Chapter 15
Mateo
“Wanna share your feelings?”
I leap, nearly spilling my scalding coffee as Jett’s hot breath hits the back of my neck.
“It’s not healthy, man,” he continues, flopping into the chair across from me in the mess area. “Your insides will rot.”
“I’m fine,” I say, using one of Charlie’s favorite phrases.
“You’re not a great liar.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s bitter and empty.
How do I explain to him that when I woke up this morning and turned over, Charlie was right there within arm’s reach, but she felt miles away?
Or how watching her sit beside Shaun made me sick with jealousy?
And everything I feel is a product of my own choices, so I have no one to blame but myself. Frustration bubbles to the surface, with nowhere to release the tension .
It’s not Charlie’s fault, or Shaun’s, but I can’t shake the anger and disappointment, and it’s slowly eating away at what little hope remained.
Jett waves a hand over my mug, breaking my trance.
“You’ve gotta spill your beans,” he says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“You like a girl. You tell the girl. Easy peasy.” Jett’s smile is bright and toothy, and I wish I could live in his world where it’s black and white.
But I’m in the real world, where actions have consequences, and telling Charlie how I feel has real repercussions.
What if she rejects me? How do we navigate the remainder of the voyage if she’s uncomfortable?
How do I look at her for the next three years of our PhD program and not relive the heartbreak?
It’s never as easy as it seems, and Charlie is a complex being built like a Jenga tower. With a gentle touch, she’s strong enough to stand, but with a heavy hand or poor decision, she’ll crumble.
I’ve studied her—documented every new discovery until I became an expert.
“I won’t survive the rejection,” I admit, my breakfast souring in my stomach.
“Who says she’ll reject you?”
Occam’s razor states when considering multiple explanations for an event, it’s usually the simplest one that’s most likely to be true.
Charlie will reject me. It’s the simplest explanation for what will happen if I tell her.
It uses the fewest assumptions, and by the law of parsimony, it’s the obvious choice.
My phone rings before I can put together a logical explanation, and my abuela’s photo fills the screen.
“My abuela is calling,” I say, hoping he takes the hint and leaves.
Instead, he snatches the phone and answers the call, adjusting his beanie and wiping his face as the call connects .
“Hi, Mateo’s abuela,” he yells, waving enthusiastically at the camera. “I’m Jett.”
“Uh…Hello. Have you seen my grandson?” she asks, and I slide my head into the frame. “Did you finish the audiobook?”
Her grin is enormous, bordering on insane, and my hunch is confirmed. She picked the book knowing I would hate it, and now she wants me to admit it.
“Not yet. It’s been busy getting settled.”
And I never want to listen to another minute ever again.
“What audiobook?” Jett asks. “Maybe I’d like it.”
“Probably not,” I grumble.
I don’t need Elora’s poor choices to add to the storm of thoughts whirling in my brain. My own thoughts are company enough.
“It’s a historical romance,” my abuela explains, “with rogue pirates, high stakes, and a main character exploring the high seas.”
“She’s much more focused on exploring what’s happening beneath Dominic’s britches.”
“She’s doing that, too.” My abuela winks, and a laugh bubbles from Jett’s chest.
“Righteous! Send me the link,” he says, looking in my direction.
My mind flies to Amy’s text—her comment about Charlie’s exploration beneath my waistband—and discomfort and confusion settles beneath my diaphragm.
Was it a silly joke, or was there merit behind the comment? Has she thought about me in a not-so-friendly way? Did I misinterpret her response? Was the flush from discomfort rather than schoolgirl embarrassment?
This is the problem and why I haven’t told Charlie how I feel.
I descend into a spiral of questions and concerns until I’ve convinced myself it’s easier to keep my thoughts to myself and flirt in hopes she’ll pick up on the cues and drop some of her own.
Only she hasn’t flirted back, nor has she said anything that suggests my advances would be welcome .
My smile slips, and my abuela catches it. “What’s wrong? Are you not eating enough?”
I shake my head, ready to reassure her I’m eating plenty, but Jett beats me to it and spills my dirty secret to her.
