11. Present
Chapter eleven
Present
Matt looks at me across the kitchen table. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“I would never have called you, you know.” He looks down, lost in thought. “I hate having you see me like this.”
“Like what? You look great, Matt,” I say, meaning it.
“I’m a mess,” he says, waving away the compliment.
“Stop it. You’re being monitored by doctors. You’re going to be just fine.” I reply, not convincing either of us.
“It’s hard at night.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like—what do they call it? The witching hour? That time at night where ghosts come back and haunt you?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be in the middle of the night?”
“For me, it starts as soon as the sun goes down. I don’t know. I get restless. I’m so used to taking breaks from life, you know? I don’t even know how to explain it.”
“Try me.” Unsure of where the movement comes from, I reach my hand across the table and open it, palm side up.
Matt looks over at Brett, who appears to be either fully engrossed in her show or possibly asleep on the couch.
He slides his hand into mine. My heart races at his touch, even though his skin feels clammy.
“I just don’t understand how I got here.
A few weeks ago, I had a routine. Get up, work, come home, hang with Brett, go to bed, repeat.
Leyla was here. She handled the house, the homework.
She works part-time, so she’d go to her job four days a week.
And then, out of nowhere, all of a sudden everything’s different.
I’m in the hospital, then Leyla’s gone, I can’t smoke anymore, I just… ” His voice trails off.
“It’s an awful habit.”
“I know. But it used to give me these breaks in the day. Something good happened? Smoke a cigarette. Something bad happened? Have a cigarette. Finished dinner? Another cigarette. Arguing with Leyla? Definitely time for a cigarette. Driving somewhere? Cigarette. I know it’s a disgusting habit, but—”
“No. I understand. It’s consuming.”
“Like, obviously I understand that it’s awful and poisonous—I mean, look what it did to me—but I feel like my whole rhythm was just based on smoking, and even though I feel a noticeable difference without it, I honestly miss it. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”
“I get it. It’s almost like you need to grieve it because it was such a part of you and now it’s gone.”
“Yes. Exactly. But that sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.”
“No it doesn’t. It’s perfectly normal. You’re human. You’ve been through a massive life-altering change. A shock to your system,” I agree. “Can I be boldly honest with you?”
“Sure,” he says.
“I think you might have PTSD.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ve been there. If anyone knows what it’s like to have your whole world change in a heartbeat, it’s me.”
He nods. “That’s fair.” He gently moves his thumb along the back of my hand. Goosebumps immediately form on my upper arms.
“After everything happened with my family, my aunt put me in therapy. And I was diagnosed with PTSD. What you’re describing sounds extremely familiar. That’s all I’m saying.” I pause. “What do your parents think about all of this?”
“I’ve tried to keep as much of it from them as possible.”
“Why's that?”
“I don’t want to worry them. I mean, they know I had a stroke. They visited me in the hospital. My mom’s medical background as a pediatric nurse has put her in a position where she lectures me a lot. But, she thinks I only had one. I didn’t tell her about the second spot on my MRI.”
“Why not?”
“Because, what difference does it make? It would only make her worry more. Plus, the timing of the whole thing was really bad. They were about to leave on a cruise that my dad had been waiting for years to go on. Literally.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. To the Caribbean, for like 11 days. That’s where they are now. He booked it for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. I wasn’t about to take that away from them.”
“Knowing your mom, I can’t believe she even went,” I say.
“Kicking and screaming,” he replies.
I nod. “Other than your current situation, how are they?”
“Generally, they’re good. My mom loves that one,” he says, letting go of my hand to stretch out his back and look over at Brett. “She watches her at least twice a week after school.”
I take a small bite of broccoli. “What about your dad? How is he?”
“Good. He’s worried, but he keeps it to himself. I can tell. Not just about me, but about my mom, too.”
“Makes sense.”
“What about you? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t Google you every now and then. So I guess I know the basics.”
“Such as?” I smirk.
“Well, I know you still run that center in Queens.”
“Correct.”
