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“Ouch,” I say, meaning it a little. It’s harsh, even for him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, checking his watch. “This whole day is just . . .”
“Not on the spreadsheet?” I smile, both to hide my pain as well as to ease at least some of the tension between us before we have to sit side by side on a train for a billion hours.
“Right. Not on the spreadsheet,” he says with a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
The rumble of the approaching train captures his attention, and I exhale in relief that my darkest secret remains safely hidden:
That I want a place on his spreadsheet. I always did.
NINETEEN
TOM
December 23, 4:39 p.m.
The train smells like a deli. I give the cuff of my suit jacket a little sniff. Damn it. It’s me. I smell like a deli.
“What’s going on with you?” Katherine asks, not looking up from her phone. Always with that damn phone.
“I got ham juice on my suit. I love this suit.” I try not to flinch at the churlish note in my voice, but God. Everything about this day is grating on my last nerve.
She’s grating on my last nerve.
“Ham doesn’t have juice,” Katherine says calmly.
“Wanna bet?” I shove my wrist beneath her nose. “Sniff. Ham juice.”
The passenger beside us is watching our interaction, half-disgusted, half-annoyed. I can’t blame him. My maturity seems to be in an ever-downward spiral the more time I spend with my ex.
Though, for once, it’s not entirely on Katherine. It’s my own guilt eating at me. Our conversation on the platform was the perfect opportunity to tell her about Lolo, and I just . . . couldn’t.
I’m not even sure why I didn’t. To protect Katherine’s feelings? She barely has those.
And she’s going to find out about Lolo when we get to Chicago anyway. You know. When they meet.
For the first time, it’s dawning on me the magnitude of the mess I’m in. With one crisis after another, I haven’t really let myself think of what happens when we get to my parents’ house. I told Lo I can foist Katherine off on my sister, and that’s true.
I also would not be the least bit surprised if my mother insisted on making Katherine some homemade soup and then set up a schedule to ensure one of the Walshes stays with her every second. And she’ll do it as much for my sake as she will Katherine’s. To give me time with Lolo.
To ensure Katherine can’t interfere with my proposal.
Which is the real thorn in this whole mess. It’s not just that Katherine will be at my family’s place for Christmas. I’m enough of an adult to be able to handle that.
It’s that my ex-wife will be in the same house where I’m proposing to my new wife.
It’s horrifying and wrong. On every level. From every person’s perspective.
I could warn her. I should warn her.
But I can’t stop seeing the hurt she tried to hide when we talked about her not being on the spreadsheet. That damn spreadsheet. A stupid thing I put together when I graduated from college and thought I could approach adult life the same way I had my econ major. As though life was something that could be aced with the proper study schedule.
One does not ace life. Or at least I’m not acing it. Case in point . . . I sniff my sleeve again. Still hammy.
Katherine shakes her head. “It’s your own fault. I told you not to risk it with a premade sandwich at the station. The refrigeration unit at that place wasn’t up to snuff.”
“Oh, so now, in addition to knowing how planes work, you’re a refrigeration expert?” My mention of planes makes me even grumpier. “You know, if it weren’t for you, I’d have had a first-class meal at thirty thousand, not a sketchy sandwich doing flips in my large intestine.”
Katherine scoffs. “Looking forward to that sweet, sweet airline food, were you?”
“At least they wouldn’t have served ham.”
“Oh my God. Still with the ham?”
Yes. Still with the ham because I’d rather obsess over that than risk a trip down memory lane that seems to beckon a little bit more every moment I spend in Katherine’s company.
And you know? The more I think about it? I think Katherine was right. The refrigeration unit in the train station didn’t feel all that cold. And I was hungry enough that it tasted fine at the time, but now I’ve got a distinctly tangy taste in my mouth. I make a slight smacking noise. Yep. Definite funk.
“Okay,” Katherine mutters, beginning to dig in her purse. “We are not doing that the whole way.”
She comes up with a little container of mints, dumps a few in her hand, and shoves three in my mouth. I scowl at her, appreciating the thought but not the execution.
