Chapter 33
I completely forgot we’re having dinner with Kit’s mom tonight. When I arrive home to him and the crew waiting for me, my head is a jumbled mess. Somewhere between my foolish decision to visit Kit at work and an afternoon buried in my own work, I can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
Not how I wanted to meet Kit’s mom, truthfully. She’s so important to him, and now that we’re all in, tonight matters. I’m supposed to be poised and pulled together and the kind of wife that would make Kit proud.
Instead, I can’t bring myself to have even a sliver of decent conversation with Kit on the drive. He can’t seem to find our normal push and pull, either. So I just throw glances at the GoPro Cassidy fastened to the passenger-side corner of the cab in Kit’s SUV, to film us while we’re on our way.
By the time we pull into a dirt driveway beside a robin’s-egg blue single-wide, my heart is in my throat. Kit loves his mom; everything he does has her at the center of it. She’s fighting cancer, and he’s holding it all together.
She wants him to find a wife and settle down, and tonight she’ll be meeting me. Someone who, mere weeks ago, signed on to marry her son because there’s divorce money in it. Hands shaking, I unbuckle my seat belt.
I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The sky is a Bob Ross painting come to life in oranges, pinks, and purples. Crickets serenade the stars before they’ve even shown themselves.
Cassidy and Steve greet us, clipping on our mics.
“Any words of advice?” I ask Cassidy over my shoulder while she works.
She laughs. “Not really. Meeting parents is always a mess.”
“Oh, good.” I tap my foot nervously on the packed dirt driveway.
She gestures for me to turn around, then makes sure the mic is secure beneath my shirt. “Think of it as a challenge. You’re good at those.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. This isn’t like jumping off a platform in the jungle or winning a game of Jenga or throwing axes. This is an important piece of Kit I don’t want to risk breaking.
He stares at the front door, a frown on his face. I wish he’d tell me it will be fine, that his mom will love me. But he doesn’t.
Released from Cassidy’s custody, I walk around the car. “It’s beautiful out here.”
When Kit doesn’t reply, I touch his arm. “You okay?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head like he’s trying to rid himself of a particularly clingy thought, then explains. “It’s the first time my mom has been on camera. She was too sick for all the pre-wedding interviews. I’m just … nervous.”
“About what she’ll do on camera?” If my mom is any example, we’re in for a wild ride tonight.
“Not like that.” He reaches for my hand. “She thinks I’m overprotective. Maybe I am, I don’t know. It’s weird letting outsiders into our lives.”
I lean into him, lacing our fingers together. “Tell me about it.”
He smiles down at me, and maybe tonight will be just fine.
Cassidy hops up the wooden steps to the front door and knocks.
When the door swings open, I try to get a glimpse of the woman Kit cares so deeply about. To no avail. Cassidy slips in the door with a smile, closing it behind her so I still have no idea what I’m walking into.
As Steve is hoisting his camera up onto his shoulder, I decide to wave my proverbial white flag. “I’m a little nervous to meet your mom,” I admit with a shaky smile.
Kit takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a short sigh as he thrusts his fingers into his hair. “Ready to take the leap, sweet potato?”
I force a smile. “Promise to catch me?”
“Always.” He gives my hand a squeeze.
Cassidy emerges from the trailer and tells us it’s go time. We wait for her signal, then take the slow march to the front door. The wooden steps look relatively new, even though the platform wobbles a little with all of us trampling on it.
By the time the front door swings open, I’m lightheaded. Kit’s holding my hand so tightly my fingers ache, but the woman inside beams. She’s about my height, with curling white hair. She’s in a house dress with a bright pattern, reading glasses hanging around her neck on a dragonfly chain.
“It’s so good to finally meet you,” she says, stepping aside to let us all in. Before I know what’s happening, she pulls me into a hug. Her grip is much stronger than all of Kit’s mentions of her would have me believe. I hug her back, resting my shaking hands on her shoulders. Then she lets me go and holds me at arm’s length to look at me.