“And I know you’re single.”
“Also correct.”
“Thank you, social media,” he continues. “Mind explaining to me how that’s possible?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just haven’t met the right guy yet, I guess.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “The worst of it was online dating. I tried one of those dating apps. Talk about a nightmare.”
“I can’t picture you doing that.”
“I know. It’s definitely not my thing. I went out with one guy a bunch of times only to discover that he was married.
And another guy put up pictures from like 15 years earlier, and when I met him, he was old enough to be my dad.
Oh! And this one guy said he was a venture capitalist, so you could imagine my surprise when he tried to take me home—to his mother’s basement. ”
Matt laughs. “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
“You’d be surprised how hard it is to meet a nice, normal guy who has interests and hobbies and isn’t a total scumbag.”
“Hmm.” He swallows.
“Especially now that I’m in my thirties. All the good guys are married.” I take a sip of water and notice Brett curled up in a little ball on the couch. “I think she might be asleep.”
Matt stands up and walks quietly over to the living room.
“She’s out like a light,” he confirms, smiling.
He bends down and carefully removes her glasses, setting them on the coffee table beside her.
Then, he covers her up with a gray, knitted throw blanket that looks like a chunky sweater and plants a light kiss on her forehead.
Watching him move with such intention overwhelms me.
I feel like a pair of hands is squeezing around my heart, and I’m a little disgusted with myself for thinking about how sexy he is as a dad.
“You’re going to leave her there?” I ask as he returns to the kitchen table.
“For now. She’s fine. We sleep all over the place ever since Leyla left. I figure, sleeping arrangements are kind of the least of our worries.”
“That’s funny. Brett told me she sleeps with you.”
“Usually. She’s scared, I think. Leyla left the same week that I was in the hospital. I think she’s trying to hold on to whatever she can.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yeah. I keep telling her that Mommy’s just away on a trip for a little while and Daddy’s not going anywhere. But I don’t think she’s buying it.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“I think it’s a good sign if she falls asleep and I’m not right next to her, though. It means she feels comfortable.” He pauses, considering. “Either that or she’s just exhausted.”
I smile.
“So, you were saying? About your not-so-fabulous single life?”
“Oh. Nothing, really. I’m just over it. The one serious guy I dated turned out to be a total freeloader. He jumped from one job to the next, and it was always the boss’s fault. The first time, I felt bad for him. But after four jobs in two years, I started to wonder.”
“Yikes.”
“And he was trying really hard to move in with me. He kept saying that it would save ‘us’ so much money because I own my condo and he was renting. But really, it would have just given him more of an excuse to be out of work.”
“Yeah, that definitely sounds shady.”
“I think he thought I was rich because I don’t have a mortgage. But I’m not, at all. My mom’s life insurance policy paid for my place.”
Matt twirls his spoon between his fingers, furrowing his brow.
“Wait. The money you tried to give me? Was that from your mom?”
“Yeah. She loved you, Matt. She would have wanted you to have it, if you weren’t so damn stubborn,” I reply. “Anyway, he also talked all the time about us having kids, and every time he went there, I could physically feel my uterus trying to implode.”
“That’s not just freeloading,” Matt replies. “That’s a trap.”
“Right? Also, it’s not part of my plan at all.”
“You don’t want kids?” Matt asks, furrowing his brow.
I shake my head.
“Why not? You always loved kids.”
“I did, and I do. But I don’t want any of my own.”
He stares at me, silent.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just surprised.”
I take a bite of rice.
“It’s good, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Having a family. Having Brett.”
I sigh. “I’m glad that all worked out for you.”
“You deserve to know what it feels like to be someone’s whole world.”
“Is that how it is with you and Leyla?” I ask.
Matt scoffs. “I was talking about Brett,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
He exhales. “So, Leyla announced she was leaving, right? And I was still in the hospital at the time. When she came to drive me home, on the fourth day, she was in a shit mood. I asked her what was wrong. She was quiet for a bit but eventually she told me that when she went to pack, she took my suitcase because it was bigger than hers. And in the back of my closet, she found something.”
