8. Theo
EIGHT
THEO
The place is packed.
Father Matteo— Matteo —and I stand by the entrance as I try and figure out where to sit. The sign says seat yourself, but I don’t think there’s an empty table in the whole restaurant. The last time I came it wasn’t this busy. It’s a Tuesday for Christ’s—shit, sorry—crying out loud.
“We could go somewhere else,” I rush out, face flushing with embarrassment because I happened to pick the one restaurant in this city without any tables. “Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be this crowded.”
Matteo hums under his breath, a serious look on his face as his eyes flit across the room. He turns to the bar and shrugs. “Can we sit there?”
I want to slap myself for not noticing there are two open seats at the bar. What’s wrong with me? I’m usually more put together than this. Here I was, panicking about this place not having any goddamn—fuck, sorry—freaking tables open.
“Theo?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to get my bearings as I smile back at him. “Yeah, the bar sounds good.”
We make our way to the small bar and pick the two seats at the end. We’re backed up into a corner, stuck between the bar top and a wall, but it works. He reaches for a stray menu next to him, but I yank it away quickly. “Oh no. I’m ordering for you.”
He turns and raises an amused brow, a smirk on his lips. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” I say, tucking the menu away beside me so he can’t reach it. “I’ve been here enough times to know what’s the best.”
“But how will you know if I like something or not?” he argues lightly.
I shrug. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
A flash of surprise crosses his eyes, making the darkness just a touch brighter. He bites his bottom lip and chuckles, strands of his hair falling over his forehead. “Alright. Trust it is then.”
It’s such a simple thing, putting his faith in me to order for him, but it makes me smile. I almost sit up taller and prouder. “Any food allergies I should be aware of?”
“No,” he tells me. “If it helps at all, I love spice.”
“I know exactly what to get you then.” I see the bartender over by the end serving another customer, so we wait for him to finish. In the meantime, I glance behind the bar and gesture at the liquor. “Do you want something to drink? They make a great Cardamom cocktail.”
He stiffens, body going rigid beside mine. It’s such a quick turn, all the lightheartedness of our conversation disappearing. I’m such an idiot. Of course, priests don’t drink, or at least I think so. Either way, drinking with a member of your congregation is probably frowned upon.
So is letting them call you by their first name.
“I don’t drink,” he says curtly, hands clasped together in front of him as if he’s holding himself back from clenching them.
I nod. “I get it.”
“But you can if you want.”
“I’m driving, remember?”
And now it’s awkward. Fuck. Although it’s not the same awkwardness that I’m used to, it’s still suffocating. This time, I’m not content to just let it settle around us like a fog no one wants to travel through. I push it away, opening my mouth to say… anything , when the bartender comes up to us.
“What can I get y’all?” he asks, busy multitasking and making a drink as he does.
“One aloo gobi, palak paneer, and butter chicken.”
“Naan?”
“Buttered, please.”
He nods, shoving two waters in front of us. “Anything else to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Matteo rushes out, nearly downing the water before the bartender even has the chance to leave.
Now that we’re waiting for our order, I fidget with my hands as I try to think of what to say. Although I haven’t had more than two conversations with the priest, I’ve noticed that it’s either the easiest thing in the world or the most daunting. I invited him here, so it feels like I have to steer the conversation but that brings up another confusing point.
Why did I invite him here in the first place?
Even though I try to rationalize it to myself, I know it’s because he’s been the highlight of my week. Walking with him on Sunday and talking to him today has been the most excited I’ve felt in a long time. It must be because I don’t have any friends of my own, anything I can call mine. Not saying he’s mine. Shit, no, that’s not what I meant.
It’s just that my life seems like it’s been a series of events that are happening to me, not with me, and the choice to go out to lunch rather than head back to work is a way to insert myself in the moving picture.
That and I’m curious. So curious about this man. He was kind and compassionate today, but the little glimpse of hardness I just saw in him intrigues me. He must be around my age and objectively he’s handsome as hell… heck.
But I won’t get to know him if I can’t fucking talk to him. “Matteo?”
“Theo?” he mimics, softer than he was before although he still looks like he’s on the edge of his seat.
“What—Um—What made you want to become a priest?” I ask lamely. “Watched too many exorcist movies?”
My joke isn’t received well, and he reverts to the coldness I’m starting to hate. “It was my calling.”
“Right,” I say, smacking my lips as I drum my fingers against the bar top. Keep going . “Was there anything else you wanted to be?”
He shakes his head. “I… No. No, it’s always been this.”
Why does that sound like such a pretty lie coming from him? “Okay, let’s see, when was the moment you knew you wanted to be a priest?”
