“You think the concierge can see us in here?” Will whispers in my ear, his breath hot. It’s a late Saturday afternoon in September, and we’re in the elevator of my building. We’ve been out all afternoon—and now we’re about to make dinner together. It’s been a month since our Fresh Food Fast contract ended, and we’re still cooking together. And grocery shopping. We go to movies. He’s met Izzy. Margot still strongly dislikes me and Gillian and I tend to keep our distance, but his other friends are pretty cool with me. Though the elephant is still taking up a lot of space in the room—and every time I want to talk to him about kids, I chicken out. Because everything else about us is so, so great. And it’s very clear that Will’s not interested in anyone else—not even Gillian—which makes me alternately giddy and nervous. All summer, we—or at least, I—convinced myself it was a summer fling. People have summer romances all the time and they naturally fizzle out come fall. But we’re definitely not fizzling. Sizzling, yes. Fizzling, not so much.
Now, he presses me against the wall of the elevator and moves his lips from my ear to my neck. “I hope so,” he says, in answer to a question I can’t even remember asking. The doors open, and we stumble out into the hall and his arms are around me and I’m sort of leading him and not wanting to let go of him. At my door, I fumble for my key in my purse, unlock the door, and then push it open. My toes immediately feel wet. I look down and scream. The entire surface area of my apartment is covered in at least an inch of water, a steady stream raining down from the far corner of the apartment.
“Shit,” Will says. “Grab your laptop and your camera,” he says, pointing to the island, but all I can think about are the books. I have to get the books. I grab the laundry hamper I keep on top of the washer and set it on the island, then yank open the oven door and begin piling the books into it. It’s full within seconds. “We need something else to carry the books!” I say to Will.
“The books?” he says, his arms laden with my camera equipment.
“There’s another hamper in my room!” He disappears into the hall and returns, goes into my bedroom and comes out with a white plastic hamper. I start piling books from other cupboards into the second bin, then reach under the sink for large black garbage bags. In the bedroom, I throw open my closet doors, and stare at the books, organized by genre and author, then begin piling them into the bag. I know they’re just books, that they’re replaceable, but it’s not that. These books are the only thing keeping me focused on my future and keeping me tied to Mom. Do what you love, she’d said that morning while garage shopping, and the rest will fall into place.
My eyes fill with tears, but I swipe them away. The photo albums, I suddenly remember. They’re tucked on the top shelf of my closet. All those photos of Mom. Of me. Of Dad and Mom and Izzy and me together. The only family I ever had—the only family I will ever have. I scramble to grab those, too, and put them into the black garbage bag that’s now so full I need Will to help me carry it through my apartment and out the front door into the hall. Ivan, the Grumpy Concierge, and two maintenance guys in gray onesie uniforms rush toward my apartment, assess the source of the water and disappear. I hurry back in, determined to get the rest of the books before I’m told to get out. We run out of garbage bags when there are still a handful of books left on the shelves in my room.
“We have to go,” Will is saying, has been saying over and over, his arm around me. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t try to stop me, either.
One of the maintenance guys meets us in the hall, explaining that a pipe burst in the apartment over mine. “Unfortunately your unit got the worst of the damage.”
I sigh, and drag a garbage bag of books down the hall. Ivan steps off the elevator, and helps me hoist the garbage bags onto a large, flat trolley, telling me I can store anything I need to in a spare storage locker. “I can help you,” he offers, with uncharacteristic kindness.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling overcome with emotion. He tells me the storage locker number and hands me a key. And that’s when I realize I have nowhere to go. It’s not like I can move into the storage locker, too.
“Do you have my phone?” I ask Will. “And did you grab that orange box on my desk?”
He looks around the cart, then holds the box up. “This?”
“Yes.”
I grab it and start rooting through the plastic cards.
“What are you doing?” Will says.
