Chapter 24
I stand on the sidewalk, squinting through the windows of the restaurant Cassidy told us to be at today. It’s new, and they’ve made sure it was empty for today’s dinner with my mom and Jim. I knew this would be part of the show when I signed up—bringing Kit to dinner and letting my mom get a good look at him now that we’ve been living together.
After our interlude in the bedroom and the farce of a therapy session last week, Kit has been more openly affectionate. I’ve done my best to let him dismantle the walls that keep me safe, brick by precarious brick. We touch more freely, and we meet eyes across the room more than we used to.
Something has definitely shifted. I just wish I knew what came next.
Maybe we should try archery or something.
Kit brushes his knuckles against the back of my hand. His touch makes me feel like I ate a bag of Pop Rocks, my whole body fizzing. Give it a few minutes, and another flash of a new wedding dress will gallop through my mind. Kit’s touch hasn’t failed my muse yet.
Despite the work we’ve been doing, we still haven’t slept together. Or gotten each other off again. At all. My whole body is screaming for more, but I don’t know how to ask for it.
“I like that dress,” he says. Though the cameras aren’t pointed our way just yet, our mics are on in case we get into a fight out here or something. Cassidy doesn’t want to miss any good material. I glance down at my dress—a structured gray-blue sheath with an asymmetrical neckline—just as Kit says, “It must have taken you forever.”
My eyes fly to him as I take in a sharp breath. “How did you know I made it?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a half grin. Casually, like we do this all the time, he hooks a finger into the fabric at my hip and tugs me closer. “Pockets,” he answers. He bows his head to press his lips to my temple and murmurs, “You look beautiful, Andie.”
Warmth pools in my belly, spreading out through my fingertips. I breathe him in for a moment and tug on his pocket square. He never wears a suit without one now, even to a relatively casual dinner. With my mom. I swallow the nerves tangling in my throat. “Are you nervous?”
He tugs on my pocket again. “Should I be?”
He doesn’t know about my mom’s way of taking care of us. He knows I was a mess during her divorce when we were in college, but he doesn’t have the context to know why. “How many different languages can you say bad idea in?”
Kit presses his lips to the top of my head as he laughs softly. It sends a tingle down my spine. “Maybe three.”
“Oh, then it will be fine.” For now, curled against him in the middle of an Atlanta sidewalk, the world is still, and I am safe. I fight the urge to purr like a kitten in a warm blanket.
Cassidy finds us in our half embrace and cracks a smile. Probably because she thinks she won’t have to lead our conversation tonight. By the end of dinner, I bet she’ll wish she had.
As soon as my mom and Jim take a seat, Kit touches me under the table. He absentmindedly traces the hem of my dress just over my knee, back and forth. It’s not a sexual touch, just a familiar one. One that says I need to feel you next to me.
I never want it to stop.
In contrast to Kit’s suit, Jim is in a butter yellow polo shirt that he’s tucked into his jeans. It’s a quintessential Dad Look, and it stands out in contrast to my mom’s designer wrap dress. After shaking Kit’s hand with a smile, Jim stretches his arm across the back of my mom’s chair.
“Have you been taking care of my daughter, Kit?” My mom wastes zero time getting to the point. Cassidy must be happy dancing behind us.
Kit smiles as plates are set in front of us—we didn’t even order first; this must be part of the show. One less thing to interrupt the conversation, I guess. “I try,” he says amiably. “But she’s been taking care of herself for a long time. She doesn’t need me for much.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying something I shouldn’t, like how I actually need his touch to create these days. As I place my napkin into my lap, Kit catches my fingers under the table and gives them a quick squeeze before letting me go like nothing happened. My heart leaps against my rib cage.
I take a sip of water to calm myself down, then tell Mom, “Kit’s made a habit of sending me takeout every day for lunch.”
“You’d forget to eat if I didn’t.” Kit presses his knee to mine. An anchor in the storm I can feel brewing over the bread basket, even if no one else can see it yet.
“Amazing I’ve survived all this time without you.” I take a bite of warm bread and give him a smirk.
At the same time Kit says, “You can’t create when you’re hungry,” my mom adds her two cents: “You really should stop with the takeout, dear. It’s catching up to you.”