This feels like a direct violation of the sacred rules beheld by the Brotherhood of Catan.
“He’s super bummed Blondie is not digging his vibe.”
She blinks, head cocking, as she translates his nonsense into a digestible sentence. When it clicks, she sighs.
“Mateo.”
“Abuela.”
“Don’t Abuela me. She is a fool for not seeing you.”
“She’s not,” I whisper, though my words are firm.
I haven’t stepped into the spotlight .
Flirt with Charlie? Easy. Tell her how I feel? Yeah, I would rather not without hard evidence I won’t get Karla Jergensed.
“If Charlie’s a fool, then so is Mateo,” Jett says plainly, and my abuela cackles. “Charlie is silly for not seeing how awesome Mateo is, and Mateo is a goober for not telling Charlie how he feels.”
“Quite right,” my abuela hums in agreement. “She is not Karla Jergens,” she admonishes, but moves on. “I called to remind you to send me pictures of your trip, and that I’ve picked the next book.”
“Don’t worry, Abuela,” Jett says, “I’m recording everything, and Doug, my videographer, is creating killer content, so I’ll shoot it your way when it’s done.”
“Is the next book like this one?” I ask with trepidation.
“Oh, no.” She winks. “It’s much better.”
I’m smiling, shaking my head, when Charlie walks into the galley, drowning in the fabric of an oversized sweatshirt, the hem falling to her mid-thigh.
She scans the room before landing on me, tugging at her sleeves. A million words left unsaid stand between us .
I heard her sneak out last night, only to return an hour later, tiptoeing around the room to keep quiet. Only I was awake the whole time, imagining every scenario of her with Shaun. What they could be doing, speaking about, sharing with each other.
“You could cut the tension between you two with a knife.” Jett picks up his butter knife and waves it through the air. “Your abuela hung up, by the way.”
I don’t know what to say to her.
Something in my chest pinches when she takes her coffee and plate of food and sits at a table alone, her head hung low.
This is not what I want. I don’t want her to distance herself, or for us to walk on eggshells around each other.
“You could tell her now,” Jett says. “She’s looking at you like you mean something to her.”
My head lifts, first to Jett in surprise, then to Charlie, who’s staring across the room. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration and the scar on her brow is crinkled.
Even now, in the early hours of the day, she’s breathtakingly beautiful.
It hurts to behold her, but it’s even more painful to look away.
“Listen, man,” Jett starts. “You just gotta muster up some courage, walk over there, and tell her how you feel.”
He rises from his seat and, without warning, shoves me out of mine. I scramble for footing, and Charlie watches on with confusion and concern.
Nerves rattling around my chest, I smooth out my shirt and take the first step toward her table. Then another.
I’m halfway there when someone slides into the seat across from her. She glances up briefly, a hidden message in the look, one I can’t decipher.
The voice grows louder, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Shaun laughs, reaching out to squeeze her forearm .
My fist clenches as I move closer, and I’m a step away from the table when I hear the end of his sentence.
“…last night.”
It’s like someone dumped ice water over my head, and I’m frozen as Charlie offers him a hesitant expression.
She did leave last night to meet him.
I never had a shot.
The food I ate churns in my stomach and bitter resignation falls like thick snow, suffocating me until I have to spin on my heels and leave. Escape the soft laughter and playful smiles she offers so freely to Shaun.
I make it to the room—our room—and the first breath is freeing until the scent of her fills my nostrils. Cinnamon and mint. Intoxicating and poisonous.
There’s no escape. She’s in every nook and cranny. Her scent in the air. Her trinkets on the desk. Piles of clothing on the bathroom floor.
She’s consumed every inch of the space and every cavern of my mind, and I don’t know how to banish her. How to stop thinking about her or caring. How to get rid of the pain in my chest knowing she slipped away to spend time with him .
Jealousy is a bitter, ugly thing, and I’m its victim.
The silence is suffocating, but when it becomes easier to breathe, I slip in an earbud and allow Elora’s poor decisions to drown out my own.
Maybe one of us will get a happy ending.