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“That bad, huh?” I tease, struggling to keep my voice light as I glance over.
“Awful.” She blows her nose loudly. “Terrible. Just . . . complete shit. She’s going to hate it.”
She. Lolo. Right.
Gorby blows his nose as well, an even louder honk than Katherine’s. “Pretty good, Tom. Just one little tweak. You said, ‘the ones you fight to get back.’ Since you’re hauling ass across the country, you should say, ‘the one you’re trying to get back to.’”
I’m silent for a long moment, then I nod. “Right. Sure. Thanks, Gorby. Good note.”
True to their promise, Katherine and Gorby reward my faux proposal with silence, and the next minute is filled only with the remainder of “Same Old Lang Syne” and Fogelberg singing about lost loves and snow turning into rain.
Katherine reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Hey. She’s going to say yes. She’d be an idiot not to. And once I get my phone back, Harry’s going to call. And we’ll both be back on track, everything going according to plan. Yeah?”
I squeeze her hand back. “Yeah.” I’ll make sure of it.
And then I begin hatching a new plan.
THIRTY-FOUR
KATHERINE
December 24, 1:30 p.m.
A few hours later, we pull up in front of Tom’s childhood home, where the entire Walsh clan stands on the snow-covered front lawn, waving wildly from beside a blow-up sleigh that I know is the bane of Bob’s existence and the joy of Nancy’s.
I tell myself not to look. Not to care. But I can’t help it. My gaze seeks out a shiny blond head in a sea of dark-haired Walshes.
I don’t see her. Yet. But it does nothing to ease the sudden tidal wave of pain that seems to swallow me at the inevitability of coming face-to-face with the woman Tom loves.
I don’t think I can do this.
In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve survived a car accident, a concussion, a dozen stitches, another car accident, trudging through the snow, a dirty motel room, having all of my belongings stolen, and a two-hour sing-along session with a jovial truck driver.
I’ve handled it all.
But this? Meeting Lolo? I can’t.
And of course, I have to.
The truck—sorry, Rebecca—lumbers to a stop outside the modest, well-kept suburban home. And the Walshes, who Tom texted from Gorby’s phone about our impending arrival a couple minutes ago, descend upon the truck, all talking over one another.
The favorite son is, of course, cause for celebration. His ex, though?
I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle. Which gets stuck. An omen? Probably. For a moment, the coward in me considers begging Gorby to take me straight to the airport. But the temptation to hug my ex-in-laws is even stronger than my desire to avoid Lolo.
Still, the handle stays stuck. “Gorby, what the—”
“Ol’ Rebecca’s playing coy with you, hun,” Gorby says, taking a final bite of his third burger in as many hours. “Just pull it back nice and slow, and give her a little shove with your shoulder.”
Tom adds, “Carefully. We don’t want to reopen your wound.”
“Which looked right as rain to me,” Gorby says happily. “Got a good look when Tom checked the bandage a bit ago.”
“Fantastic. Glad you got a good look,” I mutter, leaning into the door per Gorby’s instructions just as Tom’s dad opens the door from the other side.
I practically tumble into him, and unfazed, Bob Walsh wraps me in a big warm hug. “Damn, Katie. It’s been too long. I always did like your face.”
For a long moment, I let him hug me. Let myself pretend that things are different, then and now. That this is still my family, that Tom—
“My turn, my turn, my turn,” Nancy says, batting at her husband’s arm and wrapping me in a warm hug of her own. “Katherine, my darling. What a day you’ve had.”
“What about me? My day?” Tom says good-naturedly as he hugs all his siblings.
His mom releases me and reaches out to pat his cheek fondly, her eyes watery. “You too, Tommy. You too.”
Bob clamps his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Glad you made it, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Tom reaches out and pulls his father in for a hug, and my eyes prick a bit when I see the delighted pleasure on Bob’s face before he hugs Tom back.
“Now,” Bob says, pulling back, clearing his throat, and reaching for his wallet. He nods toward the truck. “How much do we owe this fine gentleman for the ride?”
I have to smile at gentleman being applied to Gorby but then amend my thoughts because Gorby—if he’s not the truest gentleman, I don’t know who is. The kind of generous, kind human being that makes me want to rethink . . . well, all of my life choices, actually.
Something I’ve been doing a lot of the past twenty-four hours.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, accepting the cash Bob generously holds out. “And I will of course pay you back every penny the second I get everything sorted from my lost wallet.”