I look up. “Gift cards. This is where I keep all the gift cards I get when clients don’t want to pay real money for promo. Takeout, taxis, spas—anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure there’s a gift card in here for the Ritz.” I know I sound hysterical, and this is not a sound plan, but right now it’s my only plan. “I’m sure they’re going to figure out how to fix my apartment in a few days. This must happen all the time,” I’m saying. I have absolutely no idea if this is true, but I’ve moved into fight mode. Or denial. I’ve got to believe this is all going to turn out just fine.
“Ms. Kidding,” Ivan interrupts. “There’s serious damage. We’ll need to get a hold of the owner. He’ll have to deal with his insurance. That could take days, weeks even. And we’ll have to confirm all the work and how it will be paid for. This could be a lengthy process.”
My heart is pounding. My fingertips feel tingly but I keep scrabbling through the box. I know there’s a hotel stay in here somewhere. Or maybe it’s in my email inbox? Suddenly Will’s arms are around me. He pulls me close. I resist for a moment. I don’t need him—I don’t need any man. I can do this myself. But he puts his hand on the back of my head, and I bury my face in his chest as he strokes my hair.
“Stay with me,” he says softly.
I look up at him. “What?” My heart races.
“Stay with me.” And I know he doesn’t mean figuratively, in this moment. He means, stay with him. But I can’t do that. “If I don’t have a free hotel stay I’ll stay with one of my single friends or my sister…” I say. Even though I know none of them are going to want a long-term houseguest. And I get it. I love my friends, my sister, too, obviously, but we aren’t in college anymore. With Will’s arms around me, right now, in this moment, I feel safe. Protected. I want to go with him. I want him to take care of me. But I can’t. “No way,” I say. “We just decided we were going to be casual,” I whisper, as one of the maintenance guys comes into view. “I’m not going to live in your house while some other girl booty calls you.”
“No other girl is going to be booty calling me,” he says. “I’ll just…meet her at her place. Or a hotel.” He grins. I smack him. “I’m kidding,” he says.
“It’s too crazy.”
“No it’s not. What’s crazy is you living in a hotel or on someone’s couch. You need a place to stay and I have a big house.” He smiles down at me. “You can even have your own bedroom. And we can bring a bunch of these books so you feel at home.”
“I don’t know,” I say. But I do know.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and I let him lead the way.
The sun, streaming through the window on the wrong side of my face, wakes me. I open one eye and look around at the walls in confusion, and then remember that I’m at Will’s. And I remember the rest of last night. The multiple trips to bring my things to the storage locker and the rest back to his place. How the two of us worked together, side by side, as a team. I turn over but the other half of the bed is empty. I sigh and stretch out, looking around his bedroom in the early-morning light, the sun streaming in, casting a glow on the soft blue walls. At the foot of the bed, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls. I tilt my head sideways to read some of the titles on the spines, the books a mix of everything from politics to thrillers to children’s fairy tales. I reach over to the nightstand to grab my phone, then stand, grab a book off his shelf that I’ve read, and hold it out in front of the shelves, filling the frame with the colorful spines. I climb back into bed, post the picture to my Bookstagram account, smile at the tiny squares of books, then turn my phone off and put it back on the nightstand just as the door opens and Will comes into his room with a coffee mug. “Morning, beautiful,” he says, kissing me on the forehead and placing a steaming mug of coffee on the nightstand. I sit up and take him in. He’s dressed and clean-shaven and looks so good.
“Come back to bed,” I say, pulling him toward me.
“Nope. Got to go,” he says, all business. I’m disappointed. It’s not like Addie’s even here. If we can’t enjoy the empty house now, when will we? “Margot gets irritated if I don’t pick Addie up by nine. And she has gymnastics at ten, so I’ll take her out for a bagel before that. Oh”—he slaps his head—“and then she has a birthday party at one. So we’ll probably be back sometime around four.”
I sigh. I envisioned us reading the paper in bed, drinking coffee, having sex. His plan feels so rigid. Unromantic. Not how I envisioned the first morning after moving in with him. But this isn’t “moving in” moving in. It’s just convenience born out of an inconvenience. It’s fine. “I have to deal with the apartment anyway. I should call my landlord and my insurance company. Wait, will they be open on a Sunday?” I’m thinking aloud.
