Chapter 32
Charlie
He fucking stopped me.
I was going to tell him I love him, and the annoying asshole stopped me.
I know why.
He wants to say it first.
If I know one thing, it’s that Mateo likes to win, and there’s no bigger win in a relationship than being the first one to say I love you.
Mateo is shit out of luck, though, because it’s going to be me. He can’t woo me out of my panties, make me feel seen and adored, and be the first one to say the three little words.
Nope. Not happening.
You could say I’m a woman on a mission—I am Darwin searching for his finches—as I stomp through the vessel, searching for my carino so I can make sure I beat him to the punch. I don’t know why it matters so much that I say it first, but it does.
I want Mateo to know how I feel about him—that he’s worth breaking down the walls I’ve constructed around my heart, and with him, I’m starting to find the pieces of myself I’ve lost.
“Blondie!”
I halt my expedition, spinning on my heels as Jett chases me down. My stomach twists. I might have been avoiding him after my meltdown yesterday.
It’s one thing for Mateo and Amy to see me crumble. For Jett to witness my breakdown is unprofessional , and I haven’t worked up the courage to face him after how I reacted to the comments.
Being upset is an appropriate response. Running away in tears is based on trauma.
It’s not something I’m proud of, and after Mateo fell asleep last night, I booked an appointment with a therapist. It’s not a solution for my trauma or internalized issues, but it’s a step.
A baby step toward becoming a person I’m confident in—of finding my shine and the woman I lost somewhere along the way.
“You’re a hard woman to find,” he says with a toothy grin. “I wanted to show you this.”
He holds out his phone.
Last time I had his device in my hand, I was reading horrible comments about myself on a video meant to shine light on my research. Needless to say, I do not want to see what’s on that screen.
“I’m good.”
I’ve had enough with social media in this lifetime. If Darwin didn’t need it, neither do I. Except nightly videos with Mateo. But if we watch on his phone, then it’s not me using social media, it’s him.
“Please,” he presses. I make no move to take his phone, and the interaction grows awkward. When he realizes I am not going to look, he adds, “I went through them all. Every last comment. I want you to see the good.”
“What?”
My brain spins in disbelief at the gesture .
The time it must have taken to go through each one…there were thousands.
He flips his phone around and scrolls through his camera roll where he’s screenshotted each positive response and blacked out everything else.
We make it through about ten—all comments about how interesting my research is, or how I’m a role model for young girls interested in science—before I begin to cry.
Fat tears stream down my cheeks as I read each one.
“I didn’t take the video down,” he says, “but I disabled the commenting on all of my posts and shared a video to let my viewers know how disappointed I am. I started my channel to have fun, not to tear down bright, hard-working women.”
I take the phone from his hand, scrolling through, when I pause on one full of vulgar language and threats.
“I hope you choke on your tiny penis.” I read it out loud and look at Jett, baffled how this is a kind comment.
First of all, they got my anatomy incorrect. Second, if I had a penis, it would not be small. It would be the biggest schlong the world has ever seen. I would win awards and sling it around.
“Oh, that’s Vivian. She responded to hundreds of comments before I told her to stop.”
A choked laugh escapes as I read her other responses.
Can you even legally drive, considering how blind you are?
^^^This translates to “I’m an asshole with nothing else to do than tear down incredible women who wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
If having a horrible personality was an Olympic sport, you would have a gold medal.
“This is…” Words fail me. “Thank you, Jett.”
The tears continue to roll as I read through each one, letting the words burrow into the marrow of my bones and heal a little of what’s been broken, the fissures slowly mending back together.
“You made her cry again ?” a shrill voice screams from the end of the hallway .
Vivian barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a brutal yet comforting hug. Sofía joins from the other side, and after a moment of confusion, Jett completes the sandwich hug.
“I didn’t make her cry. She did it on her own,” Jett grumbles.
“She didn’t spontaneously burst into tears,” Sofía counters. “What did you do?”
Jett releases me from the hug to stare down at Sofía. She folds her arms over her chest, half a foot shorter than him, but holds her ground as they participate in a charged face-off.
“Why do you always assume I’m the cause of the chaos?” Jett asks. She levels him with a look that screams be fucking for real . “I showed her all the kind comments on the video. Erasing the bad with good.”
