Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Matt
As Matt pounded down the stairs, each footstep echoed in the empty stairwell of Nessa's building.
What an exit.
A horrible way to leave her apartment.
A strange pulse pounded inside his body, too, hot and uncomfortable. Anger? Embarrassment? An even-keeled guy by nature and by training, he'd never felt quite this way before, and his impulse was to escape. Someone else could fight or freeze, he was choosing flight.
Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, he turned to the exit door and slammed the push bar with both hands. The alley was deserted, and as he headed for the street and his car, he picked up speed. The neon orange rectangle under his windshield wiper seemed somehow appropriate; sliding it out and flipping it over, he read the parking fine: $40.
"Perfect."
Going home was never even a consideration. The only place for him right now was the gym, where he should have gone in the first place. Now that he thought about it, that would make a great post: When you need to channel anger, frustration, negative emotion in general–and everyone does–do it at the gym. Turning negative into positive.
Usually, Matt worked out during the day. His schedule was pretty flexible during the week, and the gym was so much less crowded then. Walking in the door now confirmed that. There were people everywhere, on the machines, using the weights, getting water, just standing around. In frustration, he banged into the office and dropped his gym bag in a corner.
"You either need a bigger gym or a smaller membership," he informed Vince.
"Don't complain if you can't get here in time for the Early Bird Special. Some people have real jobs–you know, nine to five, Monday to Friday?"
"I work twenty-four/seven/three sixty-five, and nobody out there is old enough to have a real job. How about we start having Adult Swim?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's your target audience out there? How about I set up a Senior Citizens' Corner instead? And what's eating at you? Case of sacramental wine didn't show up?"
"We don't have wine."
"Maybe you should, since you're so full of ideas for institutional change. What's going on?"
"Nothing. I just need a good workout, that's all. Can you clear off a weight bench if we call it a training session?"
"You paying me for a training session?"
"Barter. I'll give you an hour's free counseling on coping with your existential dread."
"I don't have existential dread."
"You will if I can't get my workout!" Matt's own eyes opened wide in shock and he sat down hard in Vince's visitor chair, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry, man. I don't know where that came from."
Vince walked to the door and looked out at the main room. "Hey, Vittorio! I need that bench in two minutes."
Then he sat down at his desk, propped his feet on an open drawer, and said, "Okay, Draper, what's going on? You got two minutes."
"Nothing! I just–you know, I spend half my time trying to figure people out and the other half trying to help them figure themselves out. It's frustrating sometimes, that's all."
"Yeah, you're kind of in the mystery business. Me, I'm in the results business. People show me a problem area, I tell them how to fix it, and they either do the work or they don't. No mystery involved."
"I would say we're both in the relationship business. We're both supposed to be setting some kind of example. If you don't do the work yourself and just eat pizza and drink beer and hand out towels, nobody will want your advice. Who's going to want my guidance if I'm in a relationship with someone whose values are totally at odds with mine? How's that relationship going to last? That's not setting an example."
The look on Vince's face said, ah, now we're getting someplace.
"What's the matter with her values? She values a healthy body, that's in line with your thinking. And she seems to tolerate you. Gotta give her major credit for that. If it's religious belief you're talking about, we can't all be Pescatarian, or whatever it is you are. Is she a good person?"
"Of course she's a good person!"
"That bench is gonna be free in–" he checked his watch, "–forty-five seconds. What's the problem here?"
"The problem is, she's way into fancy stuff and brand names and how everything looks. High-end luxury brands. Extremely expensive jewelry. That is objectively a problem if you are dating a minister, who is supposed to have a whole other spectrum of values."
"You're saying she's very concerned with how things look, and she might be judged for that?"
"Exactly."
"But you know her to be a good person, someone you like and care about?"
"Y-yes."
"Then you're saying that you care more about the perceptions of some people who don't know anything about her except what they see on the surface than you do about the person you know she is underneath?"
"No, that's not…"
"Because that would mean you were very concerned with how things look, wouldn't it?"
Hollow to the core, Matt felt the room spin. Vince’s words were so clean, so pure, so linear. What felt like chaos made sense when Vince laid it all out like that.