She looks like the kind of mom who would be checking to see if my hips are wide enough to bear children, and if my body can handle years of household chores. I swallow the knot of disappointment in my throat—I’d make a terrible housewife. Kit is always chasing me down to make sure I’ve eaten something since breakfast.
“This is Andie,” Kit says when the camera crew has shuffled in and made themselves at home in the cramped space. “Andie, this is my mom.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Watson.” I nod my head in her direction and hold out my hand, even though she’s already embraced me like family.
She waves off the gesture with a smile. “Please, call me Maureen.”
I give her a shaky smile, my heart pumping faster.
Maureen mumbles something about having to check on dinner and shuffles slowly toward the kitchen. Kit watches her walking with a frown. I know that look. That’s his You shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard look. I’m glad to know it’s not just me he does that to.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out. It’s from Cassidy. Why don’t you ask Kit for a tour?
Normally, I find a way to dodge Cassidy’s line of questioning. But I’m just not feeling clever tonight, so I turn to Kit. “Can you give me the grand tour?”
He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. Holding his hands out to the room, he says darkly, “This is it.”
It’s small, of course; as a single-wide trailer, it would be. Everything is clean, and even the books stacked on random flat surfaces seem to have some level of order to them. On the whole, it’s a cozy space. Unpretentious.
The carpet in the living room is older, and the linoleum in the kitchen is peeling back from the Pepto Bismol pink cabinets. The walls are papered with a floral pattern that looks like it walked out of 1992. The dark green sofa and reddish-brown recliner in the living room are clearly well lived in. Hanging above it is a photo of a younger Kit, his mom, and a man who must be his dad, based on the resemblance. He never mentions his dad; I assumed he wasn’t around, but Kit has to be a teenager in this photo.
Clearing my throat, I look down a narrow hallway and ask, “Is that your childhood bedroom?”
Maureen, of course, hears me ask, because she’s only a couple of feet away even though she’s technically in the kitchen. “It is,” she says before Kit has the chance to answer.
“Can I take a look?”
“Of course, honey.” Maureen moves to one of the cabinets over the sink. “Make yourself at home.”
When I look at Kit, he only lets out a heavy sigh. His only sign of consent is a small sweep of his arm indicating I should lead the way.
The floors creak under my feet as I wander down the short hallway. It makes a bit of a bottleneck, so Steve is lodged in the doorway, Cassidy and an extra sound guy stuck behind him, standing on their tiptoes to make sure they’re not missing anything important.
The room has almost nothing in it. There’s a twin-size bed and a small dresser that looks like it hopped out of the eighties. On the wall closest to the door, there’s a small closet.
“I see you got rid of the Spiderman sheets.” I try for a lighthearted joke, even though my heart is tearing in two, remembering what he told me about the conversations he heard his parents have late at night.
I don’t feel sorry for Kit, not like that. Sure, this place is small, but it feels like more of a home than I ever had. I can’t remember my mom ever telling me to make myself at home. Even in our own home. We were always visitors, passing through on borrowed time. When Kit doesn’t bother to acknowledge my comment, I sit down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress springs squeal.
I ask carefully, because I truly want to know, “Did you like growing up here?” Maureen seems warm and loving, and he had all this outdoor space to run around as a boy.
Finally, the flicker of a smile crosses his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “We made it good.”
It’s my turn to frown. I open my mouth to ask about his dad—I know just how touchy a subject that can be—but don’t get the chance.
Cassidy says from behind Steve, “Kit, can you sit on the bed with Andie? It’s hard for us to see you both from here.”
Kit’s jaw tics, but he relents. The mattress sinks next to me, and it takes all my willpower to keep from leaning right into him.
Gently, I tell him, “Thank you for inviting me to dinner tonight.”
His lips twitch in a flicker of a smile. “My mom would have murdered me if I didn’t.”
“Ah, so the force feeding is a family trait.” I nudge him with my elbow.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m plagued with stubborn women.”
I press my hand to my chest in mock offense. “I thought you found my stubbornness charming.”
“More than that.” He smiles for real this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But we don’t need to scandalize the crew tonight.”
