Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
B efore I leave LA, we make plans to meet again in two and a half weeks in Pennsylvania for Sid's birthday on February nineteenth. Two and a half weeks feels like a long time, especially in the wake of our big reveal, but it's the only plausible situation given our scheduling constraints. Despite our relationship being mostly well-received, and Matt and his publicists’ kind words and coaching, I still feel unmoored by it all.
When I arrive back at JFK after Grammy week, a few photographers call my name in baggage claim, and I walk toward them, certain I must know them from somewhere. I'm horrified when they lift their cameras. In the days and nights apart, Matt fields a dozen panicked texts and phone calls from me after I feel certain someone is following me or watching me.
“Just go about your day, try to ignore it, and eventually they will lose interest, I promise.”
Hearing his calm, soothing voice always manages to feel like an exhale to me.
“Remember what I told you that day in the park? New York is much better than LA with the cameras—there are less of them there, they’re less feral, and it's a little easier to blend into the background. But if anyone crosses the line anyway and makes you feel scared, let me know, and I will figure out security.”
Security? What in the world?
“Also, just make it a habit to stay out of comment sections everywhere from here on out. Those places are insidious. Everything will be okay. I love you, Jules.”
What I don’t say is that I'm already scared. Not just because of the risk of being photographed and talked about against my will, but more because it feels like we've reached a point of no return. I don’t want Matt to think I can’t handle this, can’t handle him and all the additional parts that come with his career and his life. I believe him when he says this will pass, that I will get used to it and we’ll find a new normal. And yet I can't put into perspective what life will be like knowing this is his reality. Our reality.
I worry I'm becoming paranoid.
Work feels like one of the only safe spaces, and I feel my muscles unclench the moment I walk into the familiar hospital lobby. I make time each day to hang out at the nurses’ station with Christine and Dave and Beth. Listening to them make fun of each other and hearing Dave's exceptionally inappropriate questions about Matt are just what I need.
"I'm imagining very slow, passionate lovemaking, followed by a serenade. Or is the serenading part of the foreplay? Just blink twice if I'm right. About any of it," Dave says.
"There is no world in which I would ever tell you any of that information."
In more private moments, Christine asks, “So, how are you adjusting to all of this?"
"I'm not, I don’t think. The little things, like getting fifty thousand new followed requests on Instagram, I am trying to ignore. Matt says it'll die down."
"Okay, but Matt isn't here to see it. Like me. You seem on edge."
"It's just new, Chris. It'll be fine."
"Okay."
I can tell she doesn't believe me.
It helps that my presentation of my research from UCLA and Texas Children's pays off. The board agrees to fund the unit if, and only if, we secure fifty-five percent of the funding. The grants I won back in November are only a drop in the bucket compared to what we need to get the ball rolling. I pitch the idea to have a gala, just like Dr. Williams did at UCLA. It's a ton more work, but I'm happy to do it. However, the CEO of New York Grace, Dr. Barry Kampf, makes a comment at the end of my presentation that gives me pause.
"You know, you and your boyfriend are going to be good for business. Great press. With his name attached to New York Grace and him attending the event, we should see a significant uptick in donations."
I immediately find Chip across the table. He gives me an aw, shucks smile, which confirms my suspicions that this sniveling weasel has been in Barry's ear about my personal life.
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that, or if he's even available. But I'll take it into consideration," I say to Dr. Kampf diplomatically.
In between working at work and working at home, I see Meredith and my field hockey players. I'm grateful they’ve been in the know about Matt for months, because it gives me the sense of normalcy I so desperately want. My players go from ribbing me incessantly about Matt to becoming fiercely protective. I joke to Matt that he could hire them as security with payment in the form of an introduction to Jack Harlow or Lil Yachty.
Neil, my doorman, has also been checking on me regularly. "Everything going okay today, Miss Julia?" he asks when I enter the building.
"So far so good!" I say back as cheerfully as possible. He tells me that Matt sent him "some very wonderful, generous gifts" as a thank you for the potential increase in his workload because of our now public relationship. I'm touched by Matt's thoughtfulness, but the fact that my life choices are potentially impacting an innocent party like Neil is disturbing.
I notice loneliness starting to creep in each night I spend in my apartment alone with Murphy. It begins to feel frighteningly similar to the early days of the pandemic. Like I'm trapped inside these four walls, like I can’t leave, and if I do, it could be dangerous.
