Even if we do look back and laugh someday in the distant future, Tom and I won’t be laughing together.
He’ll probably be telling his cute grandchildren about his fraught, frozen adventure on his way to propose to Grandma, and I’ll be . . . alone.
Instead of answering my lame question, he glances over at me. “Why are you not more upset about losing your phone?”
“I am. You just can’t tell because my face is frozen in place.” I try to smile, and it feels stiff. “Do I look like one of those plastic-surgery-gone-wrong pictures from Page Seven?”
“Six,” he says, dropping his chin and smiling. “Page Six. And frozen features aside, the Katherine I know would be vibrating with horror at not having her most precious possession. You’re not. Why?”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but I can’t deny that old me would have been losing her mind at being without her phone for even five minutes. And as much as I know people don’t change in the span of a single day, I can’t deny the fact that something has shifted over the course of the past twenty-four hours.
That my phone no longer feels like my most precious possession.
Tom doesn’t let me off the hook. “You’re not worried that Harry’s going to call with the call?”
I open my mouth with the knee-jerk instinct to tell him that of course I’m freaking out about missing the partner call that I’ve been waiting my entire adult life for.
But the truth? I haven’t even thought about how losing my phone means missing Harry’s phone call. Not until just now when Tom mentioned it.
The realization leaves me with an unsettled, untethered feeling. Who is Katherine Tate, Esquire, aspiring partner?
What does she stand for? What does she want?
I’m too afraid I know the answer to that last one. And that the correct question isn’t so much what does she want, but who?
Who do I want?
I already know. Just like I know I won’t get him.
I missed my chance with Tom. I’ve always known that. But until yesterday, I didn’t realize how much I wanted a do-over. A second chance.
I lift my frozen hands to my mouth and try to blow some warmth back into them. I half expect Tom to give me grief about losing his gloves along with everything else.
Instead, he slides off the guardrail and pivots to stand in front of me. Wordlessly, he reaches for my hands, bringing them between his much bigger palms, which somehow seem so much warmer than my own.
Tom begins rubbing my hands briskly, and though his gaze is locked on our joined hands rather than making eye contact, there’s a surprising intimacy to the action. And a kindness, too, that I’m not entirely sure I deserve.
“You hate me,” I say quietly. “Because I lost our bags.”
“Yes. And no.”
“Yes, you hate me. But not because I lost the bags?” I ask, studying his features.
His eyes flick up, meet mine. He winks, and before I can register just what that does to my insides, his gaze lowers back to our hands.
I don’t push it further because I know what that wink means. He doesn’t hate me. He just thinks that he should.
And then, because I think he should as well, I push it a little bit further.
“We might miss the flight.”
Tom nods, then lifts my hands to his lips, blowing warmth onto them. If the wink unsettled me, the brief brush of his mouth against my fingers nearly knocks me sideways.
“We probably will. Which seems about right, though, doesn’t it? Why would things start going right for us now?”
I study him for a moment. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”
“Oh, I am,” he says with a small smile. “I’m very much freaking out that we’re going to die here, buried in the snow, your butt frozen to that guardrail in your ugly underwear. That’d be a nice bit of karma, wouldn’t it? Us buried side by side after all?”
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood for my sake, and yesterday, I might have let him. But that was before I saw the ring.
“Tom. Why aren’t you freaking out?” I ask softly. “Your briefcase is in that truck.”
His lips part in surprise, and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I know he hears what I’m not saying.
Your ring was in that trunk. Soon to be Lolo’s ring.
His eyes close. “How long have you known?”
“Not long. Last night. When you showered, I snooped. Saw the ring.”
His eyes open again, and there are about a dozen emotions swirling in his gaze, but I can’t seem to identify a single one of them.
My hands are still pressed between his palms, and I slowly pull them away, then shove my hands in my pockets. The relative warmth is a poor substitute for Tom’s palms.
“Can I ask you something?”
There’s a wary beat of silence. “Sure.”
“Why isn’t it Evelyn’s ring?” I ask.
Tom inhales, then crosses his arms, putting his hands in his armpits. He leans forward, staring at his shoes.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Not my business—”
Don’t want to know.
“It didn’t feel right,” he says, his toe tapping against the wood stake of the guardrail.
“Really?” I ask softly. “Because I always thought it was a family tradition. One that was sort of important to you.”
He exhales. “Right. Well. Actually, on the note of family traditions, there’s something—”
The crunch of tires on snow captures my attention, and before Tom can finish his sentence, I tap his shoulder repeatedly in excitement. “Oh my God, shut up before you jinx the one good thing to happen to us. Tom. It’s a car.”
THIRTY-TWO
TOM
December 24, 9:15 a.m.
We miss our flight.
And let’s just say, this airport is not equipped with options. If a tumbleweed came cruising down the runway, I suspect it would qualify as a traffic jam at Eugene Terrien Regional Airport.
And you know what? I can’t even muster the energy to be surprised by the turn of events.
Katherine, on the other hand, digs deep and finds not only surprise but outrage, which she directs at the elderly airport employee.
“You don’t understand,” Katherine explains to the sweet, if befuddled, woman. “We have to get to Chicago. This is life or death.”
The woman’s eyes go wide, and she shoots me an alarmed look. I shake my head to reassure her. No.
The older woman relaxes slightly and then turns to Katherine with an admirably patient smile. “I understand this is difficult, dear. It being Christmas Eve and all. But we’ve only got the one to Chicago each day, and it left thirty minutes ago.”
Katherine bangs her fist on the counter. “Unacceptable.”
“Alright,” I murmur, touching Katherine’s arm. “Let’s not take out our troubles on . . .” My gaze drops to the name tag. “June.”
“Well, June isn’t being solution oriented,” Katherine says with a mutinous scowl.
“What do you want her to do?” I ask. “Arrange for a hot-air balloon?”
“Yes! See, now there’s some solid problem-solving!” Katherine looks at June. “You have a hot-air balloon?”