That's normal, how things should be, but something is missing.
I try not to consider it. I need to pack as quickly as possible. Kit and I can talk more on the way. It's a seven hour drive or a forty five minutes flight plus two hours at the airport. We have plenty of time to talk.
But my heart is still in my throat.
My hands are still shaking so much I ban barely unlock and open the door.
"Bike's a lot the first time," he says. "You okay?"
I nod, but that isn't true either. Even so, I step inside and head straight to my room. "I'll be quick," I call down the stairs.
"Sure," he calls back.
In my room, I find my new duffel, the one Mal bought me. I unzip it and stuff it with clothes. How long will we be in San Francisco? And what the hell do you wear to go visit your not quite a boyfriend's mom at the hospital after she ODed on recreational drugs? There must be something appropriate for this occasion.
I add a little of everything—jeans and a t-shirt, leggings and sweaters, a cute dress, a classy dress, a formal enough for a wedding dress, tights, boots, sandals, sneakers, slacks and a blazer. The duffel is ready to burst but it does hold a week's worth of clothes. I should thank Mal later. It's a useful gift.
I roll it out of my room and make my way down the hall. Kit is in front of the couch, pacing as he listens to something on his phone. Then he's done listening, and he's staring at his phone. I can't make out his expression, but I can feel his hurt. It's making the air heavy.
Shit. I need toothpaste, makeup, sunscreen. I head to the bathroom and stuff the necessary toiletries into one of the side pockets.
There.
I'm packed.
I grab the shoulder strap, bring the duffel downstairs, and leave it in the foyer.
Kit's eyes meet mine. I can make out his expression now. He's still frustrated, still hurting, but there's something else there.
Now, I'm sure I'm losing some part of him.
"Did you get the flights?" I smooth my dress. "Or did you want to take my car. It just had a tune up. And there shouldn't be any traffic at this time."
"Piper."
No. That remorseful tone of his voice means bad news.
I open my mouth to speak but words refuse to fall.
He slides his hand into his pocket. "You shouldn't come."
"Don't you want me there?"
His eyes scream yes but his lips stay shut.
I take a step forwards.
He moves backwards instantly, like it's a reflex.
"If you don't want me there, say that." My exhale is heavy. "Just tell me the truth."
"It's not that."
"Then what?"
His eyes go to the floor. "When my dad said those words, 'your mom is in the ER, she ODed,' I felt like I was going to fall into pieces so tiny no one would ever be able to put them together again. I still do."
"You won't." I won't let him.