Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
M att is only in town for two more days. I feel a sadness creeping in, thinking about him heading back to LA, almost three thousand miles away. I have no idea what is transpiring between us, only that it is thrilling, and I do not want it to end. It's a Tuesday morning, and he texts asking if he can see me.
I am not used to dating, if that's even what this is, and I certainly am not used to the directness, the honesty, of Matt. Asking for something you want—what a concept.
How about I cook for you tonight?
I offer, thinking it is probably easier for him if we are in the safety of one of our apartments rather then out in the open. I’ve started to pick up on some of the tricks of how he manages to stay under the radar of the press—a huge one being opting to stay in. Or only going places he knows will prioritize privacy.
Sounds great, what can I bring?
Wine? And your hands.
Just the hands? Might have a hard time separating myself from them ...
An arm is okay, too. Preferably the right one. I like the art on it.
Roger that. See you soon.
I skip out of work early to head to Whole Foods. I'm making roasted pork tenderloin in a garlic butter sage sauce with steamed broccoli, fresh sourdough dinner rolls, and a simple salad. I drop my bags off and take Murphy for a quick walk. When I get back, I freshen up and change into a short black cotton dress and pull my hair back into a loose bun before setting off to the kitchen to throw on an apron and prep dinner.
As I melt the butter and add garlic and sage in a cast-iron skillet, my mind wanders. I think about the last time I cooked for someone besides myself.
It was Nick. My memory flashes back to us dicing peppers and onions for fajita nights in our tiny apartment in the West Village. Our hood vent worked only thirty percent of the time, so we had to open all our windows and turn on fans to keep the smoke alarm from sounding.
I wonder how I became a woman who settled for breadcrumbs of affection.
You didn't settle—you made a very difficult choice not to resign yourself to a life like that, I remind myself.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the memories. I do not want to be thinking of Nick right now, or ever, for that matter. I know I should just ride the waves of grief, let them surge and recede, but I am still annoyed when they show up.
My sauce is simmering, and I prep the tenderloin to go in the oven. I've just finished washing my hands when I hear the buzzer.
"Miss Julia," Neil's voice sounds through the intercom, "there is a Matt Johnson here for you. Should I tell him to scram?”
I laugh. “No, he’s okay. Please send him up. Thanks for always having my back, Neil.”
I turn on a Tom Petty playlist, toss off my apron, and wait at the door. The anticipation of seeing him is staggering. I am a live wire. And when his tall frame appears in my doorway, clad in vintage olive dress pants, a striped short-sleeved button-up shirt, hands holding a bottle of wine and a stunning bouquet of pastel ranunculus, the joy I feel is extraordinary.
"Hi." He kisses my cheek before setting down his stuff on the counter. "It smells incredible in here."
"Thanks. And thank you for these." I search around for a vase for the flowers. Murphy leaps off the couch, impatiently waiting for Matt's attention.
"Hey, buddy." Murphy grabs his ball and drops it at Matt's feet. His efforts at playing fetch are futile, given he can only ever chase the ball about five feet before running into the other wall of my small apartment.
"So, this is home?" Matt asks, tossing the ball to Murph.
"This is home," I answer.
"I like it. It feels … homey."
I laugh.
He looks around. "This looks familiar." He points to the painting over my couch.
"Yes, good eye. It's the moody sister to the piece in my office."
"I'm definitely picking up on the moodiness." He looks at it, hands in his pockets, as he wanders toward the kitchen. "Can I help?"
"Pour us some wine?"
He does. I suddenly feel nervous and don't know what to say. I'm caught off guard by how strange it feels to have him in my house, in this space I've created to be my safe haven. I can count on one hand the people who have been in my apartment.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yes, fine," I lie, busying myself making the salad. He isn't buying it. He comes to sit on a barstool, watching me closely. He passes me a glass of wine, and I take a long sip.
"What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"
I give him a nervous smile.
"I don't know if there's ever a good time to mention this, and I hope it doesn't ruin our night, but I feel compelled to tell you that I was married once."
"Really?" He seems genuinely surprised. I don’t know how to take that.
"Yes."
"Do you want to tell me more?"
"No, not really. Do you want to know more?"
"I'm not sure." He pauses. "When?"
"The wedding was six years ago—I was thirty-two. Which sounds young now that I say it, but didn't feel young at the time. He was my longtime boyfriend. We were married for almost four years before we separated. The divorce has been official for over a year. This place was my fresh start. My reentry to the world post-divorce. Post-pandemic, too."
"That must've been hard."
"It was. It was brutal. But I think I've gleaned all the silver linings I could from it and I'm happy to be where I am."
He nods. I get the sense he wants to ask more but is holding himself back. I look at him over my tiny countertop.
"What's his name?"
"Nick."
Murphy nudges Matt's leg with his ball, and Matt rubs behind his ears. "Is this guy his, too?"
"Initially, yes. We adopted him together. But not anymore. He's mine and only mine. No other pets. No kids. No real baggage, apart from the emotional kind." I give a half-hearted laugh.
He nods. "Got it. Well, thanks for sharing."
"What do you think about that?"
"About what? The fact that you have an ex-husband?"
"Yes."
"I think the older I get, the easier it gets to have empathy and compassion for other people—just in general but especially with relationships. We both have pasts—mine is not something I usually ever offer up willingly. It’s… unpleasant to rehash decisions I made, things I'm not proud of. I appreciate your honesty."
