Chapter 51
MATTHEW
Thunder rolls outside, and my insides continue to gnaw away at themselves. I’m in an unbreakable cycle of sleeping, hydrating, and puking. Something has to give, and in the end, it’s my mind.
Gavin hasn’t left, but he’s a quiet presence who doesn’t do much to interfere with my grieving process. He’s keeping me alive. Feeding me electrolytes in the form of popsicles and helping me off the bathroom floor and back to bed.
While he quietly stirs soup in the kitchen, I curl into the fetal position and quit my job.
I text Maggie that I’m not coming to the wedding, and then I block her number.
I send an email to a realtor inquiring about listing my loft.
And then I start reading articles about which European cities are the best places to live. Gavin suggests Amsterdam.
After another full day passes where I’m afraid to move for fear of the sickness cycle starting over, I get a call from my mom.
I frown at the phone because I know Maggie is behind it—hell, it might even be her because she knows I always answer when Mom calls despite the shitty email that made me throw my laptop—she’s too old to ignore.
Every time her or Dad’s name is on my phone screen, I find myself bracing for the worst.
Cautiously, and as mentally prepared as I can be, I answer the phone on speaker. “Hello?”
“Matty…honey…it’s so good to hear your voice.” She sounds relieved. I get the feeling the next step was a wellness check from the police.
“Hey, Mom.”
“I’d like to come see you for myself.”
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Gavin comes to sit next to me, offering his presence and silent support. While he says Fischer didn’t send him, his being here does make me feel like I haven’t been totally abandoned.
“I’d rather you didn’t come,” I tell Mom. “I’ve been a little under the weather. I don’t want to get you sick.”
“I know you think your father and I are upset with you, but we’re actually worried about you.”
My stomach turns. I’m not sure I’ll make it through this conversation. I don’t say anything, too afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I open it even slightly.
“I need to hear from your mouth that it’s not true,” she says.
I press my lips shut and glance at Gavin. His glare at the phone says it all.
“Matty? Did he ever…hurt you?”
I can tell she’s crying. She loves the fuck out of Fischer. He’s broken her heart a million times, and yet she’s exactly like me, hopelessly wrapped up in whatever spell he casts. “Hurt can mean a lot of things,” I whisper.
“You know what I mean—what I need to know.”
“He never hurt me,” I say, except that Fischer is always hurting me. Even when he’s making me happier than I’ve ever imagined, that hurts somehow, too.
I don’t know what all my mother knows about me and Fischer—other than that I’m somehow standing in the way of her getting to see her grandson. I don’t know what Maggie told her.
If it was everything—including what I told her in confidence about our time when he was recovering—then forgiveness from me is going to take about a decade longer.
I should have never told her about that, but I was too busy trying to convince her that what I felt for Fischer was different and real that I didn’t care what it might have looked like to someone like, oh, say, our mom. Or the Marches.
So I tell her the truth. “We were both adults. It’s aways been consensual. That’s all you need to know.”
“Matthew…”
“I’m not kidding, Mom. Drop it.”
She makes a noise of dismay.
Look, I’m not the golden child. That was Maggie’s job.
I’ve always been the incorrigible one. The baby.
The one who never kept to curfew. Who smoked pot and cigarettes at fifteen.
Who started having sex at sixteen, sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to find a place to park and hook up with anyone who was willing.
Stonewalling my mom is old hat. She’s on a need to know basis.
“Look, I’m sorry Nicole is being a bigoted bitch. And I’m sorry if it’s causing you or dad any trouble, but we’ll survive.”
“I was calling to make sure you know I’m here for you.”
I scoff. “Is that right?
“Is Fischer…there?”
My laugh is mirthless. “No, Mom. Fischer is most definitely not here.” The words make my head spin.
I try to find a focal point, settling on the fucking tree.
On a pale green leaf that hangs perfectly still near the top.
It reminds me of Fischer’s eyes, but I keep staring at it, allowing the pain of missing him to settle in my chest without fighting it so hard. I need to learn to live with it.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just don’t think I understand.”
“Do you want to?” I ask.
She harrumphs. “Good question.”
“Well, thanks for checking in,” I say flatly.
“You should call your sis—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Matthew, I love you. Take care of yourself. Promise me.”
