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)
“Nothing’s wrong.” Tom’s snippy tone contradicts his words, but I know him well enough not to point this out. Here’s what I know about my ex: either he’ll decide he wants to talk or that he doesn’t.
Poking the bear while the bear stews is futile. Because despite the charming, if a little sarcastic, Disney prince persona that Tom puts on for the rest of the world, here’s a little secret about the man:
Tom Walsh is a champion stewer. When something wiggles past his smiling facade and latches on to the real Tom, 100 percent of his focus goes to chewing on whatever’s annoying him. He silently assesses it. Wrestles with it. Tries to banish it.
Anything to get him back to the person he wants to be.
Yes, Tom is personable. And he’s funny, though, of course, I’ll die before admitting it aloud. He’s easy to be around, kind to strangers, and likes to take care of the people he cares about, blah blah blah.
But he’s also crafted that version of himself. I don’t mean to imply that he’s disingenuous because, much as it pains me to admit, Tom really is a decent guy.
Exhibit A: man takes an ex-wife that he loathes home for the holidays out of the goodness of his heart.
But it’s just . . . how to explain?
Tom is as charming as he is because he works at it. It’s as though he takes time each day to deliberately weed out the bad thoughts and replace them with more pleasant ones.
And during that time? He’s downright brooding.
Now, I’ve never minded this about him.
Actually, that brooding version of the man was always my favorite. Not because he’s particularly pleasant to be around, but because if you’re subjected to it, it means you’re in the inner circle.
It means he trusts you. He’s comfortable around you.
So yeah. The fact that after all these years, I’m still privy to Brooding Tom? It warms my shrunken Grinch heart just a little bit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he impatiently tugs at the knot of his tie. Another tell.
I stay silent. Waiting him out.
“I still can’t believe your ticket had precheck approved, and mine didn’t,” he mutters.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. That’s not what’s bothering him.
“I’m the one that bought the tickets,” he continues. “On this airline’s credit card. So someone please explain to me why I’m the one who had to wait in a mile-long security line and take off my shoes?”
“Someone already did explain it to you,” I say. “You gave that same speech, verbatim, to the poor woman working the counter at our gate, and she explained that it was a systems error and apologized. Don’t worry, though, she obviously had lots of time to listen to your tantrum as she dealt with an overbooked, delayed flight.”
He doesn’t respond, and I glance over. “What’s this really about? Did the TSA agent not compliment your Santa socks?”
He frowns at me. “How do you know I’m wearing Santa socks?”
I lift my purse from beneath the seat in front of me and begin digging around for my sleep mask. “Because it’s December. That means your socks are going to be Santa, elves, snowmen, or gingerbread men. Unless your mom went crazy and added reindeer to the mix this year?”
Tom is visibly startled, and I know why. It’s because his mom did give out reindeer socks this year, and he wants to know how I know that.
Nancy Walsh has a long-standing Thanksgiving tradition. After the turkey’s put away and the pumpkin pie comes out, she gives out a pair of Christmas socks to everyone at her table.
I may not have been a guest at that table in a long time, but I still get the socks in the mail every November, along with a pumpkin-pie-scented candle. It’s the highlight of my entire holiday season, though I’m loath to admit such mawkishness.
“Speaking of reindeer,” he says, “that sweatshirt really brings out your eyes.”
Yes, I’m still wearing the hideous sweatshirt from the hospital. Not because it’s grown on me. It hasn’t. But because I wasn’t able to wiggle out of it, given the gash on my back, and Tom refused to help me change.
I ignore him and reach down to pull up his pant leg slightly. “Santas. Nailed it.”
He jerks his leg away, and I sit back up, wincing when I move too fast and my back stings.
“I still think we should have changed the bandage back at your place,” he says, noticing my discomfort.
“You were too anxious to get to the airport. I didn’t want you to do a rush job. Wait.” I look over at him. “You grabbed the gauze off the counter, didn’t you? I asked—”
“I got it,” he interrupts. “Even managed to fashion it into a nice, sturdy noose fitted just for you.”