“What was it?”
“I’ll just show you.” Matt rises and walks down the hall. Moments later, he returns with an old Nike shoebox, which he sets down on the table. “Open it.”
Confused, my fingers lift the edge of the orange cardboard lid, revealing stacks of envelopes.
Letters. These are mine. This is my handwriting.
“Oh,” I mumble. I lift a stack of envelopes with postmarks as old as 2005 out of the box, and I find other treasures: a framed prom photo, a prayer card from my mom’s funeral, countless movie ticket stubs, and the playbill from Billy Elliot, which we saw for my 16th birthday.
There are also two Ziploc bags: one filled with beach glass, the other filled with photographs.
I can feel Matt’s eyes on me as I carefully sift through the contents of the box. “I can’t believe you kept all this.”
“I could never throw it away.”
I hold up a photograph of us at around age 12, posing in front of a giant green John Deere tractor at the farm. I have braces and wildly frizzy hair. “Really? You couldn’t bear to part with this?” I ask, laughing.
He grins. “Nope. Not even that one.”
I ground myself back in the present. “She must have freaked out when she found this.”
“Yeah. But really, it was just the final nail in a coffin that had nothing to do with you. It made me realize that I deserve better than someone who feels stuck with me. Brett does, too. So I didn’t try to stop her from leaving for California.”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“Not really. She just left. And then, not long after—” He pauses to clear his throat. “You showed up.”
I bite my lip, unsure of what to say.
He pulls an envelope off the stack. “You handed me this letter, and it scared the crap out of me because for the past seven years I’ve done nothing but try to get over you and move on with my life.
” He hands me the letter. It feels like just yesterday I was parked in my car, holding it in my lap.
“And, I don’t know, it just felt like…fate, or something. ”
“I can understand that.”
“I was over it, Taylor.”
“Really? This shoebox tells a different story.”
He closes his eyes. “I mean, until you showed up on my doorstep.”
I scramble to understand the implications of what he’s not saying.
“It’s like you said in this one.” He pulls a different envelope out of the box and removes its contents.
He flips over the first page, looking for something.
“Ah, here it is. ‘You could live a whole lifetime and never say or do anything that really matters. You could be breathing, but waste your whole life away. I can’t do that. I need to really live; I need to say thank you and I’m sorry and I love you until I’m blue in the face.
Because this day is a gift.’” He folds the page, placing it in the envelope.
“That was after my mom died.”
“You were right, though. I need to focus on living the best life I can.” He swallows. “Right now. This minute.”
“I agree. You should.”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Why’d you come back? I mean, if you really wanted me to have that money you could have just donated it online.”
I press my lips together. “That’s true.”
“So?”
“I needed to see you,” I admit.
Matt pushes his chair away from the table and stands up. He holds his hand out to me. My heart threatens to pound its way up through my throat and out onto the floor. I place my hand in his, let him pull me up to standing. He puts his hands on my waist. “I think I needed to see you too,” he says.
“You think?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I just—” he begins, but no more words come.
My mind races with conflicting emotions. He wouldn’t try to do anything. He’s with Leyla. And Brett’s right there on the couch.
Matt places his hands on the sides of my face, and I become acutely aware of my pulse throbbing in my neck. My mouth goes dry as he leans in, closes his eyes, and gently brings his lips to mine.
Every part of me tingles with a combination of desire and nostalgia.
His mouth tastes of strawberry Chapstick and wonton soup; the angle of his jaw cupped in my palm brings back memories of my teenage years.
The kiss is soft and careful. I yearn to feel his tongue on mine, but it’s not that kind of kiss.
It’s like a sigh, a quieting of the mind, the realization of running for so long only to finally come home.
It’s a gift: the most cruel, ironic second chance I never dreamed I could have.
When it ends, he pulls back slowly, resting his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?” I wonder.
“For reminding me that it could be like this.”
I close my eyes, wishing time could freeze right here.