“I’m doing my best.” And I add a soft, “I love you, too,” out of habit. It feels like a betrayal the moment the words leave my mouth, and I hang up after that.
I try sitting. Gavin’s hand lands on my lower back to hold me up. I’m weak, dehydrated, starving with no appetite. He hands me the glass of water on my nightstand. I take a sip. As it threatens to settle poorly once again, Gavin says, “Breathe through your nose.”
I do everything he says, so I try this, too. My will strengthens as I manage to keep it down for a full minute, and I take another, longer sip, testing my limits.
With Gavin’s coaching, twenty minutes later, I finish the glass.
By evening, I’ve had some of his soup and two more liters of water. I’m staying upright, pacing the floor, stretching my arms, legs, back, and neck. And I need more.
With more energy comes anger. It starts small as irritation, an itch, and then it builds into a ball of fire in my chest, demanding fuel.
All my rage at the circumstances that brought me to this place needs an outlet. I’m furious with myself. For wanting too much. For letting him go. For falling in love with the one person I knew would hurt me more than anyone else possibly could. For not being able to shake him loose from my soul.
I wish I had the nerve to call him up and yell at him for not fighting for us.
For not making things right with Nicole.
For his shitty text message followed by radio silence.
But here’s what’s sick—so fucking sick—I don’t want to make him mad at me.
Like I literally don’t think I could take it.
I’m trapped inside this ferocious love I have for him, and I have no desire to tear my way out of the cage. Without him, I’m chaos.
I only make sense with him. Things I never thought I could piece together—my creativity and my desires.
My attention span and my shyness. For him it’s one tidy package made to please and entertain him, and he loves it.
He loves me. I wish I could believe anything else—that if he cared about me, he’d be here, that he’d fight for me, but I know exactly how he feels about me, and that hurts the worst.
Because I’m not Vaughn. I’m not his flesh and blood.
And I may need him so fucking much that not having him almost kills me, but my heart’s still beating.
Vaughn deserves a dad, the same way Fischer did.
I can’t imagine the pressure he feels right now to stay in his son’s life.
The broken glass he would crawl through to get there.
But I can’t bring myself to initiate a breakup or even give him the opening to break up with me officially. Right now, we’re in limbo, and he may be just as unsure how to handle what’s next as I am.
“I think I’m gonna be okay,” I tell Gavin after about an hour of pacing the loft.
“I think you are, too.”
“Will you make sure he is?” I ask.
“You two are so fucking sweet,” he says from the couch, shaking his head, a soft smile on his face.
I resent that. There’s nothing sweet about this. My glare doesn’t deter him from elaborating. “I still mean what I said when I got here. It’s gonna be okay. I don’t know how or when, but there’s no way you don’t end up together.”
“You’re a romantic.”
He gestures at the tree. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m a disaster.”
“He loves his kid. But he’s not gonna let you go without a fight.”
“That explains why he’s been blowing up my phone.”
“Can you forgive him?” Gavin asks.
I scowl. “What’s there to forgive? He’s doing what he has to do. I get it.”
“What I don’t think you get is what you mean to him.”
“The reason he’s gonna lose his kid, you mean?” I ask, so fucking bitter.
“He may be reeling, but he’s not stupid, Matthew. And neither are you. You’re both re-grouping. Fine. That’s great, actually. It’d be ideal if you could do it together, but for whatever reason, he feels like staying away is the right move. For now. I don’t think he’s gonna last though.”
“How would you know? You’ve been here.”
Gavin holds up his phone. “He texted me last night asking how many times I’ve seen Ravenna at the club.”
“And?”
“More than the one time she told him about.”
“So what? She has almost nothing to do with this.”
“No, but she’s a Gallo. Her mother is Stef March’s best friend. And she has a business and reputation to protect.”
“Unless you’ve got something on Nicole, I don’t see how the Gallos or the Marches matter.”
“They matter because no one covers shit up like Upper East Side society. It’s like the fucking Pentagon. What Fischer and I both know is that if The Gallos and the Marches don’t want something to come out—they’ll get to Nicole. And he’s about to start making a lot of noise.”
I flinch. I don’t want this for him. I don’t want for us to exist at the mercy of rich, entitled assholes who don’t want their baby girl’s good name associated with a sex club. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”
“It’s the UES. I’m not sure people like you and me are meant to understand how things work there.”