Chapter 18 Matilda
I didn’t skate that night. After Luca left, I felt too raw to get on the ice. Bone-deep exhaustion had seeped into my heavy limbs. I knew I’d been pushing myself too much recently.
I went home and cried instead.
I’d never met anyone like Luca, someone so cynical and untrusting.
He’d said some horrible things that played in my mind on repeat all night. Not just because his insults had stung, but because he wasn’t wrong.
He’d caught me out when he’d overheard my conversation with Lily and asked me how I felt about our partnership afterward. I knew I was everything that Luca said I was; my old therapist had called me out on it, but I wasn’t ready to accept it.
Being nice to people to their face while secretly hating them doesn’t make you nice, it makes you fake…spineless.
I kept my needs and thoughts locked away, rarely sharing them with anyone other than Lily, and even then I struggled.
It was second nature to simply agree, nod, and smile, molding myself to people’s needs without a second thought.
I hadn’t even been aware I was doing it until I’d seen a therapist about my anxiety and stress.
It had been a couple of years ago; I had been dating Mark for six months and my mental health was getting worse—I didn’t know what else to do.
I only saw her for three months, and she was brilliant, but she encouraged me to make changes that felt impossible, like ending things with Mark or creating healthy distance from my mum.
In retrospect, she wasn’t wrong, but I couldn’t picture pulling away from the people I’d spent so long trying to hold on to.
Every session left me feeling like I was falling short of who I was supposed to be. So, eventually, I stopped going.
Maybe that was the wrong decision.
Luca and I were supposed to train together the next morning, but I didn’t want to. Luca’s text the night before had been so out of character that at first I thought it must have been Jack, but then I reconsidered. Jack wouldn’t have done that; it wouldn’t have been believable.
I wanted to accept his apology, especially as I had been wrong, too.
But a small part of me wanted to take what Luca had said and show him why I was like this.
Part of me was still angry, too. Standing me up at the press event because I had annoyed him wasn’t a great example of the open communication he expected from me.
I understood his frustration, but for someone who preached about being honest, he’d let weeks’ worth of resentment build instead of calling me out.
Being honest with him can’t make the situation any worse, right?
I grabbed my phone from my bedside table and typed.
Matilda: I’m not coming to training today. I don’t want to see you. Skate alone.
OK, I couldn’t send a text that was that rude, though it did feel nice to type. I tried again.
Matilda: I’m not in the mood to see you today, but feel free to head to the rink to skate. We have a slot booked.
I reread the message at least five times before clicking send and burying my phone under my duvet. How will he respond? Will he respond at all? Will he go to the rink? The questions bounced around my mind for too long.
Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I decided to work out.
I threw on some athletic shorts, a sports bra, and a baggy T-shirt, slipped on some running shoes, and headed downstairs to the gym in my building.
It was lackluster compared to any other commercial gym, but it would suffice for a short workout and meant I didn’t risk running into anyone I knew.
As I pushed the gym door open, my phone pinged with a couple of texts.
Mum: You still haven’t explained why Luca didn’t come to the event.
Mum: Do you even realize what you’ve risked? This mess will reflect on me. We’ve built a reputation over decades and you’re one bad headline away from undoing it. Be grateful that the press hasn’t said anything—yet.
Jack had managed to keep it out of the news, then, at least. I blinked away the burning behind my eyes and swallowed the guilt.
My mother’s legacy isn’t my responsibility.
I told myself the affirmation I’d learned in those few months of therapy over and over again, even if I didn’t quite believe it.
Ignoring the messages, I threw myself into the workout, succumbing to the mental bliss of hating every moment of being there.
Forty minutes on the treadmill and twenty minutes of light weights later, I was sufficiently sweaty and ready to head back to my apartment, shower, and then fill the bathtub until it was almost overflowing and put on a face mask.
Was ten a.m. too early to pour a glass of wine?
Maybe not if it was in the name of self-care.
Once I’d returned to my apartment, I peeled off my sweaty T-shirt and threw it into the laundry hamper. Just as I leaned to turn the shower on, a knock sounded on the front door.
It was bound to be my mother. I still hadn’t replied to her messages, so she must have wanted to pry.
