Page 59 of Not You Again
I never want it to stop.
In contrast to Kit’s suit, Jim is in a butter yellow polo shirt that he’s tucked into his jeans. It’s a quintessential Dad Look, and it stands out in contrast to my mom’s designer wrap dress. After shaking Kit’s hand with a smile, Jim stretches his arm across the back of my mom’s chair.
“Have you been taking care of my daughter, Kit?” My mom wastes zero time getting to the point. Cassidy must be happy dancing behind us.
Kit smiles as plates are set in front of us—we didn’t even order first; this must be part of the show. One less thing to interrupt the conversation, I guess. “I try,” he says amiably. “But she’s been taking care of herself for a long time. She doesn’t need me for much.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying something I shouldn’t, like how I actually need his touch to create these days. As I place my napkin into my lap, Kit catches my fingers under the table and gives them a quick squeeze before letting me go like nothing happened. My heart leaps against my rib cage.
I take a sip of water to calm myself down, then tell Mom, “Kit’s made a habit of sending me takeout every day for lunch.”
“You’d forget to eat if I didn’t.” Kit presses his knee to mine. An anchor in the storm I can feel brewing over the bread basket, even if no one else can see it yet.
“Amazing I’ve survived all this time without you.” I take a bite of warm bread and give him a smirk.
At the same time Kit says, “You can’t create when you’re hungry,” my mom adds her two cents: “You really should stop with the takeout, dear. It’s catching up to you.”
I clench my jaw and do my best to remember where Mom’s advice comes from: years of catching upper-class men who took care of us. It’s the only way she knows how to survive.
Kit subtly nudges the hem of my skirt high enough to rest his warm palm just above my knee. Still not a sexual touch. Instead, it’s rooting me to the spot, fully present in my body. I take a deep breath and offer him a wavering smile. He gives my knee a squeeze.
I turn my smile on Jim. “I’m sorry,” I tell him across the table. “My mom’s never told me—what is it you do for a living?”
Usually they’re bankers, or my personal favorite, “consultants.” The kind of rich white man job that no one can really define. Jim’s smile in return is genuine. “Nothing anymore.” He cuts up his steak—not one bite at a time, but all at once. “I used to work for the county as a project manager, but some good investments paid off more than I ever expected them to. Between those and the state pension, I was able to retire. Though I still drive for Uber sometimes, near campus.”
“I keep trying to get him to stop.” My mom chuckles and shakes her head, diamond studs glinting in the lamplight.
“No one told me how boring retirement would be,” he defends himself, good-naturedly. “And being near the kids keeps me young.” He flashes my mom an affectionate smile, and she returns it, giving his forearm a squeeze.
I push my food around on my plate. Something about this isn’t sitting right with me, and I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s because Jim seems so … normal? When a waiter comes to refill our water glasses, he thanks them and tells them the meal is delicious. Jim is nice. Genuine. I spin my wedding band on my finger, frowning.
“So, Kit.” My mom folds her arms on the table and leans forward like she’s talking to her best friend. “What is it you do?”
I curl my hand into a fist underneath the table. The twinkle in Mom’s eyes means she’s sizing Kit up, gauging whether he’s worth keeping. I made the mistake of letting her meet one of the men I dated after college. She gave him the cold shoulder after she discovered he was a teacher. After we broke up, she told me, “He never could have given you the life you deserve.” So I try to deflect her with a joke. “Aside from drive me up a wall?”
“I’m good at multitasking.” Kit shoots me a look. “I’m a managing architect for a resort company.”
His hand is still heavy on my thigh. He must know that if he lets go, I’ll run.
“That sounds interesting.” Mom sips on her white wine. “How much do you—”
“Mom,” I bark loudly enough it startles Kit, his fingers digging into my leg. “Don’t.” Do not ask him how much he makes, especially not in front of the cameras.
“Travel.” Mom gives me a look that says I’ve taken everything the wrong way. “With a job like that, you must travel quite a bit.”
Kit flattens his hand and rubs circles over my knee with his thumb. “I do, but I don’t see nearly as much of the locations as I’d like to.” He punctuates the statement with a tap on the inside of my thigh.
“Andie is very tied to Atlanta, as you probably know.” Mom gives him a knowing nod. “Do you own a home here in the city?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a groan of frustration. I foiled her plan to ask how much he makes, but there are other ways to discern a man’s financial worth, my mom always says.
“I don’t,” Kit admits. “The resorts I work for put me up in their rooms while I’m there.”
“Where are you staying now?” Mom won’t let it go.
Kit shifts in his seat, perhaps only just now realizing my mom isn’t interested in his job so much as his net worth. “Buckhead” is all he gives her.
Mom’s eyes light up with the mention of the richest area of Atlanta. Fuck. I clear my throat and attempt to change the direction of this discussion. “We haven’t seen you since the wedding.” I pick up my silverware and scoop a bite of salmon onto my fork. “What have you two been up to?”