Kiss Her Once for Me (102)

Andrew seems oblivious to my own hurt as he reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out an envelope. “I’ve missed you, too. I know you were supposed to be my wife, but I started thinking of you as a sister, and—” Andrew cringes. “Wait, did that sound creepy?”

“It’s the situation that got creepy, honestly. That’s not on you.”

He pushes the envelope awkwardly toward me. “Anyway, since you’re my almost-wife, sort-of-sister, I’ve been feeling really guilty that you went through all of this and still didn’t get the money, so I—”

“I don’t care about the money,” I interrupt. “I mean, of course I care, because that kind of money is the difference between Grocery Outlet frozen burritos and Whole Foods fresh vegetables, but the money was just a Band-Aid. A golden parachute I thought would fix my life without me actually having to, you know… fix my life.”

“Well, it seems like you’ve been fixing your life, so… take this.”

I do. The envelope is heavier than I expect. “What’s this?”

“It’s not two hundred thousand dollars, so adjust your expectations.” He flaps his hands. “Just open it.”

Inside the envelope are several sheets of expensive paper folded neatly into thirds. They fan apart, and there, across the top, in official block letters are the typed words “Andrew and Ellie’s Non-Marriage Contract.” Below is a paragraph of legalese, followed by enumerated stipulations, the words blurring and blending together.

“Seriously, Andrew, what is this?”

He tilts forward so he can point to the words on the page. “It’s a contract that says that whenever I do get married—if that’s in two years or five or fifty—you are entitled to ten percent of my inheritance.”

The pages slip between my fingers. “Andrew! No, you don’t have to do that!”

“Well, don’t get too effusive with your gratitude. I do actually have to get married at some point, which is statistically unlikely.”

I look up at Andrew, at the blush on his throat and the smile on his face. I think the statistical probability is changing. “You’re prepared to give me ten percent of your inheritance regardless of when you get married…?”

“And bonus, you don’t even have to be the person who is marrying me. You’re welcome.”

I stare down at the creamy pages, at this huge symbolic gesture he’s handed me. “How will your future spouse feel about you giving away two hundred thousand dollars to some random woman?”

Andrew shrugs. “Dylan firmly believes you’re entitled to that money for what you had to endure.”

I lift a suggestive eyebrow, and Andrew’s blush deepens as he realizes what he’s said. “Not that I think Dylan is going to be that spouse. Just, you know. An example. A sampling of potential partners and their attitudes toward me giving away our money.”

“A sample size of one?”

“Please shut up.” Andrew snatches the papers out of my hand and awkwardly shoves them back into the envelope. “The point is, I want you to have this money, and I understand you might be hesitant to take it, and I want to reassure you that—”

“Oh no, I’ll take it.”

Andrew frowns.

“Yeah, I’m not going to fight you on this. I live in a closet.” He looks around, remembering where we are. “If someone with generational wealth wants to offer me a boatload of money, I’m not going to turn it down. I’m just also not going to wait for that money to start building the life that I want.”

“Well, good.” Andrew gives me a curt nod. “So does that mean you’re getting back to your art? The family mentioned there was an editor who maybe wanted to publish you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s sort of… happening? Maybe? I had to sign with an agent first, which I did. And the editor wanted me to adapt the original webcomics, but it didn’t feel quite right, writing about… her. So I’m taking the parts that worked, and I’m writing something new. Something a little more… magical. It’s possible the editor won’t want it when it’s done, but…” I shrug, and I mean that shrug. Maybe this won’t work out. I don’t really have a plan for what happens next.

Andrew flashes me his most charming, most sincere smile. “I hope you’ll let me read it when you’re finished. I could use a little magic. Speaking of…” He reaches for his pocket again. “I have one more thing for you.”

“Is it a car? Because I could really use a car.”

He pulls out a sheet of paper, this one folded haphazardly into quarters. When I unfold it, I see that it’s a flyer.

THE BUTCH OVEN SOFT OPENING.

“Andrew…”

The paper is glossy, with a purple background, the words in white, loopy script. In the middle of the page is a cartoon, rainbow-colored Dutch oven.

“Andrew…” I start again.

“Yeah,” he says, like he understands this one glossy sheet of paper is worth more than the pages folded inside that envelope. “She’s really doing it.”

Ridiculous, sentimental tears prickle in the back of my eyes. “I always knew she could.”

“I didn’t,” Andrew admits, his voice low. “I should have, but I didn’t. You know, one night a few weeks ago, we got drunk and she told me everything about what happened between the two of you. She told me she never would’ve believed she could do it if you hadn’t believed in her first. I never thought my sister could stay focused on a goal like this long enough to achieve it, and I know that makes me an asshole.”