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“I’m excited. I can’t wait to see you,” Lolo adds, clearly mollified. “And by the way, not every man would do what you’re doing. Katherine’s really lucky to have you.”
Katherine catches my eye and mouths, Wrap it up, dumbass, or I’m leaving without you.
“Be sure and tell that to Katherine when you meet her,” I tell Lolo. “I think she needs the reminder.”
EIGHTEEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 4:31 p.m.
Things not on my agenda for the holidays:
Sitting on a hard, sticky chair in a New Jersey train station . . .
In the middle of a freaking blizzard . . .
On my way to Chicago . . .
With my ex-husband in tow.
Now, to be totally fair, I suppose I’m technically the one in tow since I’m crashing his plans. But that’s just semantics. The end result is the same for both of us: misery.
That’s not to say I don’t feel a little guilty about our current situation.
Okay, fine.
A lot guilty. Especially when Tom shifts in his seat, lifts his loafer, and finds a huge wad of pink gum stuck to the sole.
He must be too beaten down by our whole journey, though, because instead of freaking out, he merely lets out a tired sigh and attempts to scrape it off on a cleaner part of the floor.
I feel for him, but I also can’t stop a little smile from sneaking onto my face. This is a fitting addition to our day, given that our first meeting involved gum on a shoe, though not Tom’s. Not mine either.
I’d just finished taking a big client to a celebratory dinner when I stepped out of the restaurant and saw him. My perfect man. Blond, a decade or so older than me. Not terribly tall, but tall enough. Attractive, but not handsome. Tweed elbows on his blazer—I love that. Everything about him screamed biddable, pleasant companion. The sort of man who would happily sit in silence and read the newspaper by your side over Grape-Nuts and blueberries every morning for the rest of your life.
I was just about to manufacture a way to approach when the universe helped me out in the form of a fat wad of pink gum on the sidewalk, which the man’s tasseled loafer made direct contact with.
Luckily for all, I’m great in a crisis. I whipped out my business card, lifted his foot before he even knew what had happened, and started scraping. But gum is serious business, one that my dad taught me is best handled with peanut butter.
Which, clearly, should not be called peanut anything. A point I made to a man passing by as I cradled my dream guy’s foot in my crotch.
The other man—the passerby—he was too tall. Too handsome. Who did not find my explanation of legumes endearing. And who, upon first impression, didn’t strike me as being biddable at all.
I was right about that. Something I learned when I married him.
And divorced him.
Well, he divorced me. Again, semantics.
Tom glances my way. “You got one of your business cards in your purse?”
“Always,” I say. “Why? You need a lawyer?”
He nods toward the gum on his foot.
Right. That. I hand over a card. “That gum’s not going anywhere without some legume butter, but have at it.”
He smiles to himself. “Hot legumes.”
I blink. “What?”
Tom shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Hmm. Maybe it was endearing after all.
He studies my card for a moment, then looks over. “Kaplan, Gosset, Tate & Associates. Feeling pretty confident, are we?”
I bite my lip and avoid his gaze. I almost forgot about that. Irene had the new business cards printed as an early Christmas gift. She’s been big into manifestation lately, and she insisted that the best way to ensure something happened was to act as though it was a foregone conclusion.
“Hey.” Tom nudges my shoulder with his. “Harry will call. But it’s not Christmas yet.”
Now I do look over. “You remember? That stupid thing?”
“That Harry always makes a big deal of calling at Christmas to announce partner? Sure.” He begins scraping at the gum.
“He’s tweaked the routine a bit,” I explain. “A few years ago, he randomly made the call a few days before Christmas. Last year it was on the twenty-third.”
“Ah.” Tom has better luck with the gum than I expected and tosses my business card, now topped with a glob of pink gum, into the nearby trash. “Hence the extra-intense obsession with your phone today.”
I shrug.
“For what it’s worth, I think you should have gotten that call many Christmases ago.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “Is that . . . a compliment?”
“More like a gripe at the universe. If they’d hurried this whole thing along, things would be different right now.”
Meaning . . . we’d still be married? I can’t help but wonder.
“For example,” he continues, extending his legs out in front of him, crossing his hands over his flat stomach. “If you hadn’t been so damn obsessed with your phone, I’d probably be approaching my descent into Chicago right now.”