Made too much sense.
Because it meant Matt was an idiot.
"Bench is all yours, Vince." A young guy stuck his head in the doorway but vanished at the sight of Matt hunched over with his head in his hands.
"Come on," Vince said. "If you want, I'll take a look at your routine, see if we can change it up."
"What? Oh. Sure. Thanks."
As Matt got to his feet, Vince asked casually, "You still doing a lot of weddings? That was a big gig of yours, wasn't it? Gina says everyone wants you because you have some special way of talking about commitment and what matters in relationships, how love is a path you clear on your way to watching each other grow old, shit like that. Makes everyone cry, she says, that's how good you are."
"You still with Gina? That's awesome. I can't believe she gave in and started dating you."
"That woman is the love of my life. Don't change the subject."
Matt sighed. "Yeah, I just did a wedding today, actually. I usually do two a month, sometimes more. Depends. I’m getting more requests these days."
"Go figure." Vince's tone was bemused.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Kind of funny, that's all. Apparently, you're really good at talking about what's important between two people — like, you can see it and communicate it — but you can't create that for yourself."
Spinning around, Matt glared at Vince, but he appeared to be absorbed in checking his phone. Chuckling, he said, "Gina, man, she kills me. She's got this sweatshirt from college, you should see it, paint stains, old tomato sauce... Every day she goes to work, she looks like a million bucks, but she has a bad day or cramps or something? She comes home and puts on this sweatshirt and she looks like a homeless person. I mean, like, a gorgeous homeless person, like a homeless angel."
That's what Vince was saying. What Matt was hearing was, "...but you can't create that for yourself."
Over and over and over .
"So she sends me this link," Vince continued, unfazed. "Look at this. It's some influencer she follows."
He held his phone a foot away from Matt's face. There on the screen was–he was pretty sure–Nessa Martini. It looked like her hair, it looked like her hand, and it sure looked like her headboard behind her. What did not resemble her in the least was the pink goo on her jawline and the ratty striped shirt she was wearing.
Under the photo, it said verynecessary , then What Really Matters . He knew she usually added just a very brief line to describe whatever she was featuring, but this post was longer than normal:
There are so many kinds of beautiful. It could be something new and special and perfect. But sometimes the most beautiful thing is the softest, the oldest, the sweetest smelling. It's what you remember, what's always there for you. It's what makes you yourself and nobody else. It's home. It's life. It's love. It costs nothing and it means everything.
"I guess she wants me to be okay with the sweatshirt," Vince smiled. "I was just giving her a hard time. There's nothing she could wear that I wouldn't be okay with."
"Or she could be saying you're old and soft and you smell. Hard to say, really."
The look on Vince's face said he wasn't worried. "Enough chitchat. You ready? Let's go."
Matt studied him for a minute, chewing his lip.
"You know, I just thought of something I have to do. Maybe tomorrow. Thanks, though." As he strode to the front door, he called across the gym, "Hey, Vittorio? You can have the bench."
Behind him, Vince was protesting loudly. "Draper! What about my existential dread?"
Then he was out in the cool night air and running to his car. Traffic was lighter at this hour, and when he reached Nessa's block, the parking spot he'd left earlier was still empty. Grabbing the orange parking ticket off the floor, he positioned it back under the wiper blade.
Groundhog Day , he thought. We're gonna do this all over until we get it right.
It was nine o'clock, give or take, so when he pressed the buzzer for her apartment, he wasn't worried she'd be shaken out of a sound sleep and terrified. Anyway, her heart couldn't pound any harder than his was right now.
"Olivia?"
"No, it's me."
Silence.
"It's Matt! I–can we try again?"
Silence.
"Nessa? I want to talk about what really matters."
She inhaled sharply, the sound so loud he heard it through the intercom. "Are you making fun of me? Seriously? You came all the way back here to make fun of my post, that was meant to be sweet and open and, and…"
The guy who had come in the main door behind him stopped opening the inner door and turned around.
"Nessa?" he yelled. "This guy bothering you?"
"Tommy?" her voice crackled. "No–yes–I don't know!"
