Page 109 of That Reunited Feeling

“No.”

“There must have been a note in the email. You know”—she waves her hand around as she creates—“‘Dear, Miss. Hepburn. Here’s your reference. Thanks for the brief bout of monumentally mind-blowing sex. Goodbye forever. Tom’?”

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, cradling the glass in both hands. “He just thanked me for my genius suggestion of how to smooth things over at his office in London. To organize a day-long staff kayaking trip along the Thames followed by drinks, dinner, and pub games to get everyone out of the building and talking to an executive who’d thrown a Grammy at someone. Apparently it worked, and they ended up all laughing together.”

“And he said…” I swallow hard and sniff past the rising emotions. “Whoever gets me as their assistant will be lucky.”

I’d learned, while I was wrapping up my work for Tom, that his managing director, Desmond—the guy who’d texted while we were putting our clothes back on in the car—had successfully handled getting Gareth to sign the commitment to anger management and making a written apology. It was a relief to know that solving the Gareth issue hadn’t been affected by Tom dashing back to the States with me right before that crucial meeting.

The suggestion of an activity day to encourage everyone to move past it had been my final contribution as Tom’s temp assistant. And it was gratifying to learn it was a success.

I draw a line through the condensation on the outside of my glass, debating whether to tell Rachel the other thing. I wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. But this is Rachel. She’ll get it. “There’s something else too.”

“Oh, yes.” Rachel leans forward, hopeful.

I turn to look at her and rest the side of my head on my knees. “The school emailed to say an anonymous donor has given them enough money to repair the fire damage in the library.”

“Ha. Obviously him. Right?”

I shrug. It has to be.

Rachel drops back in the squishy chair and throws one arm into the air. “See. He’s as in love with you as you are with him.” She declares it as if it’s as much of a fact as blood flows through veins.

A flash of heat takes hold of my cheeks. “He’s not. And I’m not.”

“Riiight.”

I lift my head and stare into my glass. “Makes no difference. He’ll be on his way back to London soon. And I’m here. I’m not moving Dylan to another country. And Tom would rather have his eyeballs stabbed with hot forks than be in LA.”

“Why does he hate LA?” Rachel is stunned that anyone couldn’t love her adopted home as much as she does. “Does he hate sunshine and beaches? Urgh. Okay, maybe you’re right. There’s definitely something wrong with him.”

“The main thing wrong with him is that he’s a man. And men don’t stick around. At least not with me. Tom left, then Shithead left, then Nicholas turned out to be a dirtbag, and Tom will leave again.”

A long sip of wine cools my throat, then warms my stomach. “History has taught me that it’s best to stick to just the one male in my life—the one I gave birth to. And concentrate on buildinga future for us here and on whatever I need to do to give the clinical trial its best chance of working.”

“I bet Tom’s as sad as you are.”

She thinks I’m sad. And she doesn’t even know how much my whole body hurts, how sometimes my heart feels like it’s trying to crawl out from between my ribs to escape the pain, and how much I’ve sobbed into her new fluffy pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.

“I’m not sad. I’m just tired. Moving is stressful. Moving a kid is even more stressful. But look at all this. I’m so lucky and so grateful for everything you’re doing for us.” I gesture to the room and force a wide smile that belies my inner ache, which is showing no sign of fading. “And Dylan’s new school seems great. He already has a new friend. We’ve got a meeting at the hospital next month. And you’ve helped me line up two job interviews for next week. And I can go outside without a parka in February. Everything’s great. How could I be sad?”

And all those things are true. Factually correct. They’re things that any other human would be jumping with joy to have. And the fact I’m not makes me feel hugely unappreciative.

My phone vibrates on the table beside me. “That’ll be Dylan asking for a ride home.” I pick up the phone. “Oh, no, it’s not. It’s an email.” I open the message. “From the bride at the chocolate dick-making party.”

“Thewhat?” Rachel’s face is screwed up in seven kinds of puzzlement.

When I don’t reply, I think she repeats the question, but I’m not entirely sure because every pore in my body is concentrating on the contents of this message. Katie’s emailed Tom and CCed me.

Have I understood this correctly? I scan the words again. And release a long, slow, breathy “Fuuuck.”

“What?” Rachel asks again. “You look like you might be about to pass out.” She gets up and walks around to perch on the arm of the sofa and strains to look at the phone over my shoulder. “Is it bad news? What’s happened, Han? I can’t see from here.”

My heart bounces around my chest as my trembling hands drop the phone into my lap and I turn to look up at Rachel. The scrambled mush that used to be my brain doesn’t even know how to start summarizing what, I only now realize, is a bit of an odd story.

“The bride at the chocolate dick-making bachelorette we went to, had her honeymoon canceled.”

Rachel’s mouth says nothing, but her expression asks whether I’ve lost my marbles.

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