Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
I 'm in my office with Christine having a cup of coffee and debriefing her on the board meeting I sat in on this morning. Though I’m not a board member, I am from time to time invited to the meetings to listen in on plans for the hospital, budget concerns, and all the other details that keep our hospital system running. I mainly enjoy hearing all the hospital gossip from the C suite, minus the occasional pervy look or comment—bordering on sexual harassment—from the COO, Chip Barrington.
"Chip had mustard on his tie. And he asked Dr. Flynn's assistant to 'be a doll and grab me another coffee,'" I tell her.
"God, he is such a misogynistic prick."
“They’re thinking of creating a pediatric psych emergency department here. We looked at the specs from one that just opened at UCLA. And another in Texas. The board would have to secure the funding, but we have the space now that the intensive outpatient program closed.” There have been murmurs about this for months, but this is the first time I've heard any actionable steps.
“That would be fantastic. Mostly for the kids, but for staff, too,” Christine says. She is reclined on my love seat, her feet propped up on my coffee table, sipping her iced caramel oat milk latte. The one thing my friend springs for is coffee. “It's one of life’s few simple pleasures,” she told me once many years ago.
“I’m going to help with some of the preliminary research,” I say. “It would be cool to get back to where I started this career, with kids.”
“For sure. …So, how are things going with Matt?” she asks cautiously.
“I don’t know what 'things' are quite yet, but I am very much enjoying his company.”
“Are you the only one who is enjoying his company?”
I almost choke on my coffee. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, according to Dave, he's had many girlfriends.”
“I think the operative word there is had . He hasn’t mentioned anyone to me.”
She snorts. “Why would he mention to you if he was seeing anyone else? He’s not a moron.”
“I just think it probably would’ve come up if he was.”
She stares at me, deadpan. “Julia.”
“Don't look at me like that. We're having a great time. It feels good. It feels right. We want to keep seeing each other. There's been no discussion of dating other people—I assume he isn't. Because I'm not." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel embarrassed that I clearly haven't thought this through.
“Assuming. Really? We know better than that. How would you feel if you opened your news app right now and saw a photo of him out to dinner with another woman, a very young and gorgeous model-actress type?”
It hits me like a blow to the ribs. The prospect of experiencing pain like that again makes my stomach clench. "Point taken."
“So, what gives? Either you’re having fun and that’s it, or, you’re having fun but it’s more than that for both of you, and that's great. But if it's more for you and maybe not for him—then you're in a bad spot.”
I let it sink in. “It just seems … unnecessary for me to ask him that at this point.”
“Aren’t you the therapist? Aren’t you the one always harping that everyone should have open and effective communication skills all the time? Why not just have an honest conversation with him? It’s better than being blindsided.”
I push away from my desk and spin to face the silhouette of the city outside my window. One of my office’s best features is this view—calming and invigorating at the same time. I love watching the shadows change throughout the day—a skyline altered simply by the position of the sun. A minute or two can change things, reveal more. Am I missing something? I don't think so.
But I've also been out of the dating world for so long I wonder if maybe this is how it works now. Certainly, dating multiple people at once isn't a new phenomenon. But that is disingenuous, and Matt seems so earnest. I sigh and slump back in my chair.
“I don’t mean to scare you," Christine says a little more gently. "I just want you to be smart. There’s a chance he’s not seeing anybody else. But there’s zero chance that other women aren’t trying to see him. You deserve to have an honest conversation about expectations.”
“Maybe you should’ve been a therapist,” I say, mind racing.
Christine laughs. “What do you think nurses are half the time? The only differences between you and me are that blood doesn’t make me queasy, and somehow you get paid more.”
* * *
Matt has started touring, and we haven't seen each other in over two weeks. I stop by Sid's apartment on my way home from work one evening. He's in the city for a few days for several follow-up medical appointments, and Rita reached out asking if I'd join them for dinner. I can't stay long but decide to drop in for an hour before field hockey practice.
I walk into his apartment, a beautiful two bedroom, two bathroom on the Upper East Side. Inside is a comfortable living room with a cozy leather sofa and matching recliner, thick rugs, antique floor lamps, and two pine shelves full of books, framed photos, and tchotchkes. A small kitchen is off to the right, and the bedrooms and bathrooms are on either side of the living space. I smile and wonder how much Matt helped to create this beautiful, warm place. My heart swells thinking about how well he loves and cares for his dad.
"My girl!" says Sid from the dining room table, where he is eating Chinese food and drinking a Coke.
I give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. "It's so good to see you. You look fantastic. You know you're supposed to take it easy on the sodium, right?"
