Chapter 14
After processing all of Ms. Pearson’s divorce paperwork, I have a better understanding of her son.
This woman is hiring a divorce attorney for much bigger reasons than just a divorce—they always do—but she’s going after Mr. Cress for everything he has.
Including, not limited to, his assets he’s had before her.
Not that it’s even that much, but she’s going to an extreme to suck him dry.
And I can’t help but wonder if Matt’s tactics are learned behaviors from his mother rather than his own choices, kind of like a reaction rather than an intention.
Sometimes being a child means adapting to your parents lifestyle as a means of survival.
It’s apparent to me that even though I don’t like Matt, I can have a simple understanding that as children, we learn from what we see.
And I bet he’s seen his mom do some wild things while growing up.
It has me reconsidering this entire situation with Matt.
Guilt is the heaviest emotion in my chest. I feel bad for what I’ve done now.
So when he revealed he took punches from Grey the day before I attacked him, I knew I had to apologize for making his life worse.
There I was, dialed into my own problems, that I never once considered what Matt had going on.
He’s so cocky and holds himself with such ease and confidence that he seems like the asshole popular kid that had zero problems. And the day I went after him, he let me.
He let me use him as a punching bag, and boy, was that a huge mistake.
I see it now. Instead of seeing him as a cocky, arrogant jerk, I finally see the soft side to him.
The wounded inner child. Thanks to the Grind Stone.
And I guess you could say I’m an inconsiderate piece of shit for being spiteful and petty when it comes to Matthew Pearson.
Now I have some serious making up to do.
When he walks into the Grind Stone, I know that today he clocks in after hockey practice.
“Heads up, Matt,” I say, throwing a sandwich I specifically came in early to make for him.
“What’s this?” he asks rounding the counter, catching the sandwich.
When I don’t reply, he says, “Aw, Amby, did you make this for me?”
I ignore him because I can see a big smile on his face. I don’t have the bandwidth to witness it.
He clocks in and then walks back out with an apron and the sandwich.
Have I ever mentioned how ridiculous he looks in the apron?
I’m making an order when he walks over like he’s not on the clock and unravels his sandwich.
“Oh, turkey. You made my regular. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Someone ordered it and changed their mind.”
He opens the sandwich and finds the raisin.
“This is how I know you’re full of it.” He picks it out and throws it at me. I try to block it from hitting me but it hits me anyway.
I laugh, continuing to make the order for the patient customer.
“Seriously,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I shrug.
“You think not replying means you don’t have to say it, but honestly, it speaks volumes. One of these days, I’m going to crack you open and make you say it.”
I purse my lips because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
I swear I understand his childhood trauma now, but I’m constantly met with a cocky arrogant man.
There’s a war in my mind from my newfound knowledge and what’s in front of me.
And that’s why I can’t say anything. If I have nothing nice to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all, right?
I’m quiet, waiting for him to leave. Instead he takes a bite of the sandwich and groans. My stomach rumbles at the sound.
“Don’t get used to it,” I murmur.
With his mouth full, he says, “I wouldn’t dare.”
He smiles at me, and I don’t like it. I don’t like this. Not one bit.
I call out the customers name and hand over their order.
“What?” Matt asks as I glare at him. “I’m enjoying my food. Practice kicked my ass today.”
Hence, the sandwich.
“Did you remember I have practice?”
I raise a brow at him.
“Good play, Hughes.”
I catch him glancing around the food containers with that confidence and ease I was talking about. Like he has no problems in the world.
“Where are these raisins?” he asks.
I look around for them too. I say, “Huh, they’re not out here today.”
He shoots me a glare and then bumps me with his shoulder.
“Oh my God, I’m going to fall over if you do that again,” I say out loud, falling off balance. I catch myself and glare back.
“What?” he smirks. “You can take me on.”
I observe his face, wondering why he’s teasing. He’s a lot taller than he was in high school. Is that normal?
I say, “I won’t touch you. I’m not like that anymore.”
He dramatically sticks his lips out. “I wonder why?”
“What are you insinuating, Matthew?”
He laughs, greeting the customers walking in. He turns to me and says, “I’ll make the sandwiches and you take the order?”
I shrug. “That’s how we always do it.”
He sticks out his fist for me to bump it. I reluctantly bump his fist with mine.
“Yeah,” he says with a smile.
I smile, turning to the customer. “Hi, what can I get for you?”
A few more people roll in, so we’re busy for about an hour. It’s not as uncomfortable as it used to be. Our screws are finally a little loose.
