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I don’t push it further because I know what that wink means. He doesn’t hate me. He just thinks that he should.
And then, because I think he should as well, I push it a little bit further.
“We might miss the flight.”
Tom nods, then lifts my hands to his lips, blowing warmth onto them. If the wink unsettled me, the brief brush of his mouth against my fingers nearly knocks me sideways.
“We probably will. Which seems about right, though, doesn’t it? Why would things start going right for us now?”
I study him for a moment. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”
“Oh, I am,” he says with a small smile. “I’m very much freaking out that we’re going to die here, buried in the snow, your butt frozen to that guardrail in your ugly underwear. That’d be a nice bit of karma, wouldn’t it? Us buried side by side after all?”
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood for my sake, and yesterday, I might have let him. But that was before I saw the ring.
“Tom. Why aren’t you freaking out?” I ask softly. “Your briefcase is in that truck.”
His lips part in surprise, and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I know he hears what I’m not saying.
Your ring was in that trunk. Soon to be Lolo’s ring.
His eyes close. “How long have you known?”
“Not long. Last night. When you showered, I snooped. Saw the ring.”
His eyes open again, and there are about a dozen emotions swirling in his gaze, but I can’t seem to identify a single one of them.
My hands are still pressed between his palms, and I slowly pull them away, then shove my hands in my pockets. The relative warmth is a poor substitute for Tom’s palms.
“Can I ask you something?”
There’s a wary beat of silence. “Sure.”
“Why isn’t it Evelyn’s ring?” I ask.
Tom inhales, then crosses his arms, putting his hands in his armpits. He leans forward, staring at his shoes.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Not my business—”
Don’t want to know.
“It didn’t feel right,” he says, his toe tapping against the wood stake of the guardrail.
“Really?” I ask softly. “Because I always thought it was a family tradition. One that was sort of important to you.”
He exhales. “Right. Well. Actually, on the note of family traditions, there’s something—”
The crunch of tires on snow captures my attention, and before Tom can finish his sentence, I tap his shoulder repeatedly in excitement. “Oh my God, shut up before you jinx the one good thing to happen to us. Tom. It’s a car.”
THIRTY-TWO
TOM
December 24, 9:15 a.m.
We miss our flight.
And let’s just say, this airport is not equipped with options. If a tumbleweed came cruising down the runway, I suspect it would qualify as a traffic jam at Eugene Terrien Regional Airport.
And you know what? I can’t even muster the energy to be surprised by the turn of events.
Katherine, on the other hand, digs deep and finds not only surprise but outrage, which she directs at the elderly airport employee.
“You don’t understand,” Katherine explains to the sweet, if befuddled, woman. “We have to get to Chicago. This is life or death.”
The woman’s eyes go wide, and she shoots me an alarmed look. I shake my head to reassure her. No.
The older woman relaxes slightly and then turns to Katherine with an admirably patient smile. “I understand this is difficult, dear. It being Christmas Eve and all. But we’ve only got the one to Chicago each day, and it left thirty minutes ago.”
Katherine bangs her fist on the counter. “Unacceptable.”
“Alright,” I murmur, touching Katherine’s arm. “Let’s not take out our troubles on . . .” My gaze drops to the name tag. “June.”
“Well, June isn’t being solution oriented,” Katherine says with a mutinous scowl.
“What do you want her to do?” I ask. “Arrange for a hot-air balloon?”
“Yes! See, now there’s some solid problem-solving!” Katherine looks at June. “You have a hot-air balloon?”
“Katherine,” I say, keeping my tone mild. “You’ve got to get a grip.”
“But we were so close,” she says, her voice sounding as desperate and frustrated as I feel.
Were we, though? We have no passports, no driver’s licenses, no credit cards. Even if we’d made it to the airport in time, being allowed on the plane would have been a long shot.
Katherine rubs her forehead as Nat King Cole croons in the background about being home for Christmas. He’s basically mocking us at this point.
June is not unsympathetic to our plight because she leans across the counter, nudging a bowl of peppermints our way with a kind expression. “Listen, loves. I know it’s hard to be away from family at Christmas, but at least you have each other, and that’s something.”
“No, actually, we don’t,” Katherine says, never ceasing her forehead rubbing, which seems to have more to do with weary resignation than the concussion. “Not anymore.”
