Chapter 11 #2
Hazel and Finn step forward and work in tandem to get our father taken care of, helping him to the bathroom the way we did with Chase. They’re seasoned veterans, I see that now, and it breaks my heart.
It’s only now, in watching their practiced movements, that I notice the old shirt Hazel is wearing.
It’s falling apart, stretched beyond belief, and there’s a hole in the armpit that I sewed up and that ripped again when it was Finn’s turn to wear it.
The hand-me-down is a black The Cranberries shirt from their 1995 world tour, given to me when I was five or six by a friendly neighbor.
They did that often, bringing over clothes they or their children had outgrown or that others might have taken to thrift stores or thrown away.
I can’t even remember which neighbor it was, since they all banded together to help us however they could, whenever they could.
I wore it for years, their music becoming my security blanket when I resented my parents or my siblings—something I suppress deeply because of the guilt that overwhelms me when I allow it to fester.
The unique voice and sound pointed to something more troubling than any of my problems, to a far-off war and to the suffering of so many others.
It helped me recognize how lucky I was to be where I was.
When I outgrew the shirt, it briefly went to Chase, then to Finn, and finally to Hazel, like a rite of passage for the Anderson children. I didn’t know she still owned it, but seeing it hammers home the message I always repeated when I was wrapped in it.
Hazel comes out of the bathroom, and I can see she’s still not happy with me. I hand her the keys to the Saturn and give her another long hug.
“I’m sorry. I’ll think about the job.” She was stiff at first, but now reciprocates the embrace. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she whispers into my shoulder.
I hug Finn goodbye, and then we’re back in Matteo’s car on the way to the facility.
This is the first time anyone has ever seen my father like this besides Austin.
My skin feels raw, like I’ve scrubbed it for hours, and I realize I bit the inside of my cheeks so hard throughout this whole ordeal that there’s blood in my mouth.
Sure, the girls know about my family. Nic and Maya especially. But no one has seen it under a microscope like this until now. Until Matteo.
It builds an odd, painful sort of intimacy between us that wasn’t there before.
The moment we get on the highway, the dam breaks, and I sob quietly, my forehead pressed against the window so Matteo doesn’t see me.
“Tesoro, please,” Matteo says, pained. I don’t know what he’s asking of me, if anything, but he takes the next exit and pulls over as soon as we get to a street where it’s safe to do so. My tears keep rolling despite how quickly I swipe them away.
Matteo puts the car in park and takes my hand, tugging until I gaze at him. No judgment, only concern. And that makes me cry harder. “I’m so…sorry. I try so hard”—I hiccup—“not to cry in front of other people. I don’t know why…I can’t stop.”
“Please stop apologizing,” he whispers. “Nobody expects you to be the perfect warrior you force yourself to be a hundred percent of the time.” Flipping open his center console, he pulls out a package of travel tissues and hands them to me.
I take them gratefully, ripping the plastic open and dabbing my eyes with one.
“It was a car accident…that killed my mom.” He clears his throat, and I set the package of tissues between us in case he needs them too, the ache in my chest yawning wider at this new knowledge.
“My dad couldn’t handle the grief. Sent me to live with my nonna, Mom’s mom. The one who taught me poker.”
We’re still in park, but one of Matteo’s hands tightens around the steering wheel. “Dad got married again a few years later and started a new family. Left me behind like I was trash, texting me on holidays and my birthday like that was enough to keep the relationship alive.”
My heart sinks as I picture him waiting for his father to come back for him, right beside me, waiting for my mother. Did he linger by the mailbox too? Stay near the phone as much as he could in case he called?
“Then my nonna died a few years after I went pro. It felt like I couldn’t catch a break.
I was sad at first, but then I was angry.
Everything pissed me off. I was mad at the world, at the unfairness of it all.
” He swallows, and from the brief moment our eyes catch, I can tell there’s more to the story.
“It is unfair,” I manage. Slipping my hand back into his, I squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Matteo, that you’ve had to deal with all of that.” Alone. He’s been so alone these last few years. Of course he’s mad.
