Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ELLIE
I hastily unlock my apartment door and toe off my shoes while I hang my coat on the hanger.
Fuuuuudge I’m cold. The walk home at three in the morning is brutal when it’s this temperature.
And when it’s snowing? Kind of makes me want to die.
I might have to start driving. Ugh. I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to get more snow this weekend.
I should probably check the forecast before my next shift on Sunday.
Thinking about this weekend puts a tiny pit in my stomach. I was not prepared for Dev and Matt sending coincidental back-to-back texts trying to get me to go to a game. Talk about a double whammy. I’m not sure how realistic it is to keep this up…
I try to force it out of my mind for now. I’ll cross that bridge later.
My scrubs land somewhere en route to my bedroom as I pull them off and drop them along the way. I go to turn the light on to find my warmer sweats for after my shower when I notice my bed is not empty.
I’m about to scream bloody murder when I see Matt’s backpack on the floor. And then I remember those texts from yesterday I was just thinking about.
Holy moly, I almost had a heart attack. Looks like he put his key to use. If my heart weren’t already racing, I think I’d feel a swell of satisfaction over that.
I put my hand over my heart and slowly abandon my mission for sweats to head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take the fastest shower humanly possible. Then I get to cuddle with my personal heater. Heck yes.
I try not to think too hard about how excited I am to not fuck my fuck buddy tonight. Fuck buddies cuddle, right? After they fuck, maybe, my subconscious says. I ignore her.
When I come back to my room, I see Matt’s awake and looking at me with half-lidded eyes. I quickly grab and put on sleep shorts and a tank.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” I whisper as I slide into bed and snuggle close to his warm, solid chest. Thanks to my quick and not very hot shower, I press my still frozen hands and feet against him and immediately feel them start to thaw.
Heaven. My cold extremities must feel like ice, but Matt doesn’t say anything. Are green flags a thing?
Matt presses a kiss to my forehead and hums. “Wanted to be woken up. How was work?” His sleepy voice makes it all sound like one long word. Howwaswork.
I hold back my laugh. “It was good. I’m actually glad I picked up the extra shift. Got to show off my suturing skills, since we were swamped,” I tell him proudly on a yawn.
I love doing stitches. Usually the doctors do them, but sometimes, if we’re busy enough, those of us who are trained can do them too.
Sometimes suturing just needs to be efficient and it’s less about perfection than getting the job done.
When I have time to focus on that perfection though, that’s what I’m obsessed with.
There’s something so peaceful and entrancing about putting your full focus into the task.
Your mind can’t wander or blur—you just have to be present.
It feels like some magnificent combination of art and science. A tiny medical masterpiece.
“Not surprised you kicked ass,” Matt says quietly, but more clearly now, interrupting my musing.
I smile at his sentiment and then sober as I watch his face. It’s dark, but I can feel his eyes move to my collarbone as he starts to trace the raised scar there with the tip of his finger. It doesn’t feel sexual in nature or conversely like some clinical exam. It’s soft and slow, maybe sad.
“It was a car accident.” My voice is quiet. Matt abruptly pauses his tracing and shifts his focus to my face.
I’m not sure why I haven’t told him yet.
I know he’s wondered probably since he first saw it that night in the shower.
It’s not small or insignificant. The scar cuts diagonally across my collarbone on the left side, spanning a little more than four inches.
I think about the thirty-two stitches the doctor had to carefully suture there over five years ago.
I don’t actually remember that part. They did a good job—some scars are just inevitable.
A car accident is usually as much information as I give people if they ask, if even that.
But there’s something about being cuddled up to Matt right now that makes me want to tell him more.
He’s so…solid. And not just in a physical sense.
He feels so calming to be around, so peaceful.
Like you could tell him the world was ending and he’d somehow make it not scary.
Matt Anderson is bombproof. Safe, my mind tells me again. I remember thinking that even early on. Funny how my original Superman comparison feels even more apt now.
The nerves that normally accompany this story aren’t there. Instead I feel a sense of rightness. I think I want Matt to know me better. I’m not ready to think about what that might mean.
“This is from a piece of glass,” I say, pointing to my collarbone.
Matt looks back to my scar and I hear a rough breath leave his nose. “From the car?” he asks in a low voice.
“They think the window, yeah.” I swallow and try not to think of what I’m saying. “A drunk driver hit the driver’s side of our car head-on. My…my mom was driving, so she had fatal injuries.”
Matt’s face crumples as he looks to me and I almost regret sharing. A sad Matt might break my already fragile heart.
I’m also sure he doesn’t know what to say to me now.
What do you say when you hear something like that?
This is half the reason I never share with anyone.
Death is awful and heartbreaking and happens all the time, and yet nothing feels right when it comes to comforting someone grieving.
Especially when it’s a tragic accident like this.
“I’m so sorry, Ellie.” His hand still hovers near my scar. I put my own over his and give it a squeeze. I never know how to respond to that either.
I think about where his hand is and what led to this conversation.
“I used to hate that scar so much. The visible reminder of everything. Like something I couldn’t escape,” I share with him, words just above a whisper.
“I avoided so much for so long. The beach, gyms, tank tops…showers. Isn’t that crazy?
” I let out a humorless laugh. “I just couldn’t handle seeing it or the questions it brought on.
Sometimes when people asked about it, I’d pretend not to hear them.
Or I’d tell them something fake—something less depressing. ”
Matt clears his throat. “And now?” His voice is deep and gravelly.
