3. Matthew #2
“You know what your father means, hon. Are you planing to continue your international work?”
Fischer’s international correspondent work is what wound him up half-broken with a panic disorder that got diagnosed last month when the nightmares started to come with persistent regularity. The less drugs he took, the more the reality of what happened to him settled in.
We don’t sleep on opposite sides of the bed anymore, but unless my mom somehow knows that, I don’t get why she’s looking at us like this. Still, I’m paranoid that on one of her visits she installed a camera.
Our nights would make boring content—angsty dreams and even angstier come downs as I talk him back to reality with my arms wound tightly around him and my mouth against his skull.
It’s not like a camera would catch my boners since Fischer’s ass is always covering them. And unless there’s one in the bathroom where I go to take care of myself so I can get back to sleep—no one should be the wiser about it—not even Fischer.
“We’ll see what the surgeon says at my next appointment,” my brother says.
“When’s that?” Mom asks.
“A couple weeks,” is his quick answer.
“Have you been getting out at all?” she asks me.
“Yeah. I go to work. Maggie and I have lunch a couple times a week.”
“Oh,” she says, with a conspiratorial smile. “You know what I mean. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No, Mom. But I promise I’ll let you know if anything changes. Maybe I’ll take you and everyone to dinner at Chipotle to introduce you.”
Maggie bristles.
“I’m kidding. God.”
“You’re hilarious,” my sister deadpans.
“Genuinely,” I say to her, “I apologize. This place is great,” I tell Stuart.
He smiles at me, unbothered. I wish I could say the same.
The rest of dinner is less annoying. The food is good, our mom drinks enough wine to chill her the fuck out, and Dad is in storytelling mode.
It’s not until we’re leaving, and Maggie pulls me aside that things go south again. “Seriously—you’re not planning to live with Fischer indefinitely, are you?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask, but also—no.
I’ve been saving money, enough to put a down payment on a place if I find the right one, but I’m not in any rush.
I’ve gotten a small promotion at work, putting me behind the front desk, squarely in the hospitality category, and I’m enjoying it.
I’ve started looking at higher paying jobs in the field, but again, I like to be where I’m needed, and Fischer doesn’t need to be sleeping alone right now.
Not that I think he wouldn’t survive without me, but he’s never so much as hinted at it being time for me to move on.
“When was the last time you went on a date?” my twin asks.
“I don’t know.” Also, I’ve never dated. I hook up. I’m not trying to get married anytime soon, unlike some people in their heels with their fancy UES updo.
“Is Fischer dating?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then what are you guys doing?”
My head rears back at the question. “Fischer’s straight.”
“A better answer would be ‘Fischer’s our brother.’”
“Yeah—who’s straight. Is it a crime to live with my brother all of a sudden?”
“You don’t think it’s weird that you share a bed? I mean whose idea was that?”
“You need to stop listening to Mom,” I tell her. “And she needs to join this century.” Our parents are old. Maggie and I were an accident-slash-miracle when my mom thought she’d entered early menopause. She was forty-four when we were born.
I go on, “If I can let you slide by looking like a Stepford wife, I think you can open your mind to the fact that guys can share accommodations without it being weird. You should be glad I have a friend. Otherwise when would you get to meet fun guys like Stuart?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No—he seems okay.”
“He’s great.”
“Sure. He’s awesome.”
“And I don’t look like a Stepford wife. I got this at a vintage store.”
That sounds more like the sister I know. “Anyway would you have a problem sharing a bed with me?”
“No,” she says. “But we shared a womb. Naked.”
I laugh. “I haven’t slept naked in months if that makes you feel any better.”
She seems to check herself and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. You’re totally right.”
Mom steps into the conversation, tipsy and grinning. “You need to get out more, Matty.” She pats my chest as she’s speaking. “You’re too young to hide yourself away.”
“Note taken,” I tell her.
She gives me a hug before my dad pulls her off me and into the car they have waiting. He waves goodbye to the rest of us.
“Our car is almost here,” Fischer says.
“You want to come out for another drink with us, Matty?” Maggie asks, excluding Fischer for reasons I can’t put together. Because he’s old?
“No, thanks,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Fischer tells me. “I’m not trying to hog you.”
“You’re not—” I force myself to take a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed. “I’d like to go home.”
“Thanks for coming to dinner,” Stuart says, reaching out to shake both our hands. “It was wonderful to meet you both.”
Maggie gives me another hug and apologizes again. “Are you okay?”
I was. “Yeah.” I give her a final squeeze and pull away.
“Here it is,” Fischer says, meaning our ride.
We say good night and get into the car. Before it even pulls away from the curb, I say to him, “I think I might be the one having nightmares tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “I know exactly what to do.”