Emergency Contact

I’d just finished taking a big client to a celebratory dinner when I stepped out of the restaurant and saw him. My perfect man. Blond, a decade or so older than me. Not terribly tall, but tall enough. Attractive, but not handsome. Tweed elbows on his blazer—I love that. Everything about him screamed biddable, pleasant companion. The sort of man who would happily sit in silence and read the newspaper by your side over Grape-Nuts and blueberries every morning for the rest of your life.

I was just about to manufacture a way to approach when the universe helped me out in the form of a fat wad of pink gum on the sidewalk, which the man’s tasseled loafer made direct contact with.

Luckily for all, I’m great in a crisis. I whipped out my business card, lifted his foot before he even knew what had happened, and started scraping. But gum is serious business, one that my dad taught me is best handled with peanut butter.

Which, clearly, should not be called peanut anything. A point I made to a man passing by as I cradled my dream guy’s foot in my crotch.

The other man—the passerby—he was too tall. Too handsome. Who did not find my explanation of legumes endearing. And who, upon first impression, didn’t strike me as being biddable at all.

I was right about that. Something I learned when I married him.

And divorced him.

Well, he divorced me. Again, semantics.

Tom glances my way. “You got one of your business cards in your purse?”

“Always,” I say. “Why? You need a lawyer?”

He nods toward the gum on his foot.

Right. That. I hand over a card. “That gum’s not going anywhere without some legume butter, but have at it.”

He smiles to himself. “Hot legumes.”

I blink. “What?”

Tom shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Hmm. Maybe it was endearing after all.

He studies my card for a moment, then looks over. “Kaplan, Gosset, Tate & Associates. Feeling pretty confident, are we?”

I bite my lip and avoid his gaze. I almost forgot about that. Irene had the new business cards printed as an early Christmas gift. She’s been big into manifestation lately, and she insisted that the best way to ensure something happened was to act as though it was a foregone conclusion.

“Hey.” Tom nudges my shoulder with his. “Harry will call. But it’s not Christmas yet.”

Now I do look over. “You remember? That stupid thing?”

“That Harry always makes a big deal of calling at Christmas to announce partner? Sure.” He begins scraping at the gum.

“He’s tweaked the routine a bit,” I explain. “A few years ago, he randomly made the call a few days before Christmas. Last year it was on the twenty-third.”

“Ah.” Tom has better luck with the gum than I expected and tosses my business card, now topped with a glob of pink gum, into the nearby trash. “Hence the extra-intense obsession with your phone today.”

I shrug.

“For what it’s worth, I think you should have gotten that call many Christmases ago.”

I give him a sidelong glance. “Is that . . . a compliment?”

“More like a gripe at the universe. If they’d hurried this whole thing along, things would be different right now.”

Meaning . . . we’d still be married? I can’t help but wonder.

“For example,” he continues, extending his legs out in front of him, crossing his hands over his flat stomach. “If you hadn’t been so damn obsessed with your phone, I’d probably be approaching my descent into Chicago right now.”

“I’m not obsessed with my phone,” I say, though my heart’s not in the ancient argument.

He snorts. “Please. It’s always been like an extra limb, but getting kicked off a plane rather than put the damn thing away? That’s next level, Katie.”

“Okay, you know the phones don’t actually crash planes, right? I’m ninety percent sure that’s an urban legend,” I inform him.

“Oh, well, if you’re ninety percent sure, we should definitely let the FAA know.”

I try to muster up a comeback, but I feel distracted. He glances over. “You think this is the year? You get the call?”

“Yes, though . . .” I swallow. “I think that every year. I just . . . I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“Nothing,” Tom says with a lack of hesitation that makes me feel a little warm that he has such faith in me. “You’re a good lawyer.”

I arch a brow. “Compliments?”

He shrugs. “You’re a good lawyer. You know that. But I meant more that you should be partner because I’ve never seen anyone want anything as badly as you wanted that.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” I say, meeting his gaze. “You had things you wanted.”

“Not as single-mindedly as that.”

Really? I want to argue. Because the divorce papers you served me said otherwise.

Because, despite his protests, I wasn’t the only one who was hyperfocused on personal goals during our marriage. And at least I was up-front about mine. Tom knew when he married me that I wanted to make partner.

And he knew why. Knew how much it meant to me to check off that achievement for my dad.

But Tom’s dreams and goals? Those snuck up on me. Maybe on both of us. I don’t think Tom even realized how badly he wanted to be married to a sweet-natured wife who would make roast chicken every Sunday, bear babies, and move to the burbs until it became clear that I was not that wife.

At least not then. I had things to do first.

But damn it. I do like roast chicken. I wanted babies. I maybe even could have gotten on board with the whole house-and-yard thing.

If only he could have just waited . . .

Whatever. Bygones, water under the bridge, etc.

Or maybe not, because this little detour down memory lane has me curious about how things have been working out for Tom. If his goals have eluded him like mine have me.

I shift a little so I can study him. “Speaking of things we want. How’s your spreadsheet?”

He grimaces and doesn’t pretend not to know which spreadsheet. “I never should have shown you that.”

“Correction. You should have shown it to me sooner. Like, before I said my vows?”

Tom sucks in his cheeks. “You’re probably right.” He looks over. “Would it have changed things?”

“You mean, would I not have married you if I’d known before the wedding that you had your entire life planned out in rows and columns?”

He holds my gaze, as though my response matters. “Would you have?”

I think on this a minute, then lift a shoulder. “I never minded the spreadsheet. I admired it, actually. I like a good action plan as much as the next person. I guess I just wish . . .”

“Yeah?” He’s watching me carefully, and I try not to squirm.

“I wish I’d have seen the details of your dream life earlier. To know that I didn’t belong on the spreadsheet.”

Tom sighs. “Katherine . . .”

“Come on, Tom.” I keep my voice as light as I can. “We both know I was never what you were looking for.”

He looks straight ahead and is silent for a moment. “No,” he replies finally. “I guess you weren’t.”

I try not to let it hurt, but the pain seeps in anyway. I know I’m not the most lovable person on the planet, but it still stings to hear so clearly that I was somebody’s whoops.

Despite what Tom thinks, I had desires beyond just making partner. Divorce wasn’t one of them.

“So, are you back on track?” I ask, even as I hate myself for asking.

Lauren Layne, Anthony LeDonne's books