Page 61 of Not You Again
She’s quiet, her eyes meeting mine across the small bathroom. A whole lifetime passes between us in a matter of seconds. This cycle of marriage and divorce—I know she did it to take care of me, of us. I know it’s her way of protecting us. But I don’t need her to save me anymore. I need to believe there’s more out there for her. Maybe for me.
Quietly, my mom gives me her answer: “I can’t.”
I sniff, unceremoniously wiping my nose on my arm, my heart breaking into another thousand pieces. My phone buzzes in my dress pocket, and as I wake up the screen, I say bitterly, “Well, you don’t have to stay married to him forever.”
She clears her throat. “I’m going to leave you be.”
I nod as another tiny shred of hope in me withers away. “Best wishes to the bride.”
She slips out the door as I read the message from Kit on my screen, Leave your mic in the bathroom and sneak out the kitchen. Call me when you’re out back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEKIT
Andie is quiet as I drive through Atlanta’s busy streets. When she called me from the alley outside, I told Cassidy I had a work emergency. She was pissed, but I don’t care. Anyone who looked could see Andie was crumbling at the dinner table. Steve must know how helpless I feel, because one touch and a murmured exchange with Cassidy saw me on my way, camera-free.
Andie’s been working herself to the bone trying to get this fashion line put out to keep her business in the black, and then her mom blindsides her with a marriage announcement of her own at dinner? On camera?
My blood simmered under my skin as her mom left the table to talk to her in the bathroom. I barely managed polite chitchat with Jim for a few minutes before my skin began to feel too tight. I had to get out, and I had to take Andie with me.
She didn’t question me when I grabbed her hand and pulled her to my SUV, a block away. I don’t have a plan beyond getting the hell out, but seeing her like this reminds me of the night she showed up at my door crying over her mom’s divorce.
I change lanes so I can turn toward Georgia State. I don’t really know what to do, but in my bones, it feels like we need to go back to go forward. I park in a random lot, not caring if I get a ticket, and we both climb out into the humid night air.
Andie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, turning her face toward the sky. When she looks at me, I nod my head in the direction of a walking path.
Without a word, she slips her hand in mine. We walk for a few moments before she says, “Thanks for breaking us free.”
“Any time.” The campus is mostly empty since school is out for the summer. It’s not long before we find ourselves heading toward the old arts building. Our story started there; it only makes sense, I suppose.
When we make it to the building, Andie gives me a mischievous smile and heads toward one of the side doors. I frown, not sure what she expects to find. It’s summer and it’s after hours. Every door in this place has to be locked.
She lets out a squeal of delight when the door she tries creaks open. I’ll be damned.
As I slip inside, she tells me, “The art students used to find ways to keep the locks jammed, because they never knew when their muse would strike.”
The door shuts behind us, and she slips her hand back into mine. I don’t question it, too afraid she’ll realize her mistake and let me go.
We wander down the hallway as Andie tests a door here and there. She breathes out a triumphant curse when one gives under her push. I’d be a fool not to follow her inside.
It’s not the room where we met, but it’s close enough. Easels folded and stacked against a far wall, a couple of large tables, and a counter along one wall, where extra supplies live during the semester.
In the privacy of an art studio, I finally get the nerve to ask, “You said a lot happened after I left. Do you want to tell me about it?”
I think she’s not going to say anything at all as she runs her hand along the counter. Then she says in a quiet voice, “Well, there was my mom’s divorce.”
“You were hurt by that, I remember.” I slowly walk toward her, needing to be closer. “Have you spoken with your dad since?”
She lets out a puff of laughter and hops up to sit on the counter, demurely crossing her ankles. “Keith isn’t my dad.”
I lean on the counter next to her and frown.
“I’ve never met my dad. Honestly, I’m not sure my mom is positive who he is. Keith was husband number three.” She looks over at me, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her eyes flick down to my chest. “Take off your jacket.”
Heat slices through me at the suggestion. I don’t argue, slipping out of my suit jacket. Before I can toss it aside, she takes it from me and shuffles the fabric in her lap until she can see the cuff of one of my sleeves. Her fingers pull at a loose thread.
She shifts so she can reach into her dress pocket and pulls out a sewing kit, of all things. I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile. Fucking pockets.
“Always prepared, sweet potato?”