“You were too anxious to get to the airport. I didn’t want you to do a rush job. Wait.” I look over at him. “You grabbed the gauze off the counter, didn’t you? I asked—”
“I got it,” he interrupts. “Even managed to fashion it into a nice, sturdy noose fitted just for you.”
A flight attendant comes over the intercom to make the inevitable announcement that all the overhead space is full and that anyone with a roller bag will have to check it.
There’s a chorus of angry groans, and for a split second, I’m almost grateful for Tom’s insistence that we board early and with plenty of time to secure a spot for our bags. There aren’t many things I could name that could make this horrible day any worse, but losing my luggage would be on the short list.
I put the sleep mask onto my head, staging it on my forehead as I turn my attention to the cheap inflatable neck pillow I bought in the airport. I’d much prefer the expensive one I normally use, but Tom rushed me out of my apartment before I was able to grab my usual flight accoutrements.
I lift the standin pillow to my face, then wince at the rubbery smell. Since it’s Tom’s fault I’m stuck with it, I flap it in front of his face. “Here. Blow this up for me.”
He pushes my hand back toward me and pulls his phone out of his suit pocket. “Pass.”
“Such a gentleman,” I mutter. “Making the invalid do it.”
I loop the floppy thing over my neck and open the little valve. I bring it to my mouth, but the process is awkward and uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you inflate it before you put it on, genius?” he says, not looking up from his phone.
“You sure you don’t want to do it?” I offer it to him again. “You seem to be full of hot air.”
“I don’t know why you even insisted on buying that damn thing. It’s meant for sleeping, and you can’t sleep. Concussion, remember?”
“No, Tom. I forgot,” I say sarcastically. “And I had to find something to keep myself busy at the airport, considering we basically arrived at the gate before our plane had even left its departure city.”
“Well, you know what, Katherine, if it weren’t for you and your stubborn insistence on cabs, I wouldn’t have missed my original flight and would already be in Chicago by now. So sue me for wanting to make sure I didn’t miss this one.”
“Sue you?” I repeat. “I would love to be the defense attorney on that ridiculous excuse for a lawsuit,” I say. “Slam dunk.”
I make a motion like I’m shooting a basketball, and Tom shakes his head. “That shot would have never gone in.”
“Would too.”
“Nope. I’m a die-hard baseball guy, and even I know that would have been an air ball.”
My eyes go very, very wide. “No! You played baseball? I had no idea! Have you ever mentioned that?!”
“Ha. Ha.” He sets his head back on the headrest and closes his eyes.
I smirk. Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve made it this far in the day without a baseball reference. Tom loves to talk about his baseball glory days. Hearing him talk about his RBI or whatever at a cocktail party, you’d think he started for the Yankees and not simply played “college ball,” which is a phrase he repeats with increased frequency if you make the mistake of serving him gin.
“I forget,” I say, leaning toward him. “How many bases did you steal at that state championship game?”
It was three. And I know he’s dying to say it, but instead he opens one eye and, lifting the rubber valve dangling near my mouth, shoves it between my lips. “Here. Use your mouth for something useful.”
I waggle my eyebrows seductively at him, but his eyes are closed again, so I go about trying to blow up the pillow.
Almost immediately, the blowing causes the headache pain that I thought was abating to pound even harder. I rub my forehead dramatically.
“Don’t bother with the sympathy ploy,” he says, not opening his eyes. “I’m not going to blow it up for you.”
“Please? I’m concussed.”
“Nope.”
“Come on.” I lean toward him, the gauge extended. “It’s easy. Just slip it between your lips and blow.”
“Oh my,” a woman from the row in front of us murmurs, sounding scandalized.
“You’re creeping out the other passengers,” Tom says, shoving at me. “And me.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I guess I can just use your shoulder as a pillow . . .”
Tom heaves out a sigh of his own and reluctantly takes the pillow from me and begins inflating it.
“Blow harder,” I insist. “Puff out your cheeks. And use two hands, really get into it.”
The woman in front of us shifts around to glare at me with a prudish blue eye peeking between the crack in the seats. I give her a big smile, and Tom lifts his hands toward my neck, making a strangling motion, though he continues to inflate the pillow.
My phone buzzes repeatedly with an incoming call, and my heart stops for a moment when I see Harry’s name on the screen. Without meaning to, I reach out and grip Tom’s wrist.
This is it.
He gives me a curious look, though he doesn’t stop with the pillow.
“Harry! Hi!” I say, picking up the phone.
There’s a pause on the other end, and I can practically feel Harry’s surprise at my enthusiasm. “Hey, Katherine! You sound like you’re in a good mood. The holiday bug finally got you, huh?”
“Ma’am.” A flight attendant is standing beside Tom’s seat in the aisle, giving me a censuring look. “Please hang that up.”
I hold up a finger. In a minute.
“What’s up, Harry?”
“Ma’am.” The flight attendant’s tone shifts from peeved to pissed. “I’m going to have to ask you to put your phone away.”
“Harry, one sec.” I mute the call and turn to the flight attendant on her power trip. “Listen, I know you’re just doing your job. I’ve been waiting my entire life for this phone call. And you can’t seriously tell me that my iPhone is going to crash this plane.”
“Oh my God,” Tom mutters.
The flight attendant glares at me, completely unmoved by my extremely rational argument.
I give her the same smile I give juries during closing arguments. “Maybe you could just ask the pilot to wait? I just need five minutes.”
“Katherine.” Tom’s tone is sharp. “Seriously.”
“Yes, Tom, seriously.” I unmute my call. “Sorry about that, Harry. What’s up?”
I never get the chance to find out because Tom pulls the phone out of my hand, hangs up, and tries to do damage control, but it’s too late.
The flight attendant either had an axe to grind or a score to settle.
Because five minutes later, the plane takes off.
And I’m not on it.
SEVENTEEN
TOM
December 23, 4:19 p.m.
I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively patient man, especially as it pertains to travel and all the inevitable setbacks that go along with it.