Chapter 38
THIRTY EIGHT
YOU KILLED HER.
The image of Matthew’s face is seared onto the back of my eyelids, his expression utterly broken.
The paleness…
The glazed, tear-filled gaze…
The desperate fight for breath…
That wasn’t the face of the cold, furious man pinning his father to the wall; that was someone completely undone by the devastating cost of that confrontation. He stood up to the man who caused him so much pain, the man he believes killed his mother. And to see the state it left him in…
Gut-wrenching.
My gaze drifts around the now eerily quiet foyer, landing on the blood Roger spat out.
A dark, ugly spot marring the slate tile.
A sickening punctuation mark to the violence that just unfolded here, in Matthew’s immaculate home.
My stomach churns at the sight, but my heartache for him is a deeper, sharper pain.
Hesitantly, I move toward the base of the stairs, straining to hear anything from the upper floor.
Then I hear it.
Faint but distinct.
The sound of running water.
Quietly, cautiously, I begin to climb the stairs, my hand trailing lightly on the smooth, dark wood of the banister. Each step feels uncertain. The upper hallway is dimly lit. The drumming rush of a shower grows louder, clearly coming from the room at the end of the hall to my left.
A sudden, inexplicable dread makes my heart pound as I approach. Deeper into the room, to the left of his large bed, the bathroom door stands slightly ajar. A sliver of light spills out onto the carpet.
Something is not right.
I push the door open hesitantly, just enough to peek inside.
The scene before me steals the breath from my lungs. It is a twisted mirror of my own breakdown by the pool not too long ago.
Matthew is huddled on the tiled floor in the farthest corner of the large, glass-enclosed shower, knees drawn up to his chest. His black T-shirt and grey sweatpants are plastered against his skin, utterly soaked by the torrent of water pouring down from the showerhead directly above him.
He stares blankly at the drain, his dark hair slicked to his forehead.
Even through the rush of the water, I can see his shoulders shuddering with each ragged breath.
Seeing him so utterly undone, stripped bare of his usual control and strength, shifts something in me.
The cascading water seems to fade, momentarily replaced by the memory of my own ragged sobs echoing by the pool from that terrible night. The image vividly overlays the present…
Matthew’s arms unyielding around my shuddering frame. The phantom pressure of his cheek pressed against my temple. The memory of my fingers digging into the muscles of his forearms, anchoring myself to his steady presence during my own chaotic unravelling.
He absorbed my storm then, unflinching. Radiating a quiet strength, a warmth that slowly, painstakingly, thawed my frozen core.
He held me together.
Now, seeing him here, devastated by his own storm, a profound sense of purpose crystallizes.
Without a second thought, I slip my feet out of my black flats. I step past the edge of the glass panel and into the shower stall. The initial shock of the water hitting my jeans and sweater makes me gasp. The spray instantly plasters the fabric to my skin.
I step further onto the wet tile floor toward Matthew.
He remains unresponsive, a statue carved from misery under the pouring water.
I slowly lower myself to my knees in front of him.
The water pools around my legs, soaking through my jeans entirely.
My hands lift, trembling slightly, unsure if any touch is welcome.
But tentatively, my fingers brush against the soaked fabric of his knee.
No reaction.
But then, his head tilts back. Slowly, heavily, he leans it against the shower wall behind him, bringing his face out from under the direct water stream pouring from above.
I shift closer and reach for his face. The water sloshes around me. My fingertips, clumsy with emotion, carefully sweep back the strands of soaked hair away from his eyes. The pad of my thumb wipes droplets from his temple.
Under my touch, a tremor runs through him, his eyes fluttering open. It takes a moment for them to find mine. They are rimmed with red, swimming with an agony so acute it pierces right through me. The carefully constructed walls are gone; there’s nothing left but exposed, devastating pain.
His lips part, releasing a shuddering breath. “I didn’t save her,” he mutters, the words pulled from his heart. His voice is broken, thick with tears.
His gaze locks with mine, filled with self-loathing. “I let her die.” Tears track through the water droplets on his cheeks. His throat works convulsively. “I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, another rough breath tearing from him.
My own tears blur my vision, my heart breaking for him.
For the little boy he was.
For the broken man before me now.