"Salt is one of my favorite food groups."
"I hear you. I'm not saying cut it out, I'm saying just maybe … less? Remember the heart failure thing?"
He waves my comment away. "I'm just fine. How are you? How's work?"
"Work is good. The same old. How have you been doing?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. How's my boy?"
"He seems great. Traveling a ton."
"I don't know how he does it, it looks exhausting. I hate thinking of him by himself all the time. Surrounded by thousands of people cheering for him every night and yet he goes home all alone."
As soon as he says it, sadness washes over me. I hate that, too. "I'll see him soon," I offer, deciding right then that I'll make it happen as soon as possible.
"I know he seems like he's got it all figured out, but don't let him fool you. He was always a sensitive kid—never too sure of himself. I know you won't believe it because he never stops talking, but he used to get a little tongue-tied. It made him quiet. Observant. Stuck in his own damn head. When all this music stuff started to gain momentum, he was the same, but he had to fake it. Put on a face for everyone and then figure the rest out once the curtain closed. I think that sensitive kid is still in there."
Another layer in the onion that is Matt .
"Anyway, I'll stop blabbering, but what I'm trying to say is that I think you're a good match for him. I see the way you two shine when you're talking about each other. I just hope he doesn't get in his own way."
"I hope so, too."
I sit with him while he eats his dinner, catching up on all the Allentown gossip. Before I leave, I probe Sid to see how he might feel about relocating to LA to live with Matt full-time—which he immediately dismisses, grumbling something about “over my dead body.”
* * *
At home, I shower and get into bed to scroll on my phone. It dings with a text from Matt.
Dad said you stopped by. That was very kind. Thank you.
I'm always glad to see him. I did have to harangue him a bit about the salt intake.
He is stubborn.
I also tried to put some feelers out for you about him potentially moving to LA. Initial assessment is it'll probably be a hard no, but sometimes he surprises me, so who knows?
Thank you for doing that. I forgot that was our original plan, to talk to him about that together. How did I get so sidetracked …
Could it have been the coerced first date at the Waverly Inn?
Yes. But it was in no way coerced. You are quite distracting.
I smile. A few minutes pass. I see another text bubble appear and disappear.
I miss you. Can I say that?
You can say anything to me.
Come meet me in Minneapolis. I can have a plane ready for you in two hours.
My adrenaline surges at the idea of it. Can I? But as quickly as the idea comes, it passes. I am not a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of girl.
I wish. But I'm already in bed.
I send him a selfie, Murphy in the background.
You're beautiful. I wish I was next to you.
He sends back a picture. He’s in a hotel bed somewhere with a sleepy smile, his arm over his head. So unbelievably sexy, I reconsider dropping everything for him.
Me too. Soon.
Promise?
Yes.
* * *
Matt has a show in DC Friday night. After too many days of talking and FaceTiming, often into the wee hours of the morning, I feel a longing to see him, to touch him, that I can no longer ignore.
“What if I come down to DC and meet you after your show this weekend?” I say one night on FaceTime. He's once again in a hotel bed in a white T-shirt and messy hair; he is so alluring I can hardly stand it. He sits straight up.
“That would be fucking awesome. Let's do it! I’ll book you a flight.”
“No, no, it's an easy train ride. I’ll get on the Amtrak right after work Friday and meet you after the show. I like the train."
“Well, I can’t wait to see your face.”
* * *
By the time Friday rolls around, I am giddy at the idea of seeing him. I seriously consider blowing off my entire day and going down early to see his show. I'm forced to nix that idea after I get bogged down with meetings about the new peds psych ED. The board has greenlit the preliminary proposal and we are moving full steam ahead, which means I have a long list of things I need to do before we can even consider breaking ground.
I catch the six p.m. train from Moynihan station and head south to Union Station. I love riding the train. The city lights blur together as we zoom by. No traffic, and with the overpriced cocktails from the beverage car, it couldn't be better. I listen to music and imagine what this weekend might hold for us. My eagerness is juxtaposed with a tiny pang of doubt that has been lingering since my conversation with Christine. Regardless, my anticipation continues to build as we pass through each stop: Philadelphia, Baltimore, BWI, and finally Washington, D.C.
By the time I get to the Jefferson Hotel, it's almost nine p.m. and I am humming with excitement.
Matt left a key for me at the front desk, and I make my way toward his suite. It is huge and gorgeously decorated with stately grandeur, all well-designed, polished wood furniture and ornate drapery. The sitting room has two narrow French doors that look directly at the Washington Monument. I step onto the Juliet balcony and take in the views of the White House, the Mall, the monument, and downtown DC. The warm end-of-September air curls my hair at the ends.
