Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
A fter dinner and several more rounds of drinks around the firepit, we stumble up to bed. Matt is officially drunk, and I am delighted to see he is a very, very, happy one. He's laughing as he face-plants on our mattress, fully clothed. I kneel at the bottom of the bed, working to get his boots off.
“Why are you wearing these boots? We. Are. At. The. Beach,” I say with each tug.
“Because they’re my thing ,” he slurs back.
“Well, maybe your thing can be taking them off before you down a bottle of scotch with Scott, okay, buddy?” I laugh, finally ripping them off and tossing them onto the floor. I climb up onto his back, kissing his cheek, trying to rouse him from his drunkenness. He rolls over quickly, somehow managing to keep me on top of him and straddling him. He’s surprisingly nimble given his current blood alcohol level.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, his eyes straining to focus.
“About your boots? Yes, furious.” I bend down to kiss him. He tastes earthy. Like the scotch and the smoke from the firepit.
“No ... about me not wanting you to see your friend. Not wanting you to leave.”
“I didn’t realize you didn't want me to see her. No, I’m not mad. But why did that upset you?”
“Because!" He is exasperated. "I really like you. And I think you really like me, too. But how? It seems too quick. But who cares? Maybe I do? I don't know. But I think I'm falling in love with you. And I'm not just saying this because of the scotch. But I'm falling in a way completely new to me. It's like free-falling.
“And this brain of mine goes haywire,” he goes on. “Sometimes I feel like I was born missing a layer of skin—or cells, or fascia—or something everyone else seems to have. And because of that I can pick up on things and feel things way more intensely than everyone else. It’s too damn hard to go through life like that. So, a while ago, I managed to build up some protective armor. Made my own skin. Impenetrable. I could keep everything and everyone out unless I decided they were allowed in… or so I thought. Something like that. But you , Julia Anderson, have penetrated it all. And I am glad about it, for sure. But now I feel totally fucking exposed. Defenseless, really. And I don’t like it. And I don't know what to do. Except tell you about it. So that is why I want to know if you’re mad at me.” His eyes start to close.
I feel myself sober at his drunken confession. “Matt. Open your eyes.” I grab his face gently between my hands. “Listen to me. I am not mad at you. I will tell you when I am, you won’t have to guess or read my mind. That is not the type of relationship we have or ever will have.”
“Okay, whew. That's a relief,” he says with a sleepy smile.
“I’m not done.” He opens his eyes again, barely. “I do really like you. You are not wrong about that. And I think your vulnerability and honesty—tonight and always—might be my favorite thing about you.” He blinks up at me, fighting to keep his eyes open.
“Kiss me.” Hr mumbles.
I do, briefly but adoringly, before his eyes close one last time and his breathing slows and then deepens. I tuck the duvet over him, before I curl up beside him, still fully clothed, and fall into a drunken slumber.
* * *
“Wake up, beautiful people! The sun is up, the birds are chirping, there's not a cloud in the sky. It is time to seize the day!” I hear Scott singsong from the hallway.
Sunlight blares into the room; apparently, we forgot to close the blinds. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes, and my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I glance at the clock—it's only seven a.m. What the hell?
Matt pulls a pillow over his head before moaning, “Whyyy? Why the scotch? Why? Why? Why? That was not necessary. Fuck you, Scotty! ”
I drag my body, which feels like it weighs six hundred pounds, to the bathroom to thoroughly brush my teeth. I splash cold water on my face and swipe on some deodorant, feeling about ten percent better. I close all the blinds and curtains, fill a glass with tap water, and chug it before refilling it and walking it to Matt's side of the bed. I take the pillow off his head and hand the glass to him.
"I'm in bad shape, babe." His eyes are still closed.
"Babe?" I arch an eyebrow at him.
He cracks one eye open to look at me. "Just trying it on for size."
"I like it. Babe."
He smiles. "That makes me feel a modicum better. But seriously, Jules. I don't think I can get out of this bed right now."
"You sleep. I'll find provisions." I give him a quick kiss before putting the pillow back on top of his head.
I mosey downstairs, where I find Scott whistling—actually whistling—in the kitchen as he makes a green smoothie.
"How are you so chipper?"
"Luck—and liver—of the Irish." He smiles. "Want some?"
"No thanks, but I will take some coffee. And Excedrin, if you have it."
"You know, Jules," Scott says as he rummages through the cabinets, "Matty has never brought a lady here. It feels ... momentous."
"Yeah, he mentioned that."
"Don't go breaking his heart," he sings, handing me the medicine and a coffee mug.
"I couldn't if I tried," I say back. Scott laughs.
I sit down at the counter and wince when Scott turns on the blender. My head. “I really don't plan on it, Scott. This thing between us is still fairly new."
"Oh, I know, I know. He filled me in on the whole how-we-met story. But new or not, it seems substantial, no?"
"I think so?"
"I'm going for a beach walk in thirty minutes. Based on my two-plus decades of experience with Matt Johnson scotch hangovers, I say we have until noonish till he's moving. Care to join me?"
"Sure, I'd like that."
* * *
I make two coffees, leaving mine on the counter, and head upstairs with a mug for Matt along with a giant ice-cold water, Excedrin, and a piece of peanut butter toast. I quietly place the items on his nightstand and change into leggings and a T-shirt before grabbing Matt's sweatshirt off the chair in the corner. He doesn't budge.
Scott is somehow even more energetic than before as we head out the back door toward the dunes. The air is fresh and clean, tinged with salt, and I can feel the harsh edges of my hangover begin to soften.
"Where's Natasha?"
"Oh, she goes to Pilates every Sunday morning."