No words could possibly touch grief this deep.
I move from kneeling in front of him to sitting right beside him. Without any hesitation, I turn and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him gently to me.
His body is rigid beneath my hold.
He remains stiff in my embrace, but I don’t waver.
I keep on holding him firmly, patiently, letting him know I’m not going anywhere.
Then, something gives.
A slight shudder runs through his frame, followed by a heavy exhale.
The tension in his shoulders begins to loosen, his muscles melting under my hold.
He sags, leaning into my side. His own arms come up slowly, wrapping around my waist, trembling.
Another shuddering gasp tears through him, and then his control completely shatters.
He buries his face in the nook of my neck as deep, ragged sobs wrack his body, shaking us both.
He clings to me as years of suppressed grief pour out of him in a devastating flood.
I hold him tighter, my own tears flowing freely, my cheek pressed against his wet hair.
Letting him cry.
Letting him finally break.
Slowly, his ragged sobs subside, replaced by shuddering breaths.
He remains heavy against me, face still buried in the crook of my neck.
My own tears slow. My entire focus narrows to the man trembling in my arms, to the rise and fall of his back beneath my hands.
His grip around my waist is still strong, desperate even, but the frantic edge has eased.
Time loses meaning.
In this sanctuary of steam and falling water, there is only the weight of him in my arms, and our shared, broken breaths.
Matthew’s face remains hidden. His breathing evens out further, becoming deeper, though each inhale is thick with spent emotion.
My hand on the damp curve of his back slides up to the nape of his neck, just below his soaked hairline.
Gently, I smooth the short strands upward, letting my fingertips linger, feeling the tight cords of muscle soften under my touch.
He doesn’t pull away.
He leans into my touch. A subtle yielding.
His hand, which had been gripping my sweater so tightly, flexes. His fingers uncurl. They settle just under the hem, the pad of his thumb now brushing against the sensitive skin of my side.
My heart stumbles, then launches into a frantic rhythm.
Matthew’s head lifts slowly, water sluicing down his jaw and throat as he pulls back. He leans against the shower wall, bringing his face out of the cascade, though droplets still cling to his cheeks.
He blinks, eyes adjusting, before focusing solely, intensely, on me.
I see it all laid bare in those red-rimmed green depths. The crushing exhaustion, the gut-wrenching pain, the profound vulnerability of a man utterly stripped of his defenses.
But underneath it all, something else surfaces.
An awareness…
His gaze holds mine, unwavering, searching. As if seeing me for the first time all over again.
Ever so slowly, his hand lifts, water dripping from his fingertips as it crosses the small distance between us.
I stay perfectly still, barely breathing, watching as his trembling fingers brush with feather-light pressure against my temple where wet strands of hair cling.
My own eyes flutter closed. My inhale is shaky as I instinctively lean into his touch in silent answer.
I’m here.
His gaze locks on mine again, swimming with unshed grief. But beneath the pain, a flicker of desperate need kindles. It resonates with the sudden ache blooming low in my belly.
Guided by the current pulsing between us, Matthew leans forward, hesitantly closing the last inch separating us. My breath catches, held captive somewhere between my lungs and lips. His eyelids lower as his mouth nears mine, lashes dark and wet against his pale skin.
The first touch of his lips is incredibly soft, tentative. Almost questioning.
A tiny sound escapes my throat, part surprise, part surrender.
Despite the water soaking through every layer of my clothing, plastering denim and cotton to my skin, heat flares instantly through my veins. It centers entirely on the point where our lips meet.
My lips part instinctively, softening under his hesitant pressure.
A low groan rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against me where our bodies press together.
Our kiss deepens immediately.
Still raw, still laced with mutual grief, but suddenly more demanding.
Hungrier.
His hand slides back from my cheek, fingers tangling firmly in the soaked strands at the nape of my neck.
He tilts my head, angling my mouth more fully against his.
His other arm tightens like a steel band, crushing me against his hard, wet frame, molding my front to his.
My hands come up to his broad shoulders, gripping him tightly before sliding around his neck, pulling him closer. Needing more.
The discomfort of our wet clothes, the relentless drumming of the water, all seem to recede and fade.
All that exists is this desperate fusion of our mouths.