4
Kit
Airports,I had come to the conclusion, would have featured in Dante’sInfernoif only he’d lived at a time when he could have seen one. They were loud, bright, busy, full of children in desperate need of a nap, the same three Christmas songs had been on repeat for the entire two hours we’d been here, and they smelled strange.
I hated them.
Andy, on the other hand, was treating the experience like a grand adventure, eyes alight like those of a child wandering a sweet shop with a considerable sum in his pocket.
I had once been that child, I knew the look.
It was the one saving grace of the whole experience, and I wasn’t sure I would’ve gotten through security without being arrested if he hadn’t been there, beaming with simple joy.
If I’d realized how exciting a trip to England would be to Andy, I would’ve invited him last Christmas or even the one before. We could’ve stayed in London, wandered the markets, fed the ducks too lazy to fly south for the winter, cozied up in a charming little apartment somewhere that I’d accidentally booked without realizing there was only the one bed...
Except I would never actually have done that to him.
The fact that he’d volunteered for almost exactly the scenario I’d dreamed up was still a surprise, but I supposed it shouldn’t have been. Andy was the best, kindest, most helpful man I’d ever known. Of course he’d rush to the aid of a friend in need.
I’d realized I was going to fall for him when, two weeks into our acquaintance, I watched him give his last ten dollars to a homeless woman with three days to payday and precious little in the cupboards at home. I’d promised myself then that in whatever small ways I could, I would take care of him. I would have liked to do much more than I had, but despite being charitable to a fault, Andy did notacceptcharity. He could be given nothing he didn’t feel he’d earned.
I admired that, too. I’d grown up with people who felt entitled to the world and everything in it. Andy was so different it’d taken me much longer than it ought to have to understand him.
“Can you hold this for me a moment?” I asked, handing him my passport and boarding pass as I noticed my shoelace had come undone.
“United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland,” Andy read as I bent down. “Yours looks so much fancier than mine.”
“I’ve always been fond of it,” I said. “Shame they’re changing them back to the blue, really.”
“I do like the red,” Andy agreed, flicking through the pages, no doubt searching for the embarrassing photo hidden within them. “Wait, this passport says your name is Christopher.”
“Yes,” I said, straightening up again, shoelace secured.
“But your name isKit.”
“Yes.” I blinked at him. “Which is short for Christopher. What on Earth did you think it was short for?”
“Kit... ten?” Andy tried, shrugging.
“Kitten,” I repeated, blinking again.
Andy’s shoulders climbed up to his ears. “I dunno, I never thought it was short for anything. I thought it was your whole name.Howis it short for Christopher?”
“It just...is,” I said, unsure how else to respond to that. “Would you rather have called me Chris all this time? Or Topher? Or Chip, god forbid?”
“You just seem a lot cooler than a Christopher, is all.” Andy sighed, shoulders finally dropping.
“I shall take that as the highest possible compliment. You really never noticed the name on my mail?”
“You always collected the mail,” Andy pointed out. “You’re kinda secretive, actually. I mean, not to the point of it being an issue or anything. Just...”
“Private,” I supplied for him, not wanting to get into a discussion about my secretiveness right before we boarded a long flight. “You’ll have to forgive me, that’s genetic.”
I’d tell him the truth about who I was. I’dhaveto tell him the truth, sooner or later. It was just thatlatersounded so much better than sooner, since I was still afraid he’d react badly.
Andy snorted as we reached the gate, peering up at the screen where our flight information was displayed.
In all the chaos and noise and general bustle of a busy airport, watching him calmly confirm that we were in the right place was a moment of much-needed serenity. With the afternoon sunlight from the enormous windows catching his hair and making his warm amber eyes glow, he might have been one of the angels on the Christmas trees dotted about the place, fallen down from his branch and brought to life. A kind of seasonal version of Pygmalion’s beloved sculpture.