“You got this. Oh, and make yourself at home, obviously. One thing: do you mind moving your stuff into the guest room?” He points to his right. “For Addie’s sake, I think it probably makes sense to look like that’s where you’re staying. Not that we can’t have conjugal visits when she’s asleep.” He kisses me on the lips, then leaves.
Sleep in the guest room? Of course it makes sense. And maybe it’s better for us anyway, so I have a bit of distance. Still, I feel a bit homeless and lonely. I lie back on my pillow, and try to push through my feelings of disappointment and vulnerability. Will certainly didn’t seem disappointed not to be spending the day with me…it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just—life. It goes on, flood or not. I sling my legs over the side of the bed, my feet cold on the hardwood floor. My mind cycles through the nightmare the next few days are going to be as I deal with insurance and replacing everything that’s been ruined. It’s a good thing I didn’t really have that much to begin with. Hopefully my contract with Stay-a-While covers water damage—and at least I already banked a bunch of photos with this month’s furniture selection that I can use in the coming weeks. I’m definitely not going to be taking pictures in this house—how on earth would I explain that I went from an apartment with tons of natural light, gleaming white walls, high-end finishes and pristine fixtures to a very lived-in house with bad lighting and toys everywhere?
But then it dawns on me. I have an excuse not to have to create new sponsored content for the next little while. What can I do if I can’t possibly shoot in my apartment—and it’s not my fault? I’m always saying that if only I had some time, I could devote it to the book garage plan. A sense of relief washes over me.
I take a few sips of coffee then look around for the bag I stuffed with clothes, pulling open the closet doors. And stop. The left side is packed with Will’s clothes, the right side is mostly empty, except for a few things—jewelry box, a few pairs of shoes, some shirts. Her things. I look away and close the doors, feeling like I’ve just read his diary.
I shuffle down the hallway, my feet warmed by the runner on the floor, and drag my things into the room next door. The room has a double bed, a nightstand and a lamp. The walls feature Addie’s drawings, and a large framed photo of Addie, Will and an older couple I suspect are his parents. I know nothing about his parents, or where they live, but I wonder now if this is their room, when they visit. I shove my things into the empty closet. In the bathroom, I turn on the faucet, splashing my face with water, then look around for a towel. I open the cupboards under the sink and pull out a white towel. There’s an S on it. It takes me a moment to make the connection. Sophie. My hands shake and I grip the towel and slide down to the floor, leaning back against the cold tile on the wall and closing my eyes. My heart pounds.
OK, it’s one towel, and the S might not even refer to Sophie. C’mon, Kit.
I open my eyes, let go of the towel and reach forward for the handles of the cupboard doors in front of me. I pull them open and rifle through the other towels. Two more S’s, and a few W’s. Sophie and Will. There’s no debating it: these are couple towels. Were they wedding gifts, or something they bought together on a date one Saturday afternoon? Curiosity eats away at me, and yet, at the same time, I long to be oblivious. It’s simpler. I don’t want my emotions involved, but being here, in Will’s house, means I can’t avoid it. I refold the towel in my hand and shove it into the cabinet, then find a small gray hand towel at the bottom of the pile and run it under cold water until my hands feel numb. I hold it to my face for several minutes.
Back in the hall, I look around. Even though I’ve been to Will’s dozens of times, I’ve only been upstairs a handful of those. There’s a missing knob on the closet and marker on the wall. The door to Addie’s room is slightly ajar. I peek inside. The walls are lavender and there’s a mound of stuffed animals in the corner of the room. I take a few steps closer, holding onto her door handle and craning my head to see a framed photo on the wall. Addie’s a baby, maybe one or two, and she’s in what must be Sophie’s arms. Sophie’s blond hair is falling around her shoulders. She’s tall and lean, with creamy skin, and Will’s arm is around her. I lean in a little more, trying not to trespass into Addie’s room but also trying to see the three of them more clearly.