“Oh.” Her brow furrows, and when she looks back at Jett, there’s something questioning in her gaze, like she’s surprised by the gesture.
“He also showed me Vivian’s responses,” I add.
“Her what ?” Sofía asks, running to my side to see the phone.
“I also posted a very heated response video, but it only got sixty views,” Vivian says, leaning over my shoulder to read her replies. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“We tried to come to your room yesterday,” Sofía whispers, low enough so Jett doesn’t hear, “after we heard about the video, but you were a bit…occupied.”
“You were getting fucked ,” Vivian amends.
It takes a few seconds for the words to settle, but when they do, my face flames to a million degrees and my hands fly to cover the mortification written on my face.
We couldn’t have been that loud, could we?
The looks on their faces tell me we accidentally put on a show for anyone who walked by in the hallway.
I’m going to die, right here on this ugly carpet.
Neptune, mighty ruler of the sea, take me away from this place .
“Why are you whispering?” Jett sticks his head between Sofía and me, and she whirls, her fist landing in his gut.
“Bell,” I yell. “Someone needs to get you a bell. You move like an assassin.”
He smiles proudly. “Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” Vivian says, locking her arm around mine.
“B-but,” I sputter, searching the hallway like my carino will magically appear and I can get back to the purpose of my mission: telling Mateo I love him.
“We have wine,” Sofía whispers. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Fuck, marry, or kill,” Vivian says, pouring wine into the plastic cups we stole from the kitchen. “Dracula, bigfoot, and a centaur.”
“Oh, easy. Kill bigfoot. Fuck Dracula. Marry the centaur,” Sofía responds, draining her glass and stumbling over to the desk.
It’s littered with empty bottles and snacks. After the first bottle, we devoured Sofía’s stash of crackers. The second bottle of wine was followed by Vivian’s pre-packaged pastries and Pringles.
The third bottle of wine—now emptied into Sofía’s glass—is paired with my chocolate stash, the lemon bars Amy gave me, and the half-smashed, bulk-size bag of animal crackers I forgot about in the bottom of my duffel bag.
It’s quite the spread.
“Agreed.” I raise my cup. “Centaurs are the obvious choice. Great pectorals and free transportation.”
Like every normal preteen, I was obsessed with mythology. Creatures with chiseled muscles in particular. They were often tall, brooding, and the owner of very squeezable pectoral muscles.
My dream man at ten years old .
Now my dream man has annoyingly perfect hair, dimples that appear when he’s pleased with himself, a slightly crooked smile. And very squeezable pectoral muscles.
Twenty-six-year-old Charlie is still very much on that train.
“Centaurs are fine. Too bad they aren’t real,” Vivian says, falling onto the bed beside me.
Sofía flops down in the chair, popping chocolates back like they’re nothing. If the bag wasn’t still half full with only a few days left, I would be watching her like a hawk to make sure she’s not eating it all.
But I’m too tipsy to care right now.
Plus, Mateo has a whole bag. He just refuses to tell me where it’s hidden. I have a feeling it’s on the top shelf in the closet where I can’t reach.
“You know who else is fine ,” Sofía says, hiding her smirk behind her cup. “Mateo.”
I fall back on the bed, throw an arm over my face, and kick my feet like a schoolgirl.
He is pretty hot, isn’t he?
I’m in this limbo state of smug pride and utter bafflement where sometimes it’s hard to believe Mateo and I are together, and then other moments I look at him and all I can think is how he’s mine .
“I don’t even bat that way, but I will say his features are very symmetrical,” Vivian says, tugging at a strand of my hair. “Your man is hot and down bad. I think you hit the dating lottery.”
They don’t know the half of it.
Couldn’t imagine how he understands my soul—sees the scars and darkened edges and cherishes them. They’ll never know how his thigh twitches when I trace his tattoos, or how his breathing changes when he falls into a deep slumber.
Vivian and Sofía will never know of the way he holds me while he sleeps, like I’m what tethers him to the real world, or how he methodically rubs balm into my joints .
Winning the lottery is statistically improbable, but discovering Mateo feels statistically impossible, like the universe played its part. He was right in front of me for two years, and I never saw him, not how I do now.
“He’s magical,” I say wistfully, trying to pour the rest of my wine into my mouth hole while lying down. Half of it dribbles onto my chin, and I swipe it away. “He’s got a magic schlong, too.”
