12. Matt
TWELVE
Matt
I should’ve kissed her.
At the very least I should’ve told her what my stupid secret is—that I’ve been chasing her smile ever since we met.
That she looks stunning in her favorite overalls, and I’m pretty sure she’d ruin me without them.
That I love tagging along on her adventures because I’ve never seen anything prettier than her face lighting up when she’s excited.
But I’m a coward. Too scared to get rejected by the only woman I’ve ever felt this way about. Apparently enough to let Tom walk right in.
The last scene on schedule drags on. A five-minute break gives me enough time to review my lines. I know them by heart, but my mind is too busy sabotaging me with images of the happy couple doing everything I wanted to do with her.
“Where’s Emma?” Ben asks when I head back into the trailer to change and take my makeup off.
“She’s busy,” I mutter, heading into the bathroom. “With some other guy.”
I feel trapped. Out of time. And I needed that time with her to convince her to give me a chance. A real one. With strings attached, risky. With me actually in it.
“Ouch. Do I sense some jealousy here?”
I hand him my costume and drop onto the chair.
“Ben… of course I’m jealous. I almost had it,” I groan, running a hand through my hair. He slaps it away and starts wiping my face. “I don’t know what I’ve done from yesterday to today, but suddenly she’s pulling away.”
“Maybe she got scared,” he says with a shrug.
“Scared about what?”
“I don’t know, tío. Emma came into this with her hatred on full swing. She thought it’d be easy. In, out, done. Shocker, you’re actually lovely,” Ben suggests.
“Wouldn’t that make her happy?”
“Happy, confused, betrayed that you lied to her for—”
“One year, ten months and thirteen days,” I finish. “But I haven’t been anything but truthful.”
“Yeah, now,” he scoffs. “We’ve worked together on at least five projects, but when I first met you, I was prepared to deal with a smug, egotistical playboy. You let her believe that until, what, a week ago?”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly,” he says, finally stepping back and turning my chair to face him. “Add in how openly you’ve been flirting on these work outings, and she’s probably wondering what’s real, what’s for the article, and what the hell she’s supposed to do with her own feelings.”
Ben and I have gotten close over the years. I trust him. He’s always had my back. And most of the time—fine, all the time—he’s right.
But Emma’s not one to keep her feelings to herself. Unless I completely misread the situation yesterday, had her phone not rang, we would have ended in a not-at-all professional conundrum. Is that what she’s truly afraid of?
I curse myself for not thinking about that before. A casual fling would never trump the first chance she’s gotten at writing. She doesn’t know how serious I am about her. Once again, I’ve managed to turn into the asshole who doesn’t care about her career.
Except maybe if I can convince her I’m in it, she’ll see things differently. That pull I felt yesterday, the sparks every time we touch… she has to be feeling those too or she would’ve pushed me away without a second thought.
Alright, Matt. You can do this, I pump myself up. Go get your girl.
I push out of the chair and gather my stuff at lighting speed.
“I need to talk to Emma.”
Confidence works in strange ways. I left set fully convinced on heading straight to Emma’s. To surprise her and come clean. But that was peak levels. The second I got in my car and drove off, the avalanche of doubt started.
What if she’s actually into Tom and I’m making a fool out of myself?
I wasn’t always playboy Matt. The inner me has always been a shy, book-loving nerd, but high school was an eye-opener. Lunch money stolen, clothes hidden after P.E., an array of threats to hand my homework over… I dealt with all of it. You name it, I went through it. And it was fine.
But regular Matt never won any hearts. The catalyst: Rachel Adams. My first girlfriend, who dumped me five hours before prom to go with a football player instead.
“I thought you were going to grow out of this responsible, geek thing you’ve got going,” she told me over the landline. “I’m older now, and it turns out bad boys are my thing.”
So, during the summer before my junior year, the prototype of playboy Matt was born. I got up early and trained until I had nothing left in me. Then I’d shower and head to the public library, reading everything they had on football strategies. I went through them so fast they had to order more.
By the time tryouts started, I was so good I was named starting quarterback. We won every game. The team looked up to me, the stands had never been fuller, and Rachel Adams came crawling back with her tail between her legs.
At home, the varsity jacket came off, and the books came out.
Now, I know Emma is not materialistic or self-absorbed. She’s badass, knows what she wants, and doesn’t care about what anybody thinks (except me when I’m teasing her). But somehow, that makes it worse.
She’s adventurous, high energy and ready for whatever life throws her way. Compared to her, I’m a bore. Doesn’t stop me from trying to keep up, but what if she needs more than I can give?
I park outside her apartment complex with absolutely no plan in mind. Ideally, I’d knock and tell her the truth. Easier in theory. If I could get her to give me more time, until the assignment is over, then we could be honest with each other.
My hands are sweating. I fix my hair—not that she’d notice—and knock three times.
Emma opens the door wearing her overalls, a red spaghetti-strap top underneath. She’s barefoot, her hair pulled into a messy bun.
The sight hits me too fast. It’s both grounding and destabilizing all at once. This is the woman who haunts my dreams. Emma in her most natural form. And that’s the version that gets me the most.
“Matthew,” she says, clearing her throat, green eyes meeting mine. There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, as if she’s completely forgotten I walked out on her at lunch like the fool I am.
Suddenly, I’m grateful for the darkness. I’m sure I’m blushing.
“It’s starting to look like you can’t go a couple of hours without seeing me,” she adds, her eyebrow raising with mischief.
“Got off early.”
I try to match her tone, but I’m already off balance. This was a terrible plan. I’ve got no idea what to say.
“It’s basically dinner time,” she points out.
I nod. “I know. I planned an outing for us, and it needs to be at night,” I improvise, because aside from taking her out to eat, my mind is blank. She disarms every coherent thought.
“That’s nice, but I’m all out of outing time I’m afraid.”
My expression falls. Exactly what I thought. I’m in the middle of coming up with something to convince her when her voice cuts through.
“But…” she says, throwing me a lifeline, “if you want to ask me out on an actual date, I’d consider it.”
I hesitate. Is she being real, or is this another way to get back at me? I can’t put myself out there without talking about what happened yesterday first. And if I do, there’s nothing left. No version of me to fall back on if she says no.
“It’s for work,” I mumble. “Strictly.”
Now it’s her face that falls. She looks away, like the sight of me is making things worse. But she’s a pro at pulling herself back together, and within seconds, she’s back to the Emma I first met.
I’m living an out-of-body experience, watching myself get dragged backward, the distance between us—the one I’ve worked hard so hard to shrink—snapping wide open again.
“Then I’m going to have to decline,” she says, her voice echoing in my head. “I’m going to the movies with Tom.”
I scoff. What does she even see in that guy?
“Seriously? Care to explain that reaction?”
“I think you could do better than Tom,” I say, with a shrug. Jealousy is taking over. I can feel it, and I can’t stop it. All I want is to tell her it should be me instead, but the words won’t come out.
“Yeah? Like whom?” she shoots back with a laugh. “At least he’s got the balls to ask. That’s already more than I can say about you.”
Touché.
She’s right. Of course she is.
I don’t get a say about what she does with her free time. I’m not part of it.
I could’ve been. But I’m still hiding. Except now instead of the bad-boy charade, I’m using the article as a shield. There’s no getting through to her unless I come clean.
My shoulders slump. I look down, ashamed.
“I’m sorry. I really want to—”
“At this point, I don’t care, Matt,” she interrupts. “I’ll see you on set.”
The door shuts in my face, and I realize this was my one chance. To take her out. Just Emma and Matt. And I blew it.
There’s no coming back from this. By the end of the night, she’ll be someone else’s.