"Okay, buddy," the guy said to Matt, clearly pissed off and protective of Nessa, "time to go home." He stepped away from the inner door and opened the door to the street, holding it wide. Matt, meanwhile, was wishing desperately that he had worn his clerical stole and robe, the universal symbol of good intentions and respectability.
"No, no, you don't understand, I'm a minister, I–"
"Sure you are. Just making a house call?" As the guy grabbed for his arm, Matt realized that the inner door hadn't fully closed. Lunging for the handle, he yanked it open, then pulled it shut behind him, hard, until it clicked. That bought him precious seconds while Tommy fumbled for his key and worked the lock.
By the time his pursuer gained entrance, Matt was taking the stairs to Nessa's floor two at a time. Bursting into the hallway, he ran full tilt to her apartment. His immediate concern had shifted from patching things up with her to escaping Tommy's protective wrath.
"Nessa!" He pounded urgently on her door. "It's me!"
The door cracked open a few inches, security chain still in place. One puffy eye was visible, surrounded by some kind of opaque pink substance. Quickly double-checking the apartment number–nope, no mistake, this was hers–he glanced back toward the heavy sound of running footsteps.
"Please," he panted, "can we talk? In your apartment?"
The door slammed shut and he groaned, but the sound of metal scraping on metal followed immediately and it opened a foot or so.
"Thank–" was as far as he got when a shoulder slammed into his chest and he was looking up from the floor, the solid mass on top of him making it hard to breathe. This was bad, but the knee in his groin a second later was much, much worse. He rolled to his side, gasping.
"It's okay, Tommy. He's big but I'm pretty sure he's a pacifist," Nessa said, pulling the guy away.
"You want me to call the police, Nessa?" Tommy asked, standing up and brushing off his pants.
"No, no. It's fine. Thanks for looking out for me. I'm sorry for the trouble. You won't tell the manager about this, will you?"
"Nah. Shit happens, although not usually on a Thursday night. You call me if you need anything, okay? I'll be right next door." Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out his phone and took a picture of Matt where he lay on the hall floor, then poked him with the toe of his shoe. "Evidence. Remember, I'm a witness. Should be ashamed of yourself, pretending to be a minister." Stepping over him, he gathered the handles of his canvas tote full of groceries.
“I... am ... a... minister,” Matt choked out, but the words were soft whispers.
Or, maybe, death throes.
"What's the matter with people, anyway?" Tommy muttered as he let himself into his apartment.
Opening one eye, Matt looked up at the blurry pink person who had answered Nessa's door.
"It's been a long day," he croaked.
"Can you stand up?" she asked.
"Can I just stay here? I think my balls got adhered to the carpet somehow."
"I guess so," she said, and turned to go back inside. “I can get you a bag of frozen edamame for your... adhesion.”
"Wait! I can get up." It was harder than he expected, but he did it, limping. The walk to her kitchen was slow, though.
"I'm going to wash my face. I think I've exceeded the maximum wait time, so who knows what's under here." Pulling a water bottle out of the fridge, she handed it to him. "Unless you'd like something stronger?" she asked, hesitating.
He shook his head, thirsty and grateful, and she disappeared into her bedroom.
This was not the Nessa he assumed he knew. She didn't seem overly concerned about being seen in a facial mask and a shapeless grayish garment. And she'd been pretty calm about watching an altercation on her doorstep. Now that he thought about it, coolness under pressure must be a job requirement for her–he remembered the Barr-Hopper rehearsal, when the dog was almost poisoned and the mother of the bride broke her ankle, and Nessa just handled everything that was thrown at her.
It was a good quality.
As he drained the last of his bottle of water, she reappeared, still wearing the… whatever it was. The pink goo was gone, however, and her face was rosy and shiny in places, the way his sisters had looked after facials when they were in high school.
"Another?" she asked, pointing to his water.
"Sure." This time, she took one out for herself, too.
"Are you okay? I'm glad you came back."
"I'm fine. Must have looked pretty bad to your neighbor, but I'm glad you have people looking out for you."
