Page 19 of Not You Again
“But you are sweet.” I pinch her cheek for emphasis.
She lifts her head to rest the point of her chin on my shoulder. “Sweetie is right there.”
“It’s so generic.” I flick away the suggestion. “You, sweet potato, are one of a kind.”
She playfully sticks her tongue out, and I laugh. She smiles too, wrinkling her nose. It’s enough. For now, it’s enough. She stops recording and tucks the camera back into her purse under the seat.
With a sigh, settling back into her own space, Andie says, “I need that money, Kit.” She sounds so earnest, so raw, my heart is ready to sacrifice everything if it will make her happy.
I can’t help myself—I brush a hair out of her face and cup her chin. She really is something else.
When I stare at her gently parted lips for a second too long, she whispers, “Maybe you should save that for the cameras.”
My hand falls from her like I’ve been burned. “Touching you?” I ask, because surely she can’t mean caring about her, like I can turn that function on and off at will.
“Yeah,” she looks at my hand on the armrest. “It’s safest, don’t you think?”
To keep her safe from me, or the other way around? Who are we protecting? I frown. “So we—what?—put on a show for the cameras, then? Then part ways amicably in eight weeks?”
Her eyes light up at the idea. I hate it. She sits a little straighter in her seat. “We can say we became good friends and just couldn’t see ourselves married. Whatever. Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love with you.”
Bitter, I brush the idea away with my hand, like it doesn’t matter. “Fine.”
As much as I hate the idea that I’ll have to let her go again, I suppose it’s penance for the last time. This time we’ll do it on her terms; I owe her that. But every stupid hope I had of us somehow rekindling what we had in college just dove straight off the airplane wing and into the Caribbean.
CHAPTER NINEANDIE
Kit and I wait outside the room we’ll be staying in for the duration of our honeymoon while Cassidy and Steve set up inside. They want a shot of us entering the room and smiling about the resort. I’m sure they paid a fortune to be featured on the show.
I twist the plastic band around my wrist—it’ll allow us unlimited food and beverages on the property—and lean against the wall. Kit is examining the silver number on the door with such intense interest, I don’t dare interrupt.
He’s been put off since I pulled out the camera on the plane.
On my TikToks, I show the process of designing and constructing a dress. I leave out the parts where I’m staring at the designs, wondering if they’re any good. Or the parts where I’m shoving takeout in my mouth at midnight because I’m up against a deadline. What I show is real. It’s just not the whole story.
I can’t imagine this show is any different.
That means we’ll need footage of us smiling and playing along, even though we already know where it ends.
“Okay, we’re ready!” Cassidy’s voice comes from the other side of the door.
Kit lets out a heavy sigh, and I use my card to unlock the door. We wheel our suitcases inside, smiles plastered on our faces despite the tiredness leeching from our bones.
My smile falters as I take in the room. One room, as in: this is not a suite. A giant king-sized bed is dressed in white linens, and the hotel staff scattered rose petals in the shape of a heart on the duvet. I swallow the lump in my throat. There’s no couch in here. Just a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs next to a small dining table by the doors to the balcony.
I’d suggest Kit can sleep in the bathtub, but it’s a moot point. Aside from the cameras following our every move, the bathtub is smack dab in the middle of the fucking room. There’s a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the ledge surrounding the tub.
Next to it is a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and a handwritten welcome note addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Watson.
Kit sees it too, and lets out a snort of amusement. “Looks like they didn’t get the pet name memo.”
My lips pull into a smile as he picks up the note and pulls a pen from his messenger bag. He takes the cap off with his teeth, and it’s all I can do to tear my gaze away. Looking at his hands isn’t any safer, unfortunately. He deftly crosses out our names and writes in his confident block lettering Mr. and Mrs. Sweet Potato.
He replaces the note on the bathtub ledge and recaps his pen, a satisfied smile on his face. I find myself smiling at him, still.
God, I’m tired.
“It’s late,” Cassidy begins another one of her leading questions, and I know we’ve been silent for too long. “Don’t you two want to get ready for bed?”