Chapter 17
The next morning is a blur. I didn’t sleep well—on the edge of our shared bed, awake long after the cameras left, my mind replaying how I told Kit I loved him ten years ago, and he couldn’t say it back. I told Dr. Leon I’d try to move past it, but I’m not sure I can.
I’m a zombie as we go through the motions of getting ready, tiptoeing around each other and the camera crew in this tiny apartment. We’re going to Kit’s place before we head to work, and I’m already mourning the lost time to work on my dresses.
Kit hands me a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I mumble my thanks and lean against the counter. Mid-sip, I notice the drawing on the fridge. It’s got the logo of the resort we stayed in last week on it. The pencil strokes create the image of a woman holding a coffee mug. She’s barefoot and staring into the distance. Her hair twists in the wind, and the look on her face is serene. Gentle.
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding at the fridge.
He shrugs, stirring cream into his coffee. “It’s what you saw me drawing the other day.”
“Oh.” I look at it again. “Is that …?”
“You?” Kit gives me a smile over his shoulder. “Yes, sweet potato. That’s you.”
I bring my mug to my lips so I don’t have to reply. The knowledge that this is how he sees me throbs in my chest. The woman in that drawing isn’t closed off or unapproachable at all.
“If you hate it, we can take it down,” Kit offers as he sips on his coffee.
“No, don’t,” I say before thinking it through. I clear my throat and say in a more measured tone, “Leave it. You’ve always been a talented artist.”
“That was dangerously close to a compliment.”
I roll my eyes. “I like your thighs and you can draw nice pictures. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Kit laughs. “Are you ready to head to my place?”
“Born ready.” I raise my coffee mug in a mock toast. The truth is, I’m a little terrified to see his place. He’s so pulled together these days, I truly wonder what his life is like behind closed doors. I finish my coffee and grab my purse. “Quick question before we go.”
“What’s that?” Kit chugs the rest of his coffee.
“You don’t have a sex dungeon, do you?”
Kit chokes on his coffee, spraying some on the counter. He takes a moment to recover, pounding his chest with his fist. “What?”
“I’ll take it that’s a no.”
“Jesus Christ, Andie.” Kit rinses his mug in the sink, then wets a paper towel to wipe his face after that coffee mishap. “No. I don’t have a sex dungeon.”
“Just checking.” I shrug and slip out the door.
By the time the camera crew has us mic’d up outside the door to Kit’s suite at the Colonnade, I’m bouncing from one foot to the other.
He leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an amused smile on his face. “Excited about something, sweet potato?”
“I want to see your fortress of solitude.” I clap my hands. It makes him laugh.
“You will, but first I need you to understand something.”
I stop bouncing. “You said you didn’t have a sex dungeon. How bad could it be?”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean it. Are you listening?”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Listening.”
“I’ve told you I travel for work.” He pauses until I nod. “The Colonnade sends me where they need me. Because I’m usually supervising construction—sometimes new and sometimes remodeling—I stay there for a while. They need me on site around the clock, so they let me live in one of their suites.”
I look at the collar of his shirt. It’s pilling around the fold, and it makes me wonder how long he’s had it.
“Andie?”
“Yeah. You live in hotels. Got it.” I force a smile. Something about his worn clothing and this fancy resort aren’t fitting together. I’m hoping seeing inside will help fill in some blanks.
He sighs. “I don’t own a house or a condo or property of any kind. Even my car is a rental I’ll use while I’m here, on the Colonnade’s dime.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I meet his gaze.
He pulls out the key card for the room. “I just … don’t want you to get the wrong impression, that’s all.”
“I already know you’re no lord of dance.” I smile, hoping he’ll just relax.
He gives me a look and scans the keycard. I step in the open door and take it all in. The entryway is marble—I note the crystal chandelier above our heads—and the suite opens up into a large living room. There are dark hardwood floors covered in luxurious Persian rugs. Leather couches. I can’t help it: I run my hand along one of the cushions. It’s smooth as butter.
I groan dramatically.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his hands in his pockets.
“You didn’t tell me you were Scrooge McDuck.”
He tilts his head in question. “What are you talking about?”
I point down the hallway off the living room. “If you tell me there isn’t a swimming pool full of money behind one of those doors, I’ll be disappointed.”
“No swimming pool.” He shakes his head, an exasperated smile on his face. “Did you listen to anything I said earlier?”
“No sex dungeon, yeah, I got it.” I brush past him on my way out of the living room.
When I see the dining room—a huge solid wood table large enough to seat ten people—I pause, all jokes lost.
All at once, the stench of stale French fries from the dollar menu at McDonald’s hits me, along with the sound of radio static and my thighs burning on a scalding, cracked leather bench seat as my mother studies a map, looking for the nearest country club.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, remembering how she had designer dresses in the trunk, leftovers from the marriage she left behind, when I was only fourteen. How she wore one later, looking elegant even without the diamonds we had to sell so we could eat. How she mingled and flirted and—if she wasn’t lucky—would sneak out with some hors d’oeuvres for me. And if she was lucky? She went home on a wealthy man’s arm in hopes she could make him fall in love, marry her, and he could take care of us for a while.
