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)
He rubs his forehead, looking bemused. “Look. Katherine. If you want me to leave, just say so.”
“I want you to leave,” I say, and I mean it wholeheartedly. Having him this close after all this time . . . It conjures up all sorts of crap I can’t deal with. Not right now. Not ever.
Tom studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Alright, Katherine. Alright.”
“Finally,” I say with feigned relief, trying to ignore the pang that, with him gone, I’ll be really, truly alone in the hospital. At Christmas.
Nurse Jell-O gives Tom a disappointed look, and all of her Jell-O sins are instantly forgiven for taking my side, even though I clearly just asked him to leave.
“Perhaps you could wait a few more minutes until someone else can get here?” the nurse says.
Tom hesitates. “I’m already at risk of missing my flight . . .”
Guilt flickers at the realization that I’ve turned his holiday plans upside down, and because guilt has never brought out the best in me, I go on the defensive.
“Here’s what you need to know about Tom,” I say, pretending to address the nurse, even though all my attention is on my ex-husband. “Each and every thing he does is according to a plan. It’s not merely a flight he has to catch, it’s a flight he probably booked two years ago. He can’t have little old me putting him off schedule.”
“Exactly,” he snaps. “You’ve done enough of that in my lifetime.”
Ouch.
I’ve earned it because I’m being a bitch. But still. Ouch.
The nurse opens her mouth, but Tom cuts her a glare. “Look, Katherine doesn’t want me here. And you couldn’t pay me enough to stay.”
“Why would anyone pay you anything to be here?” I retort.
Tom looks at my shredded bra, still dangling from the nurse’s hand. “Can I have that?”
“For what, your collection?” I ask.
“No.” Tom’s voice is calm. “To strangle you.”
It almost makes me smile, but the nurse is unused to my and Tom’s special brand of rapport and presses her lips together in disconcertion, then bunches up the bra into a ball as she eases toward the doorway. “Yeah, I’m just gonna go ahead and toss this.”
“Thanks for my phone!” I call after her.
Tom adjusts the collar of his jacket, and though he reaches for the handle of his suitcase, he doesn’t yet move toward the door.
“Call someone, Katherine.” It’s a quiet command. “And for the love of God, please update your emergency contact info.”
“Aye, aye,” I make a mocking salute, though it lacks snap.
My ex merely shakes his head and reaches for his briefcase. I wonder if he remembers that I got it for him for his birthday, the first year we were married. I doubt it. If he did, he’d have burned it.
Tom starts to turn away, then glances over at me. He opens his mouth, then shuts it with a shake of his head. “Merry Christmas, Katherine.”
He heads toward the door, and I swallow and stay stubbornly silent. Or at least I try to.
Before he can leave the room completely, I hear myself say his name.
He looks over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, forcing myself to make eye contact. I swallow. “You know. For coming.”
Surprise flickers in his brown gaze, and he gives me a nod of acknowledgment, looking as awkward as I feel. “Sure.”
He starts to leave again and has just disappeared when I blurt out his name again. “Tom?”
He steps back into view. Looks at me.
“I hate you.”
Tom gives me a little smile. “Back at you.”
Then he’s gone, and I let out a little gust of air at how much it hurts. I mean, I’m not surprised that he left. I certainly don’t even blame him. I haven’t seen the man in four years, and our parting was anything but amicable.
Let me tell you, you have no idea what a euphemism the placid irreconcilable differences is until it happens to you.
And I’m truly grateful that Tom came, but . . .
I also wish he wouldn’t have. It feels a bit like the scraping of a scab that was finally starting to heal.
And speaking of scabs . . .
Once more, I reach around for the wound on my back. Surely there’s got to be a way to reach this damn thing myself so I can go home . . .
Someone comes into the room, and I fight back the wave of disappointment that it’s a nurse—a different one—and not Tom.
This nurse is short and round and is smiling, even as he makes a tsking noise at me. “Don’t mess with that, honey. You can’t see what you’re doing, and you don’t want to accidentally pull out the fresh stitches. Dr. Palmer says you’ve called someone? When he gets here, buzz me, and I’ll show him how we can keep that baby cleaned and get you good as new in no time.”