Tom fiddles with his watchband. “A year or so.”
I turn my head quickly to look out the window, hoping to hide my surprise, but no luck because he nudges my side with his elbow. “Hey. It’s not that much of a shock, some women actually find me quite likable.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, and I try to let him.
“It’s not so much that I’m surprised that you found yourself a nice, docile companion.” I frown. “I confess I am a little surprised I haven’t heard about it by now.”
“Really?” His eyebrow lifts. “You think I’d call you after years of no contact? Hey, by the way . . .”
“No. And let’s be clear, if you had, I wouldn’t have taken your call,” I say, lifting a finger to emphasize my point. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’d have thought Nancy or Bob. Or your sisters. Even Luke. One of them could have mentioned it.”
I try to keep the hurt out of my voice, but I’m not sure I’m successful. A little warning would have been nice, guys.
Tom is staring at me. “When the hell would they have mentioned this?”
I begin to enumerate on my fingers. “My Saturday night talks with your mom while she makes her famous poppyseed muffins for her church choir. Or your dad in our Sunday text threads back and forth while we do the Times crossword. Or Kayla when she calls to ask my opinion on New York neighborhoods—”
“Stop.” Tom holds up a hand, looking so off-balance I almost feel bad for him. “I don’t even know where to start. You have weekly talks with my mother? My father texts? And wait, why does Kay want to know about New York neighborhoods?”
I start with the easiest of the questions.
“I can’t say Bob was a quick study on the whole texting thing. And I’m thinking about implementing an emoji limit because he’s dangerously close to abuse levels. But yeah. He texts.”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Isn’t there some sort of commandment to prevent this sort of thing? Thou shalt not remain besties with thy ex’s family?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yuck. Don’t say besties. So. What’s her name?”
He looks like he wants to play dumb and then sighs and answers, “Lolo.”
“Huh.” I look at my manicure, which is paying the price for today’s mishaps. “Maybe that’s why your parents didn’t mention it. They didn’t know how to tell me she was a stripper.”
“She’s a teacher,” Tom replies, rubbing his forehead as though he’s the one with the concussion. “I still can’t believe you’ve been in touch with my family. If anyone should be mad about omissions, it should be me. They’ve never once mentioned your name.”
I look back over at him. “Maybe they knew you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“Maybe,” he mutters, though he still looks completely nonplussed at the thought of me keeping in touch with his family.
“Does it bother you?” I ask. “That they talk to me?”
“I guess it shouldn’t. It’s just . . . odd.” He runs a hand over his face. “And damn. I still can’t get over the fact that Dad texts. I didn’t even know he knew what an emoji was.”
Oops.
I should have known better than to mention my relationship with Bob. I was close with all of Tom’s family—I still am, as much as I’ll let myself be.
But I’ve always clicked especially with Tom’s father. And though Tom’s never admitted it, I know it bothered him, even before things went sour in our relationship. It’s not so much that Tom and his father don’t have a good relationship. It’s always just had a touch of awkward distance.
It was hard, I think, for Tom—the golden boy—to see someone else come in and achieve so easily what he never quite mastered: an easy relationship with his father.
I change the subject. “So, exactly how pissed is Lolo that I’m you’re traveling companion?”
“Not at all.”
I make a snorting noise. “Come on.”
“She’s really not,” he says with a shrug. “Lolo doesn’t really get pissed.”
I pretend to be asleep. Boring.
“What?” He looks annoyed at my reaction. “Believe it or not, that’s a nice quality to have.”
“Sure, sure.” I shift again, increasingly uncomfortable as the medical tape on my back tugs at my skin. “It’s just not what you need.”
“You have no idea what I need,” he snaps. “If you did, we’d still be together. And I’m not talking about this with you.”
I lift a noncommittal shoulder and let him lapse into brooding silence. Which lasts maybe a minute.
“What do you mean, it’s not what I need?” he asks.
“Well. Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes you do this thing where you’re sort of . . . insufferable.”
He blinks. “Sure, nope. Won’t take that the wrong way.”
“You can just be a little set in your ways, and to combat that, you need someone to, you know. Ruffle your feathers. Push your buttons.”
“Until I met you, I didn’t even have buttons,” Tom says.
“Which is why you’re so much more interesting now than when we met,” I say, batting my eyelashes.
He sighs.
I inspect my nails for a moment, then look up at him. “Do they like her? Your family?”
He shrugs. “I’m assuming so.”
“What do you mean? Can’t you tell when they’re with her?”
“Well, since you’re so close to them, maybe you can let me know their feelings after we get to Chicago,” he snaps.
I narrow my eyes. “Wait. Is this the first time they’re meeting her? And why is she there without you in the first place?”
“She had a baby shower thing for a college friend out-of-state, so we were going to fly in separately. I was supposed to get there just a couple hours after her.” He gives me a meaningful look.
“Oh?” I ask, all innocence. “What happened?”
“I picked up a phone call I shouldn’t have,” he says, closing his eyes tiredly. “You can read all about it in my obituary because I’m increasingly unsure if I’ll survive this night.”
“Now, now, don’t think like that,” I say, giving his knee a little pat. “The best part of our string of disasters? It can’t possibly get any worse.”
TWENTY-FIVE
TOM
December 23, 11:04 p.m.
Not long after, I glance over at my ex-wife. “You were saying? About this not getting any worse?”
“Yeah,” Katherine admits with uncharacteristic agreeability. “It’s worse.”
When we boarded the bus, it was crowded. Five excruciating stops later, it’s beyond crowded. Every single seat is full, and I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss the “quiet police” from our train ride. They’d never allow what I’m currently being forced to endure.
It’s a toss-up between what’s more miserable: the noise or the smells.
The guy directly across the aisle from me has been eating onion rings since the moment he sat down. And not fresh onion rings, though that would be bad enough. The scents of stale batter and reused cooking oil hang like a fog through the entire back of the bus.