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I tilt the box to the side so the diamond catches the muted light of the lamp on the nightstand. The twinkle of it is supposed to reassure me. To serve as a beacon toward the love of my life, a symbol of hope for a better marriage ahead of me than I left behind me.
And the ring does indeed seem to wink back at me. But instead of feeling like a promise, it feels more like . . . a threat?
I frown and focus harder. Try to imagine that the lamplight is the light from my family’s Christmas tree. Try to envision the ring on Lolo’s finger. When I can’t, I try to get even more specific, trying to visualize the moment when I’ll slip it on her finger . . .
The bathroom door opens, and Katherine’s head pops out. “Tom?”
“What’s up?” I say, my voice too loud as I fumble a bit in my haste to close the box.
I hurriedly shove it deep into my bag and give Katherine a grin that must be as Jokeresque as it feels because she blinks in consternation.
“You okay?” she asks. “Still upset about missing Bolognese?
“Yeah. No. Yes. I’m good. What’s up?” I say again.
She gives me a slightly alarmed look at my babbling. “You know that I know you, right? Know when you’ve got something you want to say, but don’t know how?”
I look away.
“And you know that you can tell me anything? It’s not like I can hate you more than I already do.” She smiles, and I know she doesn’t hate me any more than I hate her.
We just didn’t . . . work.
So why can’t I just tell her?
Hey, Katherine. I think I may have forgotten to mention. I’m actually getting married again.
The words don’t come out. Because I don’t want to hurt her, but also because I don’t want to face the fact that I have the power to hurt her. If I face that, I’d have to address the fact that she can hurt me too, that maybe I never quite . . .
Katherine steps partially out of the bathroom, and my throat is suddenly very dry. She is wrapped in a towel. Only a towel. A not very large towel.
“Um. You needed something?”
“Yeah, I need help,” she says, and the way she pairs the words with a scowl tells me just what they’ve cost her.
“With the shower?” I ask.
“Settle down, Don Juan.” She adjusts the towel, and I keep my gaze locked firmly on the middle of her forehead. “It’s the bandage. On my back. I think it’s kind of a mess back there.”
“You always did have the best sexy talk,” I say, relieved to be bantering again. Much safer ground.
“You’ve been fussing at me all day to let you have a look. You want your chance or not?”
“Boy, when you put it that way . . .” I mutter. “Where’d you put the gauze and stuff?”
“My suitcase. Right side.” She points. “I’d get it, but considering this towel is more like a scrap of a bathmat . . .”
“I’ll get it.” I go to her open suitcase and begin rummaging around. With a single finger, I lift a very large, very unbecoming undergarment. “Why are all of your underwear beige?”
“Well, Tom, this may hurt your ego, but concussion plus car accident plus gauze plus heinous ex-husband didn’t exactly put me in the sexiest frame of mind while packing. Now, when you’re done playing with my panties, get in here.”
“Jesus. Don’t say panties. Also, why did you bring so many?” I mutter. Eventually, I find the plastic bag with the supplies buried under the blanket of beige underwear.
I walk to the bathroom, where she’s left the door open, and find her leaning toward the mirror, one hand holding the towel in place, the other fumbling around in her hair.
“I think the bump on my head is growing.”
“Maybe because you keep poking it,” I say, approaching and dumping the contents of the makeshift first aid kit onto the beige countertop, which, thankfully, at least gives the appearance of being mostly clean. “So. How do we do this?”
“Aww.” She gives me a nostalgic look in the mirror. “That’s what you asked me on our wedding night!”
I meet her eyes in the reflection. “I remember it differently. Not a lot of talking.”
That shuts her up.
For a moment.
“You want to go in from the top or the bottom?” she asks.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The gash is right between my shoulder blades. I can drop the towel and show you the front goods, or lift the towel and show you the back goods.”
I rub my forehead. “Were you always like this?”
“Enchanting?”
“I was going to say difficult,” I reply.
“Oh. Yes. Probably. So what’s it to be?”
I give her barely covered back a wary look. “Bottom. I guess. Are you wearing . . . you know . . .”