"Tommy's a good guy. He has a six-year-old daughter who visits on weekends. Charlie. Sometimes I paint her fingernails."
They sat quietly for a minute, sipping from their bottles.
"Remember Vince, from my gym?" he finally asked, breaking the silence, and she nodded. "I was talking to him tonight, and he has this way of making you see things from a different angle, you know? He never comes right out and calls you an asshole, but after he restates your problem, it's usually fairly obvious where things went off the rails."
"Liv–my best friend–she does that. I mean, she's always on my side, but…"
"Yeah, I get it. After Vince clarified the situation for me, I thought I'd better come over and tell you that you were right. I'm the one who was being superficial and caring too much about appearances, not you. And then I got jealous about Chris Allister, and jealousy is a very dangerous emotion, in my experience. So… I'm really sorry, Nessa. I know you're an amazing person, and I know you know the difference between what looks good on the surface and what's truly beautiful, underneath."
Walking to where Matt sat at the counter, Nessa put both her hands in his. The smile he gave her was warm but quizzical, all his attention focused on her.
Most of it, at least. A fair amount was focused on his aching nether regions. That edamame ice pack was sounding better by the second.
"Mamie says she and my grandfather were happily married for forty-two years because whenever there was a problem, they held hands and talked about it, and they said they were sorry. I'm sorry, too." Then she heard what she'd just said. "I mean, not that we're married, that was just her advice for how to handle a misunderstanding in a relationship–I mean, not that we're in a relationship!"
"It's okay, Nessa. We're in some kind of relationship, aren't we?" The kiss he gave her was gentle, and also intimate, calming her faster than he expected. Instead of lipstick and perfume, he tasted her naked lips, her sweet breath. "And speaking of being in a relationship, ah, the Youth Group at church is sort of expecting me and my girlfriend to attend their meeting on Sunday."
At the words me and my girlfriend , Nessa slid her hands out of his. Her face looked shocked. "Your..?"
"As I understand it, they want us to talk about social media and the misperceptions and negative consequences that can happen if you're not careful. I think we have something to say about that. Can you–will you do that with me?"
"You want me to go with you and your girlfriend –"
"No! What are you talking about?"
"You said–"
" Ohhh! " they said in unison, replaying the exchange in their heads.
"Let me explain," Matt said. "When the honey run went viral, people at church saw it and thought it wasn't really appropriate for a minister–you know, a spiritual leader. We have some more traditional folks in the congregation, and they tend to be vocal. The director of the youth group came to talk to me about it, and she thought the whole situation might make a good discussion with the teens. She kind of assumed you were my girlfriend, and I didn't correct her. I, ah, I wasn't sure she was wrong, so..."
"Oh." Pausing, she looked down at her bare feet. "I don't know if I'm anybody's idea of a good example for teenagers, Matt. I have made a huge mess of some things I really care about lately. Important things. If you want an example of what not to do, then maybe I can help. Otherwise…"
"People who have never made mistakes have nothing to teach anyone. Some of these kids probably already know who you are–they look up to you. They wouldn't listen to their parents or their teachers, and maybe not to some temporary minister at their church, but they're going to listen to what you say. There's actually nobody better than you. You can make a real difference, plus, you'll make me look good." He grinned at her. "Please come."
"I guess I could… What would I wear? How do you want me to look? Should I be, like, relaxed and casual, or more like a teacher? Like a friend or an adult or–"
"Nessa, wear what you feel like wearing. Just be yourself. You'll be perfect."
Pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled into his shoulder. It felt so right, and a wave of relief, gratitude, and maybe even a little pride flooded him. With Vince's help, he'd been able to recognize his own failing and, more importantly, take steps to correct it. There was hope for him after all.
The sudden buzzing of his cellphone in his pocket was ill-timed and annoying, but par for the course. He'd chosen a life where human emergencies, large and small, would always be a constant. Shrugging apologetically, he extracted the phone, pressed and scrolled, then stared at the screen in total, sickening disbelief.
At the photo of himself, lying on the ground, eyes closed, curled up and clutching his groin. The caption read:
"Minister, huh? Beware, ladies!"