Chapter 23
Jonathan is out like a light before we even make it to the end of episode two.
It’s eight p.m., and I can hardly hear the TV over the sound of his snores coming from the other end of the couch.
I take my blanket and drape it over him, frowning when I realize it’s not large enough to cover anything below his knees.
I run up to my room, cringing at the sight of my unmade bed from this morning.
I make it up haphazardly before grabbing the blanket I sleep with and taking it downstairs to place over Jonathan’s legs.
I watch as his chest rises and falls in time with his breathing, hoping that he’s able to rest easier after everything he told me earlier.
I’ve had enough, he had said right before coming out, and it struck me right in the gut.
Is it possible that that’s all it takes to finally feel ready to make a change?
Because if that’s the case, I’m realizing that I’ve had enough, too.
I’m so tired of being the only thing getting in the way of my happiness.
Maybe, just maybe, if Jonathan can be brave, I can be, too.
I tiptoe upstairs, closing my bedroom door behind me and pulling out my phone. I stare at the two texts I was too afraid to answer before.
Matthew:
How are you feeling?
Can we talk?
Typing out a response doesn’t feel like enough. Instead, I pull up his number and press the call button.
Ring
My heart is in my throat.
Ring
What do I even say to him?
Ring
Maybe I should hang up.
Ring
Is he ignoring me?
Ring
I’ve ruined it.
Ring
Would flying back to New York to apologize be too much?
Just when I’m about to give up, there’s a click on the other end of the line, and a deep voice croaks out, “Hello?”
My stomach drops. “Did I wake you?” I didn’t think about the fact that he’s three hours ahead.
“Phoebe?”
“Yes. Hi. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” I think I hear him stifle a yawn. “I’m just fighting some jet lag.”
“Jet lag? Where are you?”
A pause. “I’m actually in LA. For work.”
“You’re…in LA?”
“I flew in last night for a shoot today. I would have told you, but…”
“I never answered you,” I finish his sentence.
“Yeah.”
“About that…” I had planned on groveling over the phone, but him being here changes things. “Can I see you?”
“What are you doing right now?” he asks.
“Right now?” Right now? “I’m not doing anything.”
“Maybe I can meet you somewhere? I leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes!” My pulse thrums rapidly under the surface of my skin.
Do it scared.
“Yes. Absolutely. Let’s meet somewhere. I have just the place.”
“Okay, cool. Text me the address. I’ll see you soon, Phoebe.”
“That’s great.”
“Great.”
“See you soon.”
—
Matthew:
Be there in 5
I’m leaning over the bathroom sink at Jeffery’s with a wet paper towel pressed to the back of my neck and a pit in my stomach as big as Aunt Carol’s fourth engagement ring.
I’ve managed to keep my dinner down, but that could change at any moment.
I remind myself that this is the exact way Dad felt before his first date with Mom.
It makes me think that it’s not such a bad thing, to have something worth getting so worked up over.
I throw the wet paper towel into the trash can and give myself a painfully forced double thumbs-up of encouragement in the mirror before pushing open the door and walking over to the bar.
Jerry welcomes me with a smile. “Where’s the rest of the crew?” he asks.
“Just me tonight, Jer,” I tell him. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?” He smirks, and before he has the chance to ask any more questions, I order two waters with extra ice.
I pick up the glasses, one in each hand, and thank Jerry before turning to find a table.
“Hey, before you go,” Jerry says, stopping me. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s Alex’s deal?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, squinting at him in confusion. I wonder if maybe he’s referring to his proclivity for cosmos.
“Like, is he seeing anyone?”
Oh!
“No!” I blurt, and then decide to rein it in so I don’t seem overeager. “I mean, not right now.”
“Cool.” Jerry nods, and I try to keep my grin casual before I turn and walk back to the booth.
My heart sputters when I see Matthew standing by the doorway.
His black hair is slightly damp, with a few strands falling down over his forehead, and I can make out the soft blue shade of his eyes from across the room.
He’s wearing an oversized NYU hoodie with athletic shorts and sneakers, and I’m overcome with a fierce desire to crawl inside his sweatshirt and curl into a ball.
When my eyes travel back to his face, he’s looking at me with a soft smile on his face that causes my grip around the waters to tighten.
