It’s a trait I learned early on in life as the oldest of four kids. No matter how strict the itinerary, or how precise my mother’s packing list, family road trips and summer vacations always came with flat tires, forgotten inhalers, beestings, and lots of arguing.
Even when my part in the chaos was small, it fell to me to fix it, keep a level head, and “set a good example.” I never minded the added responsibility, and the older I got, the more I actively appreciated my ability to avoid and handle a crisis.
And then Katherine Tate came into my life, a woman who operates almost entirely in crisis mode and who thus challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. Namely, that my patience has limits and that she, and only she, can turn my calm, predictable life into a goddamn war zone.
“You had to use the ‘I’m an attorney’ line,” I grumble at her.
“I am an attorney,” she says in a genuinely affronted voice. As though she is the injured party in this situation. Which, I suppose, technically she is.
But right now, I’m inclined to think my current situation is much, much worse than any concussion or stitches.
And for that matter, I’m beginning to wonder if her concussion is contagious because I’m getting a headache.
I say I wonder because I’m not actually all that familiar with headaches. At least not anymore. In fact, I think my last headache dates all the way back to my first marriage. Marriage to this woman, who is basically a walking, talking, pontificating migraine in heels.
“Damn,” she mutters. “Now Harry’s not picking up.”
She huffs and scowls at me, as though this is my fault, though I know her well enough to see the guilt in her eyes.
“You don’t think the flight attendant overreacted a little?” Katherine asks. “Kicking us off the plane?”
“Kicking you off the plane,” I amend quickly. “I chose to follow.”
And if I’m being honest, Katherine’s not wrong about the flight attendant’s overreaction. Having Katherine escorted off the plane for using her cell phone did feel a little over the top, but then, Katherine has a way of triggering the extreme in people.
“Why did you?” she asks, frowning at me.
“Why did I what?”
“Get off the plane with me?”
I glare at her. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”
“Oh, God, we’re doing this thing again, huh? The noble St. Tom sacrificing everything he holds dear to do the right thing by the hot mess? I’m fine, Tom. I’ve always been fine, I don’t need you swooping in to save me.”
“Give me a break, Katie,” I snap, my temper near the breaking point. “Just a couple hours ago you were in the hospital, and if it weren’t for me, you’d either still be there or be passed out on your bed at home, possibly never to wake up again.”
“Don’t sound so hopeful.” She looks away, then back at me again. “Thank you,” she says with clear reluctance. “For getting off the plane.”
I lift an eyebrow. “That’s a start. Now how about an apology? For making us miss the flight?”
Her mouth sets in a stubborn line. “I’ll make it up to you,” she says, which is probably as close as she’ll get to an apology. They’ve never been her specialty.
I snort. “How?”
She puts a hand on her hip, nails tapping as she thinks. “Well, first I have to go pee. But when I get back, I’ll find a new way to get us to Chicago. I’m sure we can get a couple tickets on the train.”
“The train,” I repeat, incredulous. “What, are all the stagecoaches full?”
“Mock all you want, but train travel is making a comeback. I read it in the New Yorker.”
“Oh, well, if the New Yorker said so . . .”
Katherine throws up her hands. “Well, fine, Tom. Let’s hear your better suggestion. Maybe you can give the North Pole a call, see if you can hitch a ride with Santa since I’m sure you’ve made certain you’re on the nice list.”
“You know what? That might be an actual possibility because, at this rate, it’s looking like I won’t get home until Christmas Eve.”
I try very hard not to think about what that means for my plans for the ring in my bag. And the answer I’ll receive from its intended recipient.
“I’m not getting on a train,” I say, feeling ornery. “It’s not 1906.”
“Tell that to your haircut,” Katherine says over her shoulder, already walking to the bathroom.
I inhale through my nose. You know what? She was right to call me St. Tom. There is no way someone should have to endure the company of Katherine Tate and not be canonized.
I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m tempted to take the easy way out, to simply text Lo that I missed my flight. Again. And to fudge the truth on why I missed my flight. Again.
I’m not proud of the urge, but it’s there.
Instead I take a deep breath and tell myself to man up and tell her face-to-face, even if it has to be through a screen. She deserves that much. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with Lolo, and I’m determined to get the whole marriage thing right this time. We can’t start it with lies and half truths.
I head to a different gate to make the FaceTime so Katherine doesn’t come back from the bathroom midchat.
I may have mustered the courage to tell my soon-to-be fiancée about Katherine, but I’m not quite ready to tell Katherine about Lolo. Which, I know, is probably a little bit backward, but I don’t have the energy to ruminate on the why right now.
Lolo answers after a couple rings, her smile bright and happy.
Behind her head are my baseball posters from high school. That she’s taking this call from my room should give me some semblance of comfort. My future wife in my childhood home, getting to know my family at Christmas . . . it’s the Norman Rockwell life I want for myself.
So, what’s with the knee-jerk unease I feel? The inescapable feeling that something is wrong with the picture.
Of course something is wrong with the picture, I remind myself. I’m supposed to be there.
“Hey, babe!” Lolo says. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you until after the plane landed.”
Her smile slips a little. “It’s not canceled, is it? The storm is all over the news.”
“No. No.” I scratch my cheek. “The flight took off on time.”
“Then why . . . Wait, what do you mean?”
To her credit, Lolo still looks calm, even given the implication of me still being in the airport, my flight already departed.
Because Lo’s always calm. It’s how she is. And actually, it’s that sort of serene sweetness that drew me to her in the first place. Her blond hair is never out of place; her eyes always seem patient; she rarely raises her voice.
If being in Katherine’s company feels like being tossed into shark-infested waters during a hurricane, Lolo is like a placid pond in comparison, without so much as a ripple.
Even when I have to drop news such as . . .
“I missed the flight, Lo.” I take a deep breath. “Actually. There’s more to it than that.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s going on?”
I wish I even knew . . .
“So, okay. You remember I told you about Katherine?”
Lolo shakes her head in confusion. “No. Katherine? Wait. Wait. Your ex-wife, Katherine?”
A little less calm now, but just a touch.
“That’s the one. She was sort of in an accident.”