Before I can sink into the liquid heat in his eyes, Maureen calls us back out to the table for dinner.
After a meal filled with shallow questions about what I do for a living and how odd it was to get married on TV, Kit collects our plates while I help Maureen to the living room. She catches me looking at the family photo above the sofa.
“He takes after his father,” Maureen says with a smile. “In more than just looks.”
“He doesn’t talk about his dad at all.” Honestly, by the way Kit speaks about his family, it’s like his dad doesn’t exist.
Maureen shakes her head and picks up another photo from the end table. It’s a candid: Kit’s dad and his mom sitting in lawn chairs in front of the trailer, laughing. She runs her finger along the metal frame. “Neither of us do.” Her smile cracks under pressure. “It’s been a decade now, but it all feels fresh most of the time.”
“Were they close?” I murmur, a far corner of my mind whirring to life. All this time I assumed Kit had rushed home purely to protect his mom.
“They were. Kit wouldn’t be who he is without Harry being so involved.” Maureen nods. “He passed very suddenly. There was no way for us to prepare or adjust. One day he was here and happy, and the next he was gone.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. I want to ask more, but it feels like we’ve crossed into sacred ground, and I don’t want to disturb it.
Kit’s voice startles me. “Twenty fourteen was a hard year.”
He leans against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, hands shoved into his jeans pockets. His brown eyes are deep with an aching I can’t touch, and a small crease forms in his forehead.
After a beat of silence, he joins us in the living room, taking a seat on the recliner in the corner. He bows forward, his elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together. My gaze falls to his wedding band and my heart lurches.
“Dad passed in November,” Kit says in a calm, quiet voice.
“I remember.” Tears build behind my eyes and I shake my head. All I can think of is that chilly night we’d warmed each other in bed. The night I told him I loved him. The morning I woke, and he was gone.
Maureen reaches for Kit, squeezing his forearm. Kit rests one of his hands over hers. “Kit came home from school, and we made it through together.”
Kit shakes his head and makes a frustrated noise. “I left you,” he says to his mom, voice pulled taut.
Maureen shakes her head. “I forgave you for that a long time ago.”
Kit gives his mom’s hand another squeeze, then his eyes meet mine. He clears his throat and tells me, “My grief was too heavy. I thought maybe if I ran fast enough, it couldn’t catch me.”
Something hot and sharp digs under my diaphragm, and I press a hand to my stomach to feel my breath. I remember the voice mail I left him when he disappeared. After a week of waiting to hear from him, I finally broke. Every edge of me was jagged and raw and aching with his absence, and I needed to purge. So I called. When he didn’t answer, I left a voice mail telling him things I’d have never told him had I known why he left.
Then he came back, trying to reach me. I was so damn stubborn, so concerned with how he hurt me, when I should have seen how deeply he was hurting too.
I can still feel the pain he left me with like it was yesterday, but the anger I feel rising to the surface now is different. I want to pound on his chest and shake him and demand he tell me why he wouldn’t just let me be there for him. Why not call me sooner? I’d have been there for him. Didn’t he trust me? Wasn’t I enough?
Kit’s eyes find mine, and he holds my gaze. There’s a whole conversation in that look, one I wish he hadn’t waited ten years to have.
VOICE MAILBOX OF CHRISTOPHER WATSON
NOVEMBER 19, 2014
Hi. It’s me. [sniff]
I don’t know where you are and I—
[sigh]
Missing you hurts, and I just wish you’d call and tell me you were okay. But you can’t even give me that. Do I mean that little to you?
I can’t believe I gave you everything and you just … you took it with you. That piece of me is gone, and you can’t even tell me where you took it. It feels like you were just some fever dream my brain made up. I should have known better. No one can be as perfect as that.
I thought I loved you, but how can I love someone who just leaves me while I’m sleeping? How do you love a ghost?
I hate you for this. Maybe one day I won’t, but right now …
[sniff]
If you come back, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to see you or hear from you. Leave me alone.
I guess this is—this is goodbye.
I hope you’re happier where you are. Without me.