Emma
SEVENTEEN
“Where are we?” I ask.
We park the rental on a dimly lit street. We’re somewhere in New Jersey, about an hour away from the city. Rows of one-story houses stretch on either side, most of them run down, except the one we’re stopped in front of.
The white paint and red brick look recently renovated. The yard is freshly mowed, walkway clean and bordered by blossoming flowers.
Sprinkles still come down steadily, but the sky seems to have calmed down for a bit. It’s almost ten pm, and whoever we’re about to bother is definitely not expecting us.
“We are at Mrs. Hunt’s humble abode,” Matt answers, grabbing our bags from the back and getting out.
He opens my door, and I can’t help but stare at the muscles on this man. The bow tie is now hanging loose around his neck, the first couple of buttons undone. His jacket was discarded before we got on the road, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms flexing with every move.
“You missing something?” he asks.
I clear my throat. Yeah, my self-control, apparently.
“Did you tell her we were coming? I don’t want to intrude,” I say. How did I get here? Meeting Matt’s mom. “I could’ve stayed at the inn we saw on our way in while you came for a visit.”
“She loves surprises. I haven’t seen her in a while, she’ll be glad to have us,” he assures. I groan but ultimately get out.
Parents love me. Then again, none of the parents I’ve met have ever been his. Matt Hunt. The man I’ve been unhelpfully ogling the entire night.
Matt rings the doorbell. A light turns on and he leans to peek through the window.
“Who is it?” says a woman.
He presses a finger over his lips, asking me to stay quiet. A couple of seconds later, the door opens. Matt’s mom stands there, her mouth agape, frozen in place.
“Hi, Mom.”
I’m beginning to think we’ve broken her when she lets out a loud shriek before throwing her arms around him. She’s not much taller than me, and he has to bend down to give her a hug. It’s impossible to ignore. I can already tell this version of Matt is different.
I hang back, suddenly unsure of where I fit into all of this. They don’t get that much family time, and I feel like I’m intruding. Then, his hand finds mine, giving it a little squeeze.
“Mom, this is Emma.”
She tries to cover her mouth, but she’s not fast enough. The gasp is loud and clear.
“My goodness, I’ve heard so much about you, sweetheart. I’m Eleanor, this little biscuit’s forgotten mom.”
Matt groans. He’s done this to himself. I hadn’t even thought about all the embarrassing stories I’m going to hear about him.
“Whatever he’s said, I’m sure at least half of it is a lie,” I joke.
“I don’t think so, babe. You don’t do his words’ justice, but I think that’s less about him and more about how pretty you are.”
I blush instantly. She waves it off and brings me in with a warmth so genuine it makes me sad that she’s out here all by herself, without her son.
“I’m so sorry we dropped in like this; I should’ve brought something,” I tell her.
“You brought him home,” she says like I had everything to do with it. “That’s enough for me.”
“Oh, don’t start, Mom,” Matt says, pushing us both inside.
He shoots me a look I can’t quite read.
“Did you kids have dinner? I can cook something quickly.”
“We had a lovely meal at the FAF gala tonight,” Matt says, dropping our bags.
The house has an open-floor layout. Cozy, a little dated, but meticulously kept. We walk straight into the living room, which opens to a small kitchen at the back. There’s a window right above the sink overlooking a little garden.
Hallways branch off to the sides; I’m assuming to the bedrooms. The furniture is straight out of the 90s, like my folks had before they moved. Floral couches, open shelving with stacked VHS tapes, most looking homemade.
Eleanor makes some tea, pairing it with an old photo album that keeps Matt’s teenage years safely inside. The visit is easy in a way I’m not used to. She asks questions about me, my family, but they’re not invasive. More curious than prying.
“So, Emma,” she says after a while, “are you surviving him?”
I glance at Matt, pretending I’m considering it. “Barely.”
“Rude,” he mutters.
“It’s called honesty,” I shoot back.
His mom laughs. At first, I think it’s at us, but then I realize she’s holding another picture out toward me.
“Oh no.” Matt leans in. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not that bad, biscuit.” Eleanor grins.
“It’s terrible.”
“You had this haircut in high school on purpose?” I tease.
“Bowl cuts were a thing back then!”
“For preschoolers, Matthew.”
His mom beams. “I see why you like her.”
I laugh but hearing it come from her makes everything seem… too real. She’s someone I could easily want to keep forever.
