3. Present
Chapter three
Present
My eyes sting, and mascara smudges from the heels of my hands linger on my cheeks.
I knew he wouldn’t want to talk to me. Not like this. Not after all this time.
With a cleansing breath, I put the car in drive and start up the block. At the end of the street, I flip on my turn signal and instinctively check my rearview mirror. I’m hallucinating. But, no. Matt’s standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms. I peer over my shoulder. Seriously?
He doesn’t want it. He’s going to give it back.
The road ahead is clear. I take a right and speed off toward the parkway, away from him, away from the thing I came to do. It’s done. Mission accomplished. Slush splashes against my tires. My mind races.
Did he even read the letter?
Driving home, I’m fixated on the little girl who called out for him, willing him to tuck her back in. I knew Matt had a daughter, but hearing her voice made her real. He’s a father now, I remind myself.
If not for you, then do it for her. Just keep it, I beg him in my mind.
The drive back to my condo takes a half hour.
When I arrive, I pull into my parking spot in the covered lot.
I sit in the cocoon of darkness, lit only by the dashboard glow, replaying the events over in my head.
I’m tempted to call Jessica, the only other person who’s known me long enough to understand the weight of what I’ve done. But I don’t.
Just then, my phone buzzes. I check the screen. The number isn’t in my contact list, but I know it by heart.
So he did read the letter.
I hold my breath for three seconds, then exhale, trying to calm my nerves before answering.
“Hello?”
“Taylor, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. What do you want?”
The words bite. “I,” I stammer, “I want to help.”
He laughs, and it sounds vile, venomous. It doesn’t match the Matt of my memories. “How could you possibly think that showing up at my doorstep unannounced could help me?”
Stunned, I don’t respond.
“You think I want you to see me like this?” he goes on.
“I, um, I didn’t think—”
“No,” he interrupts. “You didn’t.” He pauses. “Anyway, I can’t accept your money.”
“You can, though.”
“I won’t.”
“Please, Matt. Consider it a belated baby shower gift. Use it for your daughter.” I imagine a delicate white and pink invitation trimmed in lace, made lovingly by his glowing, pregnant girlfriend.
Who’s gone now, replaced by a hastily posted GoFundMe page.
“You wrote me a check for ten thousand dollars, Taylor. That’s fucking ludicrous. Who does something like that?”
“Someone who wants to help.”
“I haven’t seen you in—what—seven years? I don’t need your pity.”
“Is that what you think this is?” I try not to raise my voice, but there’s no way to mask my frustration.
“Then what is it? You find out that I’m sick, and you come up with all this money that comes from God knows where and show up at my house with it? It’s pity, and I don’t want it. I don’t need to be your pathetic charity case.”
“Matt, can you shut up for a second? Just listen to me.”
“No—you listen to me. This has been the worst few months of my life. And to have you come here out of thin air and see me like this? It’s humiliating.”
Anxiety is replaced with agitation at the absurd notion that someone I’ve loved so deeply could be reduced to some kind of…
obligation. “How can you say that?” I wonder aloud.
“You sat on the bathroom floor with me the night I couldn’t stop puking from norovirus.
You watched me cry so hard that I blew my nose in your T-shirt after my mom died.
You were there when I found out my dad went to prison!
How can you even use the word ‘humiliating’ with me?
We’ve been through everything together!” My blood pressure builds.
“Did you think I went there to make fun of you? Do you think I give a fuck what you look like? Jesus, Matt. Don’t you know me at all? ”
He quiets, surprising me. I’m used to him putting up more of a fight.
“Did you read the letter?” I ask, catching my breath.
“How else would I have your new number?”
“Didn’t I make it clear? Why I went to see you?”
He sighs. “Actually, no. Nothing is particularly clear to me anymore.”
“Well, then, take the night. Re-read it in the morning. Carefully. And then, if you want help—which, by the way, is totally different than charity—call me again.”
I hear him breathing through the thick silence.
“But keep the money, Matt. I want you to have it.”
“You can’t buy your way back into my life. You chose this, remember?”
His words are a slap across my face.
I want to scream at him, or at least explain myself.
But I can’t. Because really, he’s not wrong.
I do want a way back in, though not in that same carefree way that one might want to spend time with someone whose health is fully intact.
I’m terrified of what it means to be a part of Matt’s life now.
The risk involved. But I can’t sit back and let this happen to him without me. Not after all we’ve been through.
Not after all he’s done for me.
“Typically, I would tell you to go fuck yourself with a comment like that, but—”
“But I’m sick, right? So now you have to tiptoe around me? That’s exactly what I mean by pity. Go on, Taylor. Say what you really mean.” The poison in his tone screams like a tea kettle.
“Goddamn it, Matt! I just want to help you!”
“How can I believe that? After what you did? How can I believe anything you say?”
This—the point of contention I’d worried most about—hurts the most. “It was for your own good, Matt,” I rebut. “And it was a long time ago.”
“It wasn’t up to you. What you did was cruel. I loved you more than anything, and you lied to me, Taylor.”
Semantics, I tell myself. I meant everything I said. I just couldn’t go through with it. Still, it’s not worth arguing that point now. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m just offering help.”
“But don’t you get it? I wouldn’t even be on your radar if it hadn’t been for this.”
“You have no idea where you fall on my radar,” I snap, recalling the endless hours I spent poring over his girlfriend’s social media the past seven years. “Say what you want, but I know that deep down you’re scared shitless, and so am I.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” I counter.
“Because,” Matt says, “I don’t trust you. Also, I’m not the same person I used to be.”
“Bullshit.”
“Taylor, even if I forgave you for what you did,” he says, in a voice that’s less angry and more resigned, “you don’t want any of this. My life has devolved into something so unrecognizable that you wouldn’t last five minutes in it.” He sighs. “And I’m not strong enough to do this anymore.”
“To do what?” I ask.
“To watch you walk away again,” he replies. “To have history repeat itself.”
“It won’t.”
“It will,” he insists. “I’ve learned from my mistakes. And I refuse to let you break my heart this time.”