9. Fischer #2
I tell him about the linen closet in my bathroom, and he disappears. Gathering my iPad and glasses, I deposit them on my bedroom dresser as Matthew strips every stitch of bedding from the mattress.
“I’m guessing if we were at your place, you’d have to do the same thing,” I say, determined to make myself feel better about the booty call last night.
“I have a more comfortable couch.”
Shaking my head, I go to the kitchen to make myself a drink.
“Jesus, the pillows, too?” I ask, when I find him pulling off the pillowcases.
“I don’t need to smell your girlfriend’s hair.”
“Have you always been like this?” I ask, watching from the dresser. I’d offer to help, but I’d probably just slow him down.
He shoots me a frown. “Not wanting to lie down in the wet spot? Yes.”
I watch him without saying anything else, taking the chance to study all the ways he’s changed.
He’s lost some of the fullness in his cheeks, making him look more like a man and not someone fresh out of puberty.
He’s leaner than he used to be in general.
Matthew’s never been the athletic type, but his natural build is more like a runner’s.
Broad shoulders. Sleek muscles with zero bulk.
He has a good ass, less pronounced than mine, but enough to fill out a pair of pants.
Donna’s roots are Italian, and it shows in Matthew with his darker hair and his deep set eyes.
I’m always told I look Australian, whatever that means.
The fact is I descend from West Germany on my biological mother’s side—probably Nazis, which is not something I advertise openly. According to 23 & Me, the only thing in me that isn’t white European is <1% Native American, which I would do almost anything to know more about.
Once Matthew’s got the sheets and pillowcases on, he picks up the duvet from the floor. “Is this safe?”
I shrug. Because no.
He rolls his eyes and tosses it back down. Kicking off his shoes, he walks over to the dresser, flings the iPad onto the bed like a frisbee, and grabs my drink to take to the nightstand.
“Do you want anything?” I ask.
“No, I’m good. Maybe later.”
I watch as he settles himself on the bed, pillows propped behind him. I walk over, figuring if I lie on my side next to him, I’ll get a decent view if he’s holding the screen. But then he bends his knees, spreads his legs, and pats the space between them. “You can hold the iPad.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
He lifts his brows.
Shit, was he joking?
But then he grins and says, “Well, come on. Westeros isn’t gonna fix itself. Snuggle up, princess.”
I laugh so hard, I snort, nervous for a reason I can’t put my finger on. It’s true our options are limited, but using him as a lounge chair would be…great. For reasons I refuse to examine today, I can’t deny how inviting I find the space he’s offering. “You sure it’s not awkward?” I ask.
“What’s awkward is acting like we’ve never shared a bed. I’m not going anywhere, you know? I wasn’t blowing smoke up your ass when I told you I’m glad you’re home. I really have missed you.”
I swallow hard. It’s what I needed to hear and exactly the way I needed to hear it.
It’s easy, after going through something as long and difficult as a divorce that breaks up your family, to feel like you don’t matter to the people most important to you.
It’s also hard not to second guess every other relationship you have when you’ve been gone too long.
What was real, what was all in your head.
What you might have remembered wrong or over-sentimentalized.
The closeness I had with Matthew was born of one of the worst times in my life, and for many months we’d been more than brothers.
Closer than “normal” friends—we’d been more like a couple.
We weren’t ever lovers, not even close, but if someone had walked in on us at night, it would have looked like we were.
I think, in the intervening years, I’ve questioned whether or not I took advantage of Matthew’s affectionate nature. But maybe not?
Fuck, for all I know, he’s like this with everybody.
“Missed you too, Matty,” I say, the words sounding raw.
“Come here.” He pats the spot between his legs again.
I don’t have it in me to refuse, not when he’s the one offering.
While I may never warm up to unsolicited hands on my body, the abandoned child in me still deeply craves human contact.
There’s touch-starved and then there’s eight years abroad and more or less celibate touch-starved.
What I also am—more painfully—is love starved.
Matthew is warm, and while he’s not much bigger than I am—maybe an inch and fifteen pounds—being close to him makes me feel contained.
Once someone’s seen you at your physical weakest, they become your default comfort zone.
Or at least he did for me. While I never would have asked for this, nor expected it, I’ll sure as fuck take it.
I lean back on his chest, make myself comfortable, hold the iPad on my abs, and start the show. A few minutes later, I feel his fingers twisting in my hair, and I want to purr like a fucking cat.
In the days, weeks and months that follow, we don’t get too many more days like that one.
We’re both busy as winter slowly gives way to spring with muddy slush on the curbs, rainstorms, and surprise snowfalls.
Eventually the leaves on the trees across the street bud tiny bright green leaves, and the sun comes out more often than not.
The days grow longer. I’m settling into life behind an anchor desk.
Vaughn and I are working through things, and I’m learning how not to get blindsided by guilt when he’s with me.
Our bedtime routine now includes FaceTime with Nicole, Dick and Donna, and Maggie.
Matthew has dinner with us if he’s working the overnight shift and helps me with bath time, which, by far, is the hardest on my leg.
