Chapter SIXTEEN
(Matthew)
As much as I loved my apartment in Manhattan with all of its sleek, modern appeal, I’d needed more help in the wake of the bear attack than I’d anticipated. When my mother had suggested sending her jet to pick me up and bring me straight from the hospital to the family farm, I hadn’t relished the idea but reluctantly accepted it.
The only thing farm-like about my parents’ home in Greenwich was the acreage. Before my father died, the stables had been full of his prized horses, but mom had sold them off shortly after he’d passed away. She’d always thought his interest in breeding them for racing was ghoulish and cruel; that distaste for genetic meddling did not extend to whatever designer yappy dog she was toting around this decade. Now, the “farm” was a mansion surrounded by untended fields of native flora that would have sent my ancestors into a classist frenzy.
My great-grandfather had built the compound in the thirties. He’d hired a landscape architect from Paris to make perfectly sculpted parks and avenues around the sprawling mansion of ivy-covered stone and mansard roofs. My grandfather had joked that his dad had built “a poor man’s Versailles.”
The problem with that comparison was that we had a lot more money than French royalty.
But what the farm lacked in modesty, it made up for in wide, arched doors and a full-time, round-the-clock staff, perfect for someone temporarily using a wheelchair and unable to fend for himself. And when I’d gotten out of the chair, the antique rugs on the parquet gave me more traction with my crutches than the bare polished marble in my apartment would have.
And I was definitely having more fun at the farm with my cane than I would have had all by myself back in New York.
“My dear penguins. We stand on a great threshold,” I called ahead of me as I exaggerated my limp into a waddle to enter the breakfast room. “It’s okay to be scared. Many of you won’t be coming back. Thanks to Batman—”
“Stop,” Mom said flatly.
“I can’t be the Penguin, I can’t be Charlie Chaplin—”
She didn’t look up from her iPad sudoku to interrupt me. “You can’t be Charlie Chaplin because he didn’t need the cane to walk. You almost went headfirst down the stairs.”
The only reply I could produce was, “Pfft.” I sat at the table and leaned my potentially permanent walking aid against the chair beside mine.
“It isn’t that I don’t love having my children at home with me,” Mom began with more patience than she should be showing a houseguest eight weeks into his stay. “But have you thought about your next steps?”
“Oh, believe me. I think about steps. Steps from the bed to the bathroom, steps from the desk to—”
“You know what I mean.”
I sighed. “Have I thought about how I’m going to transition back into my normal life?”
“Your normal life might not be a possibility,” she reminded me gently.
She was right, and that sucked. I wouldn’t be running any marathons any time soon. Rock climbing was right out. And who wanted to party with a guy who’d have to keep saying, “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up?”
“I know things are going to change for a while.” I emphasized the last part of the sentence. I wasn’t quite ready to accept that a bear shredding the muscles of my calf might have permanent consequences. “And I’ll get out of your hair, if you need me to.”
The hair in question was the same dark shade as mine, and artfully done despite the early hour. Mom didn’t have to make herself look perfect to hang around the house all day, but years of being a socialite in the upper echelons had made it a habit harder to break than her smoking. She opened the gold case beside her barely finished plate of poached eggs and slipped a cigarette out—Dunhills, but she thought showing the brand packaging was tacky—and fitted it into her antique cigarette holder.
Mom hadn’t come from money, but she’d gotten good at pretending she was “well-bred.” Eventually, parts of the act had become her actual personality.
“You’re not in my hair. Do you honestly think I couldn’t find somewhere to hide from you in this house?” She gestured expansively around us. “It’s not me I’m worried about. You injured your leg. You didn’t die.”
“I could have.” Within forty-eight hours of the initial incident, I’d been in surgery again, for a blood clot that had been more painful than what the bear did and way more life threatening.
“But you didn’t.” Mom was having none of my bullshit. “You’re not going to entomb yourself alive in my house.”
“No, I’m going to have my good friend Fortunato do that for me.” I sat back as one of the kitchen staff assembled my plate from the sideboard; I wasn’t great at carrying stuff and walking, yet.
“Fortunato was the one who got walled up,” Mom corrected. “I’m serious. You have friends. You have a life. You were always so busy; I couldn’t get you on the phone.”
