Page 60 of Not You Again
My mom looks to Jim in a silent question. Jim blushes and asks, “Now?”
“It’s too exciting.” Mom smiles her best smile. “I can’t wait until later.”
“We don’t have to do this in front of the cameras,” Jim says gently, without a hint of judgment in his tone.
My eyes dart between them, then to my mom’s left hand. No giant rock on her finger. No rings at all. My pulse skyrockets, knowing whatever she’s about to tell me isn’t going to be I went shopping the other day and found the perfect pair of shoes.
“What’s too exciting?” Kit asks, bless his heart.
Mom picks up her wineglass and, her voice going up an octave, exclaims, “Jim and I eloped last weekend! Surprise, we’re married!”
She snorts. No, that’s not quite what she does. She’s much too controlled to snort on camera. But she just got dangerously close to laughing like we used to when it was just us living in her car. It’s a genuine noise I haven’t heard from her in a literal decade.
All the blood drains from my face, trying desperately to keep up with my racing heart. My stomach pitches forward, as if I’ve just tumbled over the edge of a cliff. It’s a long way down.
Kit gives my knee a squeeze and says earnestly, “Congratulations!”
I, however, am frozen in time, unable to say anything at all.
Jim watches me, concern in his kind eyes, but I can’t seem to muster the necessary enthusiasm. It’s not like I didn’t know this was going to happen; I shouldn’t be so blindsided. But in the short time I’ve known Jim, I can tell he’s not like the others. He’s not slick and calculating, flaunting his wealth with every step. He’s wearing a polo shirt tucked into his jeans. Fuck, he drives for Uber because he gets bored in retirement. He doesn’t deserve this, what I know is coming next.
I press my lips into a thin smile and lift my wineglass in a half-hearted toast. “Congratulations.”
Everyone politely clinks their glasses across the table. I stay seated just long enough to sip my wine and set the glass down with an unsteady hand.
“Excuse me,” I say quietly, slipping out of my seat. When I notice a camera following me, I throw over my shoulder, “Just going to the bathroom.”
Which isn’t a lie. I flick off my mic pack as I lock the door to the trendy bathroom at the back of the restaurant. I rest my shaking hands on the cool porcelain rim of the sink and can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. After only two ragged breaths, there’s a soft knock on the door.
Before I can lie and say I’ll be out in a minute, my mom’s voice comes through the door. “Andie, honey, can we talk?”
I don’t want to talk, but I know the cameras are still out there and my mom’s mic is probably on. The producers don’t need more family drama to splash across the screen. I heave a sigh and unlock the door. My mom complains as I reach around her back to find the switch for her mic.
Cassidy can yell at me later; this conversation is private.
“What?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Do you not like Jim?” She tilts her head to study me.
I let out a frustrated noise and bury my face in my hands. “I like Jim just fine, Mom.” And it’s true. I do like Jim. That’s part of the problem. Because knowing my mom’s pattern—find a rich man, marry him, divorce him in a few years and take him for all he’s worth—I know polo-tucked-into-his-jeans Jim is going to get hurt.
Worse, it’s a cruel reminder: I’m doing exactly the same thing with Kit, aren’t I? Using him as means to an end?
Kit knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it any kinder. In my quest to become not like my mother, I’ve done exactly what she would have.
“Are you having problems with Kit?” Mom rests a hand on my shoulder.
I shake my head. I’m not having any problems with Kit. He sends me lunch and does the dishes and wears the pocket squares I made him and sets me on fire with a single glance.
The problem is me.
“You don’t have to stay married to him forever.” Mom says it so casually. Marriage is a business decision, after all.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t have to stay married to him, but I do have to let him go in a few weeks. Here in this tiny bathroom, the weight of it nearly crushes me. “Tell me it’s different with Jim.”
“Andie,” she scolds.
“Tell me,” I insist. “Tell me you want it to be different this time.”