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Her mouth sets in a stubborn line. “I’ll make it up to you,” she says, which is probably as close as she’ll get to an apology. They’ve never been her specialty.
I snort. “How?”
She puts a hand on her hip, nails tapping as she thinks. “Well, first I have to go pee. But when I get back, I’ll find a new way to get us to Chicago. I’m sure we can get a couple tickets on the train.”
“The train,” I repeat, incredulous. “What, are all the stagecoaches full?”
“Mock all you want, but train travel is making a comeback. I read it in the New Yorker.”
“Oh, well, if the New Yorker said so . . .”
Katherine throws up her hands. “Well, fine, Tom. Let’s hear your better suggestion. Maybe you can give the North Pole a call, see if you can hitch a ride with Santa since I’m sure you’ve made certain you’re on the nice list.”
“You know what? That might be an actual possibility because, at this rate, it’s looking like I won’t get home until Christmas Eve.”
I try very hard not to think about what that means for my plans for the ring in my bag. And the answer I’ll receive from its intended recipient.
“I’m not getting on a train,” I say, feeling ornery. “It’s not 1906.”
“Tell that to your haircut,” Katherine says over her shoulder, already walking to the bathroom.
I inhale through my nose. You know what? She was right to call me St. Tom. There is no way someone should have to endure the company of Katherine Tate and not be canonized.
I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m tempted to take the easy way out, to simply text Lo that I missed my flight. Again. And to fudge the truth on why I missed my flight. Again.
I’m not proud of the urge, but it’s there.
Instead I take a deep breath and tell myself to man up and tell her face-to-face, even if it has to be through a screen. She deserves that much. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with Lolo, and I’m determined to get the whole marriage thing right this time. We can’t start it with lies and half truths.
I head to a different gate to make the FaceTime so Katherine doesn’t come back from the bathroom midchat.
I may have mustered the courage to tell my soon-to-be fiancée about Katherine, but I’m not quite ready to tell Katherine about Lolo. Which, I know, is probably a little bit backward, but I don’t have the energy to ruminate on the why right now.
Lolo answers after a couple rings, her smile bright and happy.
Behind her head are my baseball posters from high school. That she’s taking this call from my room should give me some semblance of comfort. My future wife in my childhood home, getting to know my family at Christmas . . . it’s the Norman Rockwell life I want for myself.
So, what’s with the knee-jerk unease I feel? The inescapable feeling that something is wrong with the picture.
Of course something is wrong with the picture, I remind myself. I’m supposed to be there.
“Hey, babe!” Lolo says. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you until after the plane landed.”
Her smile slips a little. “It’s not canceled, is it? The storm is all over the news.”
“No. No.” I scratch my cheek. “The flight took off on time.”
“Then why . . . Wait, what do you mean?”
To her credit, Lolo still looks calm, even given the implication of me still being in the airport, my flight already departed.
Because Lo’s always calm. It’s how she is. And actually, it’s that sort of serene sweetness that drew me to her in the first place. Her blond hair is never out of place; her eyes always seem patient; she rarely raises her voice.
If being in Katherine’s company feels like being tossed into shark-infested waters during a hurricane, Lolo is like a placid pond in comparison, without so much as a ripple.
Even when I have to drop news such as . . .
“I missed the flight, Lo.” I take a deep breath. “Actually. There’s more to it than that.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s going on?”
I wish I even knew . . .
“So, okay. You remember I told you about Katherine?”
Lolo shakes her head in confusion. “No. Katherine? Wait. Wait. Your ex-wife, Katherine?”
A little less calm now, but just a touch.
“That’s the one. She was sort of in an accident.”
“Oh my gosh! Is she okay?”
“Depends on your definition of okay,” I mutter. “She’s fine. Well, no, not really. She has a concussion and can’t be left alone.”
Lolo blinks. “And so . . . you’re staying with her? In New York?”
“No! God, no, of course not. I’m just . . . bringing her with me. To Chicago.”