“I’m still busy. I was working until three this morning,” I pointed out.
“I don’t care about the work. I care about the fact that you’re a forty-year-old man—”
“Thirty-nine for three more months. Watch your mouth.”
“Hush. If you’d asked me at this time last year what I wanted for you, I’d have said I wanted you to settle down. But if this is how you’re choosing to do it, Howard Hughes, I’m not sure I approve of the outcome.” She took a drag off her cigarette.
“I guess that shows that you’ll never be truly happy. I pity you.” I glanced up at the servant who set my plate in front of me. “Thank you.”
“How long has it been since you talked to Scott?” Mom asked, and I couldn’t help my wince. She jabbed her cigarette in the air toward me. “Aha. I knew it. I knew you’ve been isolating yourself.”
“I don’t think Scott wants to talk to me.” That wasn’t entirely true. We hadn’t talked, but we’d exchanged a few texts. Not with the frequency or volume we used to.
I’d been talking to his sister more than I’d been talking to him.
“Things have been strained since I ruined his wedding,” I went on.
“You didn’t ruin his wedding. His fiancée ruined his wedding.” Mom clucked her tongue and shook her head. “And a bear. The thought of endangering your guests—”
I held up my hand to silence her. “Okay. This has gone on long enough. I have to come clean.”
Mom’s head turned slightly, a clear sign she was ready for whatever my latest absurd bullshit had wrought.
“Scott is probably not mad at me about the ruined wedding.” I took a deep breath. “He’s probably very angry that I slept with his sister.”
“Matthew Leonard Elliott Ashe!” She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I know, I know.” I held up my hands. “I’m terrible. I’m a terrible friend.”
“What is it with the men in this family and their inability to keep their dicks in their pants?” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Too angry to smoke” wasn’t a good sign, but it wasn’t like she could punish me, anymore. She certainly couldn’t ground me if she wanted me out of the house.
“Why would you do that?” she went on. “Don’t answer. There won’t be a good one.”
I tried, anyway. “I liked her. I mean, I really, really liked her.”
“Oh good. Always nice to hear that my son isn’t out there fucking strange women he’s only lukewarm about,” she muttered under her breath.
“I shouldn’t have done it. And I’m being cowardly by not owning up to that to Scott.” When I heard it aloud, it sounded stupid. And selfish. I couldn’t coast off “recovering from a bear attack” forever.
“Then call him, for god’s sake. Grow up.” Her tone softened. “I’m worried about you. I know Brett hurt you more than you’re letting on. And I think you’re using this bear incident as an excuse to keep from moving forward.”
“Being attacked by a bear is an excellent excuse for almost every situation,” I countered.
“Call Scott. He’s been your best friend for twenty years. You did something hurtful. The least you could do is apologize.”
She was right. My mother was absolutely right. But that didn’t stop me from being cowardly.
I would call Scott. But there was another call I would make, first.
* * * *
(Charlotte)
I’d just gotten out of the shower when Matt called.
“I hate talking on the phone,” I reminded him, in lieu of a hello.
“And I hate not hearing your voice, so it seems we’re at an impasse, Mr. Bond.”
I was sure he could hear me rolling my eyes over the phone.
“What do you want?” I asked, tossing my towel aside on the way to my dresser.
He ignored my question. “What are you wearing?”
“Stop being a pervert,” I scolded him. “And if you must know, I’m naked.”
“Wow, I called right on time.” He paused. “Are you naked with someone and I’m interrupting?”
“Naked by myself. For non-sex reasons.” Not that our conversations, either by phone or text, had been all that sex-focused since we parted ways in the ER. It had taken him a lot longer to recover than anyone had anticipated. We’d talked a few times, but it had always been about his recuperation and how Scott was doing. We’d only recently gotten back into horny territory. “Took a shower.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Rub one out to the thought of my soapy tits,” I countered.
“I will, now.”
“While I’ve got you here…” I opened the top drawer. “Maybe you could help me pick out which panties to wear.”
He half-groaned, half-laughed. “You’re killing me. Go to video.”
I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and smiled a giddy smile as I flipped the phone over and hit the camera icon.