On the weekends Matthew isn’t working and is with his muse, I invite Ravenna up. We drink and fuck, and then I send her back to her apartment two floors down.
Otherwise, I spend the majority of my weekday evenings after work at Gibson’s club, experimenting with his high-priced escorts. Mostly, I hang out with Gibson, gossiping. But every night, before I head back to my apartment, I get myself laid.
Matty gives me about one evening a week, and when he works two nights back to back, he’ll often spend his day sleeping between shifts at my place so he doesn’t have to take the two trains to his loft in the Bronx. We’ll eat, and once he’s asleep, I’ll write, and then get picked up for work.
Slowly but surely, he becomes part of my life again, and daily I feel more settled, more at home, even if it isn’t the same between us and won’t ever be—I actually like taking him for granted.
There’s something reassuring about never having to question that someone cares about me no matter what. That I’m not replaceable.
Finally, at the beginning of April, after I’ve been home nearly four months, I cave to Gibson’s persistence and let him send me a potential assistant to interview. Gavin Paige makes an excellent first impression with a compliment on my hair. If there’s one way to my heart…
Gavin is what I’d call a femme twink. Slim with plush lips and doe eyes, he’s a natural platinum blond who wears his hair in a bun.
He has a long, pale, delicate neck that’s difficult not to notice.
While his online expertise amounts mainly to Only Fans collaborations and a salacious X account, his more family friendly Instagram Reels get a lot of views, and he assures me he knows his way around a hashtag.
His first day of work is a Monday morning where we sit at my dining table and discuss my schedule and his availability.
Dry-cleaning is a priority. I don’t like running errands, and I don’t like coordinating home management—housekeepers, laundry, cooking.
While I’m only on-air for an hour, my workday is a standard eight at the network offices in Midtown. I work from noon to nine, Tuesday through Friday, which appeals to my more nocturnal nature and leaves me time for other projects and the occasional late night.
It also happens to leave my Mondays open, which gives me the great pleasure of having Matty bringing me bagels after his every other week Sunday night shifts.
When Gavin leaps up to answer the door, I shout after him that I’m expecting this and to let my brother inside.
I watch with a smirk as Matthew follows Gavin into the dining room, a puzzled look on his handsome face while simultaneously staring at the not-so-subtle swish in Gavin’s hips.
I’ve learned Matty’s an ass man. Although—I’m not sure any part of anyone’s body would be objectionable to my little brother. The comments he makes when we’re watching movies sometimes make me wonder whether he even knows what the story is about or if he’s too busy taking in the aesthetics.
“Gavin, this is Matthew, my younger brother—”
“Through adoption,” Matty cuts in.
“Matthew, this is my new assistant Gavin Paige.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, nice to meet you. Bagel?” Matty holds out the bag.
“Oh,” Gavin fully blushes, waving him off. “Thanks. I can’t. Carbs.”
I gesture for Gavin to take his seat while Matthew heads into the kitchen.
After talking through a few more details, I send Gavin out to drop off my suits and pick up more groceries.
I’m starting on my emails when Matthew slides into the seat next to mine and drops his head on my shoulder to spy on my laptop screen.
“What are we doing?”
“Is this an existential question?” I ask.
“I’m too tired for existential.”
“Go lie down.”
He turns to rub his forehead on my arm. So sleepy…
I rub his head with my free hand while I click through my inbox.
He smells like the lobby, but there are still some traces of his herbal shampoo.
The same one I use because he likes the smell of it.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he complains, which is pretty rich.
I remind him he’s the problem. “We’ve been working. And I think you may be in love with your muse.”
“What makes you say that?”
I make a show of checking my watch. “You’re going on what? Five months now with her? I would have to check my documentation, but I think you may have broken your own record.”
“Fuck. Really?” He taps his fingers one by one on the tabletop, and I think he’s counting the months. “Jesus, you’re right.”
“So…is it serious?”
He lifts his head and shakes it. I catch the confused frown on his face. “Five months. That’s kind of crazy.”
“It’s not like she has an expiration date,” I remind him. “I hope I didn’t just sign her death warrant by bringing that to your attention.”
“I mean…I don’t feel like anything’s changed with us,” he says, picking at his bagel.
“Meaning, she’s not asking for more, or…”
“No, she doesn’t ask for much at all. But it’s not boring, and it kinda should be, right? Isn’t that what happens when you’re with someone that long?”
“Not if it’s the right person.”
“I literally know nothing more about her than I did five months ago,” Matthew says.
“She’s still inspiring you?”
He chews his food with a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah? Fuck, dude, now you’ve got me thinking too hard. I just wanted to eat and crash, but now you’ve got me thinking I need to be planning a conversation.”
“Easy, kiddo.” I give the back of his head a rub. “I don’t think she’s expecting a proposal just because the sex is good.”
“It’s imagery,” he says.
“The sex is?”
“Yeah…”
Not sure what he means, I let it go. But because he still looks troubled, I try to smooth out his frown lines with my thumb. “Anyway, I’m not ignoring you,” I tell him.
“You sure?”
Please. As if I could. “Never.”