Emergency Contact by Lauren Layne & Anthony LeDonne

Author:Lauren Layne & Anthony LeDonne [Layne, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

TWENTY

KATHERINE

December 23, 9:39 p.m.

“Hey, Flo-Jo. You think you could slow down a bit?” I call to Tom, who is hurtling himself through the Buffalo train station at what feels like a near run.

He gives me an incredulous look over his shoulder. “Flo-Jo? Did you seriously just compare me to a female track star from the eighties? And I told you not to wear your stupid high heels for once.”

“Okay, you know stilettos are an essential part of my personal brand. And it’s not the Jimmy Choos making it hard to keep up with you so much as the concussion.”

Tom slows his pace immediately.

“Thank you,” I say, shoving away the guilt at my teeny-tiny fib. The headache isn’t all that bad right now. The blister on my heel, on the other hand . . .

He grunts in response to my gratitude.

I look up at him as I fall into step beside his more manageable pace. “I don’t know why you’re so grumpy. Those nice people on the train could just not have been any more pleasant.”

“You don’t know why I’m grumpy?” he asks as we descend an escalator to the platform where we’ll catch our connecting train. “Really?”

“Can you believe that man on the train recognized me from the news?” I say, smiling at the memory. “I told you that Jacobsen case would put me on the map. Do you remember when I told you that?”

“Yeah, Katherine,” Tom says, his tone sharp as we step off the escalator again. “I remember. I remember that we were at dinner at Boulud. I was trying to tell you that we hadn’t seen each other for more than five minutes in two weeks because you were always working, but couldn’t fit it in around your brush-with-fame story. When I finally did manage to tell you what I was feeling, you asked the server for a box of tissues. For me.”

My smile falls off my face. I’ve been in a surprisingly good mood given the day I’ve had, but it definitely falters as I hear Tom’s version of that long-ago night.

I don’t remember it quite like that, but I also can’t claim that he’s wrong.

I’m sure I owe him an apology. Not just for that night. For a million nights, and that’s the crux of the problem. Not any one mistake, but the sheer quantity of them. If I open that can of worms, if I go looking into the well of wrongs on both our sides, I’m not sure either of us will ever climb out.

Instead, I force a smile back on my face. “I still can’t believe that guy asked for my autograph. I think that’s a first.”

Tom squints. “Is that what happened? Because the way I remember it, you pulled a wadded-up Starbucks napkin out of your purse, scribbled your name on it, and shoved it at him. He seemed visibly startled and a little grossed out.”

Usually Tom’s zippy little retorts fill me with a puzzling combination of annoyance and delight. This time, however, his mention of my purse causes a rush of soul-shattering panic.

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