“Now…” I sigh. “Now I still don’t like it. Still don’t like the questions and the reminder of that day and my mom. But I also look at it now and see something kind of miraculous.”
I use my hand to move Matt’s tracing finger down two inches below my scar.
“If the glass had gone here”—I tap his finger to the spot—“it could’ve punctured my heart.
” I pull his finger back up slowly, moving it up and over my scar to a spot an inch above.
“Here would’ve been my carotid artery.” I pause and take a moment to let that reminder soak in.
“I probably wouldn’t have survived those,” I breathe out.
I don’t feel lighter or any less sad, really. But I’m flooded with that overwhelming sense of rightness again. Sharing with Matt feels good. I think deep down I knew it would.
I remove my hand from Matt’s as I hear him swallow on my last few words.
“So now I just try to balance it all. Feeling deeply unlucky and lucky at the same time. Accepting the ugliness of the scar while appreciating the incredible suturing the doctor did that day. Dreading seeing it in the mirror and also forcing myself to look and desensitize myself. Some days are easier than others,” I finish quietly with a shrug.
Matt moves his hand up and cradles my face gently, thumb stroking my cheek. “The day I met you…”
“January eleventh.” I pause and think about the day. Not the worst anniversary I’ve experienced, somewhat thanks to Matt. “That’s the anniversary of the accident. I was trying to avoid thinking about it, hence the tequila.”
Matt’s thumb freezes on my face. “I wish I had known you then,” he says sadly. “Not that I could’ve made it better, I know that. But I would’ve tried.”
I place my hand over his. “You did,” I tell him quietly. “You were ‘Clark Kent.’ A perfect momentary distraction. I remember thinking you were a little birthday gift from the universe on an otherwise crap day.”
“Birthday?”
I cringe at the slipup and move my hand from its position against his. I did not intend to drop both of these tragedy bombs on Matt today. It’s a pretty awful part of my life. Who wants to celebrate their birthday on the anniversary of their mom’s death every year?
I’ve taken to just not sharing my birthday with new people and chalking it up to not liking being the center of attention.
It’s not a total lie but I used to love my birthday, and it stings knowing I’ll never feel that way about it again.
My mom wanted to buy me my first legal drink and now she won’t ever celebrate a birthday with me again.
Obviously some people know, like my family and Josh. Zoey. And now Matt. You can’t change the day you were born.
“That day at The Bar, that was your birthday?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice, like he’s putting together all these very sad puzzle pieces, the culmination of all of those events making for one tremendously horrible day.
He sounds so sad that I suddenly wish my life were different, if only to keep Matt from feeling that way.
“It was actually a little easier this year, you know? Being away from home meant I didn’t have to juggle the pain of my dad trying to figure out how to celebrate me and mourn my mom at the same time.
Or watch my ex-boyfriend struggle with whether to plan something or even buy me a gift.
Being alone was kind of…peaceful. Simple.
I got to do my little tequila ritual without the burden of my loved ones’ concern.
I know that sounds bad, but dealing with my own grief is hard enough.
Love can be complicated, and on that day…
” I clear my throat. “On that day I just needed easy.”
Matt moves his hand from its spot against my face to my hand between us. Sliding his underneath mine, he grasps it firmly and gives it a quick squeeze.
I think Matt’s hand squeezes may cure diseases one day. I might be addicted to that gentle reassurance and support he literally presses into my palm. I might also be addicted to a little more than his hand squeezes. Shit.
I strain my eyes against the darkness to study his face.
He’s so handsome it makes my heart thump heavily in my chest. When I looked him up that day I found out he played hockey, I had the privilege of watching him grow up through press and game day pictures.
He’s always been cute, even when he was drafted at eighteen and still looked so boyish with his undefined jaw and floppy hair.
He’s heart-stoppingly beautiful now, with his sharper lines and little imperfections.
I can’t see them clearly now, but his dark green eyes have long been burned into my memory.
They remind me of Christmas trees and my favorite threadbare evergreen cardigan hanging in my closet—a gift from my mom.
His scars, so different from mine, I now know are from hockey, not a bar fight or an accident.
And despite knowing their cause, I find them incredibly disarming.
I might petition for the saying “aged like fine wine” to be changed to “aged like Matt Anderson.” People would understand.
I use my grip on his hand to pull myself closer.
Gently touching my nose to the side of his, I angle myself to give him a soft kiss.
Just a quick press of my lips to his. I feel his rough exhale as his hand tightens and pulls mine up behind his neck where he releases it.
Using both arms, he tugs me flush against his body and wraps himself around me as he buries his face in my neck.
They tighten behind my back and…oh. Matt is hugging me.
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and bring my other arm around to clasp my hands there and hold on tight.
Being wrapped in his arms is bringing me a sense of comfort and peace I haven’t felt in a long time. I inhale his scent that’s become so familiar so quickly, and close my eyes to soak in this moment.
I used to think home was Boston, Massachusetts.
The familiar shitty roads and never-ending winters.
The countless Dunkin’ Donuts stops and autumn walks on Crane Beach with my parents.
My mom’s apple pie and my childhood bedroom filled with Free Willy and Grey’s Anatomy paraphernalia.
My dad’s quiet support through nursing school and Josh’s spontaneous train trips up the coast to try every lobster roll stand we could find.
But now home is already beginning to feel like my nights tucked close to Matt Anderson.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.