking tone, but the last question is still a jolt.
Hate Katherine?
Have I ever said that?
My stomach clenches a little as I realize I probably have. It’s the sort of thing one says to one’s new girlfriend after breaking the news that he tried and failed at the marriage thing once before. I wanted to reassure Lolo that I was, in fact, marriage material and that it was Katherine who was impossible.
Because damn it. Katherine was impossible. Is impossible.
But hate her? I glance over to where she’s standing with her arms crossed, glaring at me. Her eyes bug out with another impatient Come on!
I almost smile because if I did hate her, nobody could blame me.
“Katherine and I are divorced,” I tell Lolo gently. “That obviously hasn’t changed. And believe me, this entire nightmare has been a painful reminder of all the reasons we’re divorced. Okay?”
Lolo hesitates, then nods. Mollified.
With a last reassurance that I will be there—on Christmas Eve—I end the call and gather Katherine’s charger, which she’s already holding out her hand for.
“You owe me,” she says, shoving the cord into her bag.
“That’s doubtful,” I say, looking pointedly at the injury on her head that started us down this whole path. “But if you’re about to tell me you found me a car or, better yet, a flight, I’ll happily reconsider the point.”
“No car,” she says. “I did some reconnaissance and learned that after all the flights were canceled, all of the cars were gone within half an hour, the employees not long after.”
“And the part where I owe you . . . ?”
Katherine holds up a hand, flashes two . . .
“Bus tickets?” I say incredulously, bending down to read them.
“Just try to be quiet this time,” she says, already wheeling her suitcase in the direction of the exit. “I’d hate for your chattiness to delay us. Again.”
I stare after her for a moment.
The bus?
“Come on. It’ll be an adventure,” Katherine says over her shoulder.
“I think I’ve had enough adventure,” I call after her, even as I start to follow.
I’m a little surprised to find I’m actually smiling. Even more surprised to realize . . . there’s nobody else I’d rather be on this adventure with.
TWENTY-FOUR
KATHERINE
December 23, 10:37 p.m.
“So,” I say, struggling to get comfortable on the bus seat. It’s not quite as bad as I imagined, but I think all the rushing around has aggravated the gash on my back because everything hurts. “Do we want to talk about it?”
Tom glances over. “Talk about what?”
I roll my eyes because he knows I saw a pretty blond woman on his phone screen. I just hope he doesn’t know that it felt like a kick to the stomach.
“Come on, Tom,” I say, a little tired. “You don’t have to be squirrelly about it. I know you’re not a virgin.”
He sighs. “Fine. You want to do this? Yes, okay? I’m seeing someone.”
“For how long?” I can’t help but ask.
Tom fiddles with his watchband. “A year or so.”
I turn my head quickly to look out the window, hoping to hide my surprise, but no luck because he nudges my side with his elbow. “Hey. It’s not that much of a shock, some women actually find me quite likable.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, and I try to let him.
“It’s not so much that I’m surprised that you found yourself a nice, docile companion.” I frown. “I confess I am a little surprised I haven’t heard about it by now.”
“Really?” His eyebrow lifts. “You think I’d call you after years of no contact? Hey, by the way . . .”
“No. And let’s be clear, if you had, I wouldn’t have taken your call,” I say, lifting a finger to emphasize my point. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’d have thought Nancy or Bob. Or your sisters. Even Luke. One of them could have mentioned it.”
I try to keep the hurt out of my voice, but I’m not sure I’m successful. A little warning would have been nice, guys.
Tom is staring at me. “When the hell would they have mentioned this?”
I begin to enumerate on my fingers. “My Saturday night talks with your mom while she makes her famous poppyseed muffins for her church choir. Or your dad in our Sunday text threads back and forth while we do the Times crossword. Or Kayla when she calls to ask my opinion on New York neighborhoods—”
“Stop.” Tom holds up a hand, looking so off-balance I almost feel bad for him. “I don’t even know where to start. You have weekly talks with my mother? My father texts? And wait, why does Kay want to know about New York neighborhoods?”
I start with the easiest of the questions.
“I can’t say Bob was a quick study on the whole texting thing. And I’m thinking about implementing an emoji limit because he’s dangerously close to abuse levels. But yeah. He texts.”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Isn’t there some sort of commandment to prevent this sort of thing? Thou shalt not remain besties with thy ex’s family?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yuck. Don’t say besties. So. What’s her name?”
He looks like he wants to play dumb and then sighs and answers, “Lolo.”
“Huh.” I look at my manicure, which is paying the price for today’s mishaps. “Maybe that’s why your parents didn’t mention it. They didn’t know how to tell me she was a stripper.”
“She’s a teacher,” Tom replies, rubbing his forehead as though he’s the one with the concussion. “I still can’t believe you’ve been in touch with my family. If anyone should be mad about omissions, it should be me. They’ve never once mentioned your name.”
I look back over at him. “Maybe they knew you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“Maybe,” he mutters, though he still looks completely nonplussed at the thought of me keeping in touch with his family.
“Does it bother you?” I ask. “That they talk to me?”
“I guess it shouldn’t. It’s just . . . odd.” He runs a hand over his face. “And damn. I still can’t get over the fact that Dad texts. I didn’t even know he knew what an emoji was.”
Oops.
I should have known better than to mention my relationship with Bob. I was close with all of Tom’s family—I still am, as much as I’ll let myself be.
But I’ve always clicked especially with Tom’s father. And though Tom’s never admitted it, I know it bothered him, even before things went sour in our relationship. It’s not so much that Tom and his father don’t have a good relationship. It’s always just had a touch of awkward distance.
It was hard, I think, for Tom—the golden boy—to see someone else come in and achieve so easily what he never quite mastered: an easy relationship with his father.
I change the subject. “So, exactly how pissed is Lolo that I’m you’re traveling companion?”
“Not at all.”
I make a snorting noise. “Come on.”