I know I shouldn’t press if he doesn’t want to tell me more and maybe this is the selfish part of me that just wants a piece of him. Even with only just meeting, he can see right through me. He did at the soup kitchen when he called me out, and it’s almost like I want us to be on an even playing field.
To this, Matteo smiles. “God spoke to me.”
“Okay, that makes sense. You felt the calling?—”
“No, Theo,” he says, interrupting me. “God literally spoke to me.”
That makes me pause. Maybe I’m not hearing him right, especially since a particularly fussy baby has started wailing in the background. I scooch my chair closer, breath hitching when I accidentally make our thighs press together. But he doesn’t pull back or seem offended by my proximity, so I don’t move. “Say that again?”
“Having a hard time hearing it or believing it?” In a move I don’t expect, he leans in, bringing his face close to mine so he can speak into my ear. “I heard God’s voice.”
I know I should be floored by what he’s saying, but I’m too caught up vibrating with having him in my space. I notice now he smells like fresh grass after rain, and I find myself leaning in, so we’re shoulder to shoulder, heads ducked down together as I speak. “Are you serious?”
“I know it might seem unbelievable, but it’s true,” he says with a breathless laugh. “It was during my ordination. I was afraid, but He wrapped his arms around me and told me it would all be okay.”
“Did he say it like that? What did he say?” I ask, but I’m still not quite sure if I believe him.
Matteo chews on the inside of his cheek, not out of anger, but like he’s trying to come up with the right words. “I don’t know.”
I cock my head in confusion. “But you just said he told you it would be okay.”
“He did but it wasn’t like that. It’s like…” He turns to me fully, shifting so my legs are almost caged between his, almost strengthening the seriousness of this moment. “It’s like before it rains. There’s an invisible mist in the air, a feeling of… heaviness. Nature speaks to you, telling you there’s a storm coming, but it doesn’t need words to do so.”
I still don’t believe he actually heard God, but my curiosity is piqued. “How did that make you feel?”
His whole face transforms, fondness in his eyes making them look more caramel than chocolate. His smile is brilliant, dazzling even, and it’s the youngest he’s looked. “Like I was chosen. Like I was special. Like I was seen .”
My heart stutters at his words because it just sounds so good. Jealousy strikes me because I want that. I walk around my own life like a zombie, never really doing anything but fluttering in the background. I just need something that?—
“Theo, are you alright?”
I nod, even though I feel like absolute shit. Not because I’m feeling jealous and alone but because there should be something that makes me feel all those things Matteo said. My wife. I should feel chosen, special, and seen, but I don’t. Maybe when we were younger that was the case, but time and age have grown conveniences and expectations, not allowing any room for deviation. It’s a given we’re supposed to be together. It’s a given we should have children. It’s a given this is my life.
I’m so fucking tired of givens.
“Theo?” he repeats, hand coming up to rest on my lower back. “Are you alright?”
If anything, I’m better than I was before with his attention and consideration. I lean into the hand holding me, the warmth of it seeping through my shirt and into my skin. “I think it’s awesome you have that belief. That you’ve experienced that feeling at least once in your life.”
“And you?” he asks, gently moving his hand away. “Have you felt it?”
No, no I haven’t. I’m spared from admitting that when our food arrives. Hell, even if I just refused to speak, Matteo would have known. How does he always know? Perhaps God really is speaking to him and giving him all the juicy details.
He hums, rubbing his hands together as he looks at the butter chicken. I pick up my fork, ready to dig in, when he clears his throat. “Shall we say Grace?”
“Shit,” I mumble, dropping my fork with a loud clunk. “Sorry, Matteo.”
He chuckles, turning and taking both of my hands as he drops his head. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. We give Thee thanks for all Thy benefits and…” He stops and I glance up to see he’s looking at me through his lashes, suppressing a smile before he continues. “...And the friends we’ve made. May they prosper and grow, such as you would have it, amen.”
“A—Amen,” I stutter, and I duck my face to hide my flaming cheeks when he squeezes my hands before dropping them.
We eat after that, Matteo thoroughly pleased by my selections, and me thoroughly satisfied when he eats more than half of it. We talk about little insignificant things like what our favorite color is or whether we’re right-handed or left. He makes the worst joke, claiming that I ‘butter be killing him’ when I suggest we skip dessert. He’s polite and charming when the bartender comes back, talking to him with no other purpose than to meet someone new.
I sit mesmerized the entire time. Smart, handsome, kind, giving. Matteo is the entire package.
Um, the collar?
I snort to myself. I know Clara’s friend Margaret would go feral for a man like Matteo, she said as much during her Monday phone call with Clara. Apparently, all of Clara’s friends think our new priest is just positively dreamy.
And for some reason, that reminder makes me hold my chin up high and square my shoulders. All of them would love to be here, getting to know Matteo, having the privilege to drop his title, but it’s me he’s chosen.
