I swiped under my eyes with the cuff of my sweater. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” she said. “Unlike some of us, I don’t have a rich ex-fiancé’s diamond to liquidate yet.”
She taped the envelope shut and reached for a sheet of address labels. That was when I noticed what exactly had disappeared into the white padded rectangle.
My eyes narrowed. “Did you just put underwear in that?”
Kit didn’t even look up. “Sure did. Do you know how much money I’m making from this?”
Horror and fascination warred in my chest. “Please elaborate immediately.”
She grinned. “Say hello to your sister’s thriving niche enterprise. Men on the internet will pay truly stupid amounts of money for nicely packaged lingerie.”
I stared. “Are you selling used underwear online?”
“Relax,” she said, rolling her eyes as she slapped a label on. “It’s not that bad.” She paused. “Technically, yes, but if it makes you feel better, it’s not to a bunch of creeps. It’s only one creep. Some guy paid extra to be the only person who gets my goods.” She waggled her eyebrows.
My jaw dropped. “Kit, that is ... disturbing. What if he tries to find you?”
She waved a hand. “Do not yuck my yum. I have bills to pay, Clara. Also, I use a PO box and a fake name. The only way this man is finding me is if the USPS goes rogue, and frankly they have enough on their plate.”
A shocked laugh burst out of me. “Our mother would die.”
“Our mother thinks I make all my money on Etsy and freelance painting gigs,” she said serenely. “Which is alsotechnicallytrue. Everyone wins.”
She dropped back onto the couch, leaving the labeled envelope and the ring box side by side on the table. Past and future. Disaster and possibility.
“Okay,” she said, nudging my knee with hers again. “Game plan. Gaudy ring becomes studio, eventually. You crash here as long as you need. I will provide carbs and questionable streaming choices. That part is easy.”
Her eyes gentled. “But what are you going to do about Wes?”
The question landed in my chest like a stone dropped down a wishing well, sinking until I couldn’t see the bottom.
“I don’t know,” I said. The admission came out on a breath that shook.
Tears welled again, less explosive this time and more like something worn-out giving way. “I don’t know how tolove a man who can’t even love himself,” I whispered. “Not without disappearing again. Not without contorting myself into whatever shape makes it easier for him. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”
Kit’s arm came around me, tugging me in until my head rested against her shoulder. She pressed her cheek to my hair, voice low and fierce.
“Then don’t,” she said. “You are allowed to love him from over here. But don’t climb into the hole with him. If he wants you, he can crawl out.”
My throat closed. I nodded, because words felt dangerous.
“And if he doesn’t,” she added, squeezing me, “then we swap out that hideous green carpet and hang your name in the biggest window on Main Street as a daily reminder to him of what he lost. We can build you something that is yours. With or without him.”
I let my eyes close, listening to the hum of the fridge and the muffled music from the shop downstairs. I could still feel Wes somewhere under my skin, like a bruise I kept pushing on. I still loved him. That wasn’t going anywhere.
The difference was, for the first time, I could imagine loving him without erasing myself to do it.
I could see a studio with bad flooring and beautiful light. I could see my name on the door in pretty lettering. I could see a version of me who chose herself, even when it hurt.
For now, that version of me was the only thing keeping my heart from splitting clean in two.