Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
My phone! Oh my God. What if I missed a call from Harry? The call from Harry?
“Can I have my phone? Please,” I add quickly to assert myself as one of the good patients.
Instead of answering, she studies her tablet, glancing between it and the machines attached to me. “How are you feeling? You thirsty? Hungry?”
Neither. But even though my nausea is still lurking, the headache is way, way worse, and in my experience, there’s no migraine that a solid, nutritious meal can’t make a dent in.
“I could eat. But no hospital food, please. Respectfully, it’s gross, which will just make the queasiness worse.”
She nods. “No hospital food, got it. Why don’t I just go ahead and order something in,” she says. “How about some Chinese? I could go for an egg roll.”
“Hmm.” I purse my lips. “Sushi? Some rice might help my stomach.”
“Sure, sure. Sashimi sampler okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “Great. But no eel. Oh, and can you make sure they don’t try to sneak in that low-sodium soy sauce? I like the high-voltage stuff.”
“Absolutely!” she says. “Why don’t I go ahead and just run out, get it myself,” she says. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
I smile gratefully. “That’s so nice . . .”
Her droll expression finally registers, and my smile slips.
It finally clicks. “You’re being sarcastic.”
She smiles, not unkindly, and pats my shoulder. “How about we start with some nice Jell-O?”
I stare at her. There is nothing nice about Jell-O. “Please tell me that’s also a joke.”
“You have to admit, sashimi and Jell-O are basically the same texture.” Her smile is wider this time. More genuine.
I try to smile back. “My phone. Please?”
“No can do!” Her voice seems to be getting more cheerful the longer she’s in here, as though her mood improves a little each time she gets to shoot down one of my requests.
“You’re sure on Jell-O,” she continues. “I have cherry, orange, lemon. And my personal favorite, blue.”
Dear God.
“Blue isn’t a flavor,” I feel compelled to point out.
The nurse doesn’t respond, and I dimly register the sounds of someone else entering the room. No rubber soles this time, but the sharp, heavy click of a man in dress shoes. The steps are accompanied not by a squeaking hospital machine but by the smooth roll of an expensive suitcase. Sturdy wheels.
And then there’s the smell. A smell that supersedes the hospital smell. All smells, really.
Fresh. Yet spicy. Masculine.
I begin to feel a rising panic that overtakes my annoyance at the nurse, my pounding head, and even my anxiety over my missing cell phone.
Because I know that cologne. I’ve gifted that cologne.
There is, of course, the possibility that the cologne belongs to another man. A different man. Please, God. Any. Other. Man.
Even still, I feel the unmistakable fight-or-flight instinct.
Unfortunately, fight is severely hampered by this earthquake of a headache. And flight’s a no-go because I’m tethered by a damn IV.
I contemplate a third option. Playing dead?
No. Absolutely not. It would give him way too much satisfaction, and I’d actually rather be dead than give this man even a modicum of gratification.
I settle for last-ditch protective measures. I take a moment to ensure the wall I’ve steadfastly built up around my heart since I last saw him is in absolute peak condition. I mean, we’re talking Fort Knox levels of impenetrable.
Only when I’m sure that all is secure, that there will be no scaling the walls, no storming the moat, do I turn my head.
And meet the unreadable gaze of my ex-husband.
TEN
TOM
December 23, 12:54 p.m.
I would never admit it to a single soul. I can barely admit it to myself. But . . .
I’ve thought about this moment.
Thought about the next time I’d see her.
In my daytime fantasies, my ex-wife is haggard, unemployed, and has lots of cats. All of which she’s named after me.
In my nighttime fantasies, the ones I can’t control, well . . . those feature a different Katherine entirely, and I pretend they don’t happen.
Mostly, though, I’ve always figured that if and when our reunion were to ever happen, I’d simply . . . bump into her.
We may live in a big city, but it’s still the same city. It’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that we could run into each other at a friend’s cocktail party. Or one of the restaurants we both used to love.
Hell, just this afternoon I passed directly by her office.
But in all the scenarios I was braced for, both the feasible and the outlandish, never did I ever imagine that the next time I’d lock eyes on the woman who nearly destroyed me would be . . .
This.
Katherine is . . . Katherine . . .
Well, she looks terrible.
Her eyes are glassy, her long dark hair matted, and there’s a gash on her forehead. The frumpy hospital gown is a far cry from the smart, expensive black blazers she buys from Saks by the half dozen.