Matt looks at me, that same undecipherable secret in his eyes. He must sense my gears turning because he stands, closing the album shut.
“Alright, ladies. Show’s over. Everyone to bed before more evidence surfaces.”
When we finally head down the hall to the left, the tension rises like the slow climb of a rollercoaster right before the drop.
Matt’s childhood bedroom is something extremely personal, and he’s just letting me in there. Trusting me with one of the most intimate parts of his life.
I should be honored, but instead my stomach is twisting, reminding me I’m not who he thinks either. And although I’d never use anything I learn here for the article, I still don’t think I deserve it.
The outside noise fades, and my gaze focuses on Matt. The way he slowly pulls the handle down as if the contents of the room are going to be as much of a surprise for him as they are for me.
My steps are small, timid. He moves to the side, giving me full, uncensored access to his past. The space feels untouched. Time stopped when he moved out and nothing’s changed ever since.
A double bed with red checkered bedsheets sits centered against the back wall.
He has a small nightstand to the left and a cabinet full of trophies and medals on the opposite side.
Posters cover the walls. Movies, playbills, football players.
On the other end, a wooden desk with two shelves above it full of books.
Not the study kind. A small closet door at the back holds his letterman jacket.
“I feel like I’ve stepped into a time capsule,” I mumble. “You kept it like this?”
“More or less,” Matt says with a shrug. “My mom says she doesn’t want to go through my things, but I think she likes remembering this version of me.”
“Smart woman,” I whisper, scanning all the tiny details that feel so… him. Not the L.A. version. Not even the one I’m writing.
“Jock turned actor,” I comment. “They took one look at those muscles and decided you were the perfect guy to throw yourself out of buildings.”
“Actually,” Matt says, hovering over me. “Theater kid, turned jock, turned action star.”
“Huh, interesting,” I whisper, very aware of how close he is. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “I didn’t expect this.”
I turn, and we’re suddenly inches apart. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. Traitorously, mine does the same. Neither of us move. The air is getting heavier, charged. Something’s about to tip.
“What didn’t you expect?” he asks, voice low, daring. “Devastating normalcy?”
“Yeah… Something like that.”
Or feeling this way about him—even when every cell in me is reminding me I can’t fully trust him yet.
The moment stretches. Neither of us move so much as an inch.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says, taking a step back. “I can get you some fresh bedding, although knowing my mom, I’m sure she washes these with hers every time just in case I come back.”
“Uhh, no. You’re not sleeping out there,” I argue. His eyebrows shoot up. “This is your bed. I’ll leave.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s not,” I cut in. “I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”
“It’s basic decency,” he counters.
“I’m smaller.”
He stares at me like I’m growing horns. “That’s your logic?”
“It’s solid logic.”
“It’s not.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“For fuc—”
“Fine. We share.”
“Fine,” he says almost instinctively. Then, quieter this time. “Are you sure?”
“It’s just a bed.”
At this point, I’m reassuring myself.
Matt heads into the bathroom to change out of his tux, and I put on my ‘pajamas’ in record time. Thank God I brought an extra pair of leggings. My short shorts are definitely not appropriate for shared-bed situations.
He comes back in wearing the same sweatpants he had on when I stopped by his house the other morning, this time with a simple white cotton tee. I’ve pulled the covers up to my chin. I’m lying facing the ceiling and pressed as far left as possible.
The bed sinks toward him when he gets in. I’m hyper aware of every moment. We’re not touching. Not even close. Matt’s hanging halfway off the mattress.
“You can’t sleep like that,” I growl. “Get in.”
He turns on his side, facing me, arm under his head to still leave some space between us. Somehow this feels louder than anything. Full of respect and care.
He switches the lights off and the darkness swallows us whole.
The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It never is between us.
“Do you ever get tired of people deciding who you are before you even open your mouth?” I break first. I did that with him, and oh boy, was I wrong.
Matt doesn’t respond right away. I’m starting to regret asking.
“Yeah. All the time,” he says, voice low. “It’s part of the job.”
He’s not joking. He’s not deflecting.
“I judged you,” I whisper, like I’m revealing a secret when this is widely known. “But you also didn’t do anything to correct me.”
“I didn’t know if you were going to believe me,” Matt answers. “Truthfully, I was scared to tell you and have you not care.”
His words latch onto my heart and squeeze. I know that too well. You think the truth will set you free, but sometimes all it’s good for is to bite you in the ass for getting involved in stuff that was not your business.