Chapter Nine Jamie #3
My phone is still in my hand when she drives away.
I think about talking to Mateo before his night gets as busy as Harper's.
Unfortunately, I'm no braver about that than I am about hosting a prom night sleepover, and I decide therapy is probably a smarter option.
Within the next several minutes, I'm in my pool, swimming laps that once healed me.
I hate that I need them now, while the sun is shining on what should be one of the best days of my life. I'm close to staying underwater too long just to feel my lungs burn.
As long as I don't come up for air, I can't speak another word.
I'm not sure how long I swim, but eventually my body is worn out and my stomach demands to be fed.
When I'm dry enough to raid the kitchen, I grab my phone and thumb through the pictures Harper's sent so far.
I'm pretty sure there are meme references being made way above my head, but I'm just happy she's smiling like she is.
I catch myself smiling too, because I deserve that much.
It's a really, really great day for me.
It really, really is.
Then Mateo texts me, and my smile changes, and the leftover lasagna I've just reheated will have to wait another minute.
He's sent me a picture from his bathroom, where he's facing a foggy mirror wiped enough for me to love several things at once.
The wet strands resting against his shoulders until he pulls them back for the night.
The beginning of a mustache and beard I don't expect him to shave.
The enviable hair on his chest, more than I've ever had, calling for my touch.
The happy trail disappearing beneath the towel wrapped around his waist.
That's calling to me, too.
You're a tease
Mateo responds quickly. Hardly. You know you're welcome to come over and watch me get dressed.
And then have to watch you leave? Sounds terrible
The thing is, I will go to his apartment later. I don't tell him that now.
You flatter me.
Do I get to see what you're wearing tonight?
Ah you want me to put clothes ON? You flatter me less.
I don't say anything else then, shoveling food into my mouth before my stomach turns more than it already has. I pour myself some wine too, my unannounced visit still hours away. In another ten minutes, I’ve received enough pictures to be sorry I asked.
Mateo's wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy button-up, his tie and handkerchief bringing both colors together.
His hair has been pulled into the bun I expected.
His grin is full of mischief he'll have to smother when it's time to be the responsible adult.
He's so fucking gorgeous. And it's been almost four years.
I just choked on my pinot noir
The flattery is back.
Neither one of us texts after that. The time suggests Mateo should be on his way to the hotel hosting tonight's festivities, doing whatever the chaperones do until the students arrive.
I get more pictures from Harper, all dressed up and on her way to dinner.
Then at dinner. Then at the dance. I get a warning after all that, telling me she's done with me until it's slumber party time. I sign off with a simple I love you.
I'm lonely—and yes, crawling out of my skin—until midnight has come and gone, and I can go to Mateo's to tell him about my day. I shower and change into black joggers and a dark green henley. Then I roll my eyes because nothing I’m wearing matters.
I'm shaking, probably obviously so, and that continues when I arrive at his apartment before he's returned.
I sit on the ground with my back to his door, and I wait and wait and wait.
We've done so much of that. I wonder if promises can become indefinite things.
There's plenty of ambient sound, but I swear I know his car when it purrs through the parking lot and comes to a stop.
The chirp of his key fob comes next, and I know that, too.
Then I see him, and he sees me, and I imagine our expressions change a dozen times when we take each other in.
Mateo's suit jacket is in his hand now. I'm thrown off by the sight of suspenders hidden from me before, his tie and top couple of buttons undone.
That I'm here at all throws him, but I push to my feet and don't wince when my leg unfairly reminds me of things I could never forget.
"Watching you come home was nicer than what you offered earlier," I say, my voice low for at least a few reasons.
"I didn't think this was an option," he chuckles softly. "It's the middle of the night."
"And you need to sleep."
Mateo shrugs. "I just had a drink with a couple of other teachers. I wouldn't mind another one with you."
He unlocks his door, and I follow him into his kitchen, our shoes kicked aside and his jacket draped over a chair on our way.
The only light is from the dim lamp he'd left on in the living room, his apartment small enough for him to keep everything else off for the night.
I watch as he reaches for a bottle of bourbon.
I say nothing, fine with anything that will help dull what happens next.
I can't be nobody anymore, but just for tonight, I could do without feeling all of Jameson Sinclair's highs and lows.
"How was prom?" I ask as he pours.
"Incident-free, which is pretty much the measure of success on our end." He passes me a glass and takes a sip from his own. "Harper looked beautiful."
"You look beautiful."
He smiles almost shyly. "I assume she's spending the night at a friend's?"
Her last text came about ten minutes before Mateo pulled into his complex. I nod. "She is."
"So you can stay?"
"I won't."
He wants to ask me why—I can read that much in the tilt of his head and the quick crease between his brows—but he stalls with another sip.
Honestly, I'm not sure I know why anymore.
I should say the things I came here to say, but they make less sense now.
I'm standing in a mostly dark apartment with liquor in my hand and Mateo staring at me, and I consider taking this in the opposite direction, just to let us have this one night together.
