I frown and focus harder. Try to imagine that the lamplight is the light from my family’s Christmas tree. Try to envision the ring on Lolo’s finger. When I can’t, I try to get even more specific, trying to visualize the moment when I’ll slip it on her finger . . .
The bathroom door opens, and Katherine’s head pops out. “Tom?”
“What’s up?” I say, my voice too loud as I fumble a bit in my haste to close the box.
I hurriedly shove it deep into my bag and give Katherine a grin that must be as Jokeresque as it feels because she blinks in consternation.
“You okay?” she asks. “Still upset about missing Bolognese?
“Yeah. No. Yes. I’m good. What’s up?” I say again.
She gives me a slightly alarmed look at my babbling. “You know that I know you, right? Know when you’ve got something you want to say, but don’t know how?”
I look away.
“And you know that you can tell me anything? It’s not like I can hate you more than I already do.” She smiles, and I know she doesn’t hate me any more than I hate her.
We just didn’t . . . work.
So why can’t I just tell her?
Hey, Katherine. I think I may have forgotten to mention. I’m actually getting married again.
The words don’t come out. Because I don’t want to hurt her, but also because I don’t want to face the fact that I have the power to hurt her. If I face that, I’d have to address the fact that she can hurt me too, that maybe I never quite . . .
Katherine steps partially out of the bathroom, and my throat is suddenly very dry. She is wrapped in a towel. Only a towel. A not very large towel.
“Um. You needed something?”
“Yeah, I need help,” she says, and the way she pairs the words with a scowl tells me just what they’ve cost her.
“With the shower?” I ask.
“Settle down, Don Juan.” She adjusts the towel, and I keep my gaze locked firmly on the middle of her forehead. “It’s the bandage. On my back. I think it’s kind of a mess back there.”
“You always did have the best sexy talk,” I say, relieved to be bantering again. Much safer ground.
“You’ve been fussing at me all day to let you have a look. You want your chance or not?”
“Boy, when you put it that way . . .” I mutter. “Where’d you put the gauze and stuff?”
“My suitcase. Right side.” She points. “I’d get it, but considering this towel is more like a scrap of a bathmat . . .”
“I’ll get it.” I go to her open suitcase and begin rummaging around. With a single finger, I lift a very large, very unbecoming undergarment. “Why are all of your underwear beige?”
“Well, Tom, this may hurt your ego, but concussion plus car accident plus gauze plus heinous ex-husband didn’t exactly put me in the sexiest frame of mind while packing. Now, when you’re done playing with my panties, get in here.”
“Jesus. Don’t say panties. Also, why did you bring so many?” I mutter. Eventually, I find the plastic bag with the supplies buried under the blanket of beige underwear.
I walk to the bathroom, where she’s left the door open, and find her leaning toward the mirror, one hand holding the towel in place, the other fumbling around in her hair.
“I think the bump on my head is growing.”
“Maybe because you keep poking it,” I say, approaching and dumping the contents of the makeshift first aid kit onto the beige countertop, which, thankfully, at least gives the appearance of being mostly clean. “So. How do we do this?”
“Aww.” She gives me a nostalgic look in the mirror. “That’s what you asked me on our wedding night!”
I meet her eyes in the reflection. “I remember it differently. Not a lot of talking.”
That shuts her up.
For a moment.
“You want to go in from the top or the bottom?” she asks.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The gash is right between my shoulder blades. I can drop the towel and show you the front goods, or lift the towel and show you the back goods.”
I rub my forehead. “Were you always like this?”
“Enchanting?”
“I was going to say difficult,” I reply.
“Oh. Yes. Probably. So what’s it to be?”
I give her barely covered back a wary look. “Bottom. I guess. Are you wearing . . . you know . . .”
Katherine waggles her eyebrows. “Panties? And yes, the cotton and comfy variety, so your virtue is safe.”
“So, translation, big and beige?” I ask. “Also, is there any reason you didn’t keep your pants on before calling me in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason. I wanted to seduce you. Isn’t it obvious? I planned this whole thing.”
I can’t take any more of this, and with gritted teeth I grab the towel and yank it upward. I let out a low whistle. “Hot. Exactly how high-rise are these? Did your grandmother will these to you?”
“Take your time, why don’t you. Get a real good look. Of course, if you’re not up to this, I bet Dean—”
I rip off the first strip of medical tape.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” I say.
“No, you aren’t,” Katherine grumbles.
I am, actually, when I get a glimpse of what we’re dealing with. “Kates. This doesn’t look good.”
“Well, probably because I had to go sprinting through a train station, got into a bus accident, trudged through a blizzard . . .”
I gingerly remove the rest of the gauze and tape, revealing the entirety of the wound. I knew it was good-sized and required stitches, but hearing the doctor describe it and seeing it . . .
I feel a little queasy.
A reaction from the blood, I tell myself, and not because I remember the perfection of this back, all smooth skin, firm muscles, and stubbornness.
Katherine, for once, remains blissfully silent, letting out only a small hiss when I dab some of the antibacterial ointment on with a cotton swab.
“Sorry,” I murmur as I begin to clean around the wound. “This hurt?”
“Obviously,” she says, sounding tired.
Eight cotton balls later, I lean back to admire my handiwork. “Okay, I don’t think it’s as bad as I thought at first. The gash still looks a little angry, but the stitches all seem fine, and there’s none of the signs of infection the nurse told me to watch for.”
“Great. A Christmas miracle.” Her head is dipped forward, so her long hair frames her face, shielding me from seeing her expression.
“You okay?” I ask softly, touching a finger to the part on her back that the medical tape’s left pink and irritated.
I swallow.
I should not be here.
Doing this.
With her.
But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else.
Slowly, Katherine lifts her head again, her dark eyes wide and questioning in the mirror. When our gazes finally meet, the silent exchange lacks the acidity of the past several hours. And for a tiny moment in time, it feels like the old days.
Back when Katherine was my wife, and also my best friend. My everything.
We both look away.
Katherine looks at her watch and smiles. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I say as I reach for the clean cotton pad and begin to re-cover her wound the way the doctor showed me. “You know you’ll have to keep your back out of the spray of the shower, right? Otherwise we’ll have to do this all over again.”
She makes a jaunty little saluting motion to acknowledge my orders.
I roll my eyes, but neither of us moves.
“Tom?”