I clench my jaw and do my best to remember where Mom’s advice comes from: years of catching upper-class men who took care of us. It’s the only way she knows how to survive.
Kit subtly nudges the hem of my skirt high enough to rest his warm palm just above my knee. Still not a sexual touch. Instead, it’s rooting me to the spot, fully present in my body. I take a deep breath and offer him a wavering smile. He gives my knee a squeeze.
I turn my smile on Jim. “I’m sorry,” I tell him across the table. “My mom’s never told me—what is it you do for a living?”
Usually they’re bankers, or my personal favorite, “consultants.” The kind of rich white man job that no one can really define. Jim’s smile in return is genuine. “Nothing anymore.” He cuts up his steak—not one bite at a time, but all at once. “I used to work for the county as a project manager, but some good investments paid off more than I ever expected them to. Between those and the state pension, I was able to retire. Though I still drive for Uber sometimes, near campus.”
“I keep trying to get him to stop.” My mom chuckles and shakes her head, diamond studs glinting in the lamplight.
“No one told me how boring retirement would be,” he defends himself, good-naturedly. “And being near the kids keeps me young.” He flashes my mom an affectionate smile, and she returns it, giving his forearm a squeeze.
I push my food around on my plate. Something about this isn’t sitting right with me, and I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s because Jim seems so … normal? When a waiter comes to refill our water glasses, he thanks them and tells them the meal is delicious. Jim is nice. Genuine. I spin my wedding band on my finger, frowning.
“So, Kit.” My mom folds her arms on the table and leans forward like she’s talking to her best friend. “What is it you do?”
I curl my hand into a fist underneath the table. The twinkle in Mom’s eyes means she’s sizing Kit up, gauging whether he’s worth keeping. I made the mistake of letting her meet one of the men I dated after college. She gave him the cold shoulder after she discovered he was a teacher. After we broke up, she told me, “He never could have given you the life you deserve.” So I try to deflect her with a joke. “Aside from drive me up a wall?”
“I’m good at multitasking.” Kit shoots me a look. “I’m a managing architect for a resort company.”
His hand is still heavy on my thigh. He must know that if he lets go, I’ll run.
“That sounds interesting.” Mom sips on her white wine. “How much do you—”
“Mom,” I bark loudly enough it startles Kit, his fingers digging into my leg. “Don’t.” Do not ask him how much he makes, especially not in front of the cameras.
“Travel.” Mom gives me a look that says I’ve taken everything the wrong way. “With a job like that, you must travel quite a bit.”
Kit flattens his hand and rubs circles over my knee with his thumb. “I do, but I don’t see nearly as much of the locations as I’d like to.” He punctuates the statement with a tap on the inside of my thigh.
“Andie is very tied to Atlanta, as you probably know.” Mom gives him a knowing nod. “Do you own a home here in the city?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a groan of frustration. I foiled her plan to ask how much he makes, but there are other ways to discern a man’s financial worth, my mom always says.
“I don’t,” Kit admits. “The resorts I work for put me up in their rooms while I’m there.”
“Where are you staying now?” Mom won’t let it go.
Kit shifts in his seat, perhaps only just now realizing my mom isn’t interested in his job so much as his net worth. “Buckhead” is all he gives her.
Mom’s eyes light up with the mention of the richest area of Atlanta. Fuck. I clear my throat and attempt to change the direction of this discussion. “We haven’t seen you since the wedding.” I pick up my silverware and scoop a bite of salmon onto my fork. “What have you two been up to?”
My mom looks to Jim in a silent question. Jim blushes and asks, “Now?”
“It’s too exciting.” Mom smiles her best smile. “I can’t wait until later.”
“We don’t have to do this in front of the cameras,” Jim says gently, without a hint of judgment in his tone.
My eyes dart between them, then to my mom’s left hand. No giant rock on her finger. No rings at all. My pulse skyrockets, knowing whatever she’s about to tell me isn’t going to be I went shopping the other day and found the perfect pair of shoes.
“What’s too exciting?” Kit asks, bless his heart.