"After the gallon of rosé she and I drank last night? You two are machines."
"Lots of practice." He smiles.
We start walking, and I ask Scott the usual questions. He tells me how he found his way into the entertainment industry, working as an intern in the summer between college semesters, then talks about his love story with Natasha and, of course, how he met Matt.
"He is probably the most genuine person I know. Those are hard to come by in the industry we're in."
I nod.
"He seems very calm around you."
"I feel calm around him, too."
"It's been a long time since he's dated someone. I'm not going to do the whole overprotective-friend spiel, but know that I am. Same with Nat. We were there for the absolute dumpster fire of Jackie Myers and vowed never to let something like that happen again on our watch." He cringes.
"Yeah, he mentioned the mark that left on him."
Scott lets out a woosh of air. "I will never get over it. I've made it my life's mission to avoid her. Which isn't easy in the world in which I work. I have nothing nice to say."
"What happened?" My curiosity gets the best of me.
"The better question is probably what didn't happen. Everything that could've gone wrong, went wrong. But Matty was in so deep. God, it was brutal to watch." He shakes his head.
"We'd only been friends for a few years at that point, but I'd been in the business a little bit longer, and I'm a little older, too, though I know it's tough to tell," he says with a wink.
"I thought I had more experience dealing with people like her. But nothing could've prepared either of us for Jackie Myers. She was like the Mount Vesuvius of people. My personal opinion is that she gets off on psychological torture and ruining men. Just Google her track record. But at the time, Matt was so young. Man, he was young. He was still reeling from all the stuff happening back home, Eric and his mom, and figuring that out. But he'd also just broken out of Allentown and was a hot commodity in the music world. His first album was so strong, so good, it had Grammy nominations written all over it. Record labels were foaming at the mouth—they all wanted him. And Jackie caught the scent and decided she did, too. Poor Matty didn't stand a chance. She was—and is—incredibly charming. Breathtakingly beautiful, in an evil kind of way. She got her claws in him, and it was a miserable few years."
We pass a pair of joggers. Scott nods hello, and we keep walking.
"The breakups and make-ups were so constant, I stopped asking and he stopped telling. He went inside himself, which made it all that much worse. Jackie's husband, ex-husband, whatever, was hell-bent on destroying Matt for making him look dumb. Like the guy didn't know what he was getting himself into—he was her third husband. The whole thing was insanity. Once Matt freed himself from her clutches, it was another slow trudge to repair the damage. He wasn't in a great place. Which was the saddest part to me, because he was absolutely killing it in the music world. His first three albums all went multiplatinum—almost unheard of. But his personal life was a mess. Anyway, he figured it out. And though he's always been a little leery, a little guarded about love since then, he is still somehow eternally optimistic. It's quite a dichotomy."
I'm shocked. I try to picture a young Matt, even more sensitive and so talented, getting swept up by someone with the charisma and celebrity and beauty of Jackie. It's hard for me to relate that person to the person I know, who seems so self-assured.
"Anyway, that's ancient history now. And not that I'm comparing, but you couldn’t be more different from her. Not just her, but some of the other girls he's dated. You guys seem great together. It warms my cold, dead heart."
I laugh at that. "Thank you."
"You're exactly the type of person I told him he'd end up with. Like, years ago. I called it. I told him he needed someone not in the industry. Someone normal. Someone who was smarter than him, someone who was funny, someone who could keep him grounded and get him out of his head. He spends too much time in his head."
“You think?”
"You haven't noticed?" He seems surprised.
"No, I mean I know he's very thoughtful and contemplative, but he doesn't usually seem that way when I'm with him."
Scott looks at me with a knowing smile. "Well then, that says it all, doesn't it?"
By the time we walk back to the house, Matt has emerged from bed. He looks worse for wear but rallies for a late lunch before we head back to the city. I'm sad to see the weekend come to an end. It's been so fun, so relaxing, and I’ve gained so many insights. I love that I had the chance to see him with his closest friends. It brought out a different side of him that I like just as much as all the others I've seen. It feels significant that not only has he brought me into his close circle, but that it feels so natural for me to be there.
I insist on driving back into the city so Matt can nurse the remaining dregs of his hangover. He's reclined in the passenger seat looking at his phone when I hear him softly say, "Shit."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Okay…" I say. "Tell me."
"It’s nothing. Someone sent something in to one of those social media gossip sites."
"Sent what?”
He takes a long pause and reaches for my hand.
"A photo. Of you."
My pulse quickens. "What do you mean?"
"I don't want you to worry. It's vague and dumb. It doesn't identify you by name, and you can hardly make out any of your features besides your clothes. And it means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Nothing but a blip that will wash out of the news cycle by tomorrow morning when the collective ADHD of the Internet moves on to something else."
"That's not making me feel better."
"You're walking on the beach with Scott. The picture is from very far away and it’s blurry—clearly, someone took it on their phone, but you can see your gray sweatshirt says Northeast . And it looks very similar to the sweatshirt I was wearing in the photograph they got of me leaving the coffee shop in town earlier in the weekend … also with Scott."
"It looks similar because it is your sweatshirt, Matt!" I panic.
"It's one picture and an extremely dubious caption saying something about you as a potential 'love interest' because of it. There are a thousand of those sweatshirts."
"Can I see?"
He holds out his phone, and I glance between it and the road, taking in the photo and the caption, all as he described. Despite his reassurance, I still feel unnerved that someone took this photo without me knowing.
"What do we do?"
"Nothing, babe. We ignore it and keep on keeping on. It's fine. I promise." He squeezes my hand.
I believe him.