I make my way back inside to survey the rest of the room. There’s a kitchen, where a bottle of Japanese whiskey sits in an ice bucket, and a private study that houses all of Matt’s guitars—the castoffs and ones he opted not to use for tonight's show. The bedroom has a large four-poster bed, and in the closet Matt’s clothes are hung neatly: several pairs of jeans, vintage T-shirts and funky robes, along with three pairs of his chunky brown boots and sneakers in various states of wear. The bathroom has toiletries all lined up on the shelf. Very tidy. I’ve learned Matt is a a neat freak, with a touch of hypochondria.
“My voice is my money maker. If I get sick, I’m screwed,” he told me once.
Matt texted me before the show and asked if I wanted to meet him for a late dinner at a restaurant downtown.
As much as I want to have you all to myself in the hotel room, I’m going to be famished, and this place has the best burger in DC.
Are you sure? Seems a little out in the open.
Yes, totally sure. I know the manager, they’ll take good care of us.
I freshen up in the bathroom and change into a beaded Veronica Beard miniskirt, a crisp white button-down and nude slingback pumps. I bought this outfit specifically with Matt in mind, also with Christine’s words ringing in my head that he may be seeing other people. I want to stack the odds in my favor, to somehow try to ensure there is no one else he’d even consider dating after seeing me tonight.
I arrive at Le Diplomate, and the restaurant is bustling. The ma?tre d’ leads me to a secluded table in the back. I see Matt sitting at the banquette, his back against the wall. His hair is wet, like he's freshly showered. He's in a black T-shirt, jeans, and his familiar brown scuffed boots, with a chunky black watch on his wrist. There's a glass of scotch next to him and a glass of red wine at the place setting to his right. For me. I smile. He's staring down at his phone, his head propped up on his hand.
He must sense me, because he looks up as I approach, and the look he gives me is pure sex. I feel desire coil low in my stomach. He stands to greet me, a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling me into a tight hug. He has at least four inches on me, even though I’m wearing heels. I bury my face in his neck, planting a kiss beside his Adam’s apple before I join him to sit next to him on the banquette. I need to be able to touch him.
“I can’t believe you’re here. God, you look incredible,” he murmurs into my neck.
I feel myself tense, shocked by the way I am somehow ignited just being in his presence. I notice him briefly glance around at the other patrons before he leans in to give me a longer kiss on the lips. Everyone in the restaurant looks harmless to me, no obvious phones pointed in our direction, but Matt is the expert here.
“How was your show?” I turn to face him.
“It was magnificent, the crowd had the best energy. I switched up my set list at the last minute, and I think it worked out well. How was your train ride? Do you like the hotel?”
“It was good, easy. The hotel is gorgeous. What a view.”
“I know. It makes me feel very patriotic every time I’m here. Also makes me feel kind of on edge, like there’s this dark undercurrent, the politics and the scheming, and the secrets. All the government agencies, all the things that they know and we don’t. Do you ever wonder how many foreign dignitaries have perhaps sat at this restaurant, in these exact seats, and all the shit they might’ve been up to?” He laughs. “I watched a lot of House of Cards during the pandemic.”
Matt—expansive as always.
“Yes, this place undoubtedly gives off a Francis Underwood vibe.” I lean into him.
“I can’t believe you came.”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“I’ve asked you a few times to come meet me, and you say no.”
“Yes, but it’s not because I don’t want to see you." I grab his hand under the table. "I’d love to drop everything and come hang out with you while you’re on tour. But I have a job and a dog, and friends, and a life in New York.”
We’ve discussed all this before in one of our marathon phone calls.
“I know, I know,” he says. “That’s one of the things I like most about you. That you have your own thing, and that it’s so different from mine. I’ve only dated people in the same industry as me. For a while, I thought that was just what was in the cards for me. It made sense. We could understand each other and all the parts of this world, this business, that don’t make sense to a lot of people. But obviously all those relationships ended, and while I don’t think it was solely because we were all in the public eye, it was a contributing factor. I think I was desperate to feel understood. I thought certainly the one person who could do that best was someone who did the same thing as me for a living. But it always ended up more complicated somehow. This seems different. Simple. In all the best ways,” his voice is raspier than usual because of his show.
This is my opening to ask if he is dating anyone else. To clarify what we're doing here.
But I don't want to ruin this moment. Sitting next to him, drinking a glass of wine, listening to the chatter and clash of dishes in the restaurant. It seems reckless to sour any of our time together. It happens so seldom and always feels magical.
