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Is it? It doesn’t feel true, at least not how I remember it, but it’s also as much vulnerability as Katherine’s ever shown about the divorce, and it has me doubting . . . everything.
“Fine. Okay,” she says flatly.
I feel something hollow in my stomach, sensing that she’s shutting down and pulling away again just as I was finally making some progress in understanding the mystery that is this woman’s heart.
“Kates . . .” The old nickname slips out, even though I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
“I’m fine, Tom.” She closes her eyes. “I got over it. Over you. I’m better than ever. You’ve got yourself a new perfect girlfriend to fit into your perfect life. I’m going to make partner. Everybody gets what they want. Everybody wins.”
I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to argue with her, even though I don’t know what about.
Katherine opens her eyes again. “Let’s call a truce and change the subject.”
“This has to be a first. You calling a truce?”
She looks tired. “Take the olive branch, Tom.”
“Fine. Subject change it is. Hit me.”
Katherine taps a finger on her chin, considering topics, then her eyes light up. “Do you think Lolo will pump?”
“Pump what?”
“Breast milk.”
I think I choke on my own tongue.
“Sorry.” She gives me a mischievous smile. “Am I rushing you? Have you not thought about occupying her womb with your seed?”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Sore subject? Does your seed not work? Or I mean . . .” she whispers. “Does it not . . . grow?”
“I am not talking to my ex-wife about my girlfriend’s womb. Or her . . . breast milk.”
“I bet they’re smaller than mine. I’ve got great cans.” She looks down at her chest and shimmies her shoulders.
My gaze drifts downward, because human nature.
She catches me looking and smirks.
“So.” She turns all the way toward me now, exuding a friendliness that makes me think I imagined our heated words just a second ago. “How’d you and Lolo meet?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Not here. Not now. Not ever. Not with you.
“No problem.” She starts humming loudly. I wouldn’t mind because it at least distracts from the relentless fussing babies, but it’s very loud and very off-key. She starts using her bag as a drum.
I give in. “At a bar.”
“A bar? Oh, swoon!” Katherine fans herself, flutters her eyelashes. “Did you ask her if it hurt when she fell from heaven?”
“Not exactly my move.”
“You don’t have any moves.”
“I do so.”
Katherine shakes her head. “No.”
“I picked you up, didn’t I?”
“And then dropped me.”
Before I can figure out how to reply to that, or if I even want to, there’s a violent lurch that would have thrown me into the aisle had I not braced a hand against the seat in front of me just in time.
Instinctively, I wrap my free arm around Katherine, holding her to me. There’s a horrible screeching noise of bus against guardrail, and then it swerves again.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Only Katherine Tate would be involved in two accidents in a single day.
The screeching metal on metal continues, accompanied by a squeal of tires and the never-ending sensation of sliding, and I can only close my eyes and pray we don’t slide into anything.
Or off anything.
Please don’t let these be my last moments.
Katherine curls into me, her fingers clenching my shirt, holding me close.
On the other hand, maybe these wouldn’t be the worst last moments.
It feels like it takes an eternity (but probably mere seconds), but the bus finally comes to a grinding halt. I open my eyes, and even though it smells like gasoline and burned rubber, through the smoky haze, the bus seems to be both upright and structurally intact.
“You okay?” I ask, smoothing a hand over Katherine’s hair without meaning to, even as I look around the bus to take inventory of all the babies. I find all four, all screaming, all looking unscathed. Thank God.
I hear a muffled sound below my chin and feel Katherine wriggle furiously against me. Looking down, I realize I’m still holding her protectively to my chest.
“Sorry,” I say, ordering my arms to release her. It takes a few seconds longer than it should have.
“You okay?” I ask again, my eyes scanning her, checking for serious injury.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fantastic. Two accidents in, what, a single day? Am I being punished for something?” She looks me over. “What about you? You good? You always got very fluttery in a crisis. Should we see if anyone has smelling salts?”
“Yeah, you’re fine,” I mutter. Though I notice she keeps reaching around to the injury on her back, which must be hurting her more than ever. Once we get out of here, I’m done with her stubbornness. I’m checking that damn wound.
She lifts a hand, gingerly patting her mussed hair. “Do I look pretty?”
