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“I’m not obsessed with my phone,” I say, though my heart’s not in the ancient argument.
He snorts. “Please. It’s always been like an extra limb, but getting kicked off a plane rather than put the damn thing away? That’s next level, Katie.”
“Okay, you know the phones don’t actually crash planes, right? I’m ninety percent sure that’s an urban legend,” I inform him.
“Oh, well, if you’re ninety percent sure, we should definitely let the FAA know.”
I try to muster up a comeback, but I feel distracted. He glances over. “You think this is the year? You get the call?”
“Yes, though . . .” I swallow. “I think that every year. I just . . . I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”
“Nothing,” Tom says with a lack of hesitation that makes me feel a little warm that he has such faith in me. “You’re a good lawyer.”
I arch a brow. “Compliments?”
He shrugs. “You’re a good lawyer. You know that. But I meant more that you should be partner because I’ve never seen anyone want anything as badly as you wanted that.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” I say, meeting his gaze. “You had things you wanted.”
“Not as single-mindedly as that.”
Really? I want to argue. Because the divorce papers you served me said otherwise.
Because, despite his protests, I wasn’t the only one who was hyperfocused on personal goals during our marriage. And at least I was up-front about mine. Tom knew when he married me that I wanted to make partner.
And he knew why. Knew how much it meant to me to check off that achievement for my dad.
But Tom’s dreams and goals? Those snuck up on me. Maybe on both of us. I don’t think Tom even realized how badly he wanted to be married to a sweet-natured wife who would make roast chicken every Sunday, bear babies, and move to the burbs until it became clear that I was not that wife.
At least not then. I had things to do first.
But damn it. I do like roast chicken. I wanted babies. I maybe even could have gotten on board with the whole house-and-yard thing.
If only he could have just waited . . .
Whatever. Bygones, water under the bridge, etc.
Or maybe not, because this little detour down memory lane has me curious about how things have been working out for Tom. If his goals have eluded him like mine have me.
I shift a little so I can study him. “Speaking of things we want. How’s your spreadsheet?”
He grimaces and doesn’t pretend not to know which spreadsheet. “I never should have shown you that.”
“Correction. You should have shown it to me sooner. Like, before I said my vows?”
Tom sucks in his cheeks. “You’re probably right.” He looks over. “Would it have changed things?”
“You mean, would I not have married you if I’d known before the wedding that you had your entire life planned out in rows and columns?”
He holds my gaze, as though my response matters. “Would you have?”
I think on this a minute, then lift a shoulder. “I never minded the spreadsheet. I admired it, actually. I like a good action plan as much as the next person. I guess I just wish . . .”
“Yeah?” He’s watching me carefully, and I try not to squirm.
“I wish I’d have seen the details of your dream life earlier. To know that I didn’t belong on the spreadsheet.”
Tom sighs. “Katherine . . .”
“Come on, Tom.” I keep my voice as light as I can. “We both know I was never what you were looking for.”
He looks straight ahead and is silent for a moment. “No,” he replies finally. “I guess you weren’t.”
I try not to let it hurt, but the pain seeps in anyway. I know I’m not the most lovable person on the planet, but it still stings to hear so clearly that I was somebody’s whoops.
Despite what Tom thinks, I had desires beyond just making partner. Divorce wasn’t one of them.
“So, are you back on track?” I ask, even as I hate myself for asking.
“What do you mean?”
“With your spreadsheet,” I explain. “Have you put a down payment on a home with a tree house in the backyard, getting ready to plant babies in a woman who makes your favorite blueberry muffins rather than merely picks them up from Levain?”
He looks back at me. “I used to love when you picked up muffins from Levain.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, even as I sort of hate myself for pushing the topic. If Tom has found what—who—he’s looking for, do I really want to know?
He sighs tiredly. “I hate when you do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you try to spin our history. Where you let yourself pretend I’m a Mad Men–era chauvinist who wanted you to quit your job. All to distract yourself from your own emotional deficiencies.”
