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)
And the damn cactus wasn’t relegated to some back bookshelf or dusty windowsill, but front and center on her desk, where she can’t miss it. And wouldn’t she want to miss it?
That cactus was ours.
I haven’t thought about that stupid houseplant in years, and now he—yes, I’m apparently personifying the succulent—has popped into my mind twice in a single day.
Honestly, I’m not a big plant guy. I wasn’t back then, and I’m still not. Joel was more of a joke than anything else, the only “pet” we had time for, the only plant we could keep alive. But after we moved in together, he was the first thing that wasn’t Katherine’s or mine, but ours.
It bothers me that she still has it, and it bothers me even more that she’s clearly been taking care of it, though that admittedly is not hard to do.
But neither of those things bothers me as much as the fact that when I reached out to run a finger along the familiar terra-cotta base, I had an almost painful flashback.
To a time when everything was different.
Back to a time when I proposed, not because it was Christmas Eve tradition, not because I was painfully aware of getting older, not because it was time . . .
But because I couldn’t even wrap my head around a single day, much less a lifetime, without her.
But look how that turned out . . .
“Okay,” I say, my voice clipped as I enter Katherine’s bedroom, attention still on the overflowing brims. “So I couldn’t find any cherries, but it’s just as well . . .”
I glance up at Katherine.
Sleeping Katherine.
“Shit!” I mutter, bourbon and sweet vermouth spilling all over my hands and her furniture as I hurriedly set the glasses on the nightstand. “Katherine. Wake the hell up!”
She doesn’t move a muscle, and I can feel my heart pounding in concern.
“Wake up, dummy,” I say, giving her shoulder a little shake. “Remember, that’s why we’re in this mess in the first place, you’re not allowed to sleep for twelve hours after the accident.”
She doesn’t budge, and I shake her shoulder more firmly. Katherine makes a grumpy noise and pushes my hand away.
My panic abates, even as irritation increases. Why the hell did I agree to this again?
I tap my fingers against her cheek, and though she makes a hissing noise at me, she still doesn’t open her eyes.
“God, I hate you,” I mutter, easing an arm beneath her shoulders, careful not to touch the bandage on her back as I hoist her into a sitting position so she has no choice but to wake up.
Her brown eyes open slowly, and she stares at me groggily, confused. “Tom?”
“I know,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “I can’t believe it either.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Asking myself that exact same question,” I mutter, lifting my hand in front of her face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I extend just the middle one, and she laughs. A genuine laugh, the kind she lets out so rarely. I’m startled by how much I’ve missed the sound of it. By how gratified I am to learn that I can still earn it.
Before I can have a moment to contemplate this, she shoves me away and reaches for the cocktail on the nightstand. “Come here, lover.”
“Sorry, not available,” I say. Not interested, I remind myself.
Katherine ignores my admittedly lame joke and takes a sip of her drink, letting out a content sigh. “Now we’re talking. This is the one thing you always did right.”
She takes another sip.
“Let’s go easy on that,” I say, reaching for the drink. “Until we can see how your concussed, medicated body can handle it.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Thinking about my body, are you?”
“Hardly.” Maybe. I reach for the drink again, but she pulls it out of my reach with remarkable grace, given her current condition.
“You know,” Katherine muses. “It’s strangely comforting. The way you haven’t changed from your bossy, rules-abiding self over the years. Still a goody-goody.”
“You know what’s less comforting? You drinking whiskey with a concussion. And that I’ve been tasked with taking care of you for two days, even though you won’t agree to a single one of my suggestions. Though, I guess you never did.”
“Not true.” She takes another sip and looks at me over the rim of her cocktail. “I agreed when you asked me to marry you.”
I go still. Wary. “True.”
She continues to gaze at me with eyes that have always seen just a little bit more of me than I want people to see.
“I said yes when you asked for a divorce too,” Katherine says quietly. “I’d say that makes me downright agreeable, wouldn’t you?”
I open my mouth, then close it. I’m not often a man short on words, but I have no idea how to respond to that.