I jerk my hips up, and the chorus of giggles that follows loosens my tongue further. I wish Vivian and Sofía lived in Rhode Island. Amy would love them. I love them.
“I’ve seen a few ding-a-lings in my day—not that many, but at least six—and his is the nicest.” The room grows eerily silent. Good, they’re paying attention. “Just the right size.” I hold my hands up so they have an idea. “But best of all, he knows how to use it. He gives a wonderful wienering.”
Once you’ve had a good wienering, you really can’t go back. Your mind—and vagina—are open to all the possibilities, and you’re ruined for life.
Mateo has ruined me for life with his perfect dick.
I need more wine to come to terms that I’m dick-whipped.
“A wonderful wienering?” a deep voice purrs, full of amusement and male pride.
“You traitors!” I fly from the bed, pointing an accusatory finger at Vivian and Sofía, who are silently laughing, beet red and wiping away tears.
I’m wobbling toward them, ready to give them a piece of my mind.
“You two let me wax poetic about his wiener while he was in the room ?” I practically screech. Mateo snorts, and my hand whirls out to connect with his chest. It morphs into a grunt. “Is the sisterhood dead ?”
“Please don’t stop on my account,” Mateo says, his cocky smile fully formed .
Screw him, and screw his infuriatingly attractive dimples that appear at the most inopportune of times, making it painstakingly difficult to focus my thoughts.
I’m supposed to be annoyed with my friends, but the dimples pop and I’m a sucker, so I focus on that long enough for them to scramble toward the door.
“He snuck in,” Sofía yells, collecting the wine bottles.
“It was too late. You were on a roll,” Vivian says, then extends her palm for a high five. “Glad you’re getting dicked down.”
The alcohol tamps down my annoyance, so I slap my palm against hers.
Mateo grabs my waist, steadying me as I stumble from the force.
“See you later,” Sofía screams. I don’t know why. Maybe wine makes her loud?
She tries to slip out the door but slams into Jett’s chest.
“Jett is going to help you back to your room,” Mateo says. “Goodnight, ladies.”
A chorus of goodbyes fills the air as the door clicks shut, and then it’s just Mateo and me, his grip still tight on my hips.
His head dips to rest on my shoulder, his chest rumbling with laughter. “How much wine have you had?”
“At least a bottle.”
I try to escape from his clutches to hide in the bathroom until I can look him in the eye after tipsily admitting he has a dick and knows how to use it.
“And would you say you’ve been satisfied with your wienering ? How would you rate it on a scale from one to ten? One being ‘worst wienering ever’ to ten being ‘his wiener makes me astral project.’”
His voice cracks, and when I glance in the mirror, his face is a fire-engine red from the strain of holding back his laughter.
I slip out of his grip but don’t make it far before I’m ripped from the ground and spun around .
“‘Wonderful wienering’ is going right beside ‘smells like a summer breeze’ on the list of my favorite compliments. You really know how to stroke a man’s ego, bruja.”
“I hate you,” I grumble, but my annoyance cracks when he spins me again, his laughter filling the cabin.
I could get drunk on the sound.
“You might hate me,” he says between laughs, “but you love my dick.”
He’s still laughing as he carries me into the bathroom and drops me in front of the mirror. He pokes my frown, then hands me my toothbrush and wordlessly guides me through getting ready for bed.
I’m not quite drunk, and still capable of taking care of myself, but I let him help with all my tasks.
He undresses me and slips on my strawberry pajamas, but not before taking a moment to rake his gaze along my skin, igniting my veins like a wildfire. Deft hands rub balm into my skin, and I sigh from the gentle touch and the knowledge that tomorrow will hurt a bit less because of this.
When he’s content I’m set for bed, he gets himself ready, fiddling with his CPAP I’ve mentally nicknamed Finch. I have Charles Darwin, and Mateo has Finch, an ode to Darwin’s iconic finches.
I don’t know how he’ll feel about the nickname, so I’ve kept it to myself, but I did look up Etsy shops that will embroider a CPAP bag in case he’s on board with the name.
My head is heavy from the alcohol, and I’m nearly asleep by the time Mateo rolls into bed and pulls me against his chest. As I fall into a blissful slumber, it strikes me that I never finished my expedition.
I’ll tell Mateo I love him tomorrow.