Before I can think of a reply, Tom’s and Nancy’s voices get closer as they approach the door. Kayla, God bless her, puts a hand on my chest and shoves me backward into the neighboring bedroom she used to share with Meredith, and I duck out of sight.
“Kayla.” Her mother’s voice is censoring but resigned. “What are you doing hovering outside your brother’s bedroom?”
“Reliving the good old days,” Kayla chirps. “Remember that one when Mom and Dad were at a New Year’s party and you were supposed to babysit, and instead you invited Jess Vaughn over, and you didn’t close your door all the way, and I saw—”
“You want to play that game?” Tom interrupts. “How about we tell Mom about that time after your high school graduation, when—”
“Truce!” Kayla says loudly. “Truce, truce, truce. No more!”
“Thought so,” Tom says, his smug, older-brother voice growing more distant as the three of them make their way down the stairs.
“Oh. Hey, Lo!” I hear him say. “You got a sec? I was thinking we could go for a quick walk before dinner.”
“Sure,” Lolo says, her voice coming closer as she climbs the stairs. “I was just going to grab my phone from the charger. But I’ll get my coat and hat too and be right down.”
I wait until I hear Lolo rustling for her stuff before I emerge from my hiding place and step into Tom’s room.
She whirls around. “Oh! Hey, Katherine. What’s up?”
“Actually,” I say quietly as I shut the bedroom door. “I have sort of a big favor to ask of you . . . but it’s one that I think will work in both of our favors.”
“Why?” Lolo asks after I’m done explaining.
I tell her the truth, even if I can’t manage a smile as I do so. “Tom put his own wants and needs aside to do what was best for me. It’s time I return the favor.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
TOM
December 24, 4:50 p.m.
My walk with Lolo goes well.
Incredibly well, actually.
Better than I ever could have imagined.
But there’s still one more conversation I need to have, and I’m braced for it to be much, much harder.
Still wearing my winter coat and hat, I step into the living room, where my family is sprawled out watching It’s a Wonderful Life, as is Christmas Eve tradition.
“Hey,” I say, ignoring the glares I get for interrupting the movie. “Anyone know where Katherine is?”
I get a few headshakes. A couple of shrugs.
“Thanks so much,” I mutter before taking the steps two at a time. “Katherine?” I go down the line of bedrooms, thinking maybe her head was bothering her and she wanted to lie down.
She’s not in any of them. Or in the bathrooms.
Worried now, I ask my family to help me look, and trust me when I say it’s a testament to their affection for Katherine that they don’t hesitate to abandon the movie to help.
But my parents’ house isn’t all that big, and a mere ten minutes later, it becomes abundantly clear.
Katherine isn’t in the house.
Stunned, I lower to my parents’ couch, shakily lifting my clasped hands to my lips.
Twenty-four hours ago, I wasn’t able to wrap my mind around the fact that Katherine Tate was back in my life.
Now? My heart can’t imagine a life without her in it.
Only, I don’t know where to find her. I don’t even have a clue where to start looking.
“Hey.” Meredith sits beside me, pats my knee. “What are you thinking?”
I drop my hands slowly, look at my sister, and utter a phrase I never thought I’d say: “I wish Katherine had her phone.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
KATHERINE
December 24, 11:40 p.m.
“Hey, Joey. Any chance there’s an outlet back there?”
The bartender, and my new best friend over the past several hours, glances up from polishing a glass. “I can do you one better. Right in front of you, beautiful.”
“Ah! Handy. Thanks.” I bend to look under the bar, and sure enough, there’s an outlet that some wonderful genius thought to install in the bar of a hotel lobby.
I push the plug of my new iPhone charger into the outlet with a soft, satisfying click and let out a little sigh of happiness at being back online and the owner of a shiny new phone. And let’s take a second to pat last year’s Katherine on the back for signing up for an Apple credit card, which allowed me to buy my new phone baby at the store, even without a wallet.
The hotel’s not bad either, though for that I needed some help from . . . brace yourself . . .
Lolo Bauer. （What, you thought she didn’t have a last name? It’s fine. I didn’t either.） I needed the favor of a lifetime and asked my ex-husband’s girlfriend to loan me money for a hotel. She did me one better, booking me a room on her points and calling me an Uber, plus giving me enough cash for . . . well, let’s just say this isn’t my first martini.
She didn’t take much convincing either. Let’s just say our goals were aligned.
I didn’t want to be there for the marriage proposal. She didn’t want me there for the marriage proposal. Everybody wins!
Well, maybe not the Walshes. I do feel guilty for Irish goodbying it out of there, but I’ve already resolved to stop by the house before I head back to New York to say a proper goodbye.
A permanent one this time.
I love them. It’s time to let them go.
I love him.
It’s time to let him go.
“Another before last call, love?” Joey asks. “We’re shutting down a little early tonight. Christmas Eve and all.”
“Right, of course.” I wait for the usual irritation at this stupid holiday to creep up, but oddly, it never does. In fact, even through my slightly melancholic mood, Christmas doesn’t feel stupid at all.
“You know what, yeah,” I say. “Why not. Like you said, it’s Christmas, and I’ve got some things to take care of on my fancy new phone. Except, let’s make it a Manhattan this time.”
“You got it,” Joey says, tapping the bar once and reaching for the bourbon.
“Should you be drinking that?” someone asks. “With your concussion?”
My head feels a little fuzzy, and not because of the alcohol. And not because of the concussion either. But with déjà vu.
Wordlessly, I stare at the man pulling out the barstool beside me and taking a seat.
“Tom?”
“Never could get one by you,” he says casually, as though it’s not weird that he’s at a mediocre hotel lobby bar on Christmas Eve, when he should be . . .
I shake my head, increasingly convinced that I’m hallucinating. “Wait. Is this an actual Christmas Carol thing? Am I Scrooge? Was everything I experienced just a dream?”
“You are Scrooge,” he confirms, reaching out to eat one of my cold french fries. “But no. Everything was not a dream.”
“Then who—what? How did you find me? Did someone call you again? As my emergency contact?”
“Nope.” He eats another fry. “Because you weren’t in an accident this time.” He pauses his chewing. “Wait. Were you?”