The moulding on the door frame is smooth to the touch, and I hang on to it, still looking around. That’s when I see another photo in the corner. It’s Sophie, pregnant, sitting on the grass under a tree. I’ve seen hundreds of photos of pregnant women and I’ve never felt much of anything. But now, looking at Sophie, her face glowing, her hand resting on her swollen abdomen, I feel a stab of jealousy. And wonder. I walk over to Addie’s vanity and sit down on the wooden bench and find myself trying to imagine what it would feel like to be pregnant, to have a child growing inside me, to meet that child and see myself in him or her. And then, to get sick, to know I was going to die without seeing my daughter grow up. I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror and see my mother in my face. Or see Sophie in Addie’s. I stand and land on something sharp. It’s a tiny purple Lego. Holding the bit in my hand, I consider it for a moment before placing it on her dresser and getting out of her room.
After changing back into my clothes from yesterday, I head downstairs. In the kitchen, I refill my coffee mug, then wander around the house, paying attention to details in a way I never do when Will is here. Dirty dishes tower high in the sink, and a series of black marks and dates track Addie’s height on the doorframe to the basement. Walls have dings, and pictures are slightly off-kilter. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner of the living room, and there’s a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table.
The house feels lived in, and in some ways, you’d never know that it was just Will and Addie. Sophie’s touches seem to be everywhere: bright and cheerful knobs on the kitchen cabinets, the owl collection on the living room shelf. Everywhere I look, now that I’m really looking, there are reminders of her. They’re whimsical and charming and I know Addie and Will must love feeling like she’s still with them, but to me, it feels threatening and intimidating. I hate that Sophie had her life so together, so many years ago, when I still really don’t, in some ways at least. It makes me hate her even though I don’t even know her. I feel like a monster. She didn’t do anything wrong. All she did was die, young and beautiful. She was the perfect mom with a perfect husband and a perfect daughter. Everything so fucking perfect and now set, for eternity, in stone.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. How could I ever belong here, with my messed-up life and flooded apartment? Discouraged, I look out through the sliding glass doors. And that’s when I see it. How had I not seen it before? At the end of Will’s backyard, leading into the alleyway, is a garage.
“What are you going to do?” Izzy asks when I meet her for coffee later in the day. We’re at Mug Shot, and the place is packed and noisy, but we managed to get a table on the back patio, in the shade.
“What can I do? I’m not going to move just because there’s water damage. It’s just a temporary inconvenience.” I’ve just heard that the water damage in my apartment is worse than anticipated and they need to knock down one of the walls and rebuild it, so I’m going to be out of my place for much longer than I thought.
“You can always stay with us,” she says. “If you change your mind about staying with Will.”
I swirl my biscotti in my coffee. “You know, I thought you’d be more alarmed to hear I’m staying with Will,” I say. Izzy is usually my voice of reason, the one I can count on to tell me when I’m making bad choices.
“What do you want me to say?” she says. “You’re thirty-three. I think it’s pretty obvious that you like him. And he obviously likes you, too. He’s good, you’re good. I think you’re good together. I think, perhaps, it could be a bit confusing to Addie, but she’s Will’s daughter, and I’m sure he’s thinking about that. And when your apartment’s ready, you move back. Or…you don’t?”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Will it be awkward? I mean, can you ever really go back?” I look at Izzy, waiting for an answer. When she doesn’t give me one, I continue. “People aren’t like cars. They’re more like bikes, only moving forward. Or maybe it’s that life is the bike, and we’re just the cyclists. We’ve got to keep peddling or fall off and die.”
“You don’t always die if you fall off your bike,” Izzy points out.
“Maybe not, but you get hurt.”
Izzy nods. “But you didn’t move-in move-in,” she says, reconfirming what I’d been telling myself. “You’re just staying with him. It’s temporary. I think you definitely have an out, if you want one. You’re still paying for your place. I wouldn’t overthink things.”
