Chapter 49
FORTY NINE
WITH ONE LAST deep breath that does little to calm the butterflies in my stomach, I wheel my life out of my office.
Helen is at the counter, buttoning her coat.
She looks up as I approach, her eyes immediately falling to the suitcase.
They widen in surprise, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
A blush creeps up my neck. My smile is a little wobbly. “Matthew, uh… invited me—he invited me for dinner.”
Helen’s smile widens into a delighted grin, eyes sparkling with mischief as they flick back to the suitcase.
“Oh, just for dinner, huh?” Her voice drips with playful skepticism.
“Seems like an awful lot of baggage for one meal, Ames.” She leans in closer.
“Unless of course, you’re the main course and he’s planning a feast that lasts all weekend. ”
“Oh my God, Helen!” I burst into involuntary giggles, my blush deepening. “It’s not, it’s—he found out. He saw my suitcase in the office, and now he knows.” I offer a quick, helpless shrug. “It’s just for tonight. This isn’t… you know…”
“Of course, mija. I was just teasing.” Helen steps forward and pulls me into a tight, fierce hug. “Don’t freak out. One night at a time.” She pulls back, hands gripping my shoulders. “He’s a good man.”
I nod, my heart a hopeful drumbeat.
“Now, go. You don’t want to be late for dinner.” She gives me an encouraging wink. “And don’t even worry about rushing here tomorrow morning. Grace will be here with me.”
“Thank you, Helen,” I say, my voice thick with gratitude as I pull her into one last, quick hug.
She hugs me back just as fiercely, then pushes me toward the door. “Hurry, before he thinks you changed your mind,” she laughs.
Laughter, light and unburdened, bubbles out of me. I give her one last grateful smile over my shoulder. Then, pulling my suitcase, and all my fragile new hopes, behind me, I walk out of the café and into the crisp evening air.
I pull into Matthew’s driveway and park beside his car. Warm light glows from the windows, making the house look like an inviting sanctuary. My hands clench the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
I feel frozen.
Suspended in the space between the past I’m trying to escape and the future I’m terrified to embrace.
My stomach churns. I see the path laid out before me, a terrifying echo of the one I walked with James:
Accepting help.
Becoming dependent.
Losing myself in a tidal wave of gratitude until I can no longer tell the difference between what’s real and what I so desperately need to be real.
And then… the inevitable breaking.
I cut the engine. But my hand immediately rejoins the other on the steering wheel, gripping it like a vice. My breathing grows labored in the immense silence pressing in on me.
Get out of the car, Amy.
I press my forehead to the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut.
Just get out of the car.
But my body refuses to obey. Paralyzed by the ghosts of my past mistakes.
A light, hesitant tap on the window makes me jump, a startled yelp catching in my throat. I turn my head, and my heart gives a painful lurch.
Matthew is standing there. Hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, bathed in the soft glow of the light between the two garage doors. His face is filled with gentle concern, his brow slightly furrowed as he sees me frozen in my panic. He reaches for the handle and slowly opens the door.
The interior light flicks on, exposing me completely.
He crouches down to my level. His incredible emerald eyes hold mine. A quiet empathy emanates from his gaze, seeming to see straight into my soul, calming the frantic storm in my mind.
“Hey,” he murmurs, offering me a small, sad smile that acknowledges my terror without a hint of judgment.
He holds out his hand, palm up. A lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my panic.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, my trembling hand lifts from the steering wheel and settles into his. His fingers immediately curl around mine, warm and firm.
He doesn’t pull. He doesn’t rush me. He just waits.
Inhaling deeply, I unbuckle my seatbelt, swing my legs out onto the pavement, and allow him to help me stand.
The moment I’m on my feet, his other arm wraps around me, pulling me flush against the solid warmth of his body.
Engulfing me in the deepest embrace. His hand splays on my lower back, holding me steady, as if he can sense the tremors still running through me.
I feel his lips move against my temple. “I’m nothing like him, love.” The words are a low, sacred vow.
He pulls back just enough for our eyes to lock. His gaze burns with a sincerity that demands to be believed, pulling me from the undertow of my fear.
A single, shaky nod is my only answer.
The intensity in his eyes softens, and a relieved smile touches his lips. “Let’s get you inside,” he murmurs.
