I hear her footsteps approaching from the bathroom and hurriedly put the frame back in the drawer. Partially because I don’t want her to know I saw. Partially because I don’t want to think about what it means that she still has it.
But putting the frame out of sight doesn’t put it out of my mind, and even after I close the drawer, my brain is reluctant to set it aside. Katherine is hardly the sentimental type. It always bothered me, a little, how indifferent she was to keepsakes, how reluctant to keep anything that would trigger emotional memories. When I discovered an old box of Christmas decorations from her childhood, she practically bit my hand when I tried to drag it out of the closet.
And yet, she kept Joel. And this photo.
I’d have thought she’d have done everything possible to remove every trace of our marriage from her life. The fact that she hasn’t is . . . intriguing.
And it shouldn’t be.
I’m carrying around an engagement ring with me, for Christ’s sake. I’m about to propose to another woman. A woman who is everything that Katherine is not. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
“What’s with the face?” Katherine asks, startling me out of my reverie.
“What face?”
“That one.” She points at my head. “You only look like that when you’re constipated or trying to shove back thoughts that don’t fit into your tidy little life plan.”
The assessment is piercingly accurate, so naturally, I give her a scathing put-down. “Maybe you should be a little less worried with my face, and a little more worried about the fact that this suitcase is still empty?”
I give it a shake, hoping to hurry her along. Hoping also to remind myself that although Katie and I had a few good times, in the end, they’d done nothing to save us.
SIXTEEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 4:12 p.m.
It doesn’t take the instincts and experience of an ex-wife to know that Tom is irritated about something. He keeps shifting uncomfortably in his plane seat and has gotten up to check his bag in the overhead compartment five times already.
Maybe he really is constipated.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, not looking up from the message I’m typing to my boss. It’s not technically urgent enough to warrant an after-hours text. It can easily wait until tomorrow morning. Hell, it can wait until after the holidays.
But now that all the distraction of my untimely hospital visit is behind me, I’m back on track. Partner track. I missed a handful of calls due to that pesky accident, and though none were from Harry, I want to make sure my boss knows I’ve got my phone on me. For whenever he decides to get off his ass and make the call already.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Tom’s snippy tone contradicts his words, but I know him well enough not to point this out. Here’s what I know about my ex: either he’ll decide he wants to talk or that he doesn’t.
Poking the bear while the bear stews is futile. Because despite the charming, if a little sarcastic, Disney prince persona that Tom puts on for the rest of the world, here’s a little secret about the man:
Tom Walsh is a champion stewer. When something wiggles past his smiling facade and latches on to the real Tom, 100 percent of his focus goes to chewing on whatever’s annoying him. He silently assesses it. Wrestles with it. Tries to banish it.
Anything to get him back to the person he wants to be.
Yes, Tom is personable. And he’s funny, though, of course, I’ll die before admitting it aloud. He’s easy to be around, kind to strangers, and likes to take care of the people he cares about, blah blah blah.
But he’s also crafted that version of himself. I don’t mean to imply that he’s disingenuous because, much as it pains me to admit, Tom really is a decent guy.
Exhibit A: man takes an ex-wife that he loathes home for the holidays out of the goodness of his heart.
But it’s just . . . how to explain?
Tom is as charming as he is because he works at it. It’s as though he takes time each day to deliberately weed out the bad thoughts and replace them with more pleasant ones.
And during that time? He’s downright brooding.
Now, I’ve never minded this about him.
Actually, that brooding version of the man was always my favorite. Not because he’s particularly pleasant to be around, but because if you’re subjected to it, it means you’re in the inner circle.
It means he trusts you. He’s comfortable around you.
So yeah. The fact that after all these years, I’m still privy to Brooding Tom? It warms my shrunken Grinch heart just a little bit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he impatiently tugs at the knot of his tie. Another tell.
I stay silent. Waiting him out.
“I still can’t believe your ticket had precheck approved, and mine didn’t,” he mutters.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. That’s not what’s bothering him.
“I’m the one that bought the tickets,” he continues. “On this airline’s credit card. So someone please explain to me why I’m the one who had to wait in a mile-long security line and take off my shoes?”
“Someone already did explain it to you,” I say. “You gave that same speech, verbatim, to the poor woman working the counter at our gate, and she explained that it was a systems error and apologized. Don’t worry, though, she obviously had lots of time to listen to your tantrum as she dealt with an overbooked, delayed flight.”
He doesn’t respond, and I glance over. “What’s this really about? Did the TSA agent not compliment your Santa socks?”
He frowns at me. “How do you know I’m wearing Santa socks?”
I lift my purse from beneath the seat in front of me and begin digging around for my sleep mask. “Because it’s December. That means your socks are going to be Santa, elves, snowmen, or gingerbread men. Unless your mom went crazy and added reindeer to the mix this year?”
Tom is visibly startled, and I know why. It’s because his mom did give out reindeer socks this year, and he wants to know how I know that.
Nancy Walsh has a long-standing Thanksgiving tradition. After the turkey’s put away and the pumpkin pie comes out, she gives out a pair of Christmas socks to everyone at her table.
I may not have been a guest at that table in a long time, but I still get the socks in the mail every November, along with a pumpkin-pie-scented candle. It’s the highlight of my entire holiday season, though I’m loath to admit such mawkishness.
“Speaking of reindeer,” he says, “that sweatshirt really brings out your eyes.”
Yes, I’m still wearing the hideous sweatshirt from the hospital. Not because it’s grown on me. It hasn’t. But because I wasn’t able to wiggle out of it, given the gash on my back, and Tom refused to help me change.
I ignore him and reach down to pull up his pant leg slightly. “Santas. Nailed it.”
He jerks his leg away, and I sit back up, wincing when I move too fast and my back stings.
“I still think we should have changed the bandage back at your place,” he says, noticing my discomfort.