Not like you gave him much of a choice, cornering him in the kitchen.
Oh, shut up.
Matteo reaches for his wallet, and I shake my head. “No, I’ve got this.”
“But I ate the most,” he argues, taking my wrist and trying to keep it chained against the table. “Let me.”
I laugh, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch his wallet and hold it as far away from him as I can. “I told you it’s on me.”
Not looking at all pleased, he crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose, holding one hand out for his wallet. “Fine. But I’ll get the next one?”
“The next one?” I ask, not being able to hide my smile as he nods. “Yeah, you can get the next one.”
The bill isn’t terribly high, so it’s not a huge hit to the wallet. After we leave the restaurant, we have a choice. My car is parked right at the corner of the block, and Matteo and I both turn to it, but neither of us moves. Instead, simultaneously, our eyes wander over to the park just across the street.
Matteo clears his throat. “Walk it off?”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets and cross the street with him.
More of the same, but in the most wonderfully repetitive way possible. We walk side-by-side, taking the path around a small pond, stopping only briefly to illegally feed some ducks bread from an old lady Matteo befriends. We laugh about the fact the duck thought he made a better snack than the multigrain.
Oh, I’d dig into Matteo in a heartbeat.
Wait, what?
No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I understood what the duck was thinking. Like if I had Matteo in front of me, why would I want anything else?—
Fuck, no, it’s all coming out wrong.
“Theo!”
I snap my head up at the sound of Matteo’s shout, giving an unmanly yelp as I’m snatched by the waist away from a tree. I’m brought into a pair of strong arms, head buried in a broad chest while I try to regain my footing. “Shit, Matteo. I’m sorry?—”
But when I look up, all the words become meaningless. Those eyes, infinite pools of darkness, flickering with the light of hope arrest me. The way the corner of his lip wants to innocently quirk up in amusement. The strong hands on the small of my back are keeping me pressed against him.
We stand frozen, letting time pass without us, but the laws of nature always win. Matteo snorts, chuckling under his breath as he drops his hands. “A bit clumsy?”
“The clumsiest,” I admit, the word fumbling out as I try to gather myself. “Thanks for that.”
“No need. We have to get you back to Clara in one piece.”
That snaps me out of the happy daydream I’ve been in. This whole time I haven’t even brought Clara up in conversation. It’s like I just… forgot about her. I want to chastise myself for it, want to feel like the absolute worst, but when Matteo cocks his head at me and asks if I want to keep walking, I say yes.
We stay out far longer than we’re supposed to, staying in Cheyenne until the sun sets, and returning to Smallville far too late.
“So,” Matteo says, idling in the passenger seat as he looks at me. “I had a nice day today. Thank you for the lunch invitation.”
“Same. I mean to the first thing, not the second one.” For the love of God . “I invited you to lunch. Not the other way around. Grammar’s tough, isn’t it?”
Way to be cool.
“Well, thank you again,” he says, laughing, but not in a way that’s meant to mock me. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday?”
“Of course. Front and center,” I say, fidgeting with my hands. “So, you have a nice night.”
“You too, Theo.” He smiles softly, getting out of the car, and starts his way up the steps. I’m about to pull out until he spins on his heels and rushes back to the passenger side. I roll down the window and he leans in. “That trail behind the church was nice, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, wrinkling my nose in confusion. “Especially toward the tail end of summer.”
“Maybe we could go on another walk,” he suggests casually with a shrug. “During the day? I haven’t seen a Wyoming gopher yet.”
“Tomorrow?” I question, already thinking it through. “I can come during my lunch hour.”
He nods, licking his lips. “That’d be wonderful. So, tomorrow around…”
“Noon.”
“Noon, it is.” He taps his knuckles against the car door. “Have a good night, Theo.”
He leaves for real this time, and I smile the entire way home. Even after I pull into the driveway, put the car in park, and almost forget to remove the keys from the ignition, I’m still smiling.
When I walk in, still in a happy little bubble, Clara looks over at me from where she’s watching television in her pajamas. She frowns, glancing at the clock above the mantel. “You were gone long.”
“The soup kitchen stayed open longer than we thought.”
I don’t know why the lie slips out so easily. I’m not too sure why I’m lying to begin with but when Clara asks if we can get lunch tomorrow on my break, I say?—
“I can’t. Jerry’s having us work through lunch tomorrow.”
When we head to bed, I think about that lie as well. I rationalize it to myself the best I can. I just want to have something for myself, right? It’s not a big deal if Clara doesn’t know every single thing about my day. I should be allowed to spend time with my new friend, Matteo, just for me.
Because if this is what friendship is, then I’ve been missing out.