Chapter Seventeen Jamie
(I Knew Someone Named Logan)
He stays.
Mateo stays.
I'm not stupid enough to believe some part of it isn't because he has nowhere else to go.
Then again, this is Mateo, and he makes lists of his lists and plans for his plans.
If I ignore how absolutely unlike himself he's been tonight, I can assume he made a reservation somewhere.
Or maybe he'd be happy sleeping in a rental car. He does like camping, after all.
Still, he stays, and we don't say a single fucking word to each other while we do what we can to hide the evidence of love we've kept secret for years.
I retrieve my sweatpants from their position behind the headboard and look for my tank top.
Mateo is already wearing his boxer briefs again.
He gets a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and goes to work on the worst of anything we did to the duvet.
I open a window and don't worry that everyone who'd been outside has made it in.
The pillow is probably beyond saving, and I'll wait to trash it when nobody else is looking.
Mateo takes a deep breath, peeks into the hallway, and grabs his duffel bag from where it was left next to the door.
The dim lamp in the corner of the room has allowed us to see plenty tonight, but I think both of us were done with that a while ago. We spend those last several minutes navigating the dark instead, and crawl into bed with matching sighs.
We lace our fingers together, but never say goodnight.
We don't say good morning, either.
I wake up much earlier than usual. In all fairness, I'd fallen asleep much earlier than usual.
There's a persistent ache whispering for me to stay still and keep my eyes closed, but I know most of it isn't a physical concern, and I was never all that good at being gentle with myself until I was forced to be.
Barely careful, I stare at the ceiling. A second later, I flex my hand against the mattress and realize I'm not holding on to Mateo anymore.
It's worse than that, though. Of course it's worse than that.
He's not here.
My eyes fly to where he'd put his bag last night, but it's gone, too. It makes it harder to imagine that he could be in the bathroom, just taking a piss or brushing his teeth. I listen for him anyway, and lie when I tell myself I'm not surprised to be alone.
The same persistent ache yells at me now. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When Mateo was fucking me, somewhere between one perfectly excruciating thrust and another, I'd begged him not to stop.
I didn't mean for that to have anything to do with sex.
I'm not sure whether he thought I did. We haven't been on the same page for a while, except for how endlessly we've loved each other.
And I want to scream until he understands that's all I meant.
Even with a mess of mistakes and misunderstandings littered over years and miles, I just don't want him to stop loving me.
I refuse to cry about that now, sitting up in bed and feeling it everywhere.
The window is still open, and it carries a chill to match whatever Mateo left behind.
Every new breeze causes the curtains to flutter, and waves of sunlight rise and fall across the room whenever the patterned linen lets them pass.
I want to say something about sleeping with the window open—that we should've done it last year, probably—but he's not here to agree with me.
Maybe next year I can invite him back, just for a chance to do it then.
It's too quiet, and I don't know where I'm gonna go, but I can't stay in the middle of a bed I almost want to set on fire. I move too fast, then slow back down, and shuffle toward the bathroom. It takes me a minute to raise my eyes to the mirror, and I'm sorry when I do.
Or more angry than sorry.
Or more devastated than angry.
I wonder why I didn't see them last night until I remember that we turned off the light and got ready for bed in the dark.
Mateo could've said something to me, but we hadn't talked.
And I might've zeroed in on the pain, except that everything hurts and they probably look worse than they are.
Three deep scratches over my heart, with shallower ones on either side.
Claw marks, more or less, left by a man who hadn't wanted to let me go last night.
My fist slams into the mirror. I think I cut myself.
I definitely cracked the fuck out of the glass, and it's just one more thing I've destroyed.
For several seconds, I listen for the sound of anyone awakened by my tantrum, but when everything stays quiet around me, I stare at my fractured reflection.
I'm unrecognizable there, and then I make myself nearly hysterical at the thought because when has that ever been true?
Once I've recovered, I consider showering, but don't make it further than washing my bloody hand and pulling myself together like I have a press conference to attend.
