Page 16 of Not You Again
I bite my tongue. My body is very interested in the idea of having him for brunch, just maybe not in the way he meant. I sigh, muttering a “fine” as I follow him into the other line.
The security guard at the podium takes Kit’s passport and some sort of silver credit card. I hand over my brand-spanking-new passport and plane ticket. While the guard examines my plane ticket that clearly has us flying coach, Kit tells him, “Her reward card hasn’t arrived in the mail yet because we decided to elope—just couldn’t wait another moment, you know?—but we’re excited to be on our honeymoon. Aren’t we, sweet potato?”
I look up at him, stunned into silence. The guard glances between us for a moment before his gaze falls to our shirts. A smile stretches across his face. Biting back a curse, I tell Kit through gritted teeth, “I sure yam, honey.”
Kit’s eyes light up with laughter. My stomach growls. The security guard beams as he hands over our documents. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Have a safe trip.”
Goddammit.
Once we’re through the metal detectors, I shove past Kit, muttering something under my breath I’m glad the cameras aren’t here to catch. “Our gate is over there,” Kit nudges me in the correct direction. “Sit. I’ll get you something to eat.”
CHAPTER EIGHTKIT
The espresso machine behind the counter hisses, drowning out the conversations around me and erasing the overhead announcement. The airport coffee shop is packed to the gills with businesspeople on their way to God knows where. A sigh escapes me when I realize, had I not forced the transfer to Atlanta, I could be on my way to Spain or Australia or Italy right now.
None of those options compares to the adventure I embarked on yesterday.
I can see Andie by our gate, leaning against a wall, trying to escape conversation with a chatty woman next to her who must have found out we were on our honeymoon.
The show made us wear these stupid T-shirts in matching colors, so there’s no escaping the congratulations as we flee the country.
Andie slouched in the van all the way to the airport, her sunglasses perched on her nose. She curled up in the fetal position against the window, attempting to get more sleep, probably. If the other couples weren’t with us, I’d have teased her relentlessly about choosing to sleep on the couch.
But seeing her in her satin shorts and tank top this morning was a sight that went straight to my cock. She’s filled out in all the right places. Her hips are more pronounced, and even under clothes I could see the soft curve of her belly, where before there was only skin and bones.
She looks so much softer than she acts, which feels like a secret only I know. She’s incredibly tender underneath the scales and claws and growls and glares. When she wants to be, she’s so brutally soft, it knocks the wind out of me. Or at least it had back then. Maybe her body is the only gentle thing about her now; we’ve both changed.
I frown at my shoes.
How’s that spot on her hip that looked raw last night? She hasn’t complained about it, but it must be black and blue by now. And we’re about to cram into tiny airplane seats for a few hours. Do I have any Advil in my messenger bag? I might have time to grab some if I—
The barista yells my name and I flinch out of my brooding thoughts. I collect my coffee and the brown paper bag she slides across the counter.
I head back to the gate, making a beeline to rescue Andie from the chatty woman, but I’m intercepted by one of the other grooms, who pats the empty seat next to him. With a glance at Andie—she hasn’t even noticed I’m back—I take the seat.
“Is it just me, or was it iceberg city between you two on the bus this morning?” Patrick doesn’t waste any time.
I bide my time with a sip of coffee so hot it scalds my tongue and makes my eyes water. The waters between Andie and me are frigid, to say the least. They’re choppy and filled with the flotsam and jetsam of our previous crash and burn.
By the time things had settled down enough at home for me to get my head on straight, I was delinquent on my phone bill and couldn’t pay to turn it back on. Strung out on adrenaline and grief, I didn’t have the forethought to bring my laptop with me, so I hadn’t emailed her either. When I was finally able to turn my phone back on, there was a voice mail from her, confirming all my worst fears.
We were done. Forever.
We need to fucking talk. She needs to know why I left, that it had nothing to do with her or the stupid fight we had right before my world fell apart. But she doesn’t want to hear it. Won’t even let me finish my damn sentence.
Not now, and not then, either. When I finally found her, her roommate wouldn’t let me in. Called me all sorts of names on her behalf. I did catch a glimpse of Andie on the couch just before the door slammed in my face. She was … broken.
That image has been burned in my brain for a whole decade, along with all the things I wish I’d told her earlier.
I don’t know what our plan is going forward, to get through the next eight weeks. I feel like the universe personally handed me a get out of jail free card, and I’d be an idiot not to cash it in. Surely eight weeks is enough to convince Andie I’m sorry, to show her the truth.
What we shared for those few months was unforgettable, even a decade in the past.
Patrick nudges me with his elbow. “What did you do?”
I swallow the bile climbing up my throat. “Nothing. She’s just … going to be a tough nut to crack, I think.”
Patrick nods, looking toward his bride, Kendra, who’s headed our way, coffees in hand. His face softens. I’ve never seen anyone truly light up before, but Patrick does. “If the matchmakers did for you what they’ve done for me, Andie will be worth the effort, man.”