Page 84 of Not You Again

She rests her trembling hands on my chest, balling them into fists. “I could have done it, but I was too focused on myself and didn’t stop to think that maybe you needed me.”

I can’t help the half grin tugging at my lips as I let my hand settle into the curve at the small of her back. “Andie, it’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you what was happening. You were right to be upset.”

“Broken.” She fiddles with one of the buttons on my shirt. “I was broken when you left.”

My familiar friend guilt returns, a knife driving between my ribs, angled at the soft organ that always caused so much trouble. “I’m sorry. I was in no place to be the man you needed back then. It’s my fault you—”

“It’s not your fault.” Her voice is louder and firm. Leaving no room for debate as her eyes find mine. “Kit, you lost your father. Your life was upside down. How could it be your fault?”

“I hurt you,” I croak, my arm tensing around her.

“You were hurting.” The look in her eyes is pure salvation. I’ll drown in it if I look long enough. It’s a promise blanketed in hope. I can be selfish. I can wrap myself in her offering. But it will mean costing her the money she needs. This ache behind my ribs is new, different—to love someone so fiercely and still be so far away.

Her fingers trail along my jaw, then play at my throat. I swallow. I should tell her how I feel, how I lost her once and I might not survive if I lose her again. How I want to support her dreams, but I don’t want her haunting mine with what-ifs when this is over.

“We’re here now,” I whisper, even though there’s no one else around to hear. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s the truth. This moment could stretch on forever, or it could just be for a few more days. But right now, we’re together, and it’s ours.

Andie must feel it too, because she stands on tiptoes to press her lips to mine. The kiss turns desperate, our bodies crushed together as our tongues tangle.

And if I tell her with my body all the ways I love her, if I hold her through her release, her cries mingling with my own, if we strip down to nothing between us, holding each other in the fluorescent light of this rented kitchen … is it enough? Can I let it be enough when she walks away for good?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEANDIE

My designs are mocking me.

Eating cold leftovers from the takeout Kit sent a few days ago, I stand in my sweatpants and hole-y Georgia State hoodie, worried I’m a complete fraud.

Twelve of my eighteen dresses for Fashion Week are lined up on dress forms, bathed in light from the wall of windows in my loft.

Since I don’t have another wedding to worry about, I at least have plenty of time to stare at my creations and hate them bitterly. I spent so many hours pulling them together, and here in the sunlight, they all feel monstrously wrong.

Nothing about these dresses feels new or special or even good anymore.

Perhaps if I wasn’t thinking about dinner with Kit’s mom so much, I’d feel better about them. Worse, we still haven’t talked about the possibility of him going to Italy.

I want to scream at him for his silence, his absence, even though he’s been in bed with me every night since. That’s what killed me slowly the last time—the sudden disappearance of the Kit I gave my whole self to.

I should have just stayed in my studio for lunch that day. If I had, I wouldn’t know any of this: how it feels to finally have let him in only to hear that he’s leaving. Which should be what I want, since I need to divorce him in two weeks, but now that he’s been in every corner of my body and soul, I know how much the emptiness will hurt when he goes.

I know it’s not the same as last time, but this isn’t what I want. If we’re together, I want to be together, not in different hemispheres.

I don’t want him in half measures.

Worse, I understand him—I won’t give up the business I’ve worked so hard for, either. Giving it up to gallivant around the world at the whims of Kit’s company, solely reliant on him for everything, isn’t an option. He knows that. And it’s not like I can have some sort of traveling studio. Dress forms and bolts of fabric don’t exactly travel well.

I can’t believe I’m searching for ways to meet him in the middle when he won’t even consider staying without me begging him. What a goddamn mess.

“Oh, I love that one,” a voice says behind me. I whirl around, stunned to see any sort of visitors here.

Heidi snorts a laugh at my surprise. “This is Andie Dresser,” she tells the statuesque Black woman in a smart suit beside her. “She’s one of Atlanta’s best up-and-coming dress designers.”

“Up-and-coming?” The woman strides over to the third dress from the right to examine it up close. “As in, not too many people know about her yet?”

I shoot Heidi a look that says, Who the hell does she think she is?

“Andie, this is Odette Thorne.”

My eyes go wide. “As in, the woman marrying—”