Walking toward him, I can feel my pulse hammering in the base of my throat. Before I know it, I’m close enough to reach out and touch him. I angle my neck upward so that I’m looking directly into his eyes. The nauseous pit in my stomach morphs into something hot and not entirely unpleasant.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
The slight upward curve of his lips singes my skin, and I wrap my arms around him in a hug so he doesn’t see the blush creeping up my neck.
The glasses of water in my hands clink together loudly when they touch behind his back, sending drops of liquid to the floor that form a small puddle around our feet.
I bury my face deep in his sweatshirt out of embarrassment, comforted by the soapy smell of his detergent.
He hugs me back tightly, and my ears fill with the sound of a rapidly thumping heartbeat.
“Sorry.” The apology comes out muffled. I don’t realize that it was actually his heartbeat pounding in my ears until I pull away.
“Here,” he says, taking the glasses from my hands. “I got it.”
I nod in thanks. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you some water.”
“Water’s great.”
“I hope you like ice.”
“I love ice.”
“Cool.” I usher him toward a table. “Come sit with me.”
We slide into opposite sides of the booth, and I try not to keep count of how many times our feet tap together accidentally. Four.
I narrow my gaze on him, preparing to ask the question that’s been nagging at me from the moment he answered the phone earlier. “Why aren’t you more mad at me?”
His eyebrows knit together over the frames of his glasses. “For not answering my texts?”
“Yes!” I blurt, burying my face in my hands. “And the wedding.”
“I had fun at the wedding.” There’s a playful gleam in his eyes.
“I accosted you in a janitor’s closet.”
He laughs. “I liked getting to know you.”
“That wasn’t me.” I shake my head. “The girl in the closet was an impostor. One of my cousins. On my dad’s side. They’re all a little off. You met Aunt Carol.”
“Okay, but before that,” he says, chuckling. “When we were talking on the windowsill. You started to make sense to me, then.”
“When I confessed that I’m insane?”
“You’re not insane.”
“Well, I’m definitely not sane.”
He takes a sip of his water. “No one worth getting to know is completely sane.”
“You are,” I say. “There is literally nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect.”
He’s quick to shake his head in disagreement. “I am not perfect.”
“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you, then?”
He adjusts his posture, leaning forward with his hands clasped together on the table. I lean closer to him on instinct. “Well,” he begins. “For starters, I can’t have anything touching my eyes. I’m almost thirty-one years old and I can’t use eye drops or contacts.”
“Seriously?” I tease. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Seriously,” he insists. “I live in constant fear that something’s going to fly into my eye. It can be crippling.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I hear you. I will do my best to make sure nothing comes near your eyes on my watch.”
“Thank you.”
“But selfishly, I’m kind of glad you can’t put contacts in,” I admit. “I love your glasses. A lot.”
He reaches up to touch them reflexively, and I notice that the apples of his cheeks have turned a light shade of pink. “I’m glad,” he says quietly.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Of course.” He lifts up his hand, wiggling the finger with the silver ring on it that I find so inexplicably hot. “See this?”
“I see it.”
“It’s been stuck on my finger for a year.”
My mouth falls open as my hand darts out to grab his. I give the ring a light tug, but it doesn’t budge. “A year?”
He nods. “I tried it on for fun at some stupidly expensive thrift store. And then it never came off. Apparently it was some long-dead celebrity’s wedding band.”
“How much did that cost you?” I ask.
“I don’t even want to say.”
“Please.”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“No,” I gasp. “Can’t you get it sawed off or something?” I continue fiddling with it, twisting and pulling the ring like it’s my old Bop It! toy.
“I could,” he says. “But the thought of someone taking a saw to my finger…I’d almost rather they pin me down and squirt eye drops into my eyes.” He shudders.
“That bad, huh?”
He bobs his head in agreement.
“Your turn,” he says.
“My turn for what?”
“I told you what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?”
“You already know what’s wrong with me!” Or at least, what I used to think was wrong with me. Now I’m not so sure. All I know is that sitting across from Matthew, I feel, for the first time in forever…normal. Not average, or ordinary, but normal.
“I know that you get anxious,” he responds. “And that you can be a terrible texter because of it.” He smirks.
“I really am so sorry I didn’t answer you.” I sigh. “I was so embarrassed. And I really did think you were going to tell me you didn’t want anything to do with me. I couldn’t stomach that.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Like I said, you’re starting to make sense to me.”
I frown. “I think I’d feel better if you were less understanding.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he insists.
Okay, Sandy.
“You’d be hard on yourself, too, if you were me.”
“Why do you say that?”