I’m still dabbing at my eyes when I realize—
Matteo understood how embarrassed I am about my dysfunctional family, and now he’s presenting me with his. An exchange of the pieces of us that make us us. Not our favorite colors or courts or tournaments, but the life-shattering, world-stopping pieces.
He wants me to feel less alone.
“I feel that anger sometimes too. The resentment.” It feels good to admit it. “Like the world is crumbling, and for some reason, I’m the one who has to make it whole again.”
Matteo nods. “Has your dad always been that way?”
I sniffle. “No. He was a good dad for a few years. Tried his best, I think. He hid the drinking well in the beginning, but over time, it took over his life, and he fell into this cycle: weeks where he’s good, finding work and buying a few more groceries for us than usual, and then the weeks where he’s drinking, gone for days at a time or passing out on the couch because it’s closer than his room. ”
A ghost who haunts the halls of the house but doesn’t truly live among us anymore. Who drifts in and out whenever he pleases, disappears and reappears when it suits him best.
“Is he why you stepped away from game night?”
I nod. “One of the perks of his bad weeks,” I murmur.
“And your mom?”
I think of the photo tucked away safely in my wallet.
It’s ingrained so deeply in my brain, it has its own grooves.
“She was this brilliant, effervescent woman who worked so hard to make sure I was okay. Truly my best friend. She called me her little helper because it was my job to clean and cook and take care of Chase while she worked, especially if Dad was MIA.” I laugh.
“I wore that title like a badge of honor. She’d get home late, exhausted beyond belief, and she would smile at me over her tea while I cleaned the kitchen. ”
When my eyes meet Matteo’s, I expect to see something warm at the picture I’m painting, but the furrow in his brow reads like indignation.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s a lot to put on a kid.”
Looking at my lap, I shrug. “I didn’t mind it so much.
It got worse when the twins were born. Mrs. Elliott—she lived right next door and tried her best to bring us clothes her grandchildren outgrew or casseroles made with any food she had lying around—always said it was postpartum depression that sent Mom running into Dad’s clutches.
Not that I understood what that meant at the time.
All I knew was that Mom stopped going to work, began sleeping more, and went out a lot, and then one day, she was gone.
” I glance at him again, hesitantly. “That’s when my world crumbled. ”
Can he see how much I wish I could run away and start over all on my own?
The small part of me—though it swells by the day—that hates myself for feeling that way?
I’ve never admitted it, desperately crushing the thought into the depths of my being, and yet I can tell Matteo sees it. More than that, he understands it.
He pushes my hair behind my ears, hands on either side of my face. We blink at each other, savoring this moment of mutual perception.
“I knew you were incredible, but I didn’t even come close to recognizing how much so.”
I blink again, almost missing the flash of regret in his eyes, like he said more than he meant to. Words confound me, even after Matteo moves away, putting the car in drive and getting us back on the highway. I try to let go of his hand so he can use them both, but he only grips mine tighter.
We enjoy the silence, fingers interlaced, until he pulls up in front of my apartment. Neither of us move. I need to get into bed so I’m ready for tomorrow, but my body feels leaden, like someone placed paperweights atop my shoulders, the exhaustion seeping directly into my bones.
Matteo was beside me the entire day, his strength becoming mine as the little I had waned. No matter how many times I told him he could leave me, he refused to.
“Matteo?”
“Mm-hmm?” he hums.
I peer at him, making out his features in the light of the dashboard and streetlamps. He’s gazing at the dark street in front of us, eyebrows knit. His right hand still rests in my palm, and his left strokes the scruff along his jaw.
“You’re a lot nicer than people give you credit for.” Myself included.
Matteo doesn’t respond immediately; instead he gets out of the car, grabs my bags, and sets them on the sidewalk.
I follow him, and just when I think he either didn’t hear me or is brushing the words off, he pulls me into his body, taut, warm, and smelling of bergamot.
His lips are featherlight against my temple, so much so that I convince myself I’ve imagined them.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Thank you.”
I reach for my bags, and he lets me go reluctantly, a hand still resting beneath my elbow.
When I get my building door open and hike up the stairs, I pretend he wishes I’d stayed.