We'd know what it was like to see and hear and taste and feel everything before I ruin it with my happiness.
I was raised to focus on a singular goal, but maybe I can have two tonight.
Maybe I can hold on to Mateo now and let him go tomorrow.
I don’t beg for the chance because I’ve learned to live with the bruises he’ll touch without trying. Sometimes I think the nearness of pain motivates me as much as anything.
"Dance with me."
I startle at that, the request falling from Mateo's lips and not mine. "You were just at prom."
"It wasn't my prom, Jamie." He's teasing me, but sobers quickly. "This is my apartment. Dance with me."
The bourbon is smooth when I swallow, and I hope it will keep my heartbeat steady. For almost a minute, neither of us moves except to lift our glasses to our mouths. Then I step forward and pull his phone from his pocket.
"Pick a song."
He does, and it's a U2 song I know well.
It doesn't need to be loud for me to know I'll hear it for the rest of my life.
Mateo may have been the one to ask me for this, but he hesitates as the song plays.
I assume he's still curious about why I showed up just to tell him I have plans to leave.
I'm not going anywhere yet though, and I reach for one of his suspenders.
With my fingers curled around it, I back toward the living room and drag him with me.
I don't know how to do the rest of this—I couldn't guess when I last slow-danced with anyone, and I definitely haven't done it with another man—but he seems to understand.
He takes me in his arms as we start to sway.
Minutes pass, and I only know because the songs have changed.
I'm locked in an embrace I still want forever, and I'm remarkably silent as I press my nose to Mateo's neck.
I've heard scents are closely linked to memories.
He doesn't stop me, no matter how careless I am, and it reminds me of something else.
Slowly, I pull away until my mouth is just a few inches from his, and I find his bun with one hand, tugging until I can drop the hair tie to the floor.
"I care," he whispers, because he's been reminded, too.
"We're friends."
"Friends. It’s the faintest line I’ve ever drawn," Mateo scoffs, shaking his head. "I've never known how to be less than everything when I'm with you."
People lie to me all the time. I'm an easy mark with a big ego.
Bullshit does its job for as long as I let myself believe it.
I've had things people want—money and a pretty face now; breathtaking talent and a pretty face long ago—so they've always told me what I need to hear.
But while held captive by Mateo's soft stare and clumsily dancing in his arms, I know this is different.
That just like that first night, when we could've said goodbye after dinner from a taco truck and careless kissing by the beach, he's different.
Years later, he's still telling me the truth, and I'm the fucking liar.
We take a deep breath together as if we can reset both.
Then Mateo guides my hand to where his tie remains loose around his neck.
Tossing it aside is easy for me, but he doesn't stop there.
He finds my other hand now, and moves both to his shoulders, humming his encouragement when I push the suspenders down his arms. There's nothing to add to the pile this time.
In search of something else to do, I untuck his shirt and swear—even in the dim room—that I can see his brown eyes bleed black.
"I'm not staying the night with you," I say, gentle when I work my way through his buttons. "I won't touch you everywhere."
Mateo's shirt is open when he wraps his arms around me again. We sway, his mouth next to my ear. "You've stayed before."
"Not when we've been like this."
"We weren't like this when you first said no to spending the night. You'd probably decided that before you left your house."
He's right, and he knows it, and he only holds me closer, almost grinding against me to a song that doesn't demand it. It's agonizingly slow, and I let it happen because I've never stopped wanting to be wanted. And by this man more than anyone I've ever met.
"I don't know how to be less than everything with you either."
"We're going to have to wait longer than a few more weeks, aren't we?" he asks, his question pressed to my temple before he drops his head to bite at my shoulder, frustrated in a way I'm unable to fix. "It can't be right after graduation, because everyone would know."
"Yes, we'll have to wait," I rasp.
One of his hands slides down my back and stops just below my waistband.
The pressure there keeps me in place when he knows I'm about to run.
I'm weak enough to stay for another terrible, wonderful minute, and if he pushes any harder, I might stay forever.
Then I remember a year ago, on the bench, when I was in Mateo's lap and rocking forward and more aroused than I'd been in years.
Even my prom night mistake with Melanie couldn't compare then, and he and I are closer to trouble now.
"Go."
For the second time tonight, he startles me, that single word almost a kiss left on my cheek. I nod because the hair on his face feels so fucking good against me. Then I press my hand to his chest as I back away, his heartbeat as wild as mine always has been.
I'm still fully clothed, my shoes, phone, and keys all I need before I leave. Mateo doesn't move from the middle of the living room when I walk toward the door. Actually, his head is tipped downward, like I've given him a reason to pray.
I step outside and pull his apartment door closed behind me. The night greets me with a haunting hum of near-silence, and I start walking to my car with a prayer of my own—unspoken, but so loud inside my head.
Don't stop being everything.
Don't stop loving me.
Don't stop waiting.
Then I stop and turn around.