Every Wrong Reason(69)

His laugh was bitter. “Do you remember last Christmas?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “No… I mean, I don’t know.”

“We were not in a good place.” His voice was a roughened rasp against the phone. “Jared had asked to borrow money and we argued about it. I had to work Christmas Eve and you were mad and… and I chickened out. I didn’t want to upset you again. I didn’t want to fight with you on Christmas. It was easier to get you what you wanted.”

My heart thumped painfully against my chest. “Why did you think this would upset me?” Even though I knew why he would think that. Even though I knew, I could be mean.

More than mean.

I could be house-falling-on-me-because-I’m-the-wicked-witch-of-the-east kind of mean.

“I was afraid to remind you about… about having a baby. You were so confident it couldn’t happen. You still are.”

“Nick,” I hiccupped. I didn’t want to fight with him about this again. “It’s…” Too late. “Lovely.”

“We’re a mess, Kate.” His voice sounded stronger. It was absolutely silent on his end of the phone, so when he shifted I could tell that he was in bed. I pictured him in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, his long runner’s legs stretched out in front of him, his hair tousled from his fingers running through it all day.

“I wish you would have given this to me last Christmas.” I licked dry lips and stopped fighting the tears.

His voice was infinitely sad when he whispered, “I do too.” There was silence between us for a full minute, but I didn’t feel compelled to hang up with him.

Despite the pain of this moment, the poignant sense of loss, I needed to be near him in some way. It was like we were both acknowledging the magnitude of what we’d lost. We were both admitting how things could have been different between us.

When the heavy moment passed, Nick let out a long sigh and asked, “How was your Christmas?”

“Ugh,” I sighed. “My mother was extra special today.”

I swear I could hear his smile through the phone. “She’s usually super special.”

“Whatever,” I grumbled. “She’s like your new best friend. All I ever hear about anymore is how great you are, how I’m the biggest idiot ever for letting you go.”

“Well, that’s clear to everyone,” he teased.

I should have been irritated, but I smiled instead. “At least your ego is still intact.”

“You have your mom to thank for that.”

I laughed at his sarcasm. “I’m pretty sure your ego was just fine before my mom decided she approved of you.”

“It’s weird, though.” When I didn’t immediately agree, he added. “That she suddenly wants to be my friend. I went through years of hell with that woman and now she decides to like me.”

“Oh, my god, I’ve thought the exact same thing!” I plopped down in the chair I’d been kneeling on, unable to look at the picture anymore. “Do you think it’s your new job?”

“No,” he answered immediately, “she doesn’t know about it. Unless you told her.”

“Oh.” I had, but not until recently. When she invited him over for lunch that one Sunday, she didn’t know.

“I’m pretty sure she had a partial lobotomy. That’s the only reason I can come up with.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong.” I felt myself smile even though I felt as if I were spinning out of control. I forced myself to form words and ask, “How was your Christmas?”

“It was fine,” he sighed. “Jared and I went to our parents. We played Super Nintendo all day and ate too much. I felt thirteen again.”

I smiled again at the picture. Jared could be an absolute *, but I had always appreciated Nick’s relationship with him. They were good brothers to each other.

“He told me about when he saw you in Starbucks by the way,” Nick added. “He won’t talk to you like that again, Kate. I promise you that.”

My heart thumped in my chest. I believed him. “Thank you.” After another minute of silence, I asked, “How are your parents handling the divorce?”

He coughed suddenly and I could tell he didn’t want to answer the question. “Not as well as yours.”

“They blame me.”

“They blame both of us.”

I didn’t know what to say after that. I looked back at the art he’d made for me and felt a brand new sense of loss. “Did you write it?”

He knew exactly what I was talking about. “I did.”

“For me?”

“It’s not the first song I’ve written for you.”

“It’s a song?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. I wasn’t sure he took a breath. There was only silence on his end, so much so that I had to check to make sure he didn’t hang up on me.

“It is a song,” he finally breathed.

Something I couldn’t name buzzed through me and made me breathless. “Have I heard it?”

“Nobody’s heard it.”

“Sing it.” I had to hear it. I had to know. I had to listen to these words he wrote for me a year ago, these words he had been too afraid to share with me while our marriage dissolved.