Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
T oday, after more of the same as last night, Matt heads off to a makeshift studio in a separate villa on the property. He’s invited his band and sound engineers to work on new music while we're here—no rest for creators. I have a ton of work myself but decide it can wait, so I grab a book and walk down to the beach. I'm glad for the quiet. My time with Matt is always so intense, I don't feel like I have a moment to reflect on what is unfolding between us. Being with him is a phenomenal practice in mindfulness—but maybe too much so. I feel so present, so completely in tune to my surroundings when I'm with him. Sex is like that times infinity. I’ve never felt so alive in my body.
I can't help but compare him to previous lovers. With Nick there were fireworks in the early years. The nights in his twin bed in his shitty apartment in Baltimore, us trying to be quiet while his roommate slept. Then later, when we had space and all the time in the world to explore each other, it was fun, and we were bold. Even early in our marriage, I felt so attracted to him in this new role as my husband. He was the same, but different. The connection, the vows, the years of knowing each other were kindling for desire. It was only in the eighteen months before our marriage ended that I started to feel what I’d heard my girlfriends complain about: sex morphing into something that resembled a chore for both of us. Like there were a million other things we'd rather be doing. Like we were each secretly hoping the other one wasn't interested.
My mind works quickly to fast-forward five years with Matt. Will the sex fizzle? Will the day-to-day stresses and irritations of life be a barrier for us to do this? To get inside each other in every way possible? There is no way to know.
Matt admitted he struggles “when the going gets tough,” which I still am not clear on. I work hard to quiet my inner therapist, my need to know exactly what that means. Overthinking has never gotten me anything except a fifty milligram Lexapro prescription. I know myself well enough to know overthinking is often a sign that I’m scared. In an attempt to relieve that fear, I busy myself by preparing for all possible outcomes. Doomsday prep. That does nothing but create a false sense of security—the idea that if I just plan and prepare enough, I'll be safe from harm. Safe from hurt.
But like Daryl reminded me all those weeks ago, you can't avoid pain without also avoiding joy. They are two sides of the same coin. So right there, on the beach, without another soul in sight, I dig my feet deep into the white sand and focus on the crystal water. I sit with the discomfort, the uncertainty that I do not know for sure whether Matt and I will be anything beyond this day, this week, this trip. So, I sure as hell better enjoy it.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I lounge by the pool in my bikini, a crocheted black sarong slung around my waist. I have my laptop open and my notepad out, and I’m working my way through all the infinitesimal requirements necessary to finish the third and final behemoth grant proposal that is due next week.
On the other side of the patio, Matt sits with Seth, his longtime friend and sound engineer. They have their laptops open, headphones on, cutting and laying tracks for Matt’s newest album. Occasionally, I glance over to find him staring at me.
Eventually Seth collects their equipment, gives Matt a fist bump and me a quick kiss on the cheek, and heads out. I put my laptop down and pad over to Matt, taking his giant headphones off his ears.
"Whatcha thinking about over here?"
“I was just thinking about how much I like looking at you.”
“That’s all?”
He smiles. Matt is a lot of things, but brief is not one of them.
“I’m thinking how much I like looking at you while you work. You’re doing something you love, something you’re passionate about, something you’re obviously very good at. I really, really like that about you. I like how we can be together but doing our own thing at the same time. You aren’t relying on me to entertain to you, to do anything but just be with you."
"I think that's normal," I respond.
“Not for me, it's not. Or at least it hasn't been. I’ve been with women before who I felt a strongly that I needed to protect or ‘save.’ Which they didn’t, for the record, that was just my own shit. That therapist I told you about told me that. Everyone is responsible for identifying and communicating their own needs . I always felt like they needed a lot from me. And it felt really good to be needed like that at first. It also felt like something easily fixable. But I couldn’t leave their side at events, parties, shows. I always worried about them, that they felt uncomfortable, that they didn’t have anyone to talk to. I didn’t realize a lot of times till it was over that I was constantly stressed, bending over backward to keep them on an even keel. To keep them from getting upset with me, to avoid a fight. I’d sometimes get a pit in my stomach whenever we’d be together because I knew something would happen, something would go wrong, and we'd end up in an argument that would take days or weeks to recover from.
He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.
“But I don’t have to do any of that with you. Which makes me feel even more sure of myself, somehow. It’s refreshing and calming. Every time I’m with you I feel like I can be me, and I don’t have to do all the mental gymnastics. It just makes everything feel so easy. That’s what I was thinking. And I was also thinking how insanely sexy you are. I am so attracted to you, it isn't fair."
“Really?”
"What do you mean, ‘really’? Have you seen at yourself?”
“Yes and I’m plenty self assured. But, I am also a woman. And I'm approaching my forties. Things don't metabolize the way they once did. And other things don't sit the way they once did. At least not without a lot of effort. Gravity isn't my friend." I lift my boobs up an inch or two higher.
"I like those exactly where they are," he says and pounces.
* * *
The next day is Matt's birthday. I get up before him and tiptoe out of bed to the place in my suitcase where I've hidden a gift. I wake him by planting forty-three kisses all over his body, softly counting them out loud. His sleepy-eyed smile almost does me in.