I hurried to the door and pulled it ajar.
My jaw slackened, and I let the door swing open.
Luca stood in the hallway, his dark hair tousled and eyes rimmed with shadows. Lines of exhaustion were traced across his face, but they only accentuated his jawline and the curve of his lips.
His gaze flickered over my gym outfit, his eyes heating before they flicked back to mine.
I hated how my body tingled under his appreciative gaze.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless,” he said, breaking the silence.
I released a huff of disbelieving laughter, wholly gobsmacked that he was standing at my door.
“What are you doing here?” Ignoring his comment, I aimed for an edgy, defiant tone, but it sounded feeble, even to my ears.
“I brought you a coffee and a croissant.”
Shocked by his uninvited presence, I hadn’t even noticed what he was holding: a drinks tray with two Vinnie’s cups, and a pastry bag.
Resisting the urge to just accept the goods and the apology, I reminded myself that he’d specifically asked me to be honest with him.
“Why?” I crossed my arms. His eyes flickered down, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“To apologize. I was an asshole last night.” It was my turn to swallow. He might have stood me up, but I had some apologizing to do, too.
“You drove all the way to Vinnie’s to get the coffee?” I gestured to the two cups and pastry bag he held.
He nodded and held out a coffee cup. “A mocha with extra cream.” Pausing, he looked away momentarily and muttered, “And marshmallows.”
“Vinnie’s doesn’t do marshmallows.”
“I know. I bought them from the store.” Baffled, I gingerly accepted the coffee from him. He avoided my gaze.
“You went to the shop separately to buy marshmallows and add them on top?” I couldn’t hide the warm lilt in my voice at his thoughtfulness.
“I’m just tired of hearing you moan about how Vinnie’s mocha would be better with them.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking entirely bored—even if his words told me otherwise.
My lips curved into a slow, tentative smile, the gesture warming something in me which had been left bitter and cold since our argument.
“Can I come in?”
When I’d texted him earlier saying that I didn’t want to see him, I was being honest. But now that he was there, it made sense to resolve our argument. We still had to see each other for the next few weeks.
Stepping back, I waved him into my apartment.
He strolled in, removed his shoes, and approached my living space. It was such a mundane act that it startled me. Seeing him inside my tiny apartment was weird. His bedroom was probably the size of my entire place.
I motioned to the sofa. Luca slid the pastry bag over the coffee table like a bargaining chip in a negotiation. My lips quirked upward.
“I wanted to apologize. I was angry and out of order yesterday,” he started, holding my gaze.
I started to open my mouth in response, hesitating. I wanted to accept the apology and move on. I didn’t want to deal with the inevitable discomfort a conversation would bring.
“Don’t accept my apology yet, Matilda,” he said, reading my mind. He rubbed his palms across his jean-clad legs and continued, “I don’t trust anyone anymore. It’s not personal to you. I keep everyone at a distance for a reason.” He inhaled as if preparing himself.
“Six years ago, I dated a woman named Nancy. It started casually, nothing more than sex. But she started hanging around more, and I liked her company. She didn’t have social media, wasn’t obsessed with fame. She worked in real estate, but nothing fancy. She was a single parent to a little girl.”
I didn’t dare move or speak. He had never spoken so many words to me at once, and I didn’t want to spook him.
“Nancy and I had been dating for about a year when the paparazzi started turning up even more than normal, catching us in compromising positions.”
“Like what?” I whispered.
“They caught a fight in a club; some sleazebag had been grabbing Nancy and wouldn’t leave her alone.
I didn’t know then, but she’d orchestrated it and told the paparazzi we’d be there.
The papers had gotten hold of a picture of us taking drugs at a party, which she’d sent to them.
I don’t even remember arriving at the party; I was so drunk.
You name it, she managed to get it on camera and somehow sell it to the press.
“I’m not excusing my behavior, because I chose to do those things, even if she choreographed them…
” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair and gripping his neck.
“But she had kept saying these things, like how I was being boring, or not protective enough, how I didn’t get her anymore, and I guess over time it got into my head.
And I just thought, maybe if I went along with it, if I acted the way she wanted, things would get better between us.