But then her smile dims. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
I pause mid-stir, then set down the spoon. “What are you talking about?”
Kate turns toward the ravioli. Slowly, I close the space between us and clasp her elbow, turning her back toward me. “Katydid. Talk to me.”
She shrugs, flicking the spokes of the pasta cutter wheel. “I get anxious about expectations. So anxious, I sort of . . . freeze.”
Stepping closer, I rub my hand along her arm. “What expectations?”
“All of this.” She points around the apartment. “For the food to be good, for everyone to want to be here and have fun. Jules is the hostess expert, not me. I forget things when it’s time to set up and plan for company, then I get overwhelmed and cranky when there’s a lot of people.”
“Which is why we’re working together. You and I are making ravioli and sauce. Jamie and Bea are handling the salad and veggie dishes. Bianca and Nick are picking up fresh bread. Toni and Hamza are bringing dessert, and Sula and Margo are going to bring way too much wine. It’ll be great, because it’s all of us getting together for some food and games, and whenever it gets to be too much, you can slip away and take the time you need while Bea and I hold down the fort. In the grand scheme of things, if you cut the ravioli a little crooked, it’s not going to change a thing.”
“Yeah.” She nods, starting to pull away. “You’re right.”
“Hold on. I need this recorded for posterity. You said I’m right.”
Kate rolls her eyes but doesn’t laugh; my joke hasn’t lightened her up like I’d hoped. She’s still uneasy.
“Show me one more time,” she says, gesturing with the cutter wheel toward the pasta sheet.
“Kate—”
“Please.” She sinks her fingers into my shirt and tugs me toward her. “I wasn’t paying attention earlier. I missed how you start.”
I stare down at her, bringing my hand to her cheek, cupping it gently. “What’s this really about?”
She bites her lip. “I don’t know. I feel . . . antsy and nervous. I haven’t done this ever, spent this much time home, this much time with other people I care about, and I think it’s dredging up old insecurities, that I’m going to do something that makes me wear out my welcome. One moment, I’m telling myself everything has to be perfect so it won’t happen, the next I’m dying to give in to the itch in my legs to rip open that door and run before it inevitably does.”
My heart aches in my chest. “Kate, honey. Whoever made you feel like you wore out your welcome simply because of who you were, they’re assholes and you’re better off without them.”
She blinks up at me, her eyes wet, like she’s on the verge of tears. “It isn’t one person or one moment, though, it’s . . . having a brain like mine in a world that isn’t very welcoming or understanding of it. The things that I like about myself when I’m on my own, living and doing my work my own way, they’re not things that are seen as strengths or skills or advantages. They’re tolerated at best, criticized at worst. And sure, my family’s always been supportive and accepting, but they’re the minority. So I’ve just learned to push people away and do my own thing. But that’s not very easy when I stick around and start to care about people and they can hurt me or disappoint me when they start to see the real me, all my quirks and executive-functioning lapses. When I care about that, I feel so helpless.”
I stare down at her, my thumb drifting along her jaw in a slow back-and-forth motion. “I know a little about that.”
She frowns, confused. “You do?”
“I didn’t run halfway across the world to hide from what’s scared me about relationships, Kate, but I’ve been hiding just like you. The way I’ve lived, the boundaries I’ve drawn, they’re how I’ve protected myself from that feeling of helplessness, too.”
Brow furrowed, she searches my face. “You say it like . . . like that’s in the past.”
“I want it to be,” I tell her, my hand sinking into her hair at the nape of her neck, massaging gently. “I’m trying. I want to be braver. Because I’ve seen what protecting myself cost me, and I never want it to cost me that again.”
Kate drops the pasta cutter on the counter and sinks her hands into my shirt, drawing me close, until our bodies touch.
I hiss in a breath between clenched teeth. “What are you doing, Kate?”