We clean the tables, tidy up the prepping area, and restock a few things.
“So what’s changed?” he asks when the place is quiet.
“What’s changed?” I ask, confused.
“You said earlier that you’re not like that anymore, so what’s changed?”
I smile. “Have you ever heard of hormones? Raging teenager hormones?”
He laughs. “It was that bad, huh?”
I confess, “It was so bad, and I’m sorry you were in my crossfire.”
He smiles. “You’re not so bad, Amby.”
I hate that my stomach is swirling at the look on his face. For a moment, it feels like only the two of us exist in this world.
He continues, “I thought working here would look a lot like…”
He’s approaching me, but I don’t back down from a challenge. He leans in to grab…the mustard. Oh, hell no. He points it at me and says, “Like this.”
He squirts mustard on my cheek and all the way down my apron. I wipe the mustard from my cheek with the back of my hand. I smell it and mutter, “You couldn’t have chosen mayonnaise or something else? I hate mustard.”
“And I hate raisins,” he argues, squirting me again.
“Matt!” I scoff, glancing down at the mess of mustard down my apron. Disgusting.
“Here,” he says, handing me the mustard. “Have some fun.”
He opens his arms as if I would seek revenge. Instead I take the mustard and put it back. “I’m not squirting you.”
“So, those raisins are your personal raisins?”
I nod.
“Well, that’s just wrong. I don’t think we can be friends now.”
“Friends?” I ask, insulted.
He shrugs. “What else is there?”
“Coworkers.”
“Oh, you don’t even want to be friends with me? You just want to be coworkers?” He scoffs, offended, but laughing.
I nod. “Being friends is a big step. I don’t think we’re ready for that.”
He smiles. “So, you don’t like mustard. Don’t tell me you like pickles in your burgers?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why would anyone take out the pickles? It’s the best part.”
He tilts his head in disapproval, glaring down at me. My mind is racing at what he’s doing. He wants to know random facts about me? Okay.
I say, “I eat pizza without cheese.”
“Without the cheese?”
“Yeah, just the sauce.”
He belly laughs. “What? Not even vegetables?”
I shake my head.
“Pineapple?”
“Nope,” I answer.
He’s truly disgusted and I’m so happy for it. He scoffs, “Just the damn sauce on the bread?”
I nod, and he laughs again.
“What kind of creature are you? From what planet? Get out of here.” He throws his hands as if I’m in them and he’s throwing me out. “God, we are polar opposites,” he says. “Dream vacation?”
“Hawaii.”
He laughs. “Whistler.”
“I don’t even know where that is,” I admit.
“It’s above Vancouver.”
I shake my head.
“In B.C.”
I shrug.
“Canada?”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, I never want to go there.”
I smile at him, blinking. He looks away and then double takes.
“Do we have anything in common?”
I shrug. “We hate each other.”
He smirks. “I don’t hate you.”
I scrunch my face. “Yeah, you do.”
He laughs. “Okay, so maybe I did, but not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” I scoff. “Stop lying.”
“I’m not…lying.” He laughs. “I questioned if taking this job might end up with me in a dumpster and you in prison.”
My jaw drops.
He waves his hand at me. “I’m only kidding.” He tilts his head, eyes grazing over my face. “Friends?”
He’s hesitant as he says it. I swallow the pride on my tongue.
“Friends?” I ask. “You want to be friends with me? Even though you just said I would––” I whisper, “Murder you?”
He nods with a smile.
I search around the room for any sign that I shouldn’t agree to this. I look at the front door, waiting for someone to walk in. Nothing. I nod. “Okay. Friends.”
He glances down at the ground and then his eyes drag to mine. “Cool.”
Amber: He thought he would end up in a dumpster when he started working with me. He asked to be my friend, I agreed. And then we didn’t talk for the rest of the shift.
Riley: Maybe that’s all he needed
Amber: What? Be my friend and then turn into a ball of awkwardness?
Riley: To move on from it
Amber: Yeah
Riley: You hate him still, don’t you?
A part of me wants to jump up and scream it to the world, but the more time I spend with him, the more I’m having a hard time with the idea of hating him.
Actually, yes. My idea of him has slowly shifted, causing what I’ve known to change, and now I don’t exactly hate him.
Hate is a strong word. I used to know how it felt, down to my bones, how hating him felt like, and this isn’t it.
Amber: That era is over.
I huff, typing out my real feelings.
Amber: He’s kinda growing on me
Riley: Wow, that’s a first. You always hold a grudge