Twenty-Seven #3
“I didn’t want to make it about me! ‘I beat my boyfriend, and now he’s not talking to me and I’m worried he’ll leave me, am I the asshole?’”
He laughed and kissed my forehead. “I think even Reddit would agree that I’m the asshole.”
“We’ll have to play again at some point.”
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll lose again and maybe it will be in a final and will hurt even more. And maybe I’ll sulk for a few days, but it won’t matter because I love you, Matteo, and nothing will change that. It really is that simple.”
They were lovely words—words I’d needed to hear—yet I couldn’t but think of what he’d said in Paris about how we would always be a mess. “Simple?” I said. “I thought you said we could never be neat and simple like in a romance novel.”
“You know what,” he said, bending to pick up the towel he’d dropped and using it to ruffle my still damp hair.
“I’ve realised something since I said that—No, since you replied that the easiest thing you do is loving me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about those words and realised it’s rarely easy or simple, even in the books, it just looks that way because at some point they choose to put their relationship first, and then everything else being messy matters so much less. ”
He hung the towel over the back of a chair and slipped an arm around my waist, the gesture so natural and reassuring that tears pricked my tired eyes.
“Our relationship is always going to be a bit messy and difficult. Hiding it is hard. Not hiding it would be hard. Everything with my parents and my tied-up finances is hard. Having to play each other is hard. There’s no way to make any of that not true, so all we can do is choose to put each other first and let the rest work itself out. ”
I tried to blink back my tears and failed, having to wipe them instead with the back of my hand. Here I’d been panicking about us even lasting day to day, while he had quietly built himself a foundation upon which to be so sure of something. Of me.
“Oh, darling,” he said, catching my hand. “I didn’t mean to make you cry!”
“They’re happy tears.”
“Yes, you’re relieved because you thought I was going to leave you over a tennis match!
” He wrapped his arms around me so tightly I could hardly breathe.
“You are more important to me than anything, Matteo Russo, and I will tell you so every day until you believe it. Oh here, I have something that might help.” Letting me go, he went into the bedroom and returned with a long, slim box wrapped in golden paper.
“I was going to wait until Christmas,” he said, handing it over.
“But I want you to have it now. Open it.”
Giving him a stunned look, I ripped open the paper. Inside was a jeweller’s box and inside the jeweller’s box sat a bracelet made of silver and braided black leather. A trio of small charms had been threaded onto it—a heart, a tennis ball and—
“Is that . . .?” I began, looking up at him in disbelief.
“A scrunchie? Yes it is.” He grinned. “We may never know why you named me that in your phone, but it grew on me. And I wanted something that would make you think of me, so I could be with you even when we’re not together.”
“How are you so perfect?”
Miles laughed, rueful. “I think if we’ve proved anything tonight it’s that I’m really not, but .
. .” He took the bracelet from its box to clasp it around my wrist. “I’m going to work on communicating better every day so this doesn’t happen again.
Because you make me so sure, Mat. Sure in a way I’ve never been before, and I want that for you too.
So, we’ll keep talking, okay? All the time, about anything, everything, until believing in us is something you don’t have to do anymore, yeah? ”
“Yeah, okay,” I said and kissed him softly, my lips still sticky from crying. “I like the sound of sure.”
“WE DON’T HAVE to do this, you know. We can just turn around and go back to my place.”
From the passenger seat, Miles rolled his eyes. “I want to. Besides, I am not robbing them of Christmas with you, or missing out on tiramisu, so if you turn this car around, I will hit you.”
I grimaced and kept driving.
We’d planned to just spend Christmas together, but after our deep and meaningful at the beach house, I’d dared to ask if he wanted to meet my family. Before I’d even assured him they could be trusted to keep his secret, he’d said, “Sounds lovely. I was hoping to meet them while I’m here.”
Because of course he had been, his role in this relationship to be calmly sure of what he wanted while mine was to panic at every step that I was wanting too much.
Miles shot me an amused look as I glanced his way to change lanes. “Admit you’re just panicking because you told them you were bringing your boyfriend but didn’t tell them my name, and now you’re freaking out about what they’ll say.”
“All right, yes. I thought surprising them would be fun and now I’m losing my mind.”
“Entirely your fault for keeping me a secret!”
“You never gave me permission to tell anyone!”
He shrugged, the gesture vaguely conciliating. “No, I suppose not, but if you’d asked, I would have said it was fine. Not that you were going to ask given everything, I guess.”
During our days at the beach, we’d talked over the fear I’d been carrying since New York half a dozen times, even working on strategies to maintain communication the next time we had to play each other.
Every day he had assured me he loved me and wanted me and that I was more important than tennis, and every day it had felt wholly true.
Yet, still I worried how it would be when we weren’t together.
“Well, for future reference,” he said, adjusting the new necklace I’d given him for Christmas because of course we’d both had the same idea. “You don’t have to keep me a secret from people who are important to you, okay?”
“Okay,” I replied, swallowing the wish that I didn’t have to keep him secret at all. He wasn’t hiding me because he was ashamed.
By the time I pulled into my parent’s driveway, I’d come up with over a dozen ways the coming introduction could go horribly wrong. They were all ridiculous and this was my family, but it was Miles being Miles about it that helped me relax.
“How are we going to play this?” he asked, adjusting his grip on the enormous bouquet of flowers he’d bought as I led the way up the front path. “I should have brought a sheet to put over my head so you could unveil me like a statue. I’d hide behind you, but I’m taller.”
“Shut up,” I laughed. “We really don’t need to be that dramatic.”
I halted at the door and glanced back to find Miles Callahan standing in my parents’ front yard.
He’d gone with his usual linen button-up and shorts, and had slipped into a pair of tan boat shoes, his anklet left hanging askew around one bare ankle.
His hair was in its tortured-poet waves and a hint of his tantalising cologne hung about him, and even without the bouquet, he looked like every mother’s dream – rich, gorgeous, and softly smiling.
And all mine, I reminded myself as I knocked.
Footsteps sounded from within, and I slipped a hand into his, our fingers fitting together in a way that felt so easy.
The door opened. And there was Mum, her welcoming smile hastily eclipsed as her jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Mat! I—” She looked from me to Miles and back, her voice suspended, and as responses to secret boyfriends went, it was pretty damn good.