* * *
Friday after work, I pick up a rental car and Murphy and I head out of the city to Amish country. I wait for Matt's private plane to land at the tiny Allentown airport, and my solace is palpable the moment I see him step onto the tarmac.
Taking in the familiar sight of him—Wayfarers, jeans, a gray sweater, and black coat—is like a full-body exhale. I rush to his outstretched arms. He pulls me into a rib-crushing hug, kissing the top of my head. He holds me out at arm's length, pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, and begins examining me, like he's looking for signs of injury.
“Are you okay?” The care in his voice is too much.
I burst into tears.
"I just missed you. A lot," I blubber into his shoulder.
“That was too long.” He wipes my tears with his thumbs. “Let's never do that long apart again, okay?”
I nod, not knowing if that is even possible. He tucks me tightly under his arm and we walk toward the car. Matt opens the back door right away to say hi to Murphy.
“How is the best boy?” he croons at my dog. “Did you do a good job taking care of Mom while I was gone? Should we get you fitted for some steel teeth, big boy?” Murphy spins around in circles, tail wagging so hard black hairs fly all around the car. My heart swells.
“I love you, Matt.”
“Love you too, babe.”
* * *
We pull up to Matt’s childhood home. It is exactly like I imagined: a small two-story structure that looks like every other house on the block. It stands out only because it's been well maintained; the yard is immaculate, and the house itself appears to have been recently painted. The front door is a cheerful red with a green Welcome wreath tacked onto it. I glance at Matt, knowing he's responsible for the care and upkeep of this home.
Sid is sitting at the kitchen table with Rita and a few of his oldest friends. “My boy! My girl!” he exclaims as we walk into the room. He rises slowly and gives us both giant hugs.
“Happy birthday, Pops!”
“I’ve missed you, Sid. Happy birthday!” I kiss him on the cheek.
“And who is this mangy mutt you’ve let into my home?” he asks with a smile, scratching behind Murphy's ears as the dog frantically wags his tail.
“This is Murphy, the toughest pup in all five boroughs,” Matt says.
We bring our bags in, and Matt pulls me into the formal living room to show me the gift he bought his dad: it’s a custom made voucher for an eight-course chef’s tasting menu and wine pairing by James Beard winning chef, Gabriel Kreuther. I squint to read the fine print that says the dinner can be hosted at home or at a restaurant, with as many guests as he’d like.
“You know how much loves food. But he doesn’t love eating out or leaving his comfort zones. So he’s got options. It’s also tough to find a suitable gift for the man who means the world to me. Especially when he tells me he wants nothing.”
I look at him, his mussed hair, his casual stance, his brown eyes. “How did I find you?”
He looks at me.
“You are so incredibly thoughtful. And generous and kind. I don't know how I found you, but I'm glad I did.” I press my hands against his chest and pull him close to me. When we kiss, I remember how much I've missed him. His taste, his smell, the feel of his body pushed against me.
“I have been thinking about how good it’s going to feel to be inside you after every single moment we’ve been apart,” he whispers into my ear.
“It’s time for dinner, kids!” yells Sid.
* * *
“I saw mom last week,” Sid says in the car on the way to the restaurant.
“How was she?” Matt asks.
“The same.”
Matt nods and sets his mouth into a firm line. I reach across the console for his hand.
We walk into Sid’s favorite restaurant, Henry’s Salt of the Sea. It's a blast from the past—dark green paneled walls, burgundy napkins and tablecloths, and model wooden ships perched throughout. It feels perfectly Sid. Matt rented out the back room, and it’s packed with men all over the age of seventy, at least ten of them. Sid lights up and looks at least a decade younger. There’s a giant smile plastered on his face all night. It's no wonder he loves coming back here.
The dinner is a joyous affair. I feel so content to watch Sid and his friends banter and laugh while I hold Matt’s hand under the table. After plates are cleared, Matt brings out a cake ablaze with eighty-three candles. Sid turns serious and closes his eyes for a few moments, contemplating his wish. He looks around the table, then blows the candles out in three swift exhales. We clap and cheer, and Sid’s friends present him with a group gift—keys to a pimped-out golf cart. With his mobility becoming more limited, it will be a great way for him to visit his friends within the neighborhood in style. He is visibly touched, misty-eyed, and doesn't stop talking about it the entire ride home.
