Page 15 of Not You Again
A story of how I loved Kit years ago, before we fell apart. A story of how I built myself back up without him, piece by precarious piece. A tale of how we somehow stumbled into each other’s lives by sheer accident. Or maybe fate. The little stain is the visible reminder of how he dipped me low for a photo, his arms around me like he won’t let me go this time. Not now that he’s found me again.
It’s an empty promise, I know.
“Maybe there’s something more interesting on a different channel.” His voice is right behind me.
I spin around, surprised he’s so close. Quickly, I set my lips into a line. “Like another reality show where you can ruin someone else’s life?”
The sparkle in Kit’s eyes dulls and his teasing grin falls flat. He clears his throat and states, matter-of-fact, “The producers will be here soon. Bathroom’s all yours.”
I wince when I think about what the producers will think if they find out I slept on the couch. That’ll make a fun segment in an episode, huh? And while I know they’ll spin a story no matter what we do, I do not want them finding out the truth.
Nobody needs to know how broken this man left me all those years ago. Least of all Kit.
“Right,” I say, pulling myself together. “They’ll probably want some shots of us eating breakfast in bed. Talking or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” he repeats. Humor twinkles in his eyes again, and his voice is all gravel and sin. He didn’t even have to try to make those two words sound absolutely filthy.
I roll my eyes, if only to keep from staring at him.
He sighs, shifting on his feet. “Andie, before the cameras get here, can we … talk about what happened? Before?”
I have not had enough coffee for this. My hand curls into a fist at my side and I take a deep breath before saying as calmly as I can, “We dated. It ended. We were young and stupid and it doesn’t … it doesn’t matter.”
He frowns, deep lines appearing between his brows. “Of course it matters. You never gave me a chance to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeat, too loudly in the hotel room. My words ricochet off the drywall and fall softly on the plush carpet between our bare feet.
Kit watches me, his gaze intense. I feel like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. I tug at the hem of my tank top and try to keep my hands from shaking. He left. When he came back, I said we were done. End of story. Why won’t change anything, and I’m not looking to fix the pieces of me he broke. I patched them together myself, with my bare hands, and I can’t risk ripping old wounds open. Not when I have so much to do.
He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by a knock on the door. I clear my throat. “That’ll be the producers. I’m going to shower.” Before Kit can stop me, I lock myself in the bathroom, and I climb into the shower before I can determine where the wetness on my cheeks is coming from.
The airport is unbelievably busy. Or maybe it’s not. I wouldn’t know.
Despite my dreams of traveling far and wide when I was younger, I’ve never even made it onto a plane. My heart kicks up a few beats per minute as I walk up to the ticket counter with Kit. The attendant takes one look at us and beams.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. The producers made all the couples wear matching T-shirts. Jamie and Leslie are the next counter over in white ones that simply say, We’re on our honeymoon! Somehow, Kit and I got stuck with bright orange ones. His says She’s my sweet potato. Mine reads I yam. Both are hashtagged with Just Married, and we haven’t been able to have a single normal interaction since we left our room this morning.
I picked at breakfast in bed on camera. It was a delicious spread of Belgian waffles, eggs Benedict, and enough fruit to make an extravagant centerpiece, but trying to fake a smile as producers prompted conversation from Kit and me made me lose my appetite. I’m paying for it now—my stomach is a gnawing pit in the center of my abdomen, and based on what the producers told us, we won’t have time to eat before we get on the plane.
Kit smiles as he hands over his passport. It’s in decent shape, but the pages have clearly been used and used well. And it’s one of the thicker ones, with more pages that I read about when I was applying for my first-ever passport mere weeks ago. I’m embarrassed to hand over my little book, so crisp and new.
Kit eyes it with a frown as the attendant opens it to check my name and the spine actually cracks. “First international trip?” he asks me, an eyebrow raised.
I give him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “You didn’t know I was a virgin?”
Kit nearly chokes, turning a shade of red that clashes with the orange of our shirts. He smooths his hair back and accepts his passport from the attendant as she says, “Have a nice trip to Costa Rica, and congratulations on your marriage.”
He offers a weak smile, handing over his bag so she can tag it and toss it on the conveyor belt behind her. The attendant turns her attention to me, handing over my documents with a bright smile. “There you go, Mrs. Watson. Hope you enjoy your flight!”
I open my mouth to correct her—my passport clearly says my name is still Andrea Dresser—but Kit cups my elbow and steers me away, saying a polite goodbye to the attendant. Fuming, I wrench my arm from his grip and follow the crowd to security.
Steve and Cassidy are smack dab in the middle of the line that’s about three miles long. Cassidy leans into Steve, his arm thrown over her shoulders while they watch a video on her phone to endure the wait. I bite my lip to hold in a wistful sigh. My life is filled with grand displays of love in glittering gowns under fairy lights, but it’s these small ones I crave. They’re sacred in their secrecy; something only these two people know.
When I stop at the end of the line, lost in my thoughts, Kit shakes his head, literally tsking me.
Hungry and tired and aching from a night spent sleeping on a creaky couch, I curl my hands into fists and demand, “What?”
“Come on.” He nods his head toward another line—much shorter—that’s roped off with a sign declaring First Class, Diamond and Platinum Members. When I hesitate, he gives me an amused smile. “If we wait here, you’ll either murder someone or eat me for brunch.”