Page 17 of Not You Again
Once in the air, Andie won’t stop fidgeting. She’s clearly doing everything she can to avoid touching me, but we’re packed into this plane like sardines. Calmly, I ask, “Is your hip bothering you?”
“What?” Her brows furrow as she finally looks at me like she’s surprised I’m here.
“That spot on your hip looked raw last night,” I remind her. “You’re clearly uncomfortable now. Is it bothering you?”
She lets out a heavy sigh and flops into her seat. “No. I mean yes, but no.”
I can’t help the snort of laughter that comes from me.
“I’m—” She pauses, frowning at the seat back in front of her. Then she shakes her head and mutters something to herself under her breath. Finally, her foot bouncing on the carpet, she tells me, “I didn’t know I’d have to turn off my phone.”
I frown. Her passport told me she’s never flown internationally. That comment tells me she’s never flown at all. “You really are a virgin, aren’t you?”
She lifts her thumb to her lips to chew on it, shooting me a sarcastic look. “I had to hand over some business stuff while we’re away. I just hate not knowing what’s going on.”
An amused smile tugs at my lips. There’s that control I remember. “You’re welcome to use my phone. It’s got international service if you need to check on something when we land.”
She looks at me, lips parting gently. Her eyes skate over my face, and for a split second, I think she’s going to do something bizarre like thank me. Instead, her brows draw together, and she gives me a firm shake of her head. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”
I nod. She said those words like she’s trying to convince herself rather than me. Distraction it is, then.
She doesn’t want to talk about the past, so the present is what’s left. I dip my head to speak with her more privately. Her hair tickles my nose. “Maybe it’s a good time to talk about what we want the next eight weeks to look like.”
She takes in a sharp breath as her leg slides against mine. God bless coach—it’s the only time she’s likely to touch me, it seems. Breathily, she says, “Seven weeks and five days.”
“Andie,” I scold in a low voice. I plop the paper bag from the coffee shop into her lap. “You should have eaten more at breakfast.”
“You didn’t eat at all,” she counters.
“Not a breakfast person.” I shrug. It’s the truth, but also it’s a bold-face lie. I don’t eat breakfast because I remember what it’s like to go hungry. The gnawing ache in my stomach, the dizzy spells, the brain fog. I don’t want to forget that feeling. It motivates me on difficult days.
As Andie peers into the bag to see the croissant I got her, I try again. “It would help if I knew why you signed up for the show.”
“I told you”—she tears off a chunk of pastry—“I’m trying to find love.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle. It earns me a glare. I lift a hand in surrender and counter, “You told me once you never wanted to get married.” In fact, she doubled down on it the night she showed up on my doorstep in tears after her mom told her she was getting a divorce. Marriage is just another way to force women into a life of servitude because some fictional woman ate a fucking apple.
Andie bides her time with another bite of croissant. Her fingernails are painted a delicate pink. Flakes of pastry cling to them, and I want to lick them off. I swallow to chase away the image coming to life in my head.
“Andie,” I say gently, “why did you jump through all the hoops to be on the show?” If she went through every interview and background check I did, she wants this. In some way, shape, or form, she wants this.
It’s just me she didn’t plan on.
She fingers the edge of the pastry bag, pressing her lips into a frown. She glances to the row in front of us, where Patrick and Kendra are seated. Both have their headphones on. Andie chews the inside of her cheek for a moment, contemplating.
When I think she’s never going to show her hand, she shrugs and admits, “I need the money.”
My brow furrows. “What money?”
Andie looks at me like I’m stupid. “At the end of filming, if we choose divorce on decision day, we get a hundred grand each.”
“No, we don’t.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s in the contract as payment for damages.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Cold seeps into my chest as I sit still as a stone. Here I’ve been thinking we can connect again, maybe have a chance to start over, and she’s been planning on divorce since she put her name on the application. No matter who she got stuck with. Hell, it shouldn’t feel so goddamn personal. But it does. Oh, it does.
Slowly, I ask, “What do you need the money for?”