Page 81 of Not You Again
Maureen mumbles something about having to check on dinner and shuffles slowly toward the kitchen. Kit watches her walking with a frown. I know that look. That’s his You shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard look. I’m glad to know it’s not just me he does that to.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out. It’s from Cassidy. Why don’t you ask Kit for a tour?
Normally, I find a way to dodge Cassidy’s line of questioning. But I’m just not feeling clever tonight, so I turn to Kit. “Can you give me the grand tour?”
He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. Holding his hands out to the room, he says darkly, “This is it.”
It’s small, of course; as a single-wide trailer, it would be. Everything is clean, and even the books stacked on random flat surfaces seem to have some level of order to them. On the whole, it’s a cozy space. Unpretentious.
The carpet in the living room is older, and the linoleum in the kitchen is peeling back from the Pepto Bismol pink cabinets. The walls are papered with a floral pattern that looks like it walked out of 1992. The dark green sofa and reddish-brown recliner in the living room are clearly well lived in. Hanging above it is a photo of a younger Kit, his mom, and a man who must be his dad, based on the resemblance. He never mentions his dad; I assumed he wasn’t around, but Kit has to be a teenager in this photo.
Clearing my throat, I look down a narrow hallway and ask, “Is that your childhood bedroom?”
Maureen, of course, hears me ask, because she’s only a couple of feet away even though she’s technically in the kitchen. “It is,” she says before Kit has the chance to answer.
“Can I take a look?”
“Of course, honey.” Maureen moves to one of the cabinets over the sink. “Make yourself at home.”
When I look at Kit, he only lets out a heavy sigh. His only sign of consent is a small sweep of his arm indicating I should lead the way.
The floors creak under my feet as I wander down the short hallway. It makes a bit of a bottleneck, so Steve is lodged in the doorway, Cassidy and an extra sound guy stuck behind him, standing on their tiptoes to make sure they’re not missing anything important.
The room has almost nothing in it. There’s a twin-size bed and a small dresser that looks like it hopped out of the eighties. On the wall closest to the door, there’s a small closet.
“I see you got rid of the Spiderman sheets.” I try for a lighthearted joke, even though my heart is tearing in two, remembering what he told me about the conversations he heard his parents have late at night.
I don’t feel sorry for Kit, not like that. Sure, this place is small, but it feels like more of a home than I ever had. I can’t remember my mom ever telling me to make myself at home. Even in our own home. We were always visitors, passing through on borrowed time. When Kit doesn’t bother to acknowledge my comment, I sit down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress springs squeal.
I ask carefully, because I truly want to know, “Did you like growing up here?” Maureen seems warm and loving, and he had all this outdoor space to run around as a boy.
Finally, the flicker of a smile crosses his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “We made it good.”
It’s my turn to frown. I open my mouth to ask about his dad—I know just how touchy a subject that can be—but don’t get the chance.
Cassidy says from behind Steve, “Kit, can you sit on the bed with Andie? It’s hard for us to see you both from here.”
Kit’s jaw tics, but he relents. The mattress sinks next to me, and it takes all my willpower to keep from leaning right into him.
Gently, I tell him, “Thank you for inviting me to dinner tonight.”
His lips twitch in a flicker of a smile. “My mom would have murdered me if I didn’t.”
“Ah, so the force feeding is a family trait.” I nudge him with my elbow.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m plagued with stubborn women.”
I press my hand to my chest in mock offense. “I thought you found my stubbornness charming.”
“More than that.” He smiles for real this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But we don’t need to scandalize the crew tonight.”
Before I can sink into the liquid heat in his eyes, Maureen calls us back out to the table for dinner.
After a meal filled with shallow questions about what I do for a living and how odd it was to get married on TV, Kit collects our plates while I help Maureen to the living room. She catches me looking at the family photo above the sofa.
“He takes after his father,” Maureen says with a smile. “In more than just looks.”
“He doesn’t talk about his dad at all.” Honestly, by the way Kit speaks about his family, it’s like his dad doesn’t exist.