Page 3 of Not You Again

“I meant as a candidate for matchmaking,” Heidi scolds.

My breath catches at the idea. “How strong is that drink?”

She laughs again, taking another sip. “Do you know the premise of the show?”

“I live under a rock, remember?”

“Perfect strangers marry, then they have eight weeks together to decide: stay together or walk away.”

“Why in the hell would I do that to myself?” I already know marriage is never on my to-do list, let alone in front of a TV audience. And especially not if all it’s bound to do is crash and burn. My mom’s been married enough times; I know exactly how this will play out.

“Because if you choose to divorce at the end, the show pays you a hundred grand for your trouble.” She sips on her drink and shrugs one shoulder. “Each.”

“A hundred grand?” I ask quietly. That would cover the materials I purchased for Fashion Week, pay for the models, and then some. I might not even need an investor right away. “But why would anyone stay married if you get paid to divorce?”

Heidi leans closer, raising her eyebrows like she knows a big, juicy secret. “It’s hidden in the contracts. Listed under payment for damages.” She leans back against the counter and shrugs. “They let me speak with some brides from last season, and one of them let it slip. Apparently, the show has six figures set aside for each cast member, just in case. It’s probably to avoid a lawsuit or something.”

I frown.

“I’m just saying, it’s there if you want it. I know how you feel about business loans.”

I bring my glass to my lips to help swallow the bitter pill of my mother’s unfilled promise to invest in my business. It went out the window with her last marriage. A six-figure paycheck that I can get myself sounds appealing. Eventually I mumble, “It’s an option.”

Heidi gives me a perfunctory nod. “You’re a catch; they’d definitely cast you. And we both know you’re not going to fall in love.”

It’s true, but something behind my rib cage twists at the cool statement of fact. No way in hell am I going to tie myself to a person for life. It’s only license for them to take what they want, then cast you out when they’re done with you.

I’m fine on my own.

Or I will be when I finally get through my designer’s block and come up with a theme that’s new and interesting, or even just a little unexpected at this point. Fashion Week looms like an omen in the not-so-distant future. I murmur into my glass, “A hundred grand.”

Heidi snorts and rolls her eyes. “Think about it, okay? At the very least you get an all-expense-paid vacation, and God knows you need one of those.”

She whisks out the bathroom door, leaving me to ruminate.

CHAPTER TWOKIT

The rotting wooden steps to the front door groan under my feet, and I make a mental note to send a handyman out to repair them. The paint on the exterior of the single-wide manufactured home needs some love, too. I’m not surprised. It’s been a while since I’ve been back, and I knew my mom was in no state to take care of the house when I left.

The screen outer door squeals on its hinges, and guilt gnaws at my guts. It’s something my dad would have taken care of if he was still around. I clear the knot of emotion from my throat; I’ll oil them before I leave. It’s the least I can do. It takes a moment for my knock on the front door to be answered. I breathe in the cool late March air; the weather is much nicer in northern Georgia than it is in New York City this time of year.

“The prodigal son returns!” Mom answers the door in a house dress and slippers, readers dangling around her neck from a chain with dragonflies on it. “Come in, come in.”

“You look … good.” I offer her a smile that wobbles at the edges. The linoleum in the tiny kitchen is the same as it was my entire childhood, though now it’s yellowing with age and peeling away from the dusty pink cabinet edges.

“How many times have I told you, you never have to knock?” She closes the door behind us and shuffles into the living room. “You grew up here; it’s your own home.”

I wince, gripping the back of my neck, and say to my feet, “Mom, I haven’t lived here in over a decade.”

She tuts. “It will always be your home, Kit.”

How can she say that so easily? She’d had me young—she and Dad were only nineteen—and married when my mom was still pregnant. It made for a hard life. My dad tried his best, but we’d never had money. The walls of this place still echo with the late-night conversations they didn’t think I heard. The ones where they had to choose between cable and a new jacket for me. They always chose me. But when Dad died, I couldn’t choose her.

Mom’s already marching to the kitchen. “You better be staying for dinner.”

“Of course.” I shove my hand through my hair, mussed from the redeye from New York, and that was a mere twenty-four hours after the flight from Paris. I haven’t shaved in almost four days, and Mom reaches up to pat the stubble on my cheek. I give her a weary smile, the vise around my lungs loosening an iota.

“I’m glad you’re home, kid.”

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