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I open my mouth to argue, then remember what he said earlier. I close my mouth and nod.
Kit smiles, like he knows what I was thinking.
I follow Mom up the brick path. My dad lingers by the car with Kit. From the strain of their conversation I catch before exiting earshot,it sounds like my dad is asking Kit a question about the vehicle. What question that might be I have no clue. My dad has driven the same station wagon since he was in grad school.
My parents’ house might be small and shabby, but it’s cozy. Stepping inside is an immediate relief, warm, dry air chasing away the chilly dampness outside.
“I see what Jane was going on about,” my mom says as she hangs her coat up in the closet. “He’s very attractive.”
I groan. “Mom.”
“What? I don’t want an ugly grandchild.”
I’m torn between amusement and horror. There’s some happiness too. This is the first time anyone, except for Jane or Kit, has actedexcitedabout the baby. The repressed laughter in my mom’s voice as she teases me is as comforting as the hiss of the ancient radiators working overtime.
“That’s—he’s my boss,” I remind her. I told my mom about the new job I’d accepted when we discussed this visit, so at least my parents know that’s a temporary statement. “Don’t talk about how hot he is.”
“You’re having a child with the man, Collins. Clearly, you noticed.”
I grimace. “Something smells good.”
My mom laughs, but she lets me change the subject. “I went a little overboard on food. I wasn’t sure what would sound good to you—oh.”
Impulsively, I pull my mom into another hug.
She’s silent for a few seconds, petting my hair the same way she did when I was younger. “Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah.” I pull back and sniffle. “I’m hormonal. And it’s nice to be home.”
Mom smiles. “It’s nice to have you home. You seemed happy in Chicago, but I have to admit, I’m really glad you ended up in NewYork.”
“I am too,” I say truthfully.
And honestly? I’m not sure Iwashappy in Chicago. I was content, until things imploded because I didn’t know it could be this much better.
“… has a 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8 engine with …”
I tune in and then tune right back out of my dad and Kit’s car conversation as they enter the house, dripping rainwater all over the mat.
My mom and I hastily move to the side as they pull off their coats and set down the luggage. I catch Kit call my dad Gerald and still with surprise. A glance at the clock above the mantel confirms we haven’t even been here ten minutes. My dad’s had teaching assistants last an entire semester who were never on a first-name basis with him.
I catch a quick smile when Kit spots the doorway that leads into the kitchen, where eighteen years of heights are marked. Five months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of Kit Kensington defacing his penthouse—which undoubtedly cost tens of millions of dollars—with permanent marker. Now, I can picture him suggesting it.
Kit reaches into one of the bags he brought, retrieving two bottles of wine. One is wrapped, which he hands to my mom. “This is for you, Amanda.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” my mom says, taking it and beaming.
She tends to buy whatever wine is on sale, but my mom studies the ornate label like she’s a sommelier.
“It’s my mom’s favorite, and she tends to have pretty good taste in that kind of thing,” Kit tells her, then holds the other bottle out to me.
I raise an eyebrow.
He winks. “It’s nonalcoholic, Monty.”
As I take the bottle, I can’t believe there was a time when I thought Kit wasn’t capable of thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“Monty?” my mom repeats. “What does that mean?”