Mom picks up her wineglass and, her voice going up an octave, exclaims, “Jim and I eloped last weekend! Surprise, we’re married!”
She snorts. No, that’s not quite what she does. She’s much too controlled to snort on camera. But she just got dangerously close to laughing like we used to when it was just us living in her car. It’s a genuine noise I haven’t heard from her in a literal decade.
All the blood drains from my face, trying desperately to keep up with my racing heart. My stomach pitches forward, as if I’ve just tumbled over the edge of a cliff. It’s a long way down.
Kit gives my knee a squeeze and says earnestly, “Congratulations!”
I, however, am frozen in time, unable to say anything at all.
Jim watches me, concern in his kind eyes, but I can’t seem to muster the necessary enthusiasm. It’s not like I didn’t know this was going to happen; I shouldn’t be so blindsided. But in the short time I’ve known Jim, I can tell he’s not like the others. He’s not slick and calculating, flaunting his wealth with every step. He’s wearing a polo shirt tucked into his jeans. Fuck, he drives for Uber because he gets bored in retirement. He doesn’t deserve this, what I know is coming next.
I press my lips into a thin smile and lift my wineglass in a half-hearted toast. “Congratulations.”
Everyone politely clinks their glasses across the table. I stay seated just long enough to sip my wine and set the glass down with an unsteady hand.
“Excuse me,” I say quietly, slipping out of my seat. When I notice a camera following me, I throw over my shoulder, “Just going to the bathroom.”
Which isn’t a lie. I flick off my mic pack as I lock the door to the trendy bathroom at the back of the restaurant. I rest my shaking hands on the cool porcelain rim of the sink and can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. After only two ragged breaths, there’s a soft knock on the door.
Before I can lie and say I’ll be out in a minute, my mom’s voice comes through the door. “Andie, honey, can we talk?”
I don’t want to talk, but I know the cameras are still out there and my mom’s mic is probably on. The producers don’t need more family drama to splash across the screen. I heave a sigh and unlock the door. My mom complains as I reach around her back to find the switch for her mic.
Cassidy can yell at me later; this conversation is private.
“What?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Do you not like Jim?” She tilts her head to study me.
I let out a frustrated noise and bury my face in my hands. “I like Jim just fine, Mom.” And it’s true. I do like Jim. That’s part of the problem. Because knowing my mom’s pattern—find a rich man, marry him, divorce him in a few years and take him for all he’s worth—I know polo-tucked-into-his-jeans Jim is going to get hurt.
Worse, it’s a cruel reminder: I’m doing exactly the same thing with Kit, aren’t I? Using him as means to an end?
Kit knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it any kinder. In my quest to become not like my mother, I’ve done exactly what she would have.
“Are you having problems with Kit?” Mom rests a hand on my shoulder.
I shake my head. I’m not having any problems with Kit. He sends me lunch and does the dishes and wears the pocket squares I made him and sets me on fire with a single glance.
The problem is me.
“You don’t have to stay married to him forever.” Mom says it so casually. Marriage is a business decision, after all.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t have to stay married to him, but I do have to let him go in a few weeks. Here in this tiny bathroom, the weight of it nearly crushes me. “Tell me it’s different with Jim.”
“Andie,” she scolds.
“Tell me,” I insist. “Tell me you want it to be different this time.”
She’s quiet, her eyes meeting mine across the small bathroom. A whole lifetime passes between us in a matter of seconds. This cycle of marriage and divorce—I know she did it to take care of me, of us. I know it’s her way of protecting us. But I don’t need her to save me anymore. I need to believe there’s more out there for her. Maybe for me.
Quietly, my mom gives me her answer: “I can’t.”
I sniff, unceremoniously wiping my nose on my arm, my heart breaking into another thousand pieces. My phone buzzes in my dress pocket, and as I wake up the screen, I say bitterly, “Well, you don’t have to stay married to him forever.”
She clears her throat. “I’m going to leave you be.”
I nod as another tiny shred of hope in me withers away. “Best wishes to the bride.”
She slips out the door as I read the message from Kit on my screen, Leave your mic in the bathroom and sneak out the kitchen. Call me when you’re out back.