I gasped aloud at how fucking good he looked. His dark hair had grown out recklessly, and an adorable curl flopped over his forehead. He was sitting in great light; it accentuated the contours of his face and the stubble on his square jaw.
He grinned at my reaction. “It’s good to see you, too, princess.”
I hoped the blush I felt didn’t show in my cheeks. I shouldn’t encourage the pet name, but it did something for me. Probably because his deep voice caressed the word the way it did. I bet he called every woman he fucked a princess. Still, he managed to make me feel like I was his princess.
“So, show me the panties I’m supposed to help you choose,” he said, and I turned the phone to face my drawer. “Look at that. They’re all neatly folded.”
I scanned the phone slowly back and forth over the rows of underpants. “Yeah, I worked at Victoria’s Secret. One of my many, many, many jobs.”
“Still at the dispensary?” he asked, without any of the judgement I would have felt from anyone else asking it. Over the weeks of his recovery, when there wasn’t anything particularly sexy to do, I’d told him about my new job and my hopes to stay there longer than any of the other places I’d worked.
“Yeah. I like it a lot.” I turned the phone back to face me. “Did you see an option you liked?”
“That depends.” He tapped his finger against his lips and pretended to think it over.
“On what?”
“On what you’re planning to do today,” he replied. “What you’re going to wear, where you plan to go, who you’ll see… I can’t imagine you’d want to get coffee with your pastor knowing you’re wearing something nasty down there.”
“No pastor,” I assured him. “I don’t do church.”
“And on second thought, you might be the type of girl who’d like to meet her pastor for coffee in crotchless lace.”
“Funny. But there’s nothing crotchless in this drawer. And I’m not sure you’ve ever seen someone wear crotchless panties because it is not a flattering look,” I informed him. I used my free hand to smoosh my lips together horizontally between my thumb and forefinger, then said with much difficulty, “Imagine this, but lower.”
He laughed. “Learned that at Victoria’s Secret?”
“No. They only sell good girl panties. Now, are you going to pick something out for me, or what?”
“Are you going to make it worth my while, or what?” he countered. I lifted an eyebrow to indicate I was listening, and he went on. “I’ll pick out a pair. Then you’ll put them on and let me watch while you make yourself come in them.”
That flush I hoped he wouldn’t see returned with a vengeance, over my whole body.
“No,” he said suddenly. “No, this was not the point of calling you today.”
The flush faded, replaced with cold disappointment. “Then why were you calling?”
He let out a long, embarrassed sigh. “I’m calling you because my mom says I have to call Scott and I need to know if he’s still mad at me.”
“That’s truly pathetic, dude.”
“I know.” He sighed again. “He hasn’t called me, and I haven’t spoken to him.”
“He’s been worried about you.” So worried, I felt super guilty not giving him updates about Matt’s recovery. But how could I do that without revealing that Matt and I were still in touch?
“Worried enough that he hasn’t called me since the wedding?” Matt shook his head. “Nope. He’s pissed at me.”
I rolled my eyes. “He thinks you’re pissed at him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s my brother and we talk to each other. He’s a wreck. He thinks he lost his best friend and his wife-to-be in the same day.” There was only one way to motivate Matt into contacting Scott. “I’m not going to do anything sexy with you until you sack up and call him.”
“How am I supposed to do anything sexy with you after I talk to your brother and apologize for doing sexy things with you?”
I’d already thought about that. The inevitability of admitting to Scott that things between Matt and I hadn’t ended. “Don’t apologize for it. If he brings it up—and I don’t think he will because he hasn’t said a word about it to me—say you regret hurting him. But be honest. If he brings it up, you have to tell him we’re still talking. It feels gross to keep lying, even by omission.”
“That’s a much better plan that ruining our friendship via perpetual avoidance,” he admitted, if reluctantly.
“Thanks. It’s part of my own plan.” I might as well be honest with him, since I was encouraging him to be honest with my brother.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Matt asked.
“I’m hoping he does ask you about me, so I don’t have to be the one who has that conversation.” I was being honest. “Do what you need to do and call me back tonight.”
A tiny part of me worried that they would talk about the I-fucked-your-sister of it all, and things between Matt and I would be over.
And that was the last thing I wanted.