Page 89 of Not You Again
She may look at me like she cares, but for the first time I’m wondering if the looks are enough. If the nights in bed are enough. Not for her, but for me. I’ve been willing to take any scrap of attention she can give me. But here in a hospital room with my mom, I realize how close I am to losing her, and all of Andie’s looks wouldn’t be enough to keep me afloat. I need more than that. I need her trust, her time, her love. Openly and unabashedly. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life tiptoeing around what I really want to say, how deeply I really feel.
When the chair creaks as I stand to get my cell phone from my bag, my mom says, “Thank Christ. You had me thinking I raised an absolute nincompoop.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENANDIE
I take in the small art studio as Cassidy clips a mic pack on me. Kit was gone this morning when I woke up, but he left a little gold envelope taped to the coffee maker. Inside was a note saying to meet him here for a date after work. He chose it, the note said, because the producers wanted to film us doing something we used to enjoy, the first time we dated.
As it is, I’m ready to rip him a new one for sending assistants and cameras to my loft like he owned the place. I called him three times to have this out before we were on camera tonight, and he ignored every single one.
So here I am, in an art studio in Midtown, wedged between a hip coffee shop and some sort of cottage-core boutique. Kit isn’t here yet. It’s fine. He has a longer drive in this shitty traffic. He’ll be here soon.
A man in gauchos and Birkenstocks floats toward us. And when I say float, I mean he clearly just finished meditating and manifesting world peace or something, because his facial features are so serene and his graying long hair flows behind him.
“Welcome,” he says with a smile. His voice is gentle. “I’m Dash, the owner of Inner Self Art Studio.”
I shake his hand and fumble through a greeting.
“Are we ready to create from within today?” he asks, cupping my hand in both of his. He leans forward eagerly, like my answer matters.
I look over my shoulder toward Cassidy. “Shouldn’t we wait for Kit?”
Cassidy looks at her watch, her mouth smoothing into a thin line. Then she shakes her head. “We only have the studio for a couple of hours. Let’s get started, and he can catch up when he gets here.”
Dash waves a tiny remote, and pulsating, lax music with no lyrics throbs through some hidden speakers. He turns to me with a smile.
My phone rings in my purse. Dash winces. I’m totally ruining his vibe, but I feel it in my bones. Something is wrong.
I gasp when I see who’s calling. “Kit,” I say his name with a relieved sigh. “Where are you?”
“I’m at Emory.” He sounds exhausted, his voice heavy and hoarse.
“Are you okay?” I look over my shoulder at Cassidy, who’s frowning.
“I’m okay.” Kit sighs. “I’m okay. But Andie, my mom, she … she fell.”
“Oh no.”
“The doctors say she only broke her hip, but—”
“I’m coming.” I throw my purse over my shoulder and turn to walk out the door we just entered.
“No.” Kit says loudly. Firmly. “Don’t.”
I stop in my tracks. My voice breaks. “What?”
“Andie,” he says like he’s explaining it to a child, “you need to stay and film or your chance at that money is shot. Remember what the executive producer said?”
“Yes, but I—”
“We’ll be okay.” He swallows. “I’m here and I’m taking care of her. I’ll stay the night, so I won’t be home.”
“Kit,” I plead.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?”
He hangs up before I can argue. He won’t even let me tell him that the show doesn’t matter if he needs me. I stare at the phone in my hand, stunned by his coldness.
“Is everything okay?” Cassidy asks gently.