With his hand still holding mine, Matthew walks to the trunk and pops it open.
He lifts my lone suitcase effortlessly in one hand, giving mine a gentle squeeze with the other, before leading me up the walkway to his front door.
He pushes it open, stepping back to let me enter first. His hand a warm, steady presence on the small of my back.
The moment I step over the threshold, the savory aroma of garlic and herbs wraps around me. “It smells incredible in here,” I say.
A pleased smile stretches across his lips as he closes the door against the night. “My one specialty, beef ragù pasta, is in the works.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“I’ll try to live up to the smell,” he replies humbly, making me giggle. “Come on. Let’s get you settled.”
He turns towards the staircase, and I follow him, my heart beginning a new, uncertain rhythm.
I watch the muscles in his back flex as he ascends ahead of me.
At the top of the stairs, he turns right, toward the guest room.
He opens the door, flicks on the light, and places my suitcase at the foot of the neatly made bed.
Relief, so potent it makes me feel light-headed, washes through me.
He gets it.
He gets me.
My need for my own space.
Matthew leans casually against the doorframe, his expression full of that same quiet, unyielding tenderness. “Make yourself at home.” He pauses, his eyes holding mine. “This space is yours for as long as you need it. No strings attached, Amy.”
I give him a grateful nod, my throat tightening, my eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
He gives me a warm smile. “Join me in the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”
With one last lingering look, he pulls the door almost shut, leaving it slightly ajar. I hear his soft footsteps heading back downstairs.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my eyes fluttering closed as I draw a shaky breath. I open them again to take in the room.
This was meant to be his mother’s room.
I’ve known this since that first night. But tonight, sitting here after everything we’ve shared, finally free from James, the significance of this gesture settles over me with a hallowed weight.
One that is heavy with the reverence of her memory, yet deeply comforting.
It’s like being enveloped in the tangible proof of Matthew’s protective love.
This isn’t just a room; it’s a sanctuary Matthew built for the woman he couldn’t save.
The wallpaper of large, blush roses behind the bed. The soft pink duvet. The white bedside tables with their elegant lamps… every loving choice imbued with a hope that was never realized.
And he brought me here.
An aching, almost spiritual connection to the woman I will never know washes over me.
The woman who endured her own private hell and never got to escape.
And now, her intended heaven is being offered to me.
The woman who, because of her son, did escape.
The tragically beautiful irony makes my heart ache with a sorrow that is both for her and for me.
I walk over to my suitcase, lift it onto the bed, and unzip it.
I pull out my comfortable grey sweatpants and faded pink T-shirt.
No more borrowed, oversized sweatsuits that swallow me whole.
No more dresses that feel like a costume.
As I pull on my own simple clothes, it feels less like changing and more like a sacred presentation of my true, unadorned self.
Standing in a space meant for pure, unconditional love.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. My face is scrubbed clean of any makeup. My clothes are soft and unassuming. My past still shadows my eyes, but they are clearer now.
More resolute.
Matthew didn’t just offer me his guest room. He offered me the sanctuary he couldn’t give his mother.
A deep breath fills my lungs, steady and sure.
It’s time to go downstairs and have dinner with her son.
As I descend the main staircase, the savory aroma intensifies, drawing me forward. My stomach gives a surprised rumble, reminding me I haven’t eaten since… I can’t remember.
I follow the scent into the kitchen and stop just inside the archway, leaning against the doorframe to absorb the scene.
Matthew is standing at the center island, methodically chopping fresh basil.
He’s wearing a soft grey T-shirt and black sweatpants, with a plain black cooking apron tied around his lean waist.
A warmth so potent it could mend bone explodes in my chest.
I’ve seen him in a sharp suit, radiating power.
I’ve seen him stripped bare, raw with grief.
But this domestic version of him, in an apron, mincing herbs for a meal he’s making for me…
It feels like coming home.
The thought is so deeply resonant that a wistful smile finds my lips. “I could get used to this.” My voice is quiet, a confession meant more for myself, but it escapes into the fragrant air.
The rhythmic chopping stops. Matthew looks up, his eyes brightening when they find me. A breathtaking smile spreads across his face. He sets the knife down, wipes his hands on the small towel tucked into his apron string, and walks toward me.