It's too cold for the tank top I'd worn last night, but I find a long sleeve t-shirt in my bag and tug it on, my sweatpants comfortably low on my hips.
I'm sure my hair is a disaster, but nobody in the house could possibly make me care.
I need coffee and an idea of what I'll say to Lena when I see her again.
I can't quite jog downstairs, but I make it there eventually.
The coffee pot isn't as full as it should be, and my brain is too clumsy to piece together the reason why.
The house is so still when I take my first sip, but that only means I'm easily startled when I hear footsteps behind me.
Coffee sloshes over the side of my mug and lands in all my new wounds.
I could scream, but I've made enough of a scene this morning, and I bite my tongue instead.
"You spilled," Taylor says dryly.
He's only a few feet away from me, and the chill that forced me into a shirt must not bother him because he's wearing nothing but plaid boxers.
He's in his mid-50s now, but he knows he's more attractive than almost anyone here.
I'm the exception, but he doesn't hate me for it as often these days, and I don't have the energy to remind him of old feuds.
I'm still stunned to see him up so early.
I look stupidly between the mug in his hand and the pot that had confused me a minute ago.
"You're awake."
Taylor sets his coffee on the counter and grabs a couple of paper towels, wetting them at the sink before he steps toward me.
He pulls the dripping mug from my hand and wipes me clean.
It's the gentlest I've seen him be with anyone, even after two years of coaching at his side.
I'd ask what he's doing, but my voice won't work.
I'm left to watch as he finds a large travel mug and pours my coffee into it.
A moment later, he tops it off with the rest of his own and secures the lid, pushing it into my curious grip.
"It's a beautiful morning." He almost smiles, but he's looking too closely at me, and it keeps him serious. "You should go down to the dock and enjoy it for as long as you can."
I don't want to enjoy anything right now, but Taylor's not in the habit of making suggestions he doesn't expect people to take.
I nod and mumble something like a thank you.
There's a pile of flip-flops and slides and sneakers by the patio door.
I don't care which ones are mine when I step outside in a pair and let the cool air help with my first deep breath of the day.
Then I'm not breathing well at all, a short walk all I need to catch sight of the person already appreciating the view.
He's sitting on the dock, his legs dangling over the lake.
If I were feeling playful, I'd sneak up and pull his ponytail.
His jeans are probably the same ones from last night, and without him turning around, I know the high school's logo is embroidered on the front of his jacket, just opposite the side that reads Coach Zavala.
He could be at the airport by now—maybe even on a plane—but Mateo's here. I'm not sure why, but it seems like Taylor's encouraged me to find out.
I take careful steps across the wood. It feels like everyone is asleep for miles, giving us the privacy we've only ever had on the California coast. I take a long sip of my coffee to prove it isn't a dream. I already know I can turn it into a nightmare on my own.
"Don't sit," he says, pushing himself off the dock without looking at me. "It'll be hell on your leg."
There's nothing about my approach that should've given me away, but I'm not surprised he sensed me coming because I'd know him anywhere.
I press my shoulder against his as soon as I can, and I pass him the coffee.
It takes another minute before I say anything, mostly because I want to say everything.
"I thought you were gone."
Mateo nods.
"You will be soon," I continue.
He nods again.
"Are you sorry?"
His head whips toward me, dark eyes pleading for things I'd give him if I could. "Do you want me to be sorry?"
I asked the first question, but I don't even know what we're talking about. Then I shake my head because Mateo shouldn't be sorry for anything. Not this morning. I don't know if we'll have another one like it.
"I should've invited you here," I murmur. "It was—I don't know why I thought you'd say no."
"Things have been weird for a while."
"Yeah."
"We’ve kept too much to ourselves. We're at least supposed to talk about things. We’re supposed to be friends."
"Friends," I echo. "Yeah."
There's a beat of silence. Several actually, and I remember when they used to feel right. Discomfort stirs between us now, and I fidget next to him, shaking out a leg that’s doing just fine. Mateo sighs, and I should've used those last few seconds to brace myself.
"I was there. That night."
I'm glad he has the coffee because I think I would've dropped it. "That night."