“And your back?” The gash seemed better this morning when I changed the bandage, but I’m sure it still hurts like hell.
She shoots me an impatient look. “If you’re asking if I feel like I was in a car accident yesterday—two of them—yes. Okay? Interrogation over?”
“Not yet,” I say, crossing my arms. “Something is up with you. Is it our flight? Was it canceled again?”
Katherine booked us a little puddle jumper from a nearby regional airport that’ll take us to a regional airport in Gary, Indiana. It’s not exactly the first-class ticket of my original flight cruising into the C concourse at O’Hare yesterday, but after everything, I’m grateful.
“Nope, flight’s still on time,” she says, not looking up from her phone.
I’m more convinced than ever that something’s amiss. I feel like I’m getting a reflection version of Katherine instead of the real version. She’s distanced herself.
“Ah. Here we go,” she says, thumbs moving over her screen. “Got a car. You’ll still be at your parents’ by lunch.”
“We’ll be at my parents’ by lunch,” I correct.
“Nope.” She drops her phone back into her bag. “I’ll be on a plane to Boston. Out of O’Hare, so go ahead and get jealous.”
I stare at her. “Wait. What. Is this one of the concussion warning signs? Delusions?”
That earns me a little smile. “Nope. Dead serious.”
“What the hell is in Boston? And you’re supposed to have someone with you for at least another twenty-four hours to monitor that gash on your back.”
She pats me on the arm, dismissive and distant, and it bothers me.
“You’re off the hook, Walsh,” she says. “Irene repeated her offer for me to spend the holiday with her family, and I decided to take her up on it. And her daughter’s a nurse so she’s more qualified than you to be on infection patrol. Not that I didn’t appreciate your efforts. I’m thrilled to look like a mummy.”
That, at least, sounds a bit like the usual Katherine, but instead of being relieved, I feel . . . empty?
“So, you’re just . . . leaving?” I ask. “Just like that?”
“What. Mad I’m stealing your move?”
I swallow. That one landed. “C’mon,” I say quietly. “That’s not fair.”
I feel . . . wounded. I actually thought we were getting somewhere. Not that I know where. And it’s not like we could go anywhere together. But at the very least I thought we were coming to an understanding. Maybe even creeping toward that hard-to-find place of forgiving each other rather than just forgetting each other.
Though, the more time I spend with her, I realize I never did forget. Not really.
“Where the hell is our new Uber?” Katherine lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun and squints down the road. She’s obviously deliberately avoiding looking my way, and I finally decide I’ve had enough.
“Hey, Kates. Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About whatever you’re thinking! Feeling! I thought we were . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t know. You thought we were what, Tom?” she says, finally facing me, but her eyes are distant. “Two exes who can barely tolerate each other? Well spotted.”
I shake my head. “You’re retreating. Why?”
Instead of answering, she points off in the distance.
“Extreme urgency demands I go investigate that construction area and see exactly how disgusting the porta-potty is. If our Uber gets here, don’t let the car leave without me.”
“No promises,” I mutter.
Katherine trudges toward the porta-potty, holding her arms out to the sides for balance as she slip-walks away from me.
I pivot back toward the road. Annoyed. At her. Myself. The situation. Mostly, that I can’t even identify why I feel so angry at her. Yesterday, I would have jumped at the chance to off-load her onto Irene.
But yesterday, I didn’t know that I’d hurt her. Or that I missed her.
Katherine getting on that plane to Boston is the end of the line for us, and we both know it.
If we were both single, or even both happily married, there’s a chance, a very small chance, that we could be friendly-ish in the future.
But a newly engaged man does not keep in touch with his single, attractive ex-wife . . .
Attractive? When had that description for Katherine come back into play?
I dig my phone out of my pocket and call Lolo back. She picks up on the first ring. “Hey, finally! Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Merry Christmas Eve. How are things there?”
“Good. Wonderful. Will be better when you get here.” A pause. “Please tell me you’ll still get here.”
“Absolutely, back on track. The bad weather’s passed, we’ve got a flight. I’ll be there for dinner.”
“I?” she says. “No ‘we’?”
“Nope.” I force a cheerful tone. “Change of plans. Katherine’s headed to Boston.”
“Oh, fantastic!” Lolo’s voice sounds the most genuinely happy it has since the start of this nightmare. “Does she have family there who can take her on?”
Take her on?
I pause. “No. No family. Just . . . she figured something out.”
“Well, this is incredible.” Lo is gushing. “Now we can celebrate Christmas properly, the way we planned.”
“Absolutely.” My voice is flat now. “My Good Samaritan duties are officially behind me.” I hear a thump as Katherine spills out of the porta-potty. “I got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say automatically, ending the call. I put the phone in my bag instead of its usual spot in my pocket to avoid what I expect will be a nonstop barrage of messages from my family as they start to wake up.
Katherine shuffles back toward me through the snow. “Tom! Look!”
She gestures at the road, and I turn to see a black sedan crawling toward us.
Katherine waves wildly and needlessly at the car until it slows to a stop beside us. Its tinted windows keep me from seeing the driver’s face, and I hope Katherine’s not going to have another one of her serial killer freak-outs, but she simply grabs her suitcase and walks back toward the trunk. I do the same.
We both stand there, but the trunk stays shut.
“Um,” Katherine says. “Hello?”
“Maybe it’s his first day?” I say quietly.
“Hello!” Katherine calls. Much less quietly.
The trunk pops open, and Katherine immediately leans forward to give it a careful inspection.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Body bag. Bleach.”
“Oh, God, not this again.” I grab both of our suitcases and hoist them into the trunk before she can think of some reason why we should stay out in the freezing cold instead of get into the warm car.
The sky is starting to cloud over, and a few snowflakes have started to fall. If there’s another storm on the way, I have every intention of beating it.
“See, now, if this were a cab, the driver would have gotten out of the car to help us,” Katherine says, dropping her bag atop the suitcases.
“If he were a cab, we’d have to get you a helmet,” I say, slamming the trunk shut.
The second I do, the front wheels make a grinding, slipping noise on the ice before continuing down the road. Without us.