She’s right. It is temporary. So maybe I should just let myself enjoy this temporary domestic experience and see how it goes.
“OK. But if Dad asks, let’s just say I’m staying with you. Cool?” I sip my coffee.
“Yes, and the offer is always open, if you change your mind and actually want to crash with Roddy and me. I can’t promise he’ll put the toilet seat down, though, but he will put you to work and make you really appreciate your own place when you move back into your apartment.”
I laugh lightly. “Can I…tell you something else?” She pauses, her biscotti partway to her mouth.
“Of course.”
“Do you ever remember Mom talking about opening a bookshop, in a garage?” I say.
Izzy laughs then sees my face. “Oh, you’re serious?” She pops the biscotti into her mouth.
I nod. “Yeah,” I say slowly, feeling self-conscious.
“No, but, that doesn’t mean she didn’t. Why do you ask?”
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, trying to warm them as a chill runs through me. “I have this memory of Mom and me, garage-hunting on Saturdays. She wanted to find the perfect garage, and then convince Dad to move. She wanted to open a bookshop in the garage. She said we could run it together. I’m sure she meant you, too. All of us,” I add, hearing how the idea sounds. But Izzy shakes her head.
“I’m not sure about that last part,” she teases, as though she knows I added it on so she wouldn’t feel excluded. “And that’s fine. You two always had a special bond. And you’re the readers in our family. Dad and I were the active ones, out bike riding or playing catch, while you and Mom were inside, both your noses in books.”
I hang on Izzy’s every word, hearing this information, her view of Mom, of me, of Mom and me together, for the first time. “But just because I didn’t know anything about it doesn’t mean anything.” She tilts her head. “I can see you’re going through a lot right now, huh?”
I nod. “I guess I am. Maybe it’s thinking about how young Mom was when she died, and how I’m almost there. I know you already went through this…”
Izzy smiles softly, kindly. “It’s not easy. It makes you think. You only live once and all that.”
I empty my cup and replace it on the table. “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Exactly.”
“Well, stick with it. Don’t be too quick to brush off your thoughts just because they’re scary. Or a hot guy who suddenly comes into your life when you weren’t expecting it.” She winks, then stands. “You ready to go?”
I stand and follow her out of the café, into the warm late-morning sun.
I spend the afternoon at the National Association for Women in Business head office, going through entries for the Women in Business entrepreneur of the year award. In addition to being the keynote speaker this year, I’m also a judge for this award. I think back to a few years ago, when I won the same award, the year I hit fifty No Kidding chapters across North America. It was such an exhilarating feeling, and I can’t wait to help another woman feel that same recognition when she wins this award.
I’ve been at it for hours, and when I finally narrow the entries down to a shortlist of six, I think about calling it a day. I’d love to head back to Will’s, curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and my book, but it’s only four now, which means Will and Addie will just be getting home. I don’t want her to walk in and find me there. Because even though she’s only one-third of this equation, she’s the most important one at this particular time. And if there’s a chance I’ll be at Will’s for a few weeks, it’s important this whole thing gets off on the right foot. I wonder if Will has told her? What if she’s already upset about the whole thing? Do I fight to stay or just pack my things and go? My stomach churns.
An hour later, I head back to Will’s.
Addie throws open the door as I walk up the steps. “Where have you been?” she says happily and relief washes over my entire body. I drop my bags at the door, realizing how much stress I was holding on to the whole day. “We’ve been waiting for you!”
As she chatters on about her day and the night, I only half listen, realizing that she’s clearly fine with the situation. I think about that glass of wine, my book, the couch, realizing how tired I am. But Addie has other plans for the evening. I once met a woman who told me she ended her work day at two so that she could grab a quick nap before moving into “mom mode” when her young son got home from school. It always sounded a bit lazy to me—but now, as I stand here listening to Addie’s game-night plan, I wish I’d stayed at Will’s this afternoon, while they were out, and had a nap myself.