Later that night, after Rita has gone home and Matt has helped Sid to bed, he comes into our room, his childhood bedroom. It was redone long ago—gone are the Joni Mitchell and Eagles posters that Matt says once adorned these walls, as are the guitars, amps, picks, and strings that were once strewn about the floor. Now it is devoid of clutter and painted gray, with simple wooden furniture. Two bookshelves against the back wall still hold Matt's awards and stacks and stacks of journals.
“Matt Johnson original songs. Vintage.” He skims through them.
"You could probably auction those off on eBay."
"The content in those journals is so deeply embarrassing, I wouldn't let anyone look at them for all the money in the world." He laughs and changes into shorts before climbing into bed next to me. His long arm drapes across my stomach.
“That was so fun, and so good for my dad. I’m glad you could be here.”
“I’m glad, too. I can see why he loves Pennsylvania so much. I’ve never seen so many short, white-haired men in one room at the same time. I could hardly tell them apart.”
Matt laughs.
“How are you feeling, being back here, being close to everything?” I ask. Matt's mom lives in a long-term care center here in Allentown.
“I’m planning on going to see her tomorrow.”
“What’s that like?”
“Depressing. As you can imagine. She’s technically in the memory care part of the facility, but no one is convinced she has any memory issues. It’s just much better than the alternative, which would be some type of long-term psychiatric hospital.” He rolls over to face me in bed. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course. I’d love to meet your mom.” I kiss him.
“She’s not really my mom anymore. She just isn’t the person I’d hope to introduce my girlfriend to. The mom I choose to remember is the one who would dance to jazz music in the kitchen with my dad. She had bright eyes and an even brighter smile. She made my lunch and scratched my back and always told me she loved me. She’s very much a stranger now. But it doesn’t negate the responsibility I feel to see her. Dad too. You know they are still married?”
“No, I didn’t know that."
“It’s been almost twenty-five years since she disappeared right in front of us. At first, he hoped she’d snap out of it, that she just needed time to grieve about Eric, to adjust to life without him. But then it was a year in, and then two, and before we knew it, it had been five years. I’d already had two albums by then. I was living in New York and coming back to Allentown every weekend to see her. To visit her. I’d sing to her; I’d read to her. I’d show her pictures of my life. Dad brought her all the magazine articles about me, only the good ones, all my records. He’d show her videos of me on TV. And nothing. She just stared at me, looking at me but not seeing me. She never said a single word.
“I got pissed. I was frustrated. And angry. And sad. I missed her. I felt like she was being selfish. I told Dad at that point he should consider divorcing her and moving on with his life, having a chance to meet someone new and have some happiness. But he refused. He told me, ‘I made her a promise, I gave her my word, and I meant it.’ I was never able to understand that until I got older. To me, it seemed obvious that the answer was to leave. Why anchor yourself to a sinking ship? But I get now there is so much to learn, so much goodness—reverence, really—in honoring those vows. My dad made it work. He filled his life in other ways, with his friends, this town, me—things to help make the void not seem so big.
“If I’m honest, I think the whole thing fucked me up a bit in terms of relationships. I admire the commitment my dad made, but I still don't know where I land on the whole situation. It's probably caused me to be too cautious in relationships. Saying and doing certain things have felt like they have a lot of weight. I only want to do it all once. I’ve put this pressure on myself that I must be absolutely one hundred percent sure. I don't know." He rakes his hands down his face. "Being back here always makes me stuck too much inside my head.”
His words hit me square in the chest. I can't stop myself from thinking about my own failed marriage. My own vows I tossed in the trash so easily. Nick and I had no real hardships, especially in comparison to Sid and Carol's loss of a child. I feel a surge of panic that Matt might be thinking the same thing.
"Did you ever bring any girls from high school into this room, back in the day?” I reach for him, desperate to change the subject.
“No way. I was way too much of a wimp to invite a girl into my room.” He kisses my shoulder, my collarbone.
“You aren’t such a wimp anymore though, right?”
“Right,” he answers, eyes now focused on me.
I lean over and meet his lips, soft and waiting. We kiss, a now familiar dance that’s full of passion and longing. I press my body against his like I can somehow meld us together.
I sit up and peel off my pajama top, leaving on just thin cotton pants and panties, then pin his arms above his head. With him rendered helpless, I kiss his neck.
