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Tom wanted to move farther downtown, to the Village, or even all the way downtown to Tribeca.
I pushed for something closer to work—my work. I wanted either Upper East Side or Midtown. And back then, when the only thing he fought me on was sushi versus pizza on Friday nights, he agreed without question. Back when things between us were . . . different.
Back before I had to confront the frustrating fact that my own happiness was apparently all tangled up with Tom’s and that when he wasn’t happy, I wasn’t either.
Especially when he wasn’t happy with me.
“I did love that apartment,” I say, continuing down the hall to my unit. I loved a lot of things.
The meds they hooked me up with at the hospital must be making me sentimental, while also simultaneously failing to do their job. The headache that just minutes ago I thought couldn’t get any worse has created a whole new standard of pain for itself.
As a result, I feel a little unsteady and shaky. As I fumble around in my purse for my keys, I manage to drop my bag, and all my crap spills out.
I start to bend to pick it up, but the pain in my back is immediate, and Tom reaches out to grab my elbow, stilling me. “Hey. I’ve got it.”
The touch is innocent and brief, and just as with his fingers brushing my leg in the hospital bed, I hate how aware I am of him.
Or how, for an insane split second, I wish he would linger.
Which, of course, Tom doesn’t. I became repellent to him long ago.
Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Especially emotionally. He made that part quite clear toward the end. I remember because it hurt the most.
Tom kneels to pick up my stuff. Obviously, I’m not feeling myself because I can’t think of a single quippy line about the joys of having him kneel in front of me.
What a wasted opportunity.
With one large hand, he grabs my lipstick, a pen, and my wallet. With the other, he reaches out for my birth control case, his hand hesitating for just the briefest of seconds before picking it up.
He hands it to me, expression tense, and I wonder if it’s because it reminds him of that last year, the one when all the cracks started to show, or because he wonders what that tiny little package says about my sex life.
I could tell him the truth. That I’m still on the pill for the purpose of regulating my cycle, not for pregnancy protection. Because, you know, you actually have to have sex for that, and it’s been . . . a while.
Instead I give him what I think is a sultry smile, a little flutter of eyelashes. Yeah, that’s right. Since you’ve been gone, new apartment, new men.
He blinks, looking alarmed. “You okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your face just now. You look like you’re having a stroke, and with the concussion . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m fine,” I mutter, grabbing the rest of my belongings and then waving the key fob to enter my apartment.
Tom follows me in and makes a surprised but approving noise. “Damn, Katie. You’ve moved up in the world.”
“In more ways than one,” I say. There. Finally, a decent comeback.
He goes to the window. “Central Park view. You always wanted that.” Tom looks back at me. “Obviously that partner dream you held above all else finally came to fruition?”
I look away but not fast enough because he turns all the way back toward me, his expression questioning.
I lift a shoulder, looking down at my phone, willing it to ring. It does not. And even though I don’t say a single word, he makes a sound of comprehension.
“Ah,” he says. “Well. My day didn’t exactly go as planned either.”
“No?” I say. “What, no butterflies landed on your shoulder?” Excellent. My comebacks continue to be on point, but Tom looks unimpressed.
And maybe a little distracted.
“You okay?” I ask, then immediately bite my tongue in regret. Tom is no longer mine to check on, but old habits die hard, apparently.
He shrugs. “Let’s just say, you didn’t get a call you were hoping for. I got one I was never expecting.”
It takes me a second to follow. “Oh. The one from my office. About my accident.”
“Yes. Obviously, that one, Katherine,” he says, a touch impatiently.
“Oh, well, gee, you poor thing,” I say, upending the bag from the pharmacy onto the counter. Gauze, pills, and antibacterial ointment come spilling out, satisfactorily making my point. “Can I get you anything to make up for your terrible day?”
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Just go pack so we don’t miss our flight.”
“We have plenty of time.”
“How about we skip that particular argument,” he says, poking through the assortment of medical supplies on the counter. “I think we both know it never goes anywhere.”
