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It was one of our favorites. The airport argument. If it were up to him, we’d be at the airport three hours before every flight “just in case” there was an extra-long line in security. Or there was an issue checking our bags. Or our car broke down on the way to the airport. Or if there was a tornado. Or hurricane. Or blizzard.
I glance out the window. Okay, that last one is fair today.
But even with the blizzard, and even though I have a bad habit of getting into arguments with TSA about whether I should be allowed to cross through with a container of salad dressing, I’m more of a “last person on board” kind of gal.
He hates that.
I hate him.
It’s all good.
“Fine,” I say because he’s right about one thing. That old argument isn’t going anywhere fast. “While I pack, make us a couple of cocktails, would you? Your Manhattan is just about the only thing I miss about you.”
He picks up a pill bottle, frowning down at it. “Are you sure you should be drinking while you’re taking all this stuff?”
Probably not. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll die.”
“I’d never be that lucky,” he mutters. But the possibility of my demise must be all the incentive he needs because he walks to my bar cart to retrieve the bourbon as I pull my suitcase out of the hall closet.
In my bedroom, I start to lift the suitcase onto the bed and immediately wince. Well. This isn’t good at all. If I can’t even lift an empty suitcase with my injury, I’m going to need Tom’s help for the next few days.
My ultimate nightmare.
Then my gaze snags on the picture frame on my nightstand, and my heart hiccups in panic. I scramble toward it, knocking the frame to the floor in my haste before frantically shoving it into my nightstand drawer.
I slam the drawer shut, my heartbeat slowing a bit now that I’ve averted a major crisis. My struggles with the suitcase wouldn’t hold a candle to the misery of Tom learning that I have a picture of us by my bed.
And knowing his supersize ego, he’d make it all about him.
Nonsense.
It’s just that I happen to look fantastic in my white ski clothes on that trip. And I was having a good hair day, the rare kind where my hair was shiny and full without a single fuzzy in sight. The backdrop of the Swiss Alps hadn’t been half bad either.
My companion in the photo was a blight to be tolerated, not the reason I’d kept the damned thing in the first place.
Suddenly, I feel more exhausted than ever, and I sit on the edge of the bed. I know the second my butt hits the mattress that it’s a mistake because it beckons.
I run a hand over my duvet. Was the blanket always this soft? My other hand strokes my pillow. Well, hello there, have you always been this perfect?
There’s only one way to find out. Moving gingerly so as not to aggravate the stitches on my back, I slowly lower to my side, stifling a moan as my aching head sinks into the soft, squishy comfort.
I know I’m not supposed to sleep with a concussion, but surely it can’t hurt to close my eyes . . . just for a minute . . .
FIFTEEN
TOM
December 23, 2:14 p.m.
I’ve poured two Manhattans nearly to the brim. A good idea? Certainly not. But I remember quite clearly that bourbon makes Katherine infinitely more tolerable.
Of course, I’ll only let her have a sip or two, given her current state. But I fully intend to finish mine.
And maybe hers as well.
I carry the drinks carefully, my gaze locked on the rims of the cocktail glasses so I don’t spill on the wood floors of Katherine’s fancy apartment.
A fancy apartment that, if I’m being honest, bothers me more than it should. Not because it’s not nice (because it is). And not because she doesn’t deserve a swanky piece of real estate (because God knows she’s worked for it).
It’s just that it’s not . . . her.
Or at least it didn’t use to be.
The Katherine I knew, the Katherine I married, had been all about prewar architecture and buildings with “historic character.” But I’m pretty sure I have a block of cheese in my fridge that’s older than this building.
And then there’s the furniture. It’s all white and uncomfortable looking, whereas I vividly remember Katherine fighting to the death to keep her dad’s ugly old Barcalounger when we moved in together.
But her old, beloved, beat-up chair was nowhere to be found in the living room, and not in the second bedroom she’s using for a home office either. I know because I snooped a little.
I almost wish I didn’t because I also found Joel.
