“Shut up,” I say. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone can.”
“What does that mean?” I’m ready to be offended. So ready. Ready like Freddy. Ready like—
“You’re not easy to know. That’s not a bad thing, so stop looking at me like that.”
“This is just my face,” I say. “It’s how I always look.” I’ve caught glimpses of myself in the mirror before, when I’m in emotional turmoil. All the lines in my face popping out, my eyes frightened.
He laughs hard. I like making him laugh. I really do.
“So, obviously compliments make me super uncomfortable. I’m not hard to know. I’m really simple. I don’t even know who I am yet.”
“Helena!” Kit says. “I’d be worried if you said you did know yourself. Did you know that Albert Einstein never wore socks?”
“Huh?”
“He had a complex mind. Never stopped thinking, but socks complicated his life. So he just didn’t wear them.”
I think about the homeless dude in Seattle, the one who liked the socks I wasn’t wearing. I’m not sure why I’m thinking of that. Or why Kit is talking about socks. Oh my God, focus Helena. I shake my head, hoping to jolt my brain back to working order.
“Where are we going?”
“To eat,” he says.
“Yes, I know that. But where?”
“Trust.”
Lanzo’s of the Lanzo family. These people know food. I didn’t trust him. I grumble all the way there, and then look over the menu suspiciously. It’s called being hangry. Kit smiles at me the whole time, even when I eat all of the bread. His eyes are on me as I take my first bite. His own food left untouched until he knows that I like mine.
“Oh, good, Holy Mother of—”
“Shh,” he says. “They’re Catholics.”
“Zeus,” I finish.
He still hasn’t touched his food. He sips his wine, watching me.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.
“I already ate.”
“So why are we having dinner?”
“So you can eat,” he says.
I slide his plate to my side of the table. “Kit, I know you have something to say. So go ahead and say it. Because I’m stress eating right now, and I’d really like to stop.”
I can feel the spaghetti slapping at my cheeks, but I’m not wiping shit away until he tells me why we’re here. Or why he’s here. Or…
He slides a napkin across the table. At first I think he’s telling me to wipe my face, but then I start choking. I can’t read the words because my eyes are watering. Our server comes over to ask if I’m all right. Kit nods calmly, his eyes still on me. He’s not smiling. I’m supposed to stop coughing. I cough a little more to buy myself time.
I had a dream. Don’t marry Della
“Where did you get that?” I ask. Though I know where. Such an idiot, Helena.
“You know where,” he says.
“I was drunk.”
“You were. But I know you. You’re extra honest when you’re drunk.”
He calls the server over. “Another glass of wine for the lady,” he says.
I laugh.
“You’re so dumb.”
“At the wedding—” he says.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I interrupt. I want to stand up and leave, but the server is right there with my wine, blocking my path.
“Helena, shut up and listen.”
“Okay.” I take my wine and go to town on it.
“I shouldn’t have let you run off like that. I was a little in shock.”
“Oh my God, it’s so hot in here,” I say, ignoring him. I look around, fanning myself.
“I’m in love with you, Helena. I should have told you then, but I’m telling you now. I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry?
“You’re sorry for being in love with me?”
“I’m sorry for not telling you. Focus.”
“Did you break up with Della?”
“Della and I broke up, yes.”
“Because…”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
There’s a ringing in my ears. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with the wine. I’m allergic.”
“You’re allergic to emotion,” Kit says.
“I have to go,” I tell him, standing up. “Wait. Does she know? Did you tell her that thing you just told me?”
It’s the first time he looks away. “No.”
“So you’re secretly in love with me? And you came here to tell me. And if I don’t reciprocate, then you can go back to Della? No harm, no foul.”
“No. It’s not like that. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Are you still in love with Greer, too?”
“Oh my God. No, I’m not in love with Greer.” He jumps up and pulls me back down to my chair. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Or angry.
“Helena—”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Why?”
“It gives me butterflies, and I don’t trust you or your butterflies.”
His lips pinch together like he’s finding all of this very funny. “You’re not supposed to admit I give you butterflies.”