“If you did this to me when I was in high school, I would’ve come in my pants by now.” He laughs, trying to nip at me.
I quickly shuck off my pants. With my panties still on, I start slowly but steadily moving against his shorts, feeling him harden underneath me. I guide his hands to my chest, my stomach, my hips, before letting him feel of the wetness between my legs.
“You are unreal,” he moans, now frantically trying to free his hands from my grasp.
In one fell swoop I peel my panties and his shorts off, climb back on top, and quietly slide him inside of me. My breath quickens as he lets out a series of expletives. I shush him and cover his mouth with my hand.
“Shhhh. You can’t. Wake. The. Parents.” His brown eyes smile up at me, full of the dark intensity that seems to follow him around—the passion, the lust, the possessiveness.
He laughs through my hand. "Dad is half deaf. "
He grips my hips, moving me up and down, back and forth. The anticipation builds, the sensation is in overload. I fall forward, flatten my body against his, feel him pressed up somewhere deep inside me. With my face against the bed, I bite down on the sheets to stifle my sighs as I feel the first tremors of my orgasm start to pulse through my core.
"Wait," he gasps, frantic. "Wait, baby. Look at me. I want to watch you come." I rise and hover above him so close our noses touch. I fight the impulse to look away under the potency of his eyes. I focus and keep moving, both of us locked in on each other. A few more breaths and I'm gone. An orgasm rips through me, and I feel him come with me, his release deep inside me. We ride out the waves of pleasure together, the quiet intensity producing a high-octane moment.
Neither of us moves for a very long time. When I finally look at him, he is serene, calm, wearing the post-sex blissed-out Matt Johnson face I've come to adore. We lay in bed, our legs intertwined, him drawing circles on my back, me doing my usual tracing of his tattoos.
It's only then I notice something different: a tattoo on his right wrist, at the very end of his sleeve. I pull his arm closer to get a better look.
“Is this new?”
I must have missed it earlier, with his watchband covering it. He sits up, and his cheeks flush—he seems reluctant to let me see.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment to show you. But I guess now is as good a time as ever.” He offers me his arm, letting me examine it up close. It's small, barely the size of a half dollar, but the design is intricate, the colors bright pink and vibrant—an almost perfect replica of the dahlia he gave me in Mexico.
“What are you thinking?” He looks vulnerable.
“I'm thinking it’s almost as beautiful as the original one.”
“It reminds me of you. Beautiful, bright, breathtaking, made up of so many tiny petals, so many layers. I did some research on it after we left Mexico. Dahlias were first discovered sometime in the sixteenth century. The Aztecs revered the flower, not only for its beauty but its medicinal and healing properties. It is a symbol for love, devotion, beauty, and dignity. The dark pink ones like mine are a symbol of kindness and grace. All parts of you that I love.” His eyes search my face. “I knew I was falling in love with you in Mexico. I wasn’t sure how it would all play out, but it’s been better than I could’ve ever imagined.”
I'm speechless, blown away by the gesture. A deep sense of possessiveness and love fills me. Matt has permanently marked his body with a symbol that will forever remind him of me.
"I love it. And I love you," I say.
Several minutes pass, and I am wide awake staring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about everything Matt said, what it might mean. I assume he's asleep, so I'm surprised when I hear him say, “This feels like more than anything I’ve experienced before. Do you feel the same way?”
“Yes. You've completely swept me away.”
He nuzzles in next to me, and I go back to staring at the ceiling. I can't seem to find the words as easily as Matt can. He always manages to make everything sound like poetry. I can't disagree that what the two of us have is remarkable, and I meant what I said wholeheartedly. But getting swept away is only romantic if it ends well, if there's a happily ever after. If it ends in disaster, you're a blind fool. A fine line to walk.
I feel that familiar sense of unease again. I know what it's like to fall in love. As does Matt. Maybe not like this , but in general. It’s addictive, exhilarating, a high that can't be replicated by any substance on earth. Falling in love is a pure dopamine trip—I have no doubt if I got in an MRI machine at this moment, my brain would be lit up like a Fourth of July sky. But what happens when this phase slows down and evolves into something different? Will love be enough? For me, for him, for us? Yes, we have fallen in love. But what happens when we land?
I finally drift off to sleep hoping we'll be able figure it out together.