But I need to know that we're on the same page. If we aren't, I need to figure out how to manage that, because damn—just imagining it stings. I'd love to bury my head in the sand and enjoy that magic for what it is but decide to take the leap.
“Matt, I want you to know that I’m not seeing anyone else. Or sleeping with anyone else. Just you.” I force myself to hold his gaze.
I see the smile in his eyes before it hits his mouth.
“That's … exceptionally nice to hear.”
I stare at him, waiting for a similar response.
“Do you think I’m dating other people?” he cocks his head.
“I don’t know. I try not to make assumptions. It seems like we’ve both been on the same page up until this point, so I wanted you to know where I stand. I’m only seeing you; I only want to see you.” I stare at him. Honesty in a new relationship feels very uncomfortable.
“I haven’t been with anyone but you since that first night we spent together in my apartment.”
I frown and bite my lip.
“And I plan to keep it that way. I don't want to see anyone else—just you, Jules.” He nuzzles into me, his hand resting on my thigh under the table. “I told you this once before and I meant it. Meeting you has been the greatest surprise, and I don’t intend to squander it away. I’m sorry if I made you wonder.”
I exhale. The relief is palpable. This surprises me.
"Okay. Let me know if that changes." I kiss him and then lean into his shoulder to take a deep inhale. “I love the way you smell.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I love the way this skirt you’re wearing is just short enough to make me wonder what would happen if you bent over just a little bit,” he whispers softly into my ear. The warmth of his breath has me suppressing a shiver. His hand on my thigh starts moving in lazy circles.
“What would happen is that you’d see I’m wearing a teeny, tiny scrap of fabric. It hardly counts as underwear.” I scoot closer to him and brush my hand against the outside of his jeans, where I feel him harden.
I watch his pupils dilate slowly.
“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing. I just missed you. And this,” I say innocently as I grab him under the table.
“I think I’ll ask our server to just box up the food. We can go back to the hotel.” He stiffens and starts glancing around, looking for someone.
“No, no, let’s stay and enjoy.” I take a sip of my wine.
His eyes scan the restaurant, everything seemingly in order, before he turns his attention back to me. His hand creeps farther up my thigh, playing with the hem of my skirt.
“Did you wear this just for me?”
“Yes.” I try to keep my breathing steady.
He leans into my ear as his hand still plays around my thighs, those long, languid fingers dancing in between my legs, up and down, teasing me.
“I don’t know what turns me on more. You in this skirt or knowing that you’re thinking about me when we aren’t together.”
I instinctively move my hips forward, toward his touch.
"I do a lot more than think about you when we aren't together."
He eyes darken.
Our server appears and assures us our food will be out shortly. He asks Matt if we need refills on drinks.
“Yes, another round, please." He says it stoically, as if his hand hasn't continued its mind-numbing ascent up my thighs.
He's back to whispering in my ear. “You know, I cannot stop thinking about you. You are driving me crazy.” His raspy voice, his hand—the combination sends chills down my spine. “And I’m very glad you mentioned the dating thing tonight, because I really, really like the idea of having you all to myself.”
My head lolls to the side, and I grip him even harder over his jeans. I watch him bite his lip and try to keep a neutral face the crowded restaurant. It gives me such a thrill, I think this might be a game I want to play with him for a very long time.
“Why is it that I can’t stop thinking about you?” he asks rhetorically. “It's not just this.” He moves his hand fully in between my thighs. He feels the wetness there, and his eyes go dark.
“Could it be that?” I ask, breathless. His eyes are fixed on me.
“That has something to do with it. And I will take care of that in just a minute.” He moves his hand over my panties. “But it’s more than that, more than the sex, more than the off-the-charts chemistry. It’s more than your big, beautiful brown eyes—the cleverness in them, the depth, the wit, the passion, the kindness. I think ... I think it's the way I feel when you look at me. Like you see me."
He moves his other hand to my cheek, brushing his thumb lightly over my mouth then down my neck, where it lands on my chest. He flattens his palm—wide and smooth, right over my heart.
“But I think it might be this that I like most of all." He presses down for emphasis. "There is a goodness here that I just want to be around all the time. It makes everything feel better. It makes me better.”
I feel myself liquefy.
“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” he asks again, seriously, suddenly vulnerable. His eyes search my face.
“Yes. All of it.”
He nods, satisfied. He then moves his hand inside the seam of my panties, where he discreetly and expertly uses his glorious fingers to touch me. I do my best to keep my face calm—bored, even, while my newly anointed boyfriend gets me off beneath the table at Le Diplomate, unbeknownst to the Friday night crowd.