I head upstairs to the guest room to put away a few purchases, my purse, my shoes, and I lie down on the bed for a moment, closing my eyes, but don’t let myself fall asleep. All I wanted was for Addie to be OK with me being here, and she is, incredibly, and I need to make an effort, too. More of an effort, really. And so, I rally myself to get on board with the evening’s activities and be the fun houseguest I know I can be. Will’s in the kitchen making pizzas—and I convince him to make hers without broccoli. “Only if you kiss me,” he says, and I shake my head, but then kiss him on the neck when Addie’s not looking.
“How was your day?” he asks and I tell him about the awards judging. “There are so many great entries. I’m exhausted, though.”
“Are a lot of the women child-free?” he asks, and for a second, it throws me. Because even though we both know that my stance is the reason we’ll never be serious, we never talk about it. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Some of the entrants definitely talk about juggling motherhood or single parenting and running a business, but it’s not supposed to affect our decision.”
“It’d be hard not to, though. Trying to juggle both.” He spreads tomato sauce on the stretched dough.
“You do it.”
“Can you grate cheese?” He hands me a ball of mozzarella and a cheese grater. “Yeah, and it’s not easy.”
“But just because someone doesn’t have kids doesn’t mean it’s easier. She could be supporting her parents, or paying off debt, or overcoming a disadvantaged upbringing. Maybe she started a business that just took a ton more work than another, struggled through a bad year, had a bad business partner…there are so many things we never know about someone. And none of them are more or less important.” I shove the chopping block of grated cheese toward him, more forcefully than I intend to, but I’m annoyed. I refill my wine glass and walk over to the couch to sit down. Addie’s threading beads on gimp. “Wanna make a bracelet with me?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, glancing back to the kitchen. Will’s sliding the pizzas into the oven. I focus on selecting beads from Addie’s sparkling pink container.
Will walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry about that. You’re right, what you said.”
I meet his eyes, and all ability to stay annoyed with him dissipates. “OK.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “OK.” He looks over at Addie. “Will you make me one?”
She doesn’t look up. “Yep. I’ll make it match mine.”
As we eat dinner Addie rattles on about her day. “You should come watch me at gymnastics next week,” she says.
“I’d like that,” I tell her. “I tried to do gymnastics when I was a kid. But I was definitely not flexible enough.” At this Will raises his eyebrows and I feel myself blush, and have to turn away from him.
“Who wants ice cream sundaes?” I ask and get out the supplies I picked up on the way home. Addie cheers and it gives me a warm feeling all over. “Now she’s never going to bed,” Will whispers as he loads the dishwasher. But I shrug. “She’s so sweet, and sounds like we have a full night ahead of us anyway.” When we’re finished dessert, Will and I clean up while Addie gets her pajamas on and sets up a game at the kitchen table. I pour myself a glass of wine and listen to the convoluted instructions, but never really get the hang of the game—which suits Addie just fine because it means she wins every round. Eventually Will calls last round and we settle in to watch the movie of her choice, all three of us on the couch, Addie sandwiched between us, a bowl of popcorn on her lap. Maybe this could work out, I think. Maybe I can fit in with the two of them, their traditions, their routines. Occasionally as I reach for popcorn, my hand meets Will’s and I get tingles up my arm. It’s exciting and very PG all at once—for now, at least.
Addie falls asleep near the end of the movie and Will carries her up the stairs to bed. While he’s in her room, I tiptoe up to the guest room and change into the fishnets and lacy corset I bought today. Heels in hand, I slip back downstairs to wait for him on the couch. But ten minutes turns into fifteen and then twenty, and finally I make my way back upstairs, praying that Addie doesn’t suddenly get up to use the washroom and run into me. But it’s quiet and the door to Addie’s room is slightly ajar. I peek inside, hiding behind the doorframe. And there’s Will, snuggled with Addie, fast asleep. For a split second I consider waking him up to bring him to bed with me, but I don’t because it feels selfish and wrong. And so I go into the guest room, change into pajamas and crawl into the single bed, feeling alone, out of place, and wishing I could be in my own bed instead.