I do a full body exhale and walk behind him to wrap my arms around his shoulders.
"Well, that's a relief."
"Since you're being honest, I feel like I should be, too.”
I tense again.
"I know I've been vague about things from my past. Some of the stuff you can find on the Internet, but the bulk if it happened before the Internet was what it is now—a small mercy. The CliffsNotes version is I fell in love with someone, very hard, very fast. She was wrong for me in so many ways that should've seemed obvious at the time.” He stares at the counter and sighs.
“Mostly because she was married. Married to someone who had a lot of sway in the entertainment industry. And I was an idiot. I want to say it was because I was young, but I can't make those kinds of excuses, though I can use them to get some insight—that’s something my therapist told me. I was right in the middle of accepting that my mom was not coming back, I was new in the business, and the relationship was volatile, which I mistook for passion. I did a lot of things that were not characteristic of me back then, or at least what I thought was me.”
He takes a long pull of his wine.
“I got out of that relationship by the skin of my teeth. I could hardly recognize myself at the end of it. And it set me on a path where I continued to make bad choices. For a while. I compounded the problem, if you will. I'm unfortunately very good at that. I was drinking too much, having sex with the wrong people, and saying things I shouldn't to people who I shouldn't have trusted. The combination of everything almost decimated me.
“But it didn't, mostly thanks to the people who truly know and love me and who refused to let me go under. So, very slowly, I clawed my way out and back to myself. I had to figure out who I was before, during, and after that. Why I did what I did. How to not do it again. Who I wanted to be. And how to be that. It was about a five-year slog, but I made it to the other side—I think. It might be my single greatest accomplishment."
I nod slowly, trying to digest all he said.
"Do you want to tell me more?" I recycle his line.
"Not really. But ask me anything," he gives his half smile.
"What's her name?"
"Jackie Myers."
I stop. I know who Jacqueline Myers is. I think the entire world does. An exquisitely beautiful model who quickly became one of the original reality TV stars. She'd had a very public and fraught battle with substance abuse, ditto a string of toxic relationships, most notably one with an A-list actor. …And Matt Johnson. I don’t know how I missed this in the reconnaissance mission I did of Matt after that first week in the hospital. Maybe it was too long ago? Jacqueline was basically was patient zero for gossip websites and publications like Page Six in the early 2000s. I want to know more, every detail, actually, but I don't push it.
"Okay. I won't ask. But thank you for sharing."
We stay with my arms wrapped around his shoulders, and I kiss him on the cheek. He passes my wineglass to me, and I take a sip.
"Well, now that the hard stuff is out of the way …" He spins the stool around so I am in between his legs, and his hands drift toward my hips. He looks at me in that way of his, like he is studying me.
It makes me feel naked—borderline uncomfortable—especially after our mutual disclosures. But then he presses his lips to mine and I am captivated. The kiss is slow and sizzling. I melt into him. His hands find their way underneath my black dress. When he feels that I'm not wearing any underwear, a growl rumbles deep in his chest.
"What is this?"
I shrug.
"You've been standing here this entire time with nothing on underneath this dress?"
"Yes."
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs. He traces the curve of my ass where it meets my legs. "How am I supposed to eat this dinner you're making. And act like a gentleman. And try to impress you, knowing this?"
"Nobody asked you to act like a gentleman."
He bites my bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth, and grabs me—my ass fitting almost perfectly in his huge hands—and yanks me toward him.
The fervor begins.
I fumble to unbutton his shirt, and his lips are on my neck, my collarbone. His hand is between my legs.
"Fuck, Jules. I want you in the worst way." He yanks my black dress over my head and tosses it onto the couch. His hands are cupping my breasts, he focuses all his attention on them, kissing and nipping, my head thrown back at the sensation overload.
Beep, beep, beep blares the timer. I snap my head toward the sound. "Alexa, off," I shout and start toward the oven.
Matt holds me in place by my hips, eyes ablaze.
“Our dinner ...” I start.
"Let it burn," he says between kisses. "I'll order us something in,” he adds, kissing me again.
I surrender.
We are a flurry of hands and hair and lips. Matt fumbles in his pockets, producing a condom. I kneel to tug his pants off, leaving them around his ankles, his boots still on. Every part of me is aching for him. I hoist myself onto his lap, taking the condom from the counter and rolling it onto him slowly, over every perfect inch of his giant, throbbing cock. I hear him suck air in through his teeth, and I begin the measured process of working myself onto him.
Millimeter by millimeter, he slides inside me. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. This position—me on top—feels so much more intense. Eventually, I settle, my arms around his shoulders, his around my waist. I hold still for a moment and take him in—he’s slack-jawed and completely silent. He is staring at me in a way that makes me feel like the sexiest person on the face of the earth.
I start moving ever so slowly, still adjusting to his size. A low moan comes from his chest. Soon enough, I hit a pace that is tantalizing, both of us breathing hard. I feel the edge nearing for me, and I move my hips forward to keep him all the way inside.
"What are you doing to do me?" he breathes into my ear in disbelief.
It is the beginning of the end for me. I hold onto his shoulders, gasping into his neck. The smells of him and me and the burning sage sauce all tangle in the air. As he feels me clench around him, he grabs hold of my ass with both hands and cries out as he comes deep inside me.