Page 25 of Not You Again
Does it frustrate you that you have to work so hard to get her there?
KIT:
Not really. She’s always been like this. Andie may take some things too seriously, and she’s pretty closed off, but I think that makes those moments like today better, doesn’t it? She doesn’t hand out her joy to just anyone. I like being the one to earn it.
PRODUCER:
Do you think you may still have feelings for her?
KIT:
Of course I do. You don’t meet a woman like Andie and walk away unchanged, you know?
CHAPTER ELEVENKIT
“Come on, Andie,” I say over my shoulder as I drag her down a well-worn path in the Costa Rican jungle. Her hand is in mine, if only because the cameras are hot on our heels as we head out to the adventure course sponsored by the resort.
After the way she felt against me in the pool yesterday—all soft curves and gentle heat—I’ll take any excuse to touch her. It makes me feel awake.
“Kit,” she whines, “where are we going?”
“Getting you out of your head.” My reply is clipped, more frustrated than it should be.
She stayed up drawing until late last night, only slipping into bed after I was asleep. I woke up to her curled into a ball on the far edge of the mattress, like she’d turn to stone if she so much as brushed her foot against mine.
It didn’t make a person feel great, is what I’m saying.
We woke up to the little gold envelope that told us what we were going to be doing today.
Now here we are, in a dripping sauna of a rainforest, surrounded by cameras. My shirt sticks to my back and Andie’s dark waves are going limp. It reminds me of a night we got caught in the rain.
My memory of undergrad is fuzzy in a lot of places, but my time with Andie stands out in sharp relief. We scurried under tree branches in Piedmont Park, huddling together until we forgot about the weather entirely, distracted by each other’s bodies.
I stumble over a tree root, lost in the memory.
Andie wrenches her hand from mine as we draw to a halt outside a small portable trailer in the middle of the jungle. Attendants come out and have us step into harnesses, tugging us this way and that as they explain the rules for our safety. When we get a second to catch our breath, Andie hastily gathers her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, just in time for one of the zipline attendants to plop a helmet on her head.
I’m mid-chuckle when I receive the same treatment. I make quick work of the chin strap while Andie struggles with hers. I’m not sure she’s ever put on a helmet before. She’s not really an outdoorsy type, last I checked. Save that night in the rain, where her nails scraped their memory into my skin. As if I could ever forget.
My fingers twitch at my sides, and fuck it—we’re on camera, so I can touch her. I’ll use that advantage every time, for as long as I have it. Knowing the cameras are going to be dissecting our every move—along with a TV audience—I close the distance between us and swat her hands away from the mess she’s making. “You really can’t survive without me, can you?”
She scowls, but drops her hands at her sides, balled into fists. “Amazing I’m still alive, then.”
“A miracle.” I say dryly. “Don’t worry, I’m here now.”
She flips me off, and I don’t bother hiding my smile.
Andie looks at the wire between the trees, far above our heads. Her lip catches in her teeth and her foot taps a speedy rhythm on the forest floor.
A producer signals for one of us to say something, and Andie lets out a frustrated sigh.
I scoot one foot close enough to touch hers and ask, “What’s wrong?”
Her foot stills against mine. “Why didn’t we get surfing lessons or something?” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut while I untangle a knot she’s somehow managed to tie in the chin strap by the buckle.
It would be easier to take the helmet off to wrangle this thing, but if she’s saying she’d prefer hours of sand and saltwater, I know something’s bothering her.
“You afraid of heights, sweet potato?” If there’s one thing that can distract Andie, it’s the insinuation she can’t do something, especially if she’s afraid to do it.