Chapter 14 #2
I know that I have absolutely no right to feel this way.
Like I have any claim on Matthew whatsoever, especially given the circumstances.
But even so, the thought of Dee going anywhere near him makes me want to vomit.
Especially because she is the type of girl Matthew should be with.
The type of girl the Smiths wrote songs about.
No one’s ever written a song about a girl who collects barf bags. And no one ever will.
I press my champagne glass to my cheek, willing the chill to ground me.
“I do,” I tell Dee. “We are…friends. I guess.”
“Ah…” Dee gives me a knowing look and smiles. “Understood.” She lifts both hands up, a sign of surrender. I smile back at her, feeling guilty about the string of violent urges I was having just a few seconds ago but grateful for her backing down nonetheless.
I should thank Aunt Carol for introducing me to Dee. It may not be the love connection that she intended, but now I know that even though the thought of explaining myself to Matthew makes me sick, the thought of losing him to someone else makes me sicker.
No more avoiding. No more lying.
“It was nice meeting you,” I tell Dee, downing the rest of my almost-full glass and beelining straight over to Matthew before I lose the courage, stopping only to grab another flute from a serving tray.
“Hi,” I say as I approach him in the back corner of the room, where he sits on the edge of the windowsill. I watch, mesmerized, as his thumbs mess around with the buttons on his camera. At the sound of my voice, he looks up.
“Hey.” The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. His eyes have softened since we last spoke. I position myself directly in front of him and lightly kick his foot with my own.
“I don’t know why I just did that,” I confess.
“You’re drunk,” he says with a chuckle.
“I’m slightly tipsy,” I correct him.
He reaches out and grabs my hips. “You’re swaying.”
My breath hitches in my throat at the feeling of his hands on me. “I’m not swaying. The room is moving.”
And then he smiles. A beaming, lopsided, perfect smile.
I sit down next to him and start to cry.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a slightly panicked edge to his voice. “What did I say?”
My knee bounces up and down nervously.
“You didn’t say anything wrong,” I tell him, and the words start spilling out. “You’re so great, Matthew, and I’m so sorry that I lied to you.”
My head swims as I try to recall the speech I rehearsed with Sandy on the phone earlier. It all comes out in a breathless jumble.
“I have this thing. This anxiety. I get nervous about dates. In a pukey sort of way that is not at all attractive.”
My leg stops shaking, and I realize it’s because Matthew’s hand is on my knee, steadying it. I will myself to keep going, despite this burning distraction.
“That’s why I lied to you. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to see you. It’s because I get too panicky. I understand if you want to stop talking to me. You deserve someone who will show up. Someone like Dee.”
I breathe, finally. Matthew stares at me inquisitively, brow furrowed, probably trying to figure out how it’s taken him so long to realize I am insane.
Casually, as if I haven’t just revealed myself to be a complete freak of nature, he reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, running a calloused thumb across Bev. My heart shoots to my throat, and I almost have trouble responding when he asks, “Who’s Dee?”
The room spins slightly as I survey it to find her.
“Over there.” I point to the petite blonde restocking her tray of drinks at the bar. “She told me she thought you were cute. You should be with someone like her.”
He cocks his head to the side, squinting at me. “But I don’t like Dee, Phoebe. I like you.”
Champagne bubbles float around my stomach.
I don’t like Dee, Phoebe. I like you.
“But did you hear what I said?” I ask. “About panicking? And the puking?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “I heard you. I wish you had just told me that to begin with. We could have figured something out. And if you think about it, this isn’t much different than a date right now, is it? Just two people talking. And you’re completely fine.”
“That’s because I’m drunk,” I tell him. Which is true. I’d probably have run off by now if my body wasn’t primarily composed of alcohol. I should be taking advantage of this drunken burst of confidence. After all, I haven’t ruined this.
There’s still a chance.
“Come with me.” I stand, grabbing Matthew’s hand and pulling him to his feet.
“Where are we going?” he asks, looking at me apprehensively but still following my lead.
I guide him to the empty janitor’s closet, ushering him inside and closing the door quickly.
“Phoebe…” he starts, but before he can finish, I’m on my tippy-toes, my hands on either side of his face, pulling his lips to mine.
He pulls away before we make contact.