"Happy birthday, baby," I save one last kiss for his lips. "That one is for good luck."
"Thank you." He pulls me on top of him, beaming. He looks at me in that way of his, and I feel like he wants to say something but is holding back. I pull a small box from behind my back and present it to him. "For you."
"You didn't have to get me anything. You being here is everything I wanted."
"I had a feeling you'd say that, but to me, birthdays should be celebrated. You only get one day out of the entire year that's just for you. Open it."
He sits up and starts unwrapping. He opens the box to find a watch.
"An IWC Pilot Spitfire?"
"Yes."
Since I’ve known him, he’s worn the same Audemars Piguet watch with a brown leather band so worn and scuffed it hardly passes as brown anymore, such a creature of habit is Matt. I made the mistake of Googling the price tag for his exact watch and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Then I began my impossible quest to find a suitable birthday gift for a man who can buy himself anything in the world.
I thought a second watch—sportier, but just as cool as his current one—might be the perfect gift. The fact that I found one while hunting through every vintage watch store in lower Manhattan seemed like incredibly good luck. The fact that I had time to get it fixed up and could even afford it without selling a kidney made the entire thing seem fated.
He takes it out of the box carefully, like it's a delicate baby bird, and starts examining it. He flips it over and runs his fingers over the tiny place where I'd had something engraved. His eyes shoot up to mine. "416?"
I nod. He screws up his forehead. It only takes him a second to figure it out.
"Dad's room. At the hospital."
"Yes."
"The place that led me to you," he says quietly. He sits, staring at the watch. Nodding his head. Speechless. A first for him.
"Thank you. This is special. I don't know what to say. Except maybe I always hoped it'd be like this." I feel a warm rush of love for him.
"Happy birthday, Matt," I say again, climbing onto his lap.
He carefully places the watch back in the box and sets it on the nightstand. He cradles my face in his hands with a similar gentleness, like I am something precious. He kisses me, and it is full of all the words he can't say. After a few minutes, he pulls me down on top of him, where I happily give him the second part of his birthday gift.
* * *
We spend the rest of Matt's birthday lounging by the pool and the ocean, where I give him “the world’s greatest blow job,” and we dine on all the local cuisine.
His phone rings throughout the day with happy birthday calls and texts from everyone who loves him, which turns out to be a lot of people. We answer a FaceTime from Sid and Rita, who are back in Allentown for Thanksgiving and to spend time with Matt’s mom.
“I have your birthday check here at the house,” Sid says through the screen.
“Dad. I don’t want your money. Keep it!” Matt laughs.
“It’s tradition, and you know it. One dollar for every year plus five dollars for good luck. So how much is that, son?”
I smile behind my sunglasses, watching the two of them, Matt shaking his head. “Forty-eight dollars, dad,” he answers, ever the good sport.
“You see that, Julia? He’s more than just a pretty face.”
I laugh and wave to them. Once they hang up, I watch Matt type on his phone, responding to texts, a smile on his face for most of the day. For a guy who never wants much of a fuss made about him, I can see how much it means to him.
But at one point, his smile vanishes and his brow furrows, like a dark cloud is passing over his face. He puts the phone down, only to pick it up again a second later, thumbs hovering.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He puts the phone back down.
"Your smile disappeared."
He forces a smile at me.
"That one’s a fake."
He leans back in the chair, closing his eyes, the sun beating down on his lovely face.
"It was Jackie," he tells me eventually, "and you just described her perfectly—she is the human form of disappearing smiles. The grim reaper of joy."
My chest tightens. "Oh."
"I don't know how she got my number. She always comes out of the woodwork at the most inconvenient times. She wished me a happy birthday," he says sourly.
Why is he have such a bad reaction to a text? It's ancient history. Am I feeling insecure about this? Why?
I push my thoughts aside and get up to go sit between his legs on the chaise.
"Hey." I coax his attention toward me.
He opens his brown eyes, and they soften when he sees me. I rest my hands on his thighs.
"Do not let her put a damper your birthday. You only turn forty-three once," I say as I untie my bikini top, letting it fall to the pool deck.
His smile comes back, the real one, and his hands reach out to cup my breasts. I lean forward, giving him a slow, sultry kiss, and when he kisses me back, hard, I know I have him back.
* * *
The rest of our time in Mexico is spent lounging by the pool and the ocean, eating, drinking, and making love. We walk on the beach hand in hand and swap books as we lie on the lounge chairs. Matt, a self-proclaimed grammar buff, proofreads my grant proposal, and I listen to the early cuts of his new songs.
The time together in the sun restores me in a way I didn't even know I needed. I did not expect that I could like Matt even more than I already did, but as I've told him before, the limit does not seem to exist. The uninterrupted time is the longest stretch we've ever spent together, and that it has been so easy, so seamless, so enjoyable, rockets me to cloud nine. As I watch the New York City skyline appear in the distance on my flight back home, enjoying the calm contentment that I've been feeling the entire time away, I have the stark realization that I am head over heels in love.