December 24, 12:19 a.m.
It’s apparently a myth that you have to stay awake for a full twenty-four hours after a concussion. That’s old news. The new recommendation is “it depends.”
In my case, since I lost consciousness, I was supposed to stay awake until bedtime and then be awoken throughout the night.
And while I’m not looking forward to the being-woken-up part—especially since that particular requirement resulted in this whole adventure in the first place—I’ve still been looking forward to this moment all day.
An hour ago, I was exhausted down to my bones.
Now that I’m actually in bed? Sleep eludes me entirely.
The mattress is lumpy. The sheets are scratchy. The comforter . . . I try not to think about it. Also, I like to sleep on my back, and the injury makes that impossible.
I gingerly roll to the other side and force my eyes closed. They pop open immediately.
I forgot my retainer.
I never skip my dental straightjacket, though I suppose that if there was ever an excuse to do so, it would be tonight. And I almost do exactly that until I realize . . .
Retainers are decidedly unsexy.
I open my eyes and let them flick over Tom’s bed. Where he will be sleeping. Just a few feet from me. After his shower. Which has been going on for a good twenty minutes already because his preference for long showers hasn’t changed over the years. His showers were always more marathon than sprint.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it . . .
Nope. Too late. I’m thinking about it. Naked Tom. In the shower.
Does he still sleep naked? He better not. He really better not.
Wearing my unsexy retainer has suddenly never felt so critical.
I force myself out of bed and shuffle over to my suitcase, which Tom lifted onto a rickety luggage rack while I was in the shower. I dig around until I come up with the purple case and shove both top and bottom retainers in my mouth.
I turn back around, and the combination of the stress of the day, the late hour, and the pain meds I’ve just taken should be kicking in full blast. I should be beelining toward the bed.
Instead, I find myself staring at Tom’s bed. Where his briefcase beckons me. The briefcase that he’s been weirdly fondling whenever he thinks I’m not looking.
I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.
I do.
I walk over to it, and with a quick glance toward the still-shut bathroom door, where his endless shower continues, I unlatch the clasp.
Something I learned about Tom early on: he is never less cool than when he’s trying to be sneaky. You’ve never met an individual as painfully awkward and obvious as Tom the year he tried to plan a surprise birthday party for me.
And every year on our anniversary, he made a big show of not having planned anything or having time to get me a gift. Which, of course, meant that he’d gone over the top on both fronts.
The more he wants to hide something, the more obvious he becomes. And apparently that hasn’t changed at all in the intervening years since we split because the man’s antics around this briefcase over the course of today would give a clown a run for its money.
Whatever’s in here, he doesn’t want me to know about it. I’m doing the man a favor, really, by getting the whole charade out in the open so he can relax. He should be thanking me . . .
Okay, fine. This isn’t about Tom.
It’s about me. And my almost painful curiosity.
I open the bag. It has all the usual suspects. His laptop. A little tech pouch, where he keeps all his cords organized. A book about some historic baseball season. Snore.
An outdated issue of the New Yorker. I shake my head. The man was always behind on his New Yorker reading.
An iPad that I’m guessing has a dead battery because he’s always liked the idea of an iPad but never actually had a use for it.
And . . .
A little turquoise box that I’d know anywhere. It comes from a jewelry store I walk by every single day. The same store that plays the horrendous version of “Silver Bells.”
But the knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the song. I don’t care for that little knot. I don’t care for it at all.
Please be earrings, I beg any deity who will listen. Or better yet, cuff links for his dad . . .
I flip open the box and don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it comes out with an agonized whoosh.
Not earrings. Not cuff links.
A ring. An engagement ring.
It’s . . . well, it’s beautiful.
And huge.
Apparently, Tom has decided to upgrade this time around.
Bigger diamond.
Oh yeah, and a wife who isn’t emotionally stunted.
I bite my lip as I ease the ring out of the box to get a better look. It really is beautiful. I don’t know much about diamonds, but I know this one is shiny, enormous, and expensive.
And yet . . .
I like my ring better. Well, not mine anymore. But when it was mine, I loved it with its smaller stone and intricate setting that had been popular in Tom’s great-great-grandparents’ day.
Giving that ring back hurt, even though I knew it was the right thing to do. It’s a family heirloom that belongs in the Walsh family, not on the fourth finger of the woman who was kicked out of the family.
Still, that ring had meant something to me, something more than just a symbol of a ceremony. That ring had let me know that someone had my back. Its subtle twinkle had made late nights in the office easier because I knew there would be someone at home waiting for me.
That ring had let me know I had a partner. The kind of partner that matters so much more than my name on the door of my law firm.
But as painful as returning the ring was, I’ve sometimes thought that keeping it might have hurt more. A reminder that nobody is at home waiting for me anymore. That I no longer have a partner.
So, I returned it, and I know Tom got it because his mother confirmed it was back in the family safe.
I frown. So why isn’t he giving that ring to Lolo? Walsh family tradition willed it to the oldest son, to be given to his wife. Which Lolo is clearly destined to be because there’s no way the rock in front of me isn’t an engagement ring.
But why a shiny new one? Why not the ring?
Honestly, though, I’m as relieved as I am confused.
As much as it hurts to know that things with Lolo and Tom are far more serious than I’ve ever let myself contemplate, it would hurt even more knowing she would be getting that ring.
Because it still feels like mine.
He still feels like mine.
I swallow, surprised by the strength of possessiveness that makes my throat ache. Did I feel this way yesterday? Before Tom burst back into my life in that infuriating, all-consuming way of his?
Before I was reminded how much he drives me nuts.
And before I was forced to relive just how good we are together.
For all that went wrong between us, there’s something that crackles inside me when I’m near him. As though I’m finally coming back online after a long outage.