“Phoebe, no.” He takes my hands in his, lowering them back to my sides while shaking his head. “Not like this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, gesturing to the shelf full of toilet paper and cleaning supplies adjacent to a broken urinal. “This is perfect. Plus, the characters in my books are always kissing in closets.”
“But you’re drunk.”
“Exactly! This could be our only chance.” A moment passes between us. I step away from him, my back now pressed against the urinal as the realization hits me. “You don’t want to kiss me?”
“I do!” He pulls me closer toward him. “This is just…not how I imagined kissing you.”
I can’t fight the grin that breaks out across my face. “You’ve imagined it.”
He looks down at his feet. “Yeah.” When he looks back up, his cheeks are slightly red. “I have.”
“I have, too,” I confess. “And if we both want this…” I lean closer to him. “We should do it now.”
While I still have the courage.
I move to kiss him again, and for the second time, he pulls away. He stares at me, wide-eyed and blinking.
I think…I think I want to die.
“I think we should go get some water,” he suggests.
I do want to die.
“Okay,” I agree quickly, pushing past him to open the door. I can’t bring myself to look at him. Unwanted visuals of him backing away from me not once but twice play on repeat in my mind.
I open the door, prepared to run as far away from this closet as I can get, only to come face-to-face with Ethan as he steps out of the men’s restroom.
“I was looking for y—” he starts, but cuts himself off abruptly when he notices the second party emerging from the closet.
His jaw hits the floor. The door shuts behind me.
“Uh,” I hear Matthew mumble. “Be right back with the water.” I listen closely to the sound of his footsteps shuffling in the direction of the bar.
Ethan stares at me in stunned silence, breaking his personal record for the longest he’s ever gone without speaking.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I tell him, and although I’ve always wanted to be able to say that, it does nothing to make me feel better about this moment.
“You have a hickey on your neck.”
“Huh?” I reach to the spot Ethan’s pointing at, just above my right collarbone, and that’s when I feel it.
A raised patch of skin that begins to itch as soon as I make contact with it.
And I must’ve been too busy making a fool of myself to notice the same itching sensation breaking out across my legs, too.
“There you are!” Dad shouts as he rounds the corner. “Your mother sent me to find you. Speeches are starting soon.”
Against my best interests, I begin to scratch. First at my neck, and then at my legs. I can’t help it. Over the course of the past minute, since I discovered the first spot, the itching has become unbearable.
“Phoebe?” Dad looks down at me, at the spot on my neck. “Ah.” He nods. “Ethan, would you mind telling Jodi we’ll be there in a few minutes?” Ethan nods and disappears.
This is not the first time this has happened.
I’ve been known to break out in hives when I’m under extreme stress.
Usually, all it takes is some time away from whatever situation is causing me distress, and the hives go away on their own.
But I don’t have time. I have a speech to give, and I can feel the bumps beginning to spread up my neck and onto my jawline.
Jamie cannot have a maid of honor who looks like she just got stung by thousands of bees.
Although that would be strikingly close to a particularly thrilling scene from Beauty and the Beekeeper. But now is not the time for that.
“Let’s step in here for a second.” Dad opens the door to the janitor’s closet and drags me back into the last place I want to be. He leans against the shelf of supplies and crosses his arms. “What’s going on, Pheebs?”
I’m not sure if it’s the worry in his soft brown eyes that look so much like my own, the comforting smell of his aftershave covering up the smell of bleach, or maybe just the fact that it’s been a long time coming, but I unleash.
“There is something wrong with me, Dad.” I can already taste the salt from my tears. “I’m going to be thirty in less than twenty days and I have the romantic experience of a middle schooler. Jamie is married and I’m over here panicking and vomiting at the thought of going on a date with Matthew.”
He looks at me questioningly.
“The photographer. We know each other, and have actually planned to meet up a few times before, but…” I look down at my feet.
Dad finishes my sentence for me. “You panicked?”
I nod. “And I’m pretty sure I just ruined any chance I had with him, which is a shame because…I really like him.”
I take a breath for the first time, and Dad hands me a handful of toilet paper to wipe away my tears.
“And things aren’t great back in LA, either,” I continue. “Jonathan might have a girlfriend.” I hiccup. “And he’s being kind of weird. I don’t know what’s going on with him. I know you thought we’d end up together. Maybe I thought that, too. I don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing.”
Dad presses a fresh wad of toilet paper against my nose.