It’s probably why seeing Kit’s place feels like I’m going to break out in hives. The jokes are really there to distract myself from how this is so close to everything I didn’t want for myself. It’s why I hand sew beads and hems until my fingers crack and bleed. My life will be mine and no one else’s.
Kit’s hand on the small of my back startles me back to the present, as does his question. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and force a smile. “What do you want to take with us?”
His lips tilt into a half grin as he watches me invade his space. “Not much.”
That makes sense, based on what he told me at the door. I wander down a short hallway and step into what appears to be his office. He’s got a laptop open on a heavy wooden desk, screen dark, and a neat stack of brochures on the side table beside an actual wingback chair. He leans in the doorway, blocking the camera from entering. Steve raises the lens over Kit’s shoulder to film me anyway.
I run my finger over one of the piped seams on the chair, then pick up a heavy crystal paperweight from his desk. “Wow.”
“What’s wow?”
I lean on his desk, tossing the paperweight between my hands. “You’ve achieved everything you ever wanted, haven’t you?”
“I mean, now that I know a sex dungeon is a possibility …” His eyes twinkle with laughter.
I roll my eyes. “You told me you wanted a life like this. Don’t you remember?”
“And you wanted to visit Paris. I remember.” He nods. “I’m comfortable. But I’m not in Forbes, or anything.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Mr. McDuck. I’m glad one of us accomplished what we wanted.” I push off his desk, and my eyes fall to the brochures on the table by the chair. I expect them to be related to the Colonnade, research he’d do on other properties or something.
Confused by the one on top, I push it aside to see the one below it. My brow furrows as I nudge that one aside, too. They’re all brochures for assisted living and hospice, flagged with sticky notes.
My eyes fly to Kit in the doorway. I don’t dare ask him about them now. Not when his eyes have gotten a shade darker as I looked through them. He hasn’t told me the whole truth about his mom, apparently.
I swallow the lump in my throat and ignore the way my heart becomes so heavy I can barely breathe. In a casual move, I place the paperweight over the title of the brochure on top, so the camera can’t see it if Steve wanders in here.
“Should we start with your closet?” I ask, my voice too hoarse for my liking. The lump in my throat wants to climb out as a sob. I didn’t expect a ridiculously lavish penthouse to stir up so much emotion in me today. Especially when there’s so little of Kit here. I’m sure he could tell a lot about me from visiting my loft. I can’t piece together anything about him from this suite.
Kit pushes off the doorframe and continues down the hallway. “Sorry there’s no swimming pool of money.”
“With a diving board,” I add, grateful he gave me a way to get back to a lighter topic.
“Of course.” He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “What’s the point of a pool full of money if you can’t dive into it?”
When I follow him into the room at the end of the hallway, I gasp. It’s a grand room—a modern four-post king bed, made up with way too many pillows and a comforter with shimmering gold filigree embroidered on it. There’s a separate sitting area made of the same buttery furniture as the living room.
I stare at the bed, biting my lip. When I tuck my hands into my skirt pockets, Kit snorts a laugh. “Go on. I know you want to.”
“I couldn’t.” I shake my head. But I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet.
“The opportunity expires in three … two …”
I squeal with delight and run across the room, launching myself onto the mound of pillows. Kit’s laughter chases away the fear that the camera might have gotten a flash of my underwear as I jumped.
I nestle deeper into the pillows, until I can pretend the cameras aren’t here at all. The mattress dips when Kit joins me, digging his way to me through the mess.
“Are you sure we have to live in that little apartment?” I ask when his nose is inches from mine. His brown eyes are bright with laughter, and it’s almost like we’ve traveled back in time to a dorm room night at Georgia State.
“That’s the deal, yeah?” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “For richer or poorer, remember?”
“I prefer richer.” Ignoring the flicker of doubt in his eyes, I scoop up one of the down-filled pillows, squeeze it against my chest, and bury my face in it. “Can we at least take a pillow?”
Kit laughs, tugging the pillow away from my face. “They belong to the Colonnade, remember?”
“There’s so many pillows,” I complain. “They won’t even notice one missing.”
“You’re in this place for three seconds and you’re already a pillow snob.”
I grab a smaller throw pillow and whack him with it. He’s unbothered. Rude. “I’m in my thirties. A good pillow is worth its weight in gold.”
“Maybe I’ll get you a nice pillow for Christmas.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal to think we’ll still be together after the cameras are long gone.
When I’m silent for too long, he slides off the bed and offers me a hand to get up too. But I don’t miss how he sneaks one of the Colonnade’s pillows into the bag we take home. Or how he hangs his mere three suits in one corner of the closet, careful not to take up too much space.