Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
I wake to Murphy's low whimper telling me he is desperate to go out. It's still dark out by the time we get back inside, and Matt is awake—looking worse for wear, but awake. I check his forehead with the back of my hand. It’s cool.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better. I think."
"Your fever broke."
"That was brutal."
"It was. You poor thing."
"My whole body hurts."
"I think you should probably take it easy today."
"Thank you for taking care of me."
"You're welcome." I kiss the back of his hand. He looks toward the windows.
"Think we can catch the sunrise?"
"Yes. If you're up for it."
"I am. I've got a lot of making up to do after yesterday."
I help him up, grabbing a water and some blankets, and we head outside with Murphy. We sit in the Adirondack chairs in the front yard of our private suite, the sun barely visible on the horizon, turning the sky pink and orange over the mountains. Matt is wrapped up in multiple blankets, looking so pale and frail that I suppress a smile.
"What?" he asks with a weak smile.
"You look like the sick kid from The Secret Garden . Like you live in a convalescent home and I'm the caregiver, just bringing you outside for your ten minutes of fresh air."
He laughs at that, and it quickly turns into a coughing fit.
"Sorry, sorry."
"Not quite the robust forty-three-year-old I touted myself to be, I guess." He pauses. "But I will say, there is no one else I'd rather be sick as a dog with."
Once the sun rises in the sky, I decide it's now or never.
"I saw a picture on TMZ. Of you and of Kerri Taylor."
His eyes lock on mine.
"I was wondering if you saw that."
"Then why wouldn't you mention it to me?"
"There was nothing to mention."
"It didn't look that way."
"I was at dinner with my friends. She was at dinner with her friends. Same restaurant. We said hi, briefly. The manager let us know the paparazzi were outside. I wasn't in the mood to deal with them, so I left. I didn't even say goodbye to her. But then she left after me, and somehow it became a story. I have my suspicions, but that's all it was."
I nod, relieved by his explanation. It was exactly as I expected and what I knew deep down was probably the case.
"Did you think something was happening between her and me?"
"No. Not really. But it bothered me. A lot more than I thought it would. Especially after some of the comments she made to me during Grammys week."
He sits up at that. "What did she say?"
"Something along the lines of you heading for the hills when things get hard or the passion wears off. That you make promises you won't keep."
He leans back in the chair. "Well, she isn't completely wrong about that. That was what happened with her. But she is not you. She and I were together, very briefly, years ago. I was not who I am now. It's not the same, not even close."
I swallow.
"The thing between Kerri and me is ancient history. I'm sorry she said something that upset you. That was a shitty move on her part, although I'm not shocked that she did it. I think she was the one who tipped off the paparazzi that we were both at the same restaurant in the first place. It would've been a good story, and she needs a lot of attention. I told you, babe, these things happen in my world. It's just noise. Annoying and irritating, but it'll blow over. It always does. We just have to ignore it."
"I know, I'm just not used to it, I guess."
"I know. And I feel bad that my life is subjecting you to this. If I could change it, I would. I love you, Jules. I promise, I will never hurt you."
* * *
We lounge in and out of the room all day, letting Matt recover. Despite the proximity to the mountain, the early spring sunshine floods in, warming our faces and giving me a much-needed hit of vitamin D. By Sunday, Matt is feeling almost one hundred percent, but he is still weak. The color returns to his face, and he refuses to let his sickness ruin any more of our trip, so we shower and head down to a local vineyard.
Pippin Hill Farm and Vineyard is nestled in a little valley southwest of Charlottesville, surrounded by the mountains, grapevines, rolling farmland, and a gorgeous barn that serves as an event space. We walk down a road lined with hedges of dormant limelight hydrangeas trying desperately to grow with the help of the late March sunshine. I can see how beautiful this place will be when everything is in bloom.
We sit on the covered patio, the beams wrapped in white lights, heat lamps at the ready in case the sun fades away. Matt orders for both of us—a wine flight for me and water for him. I watch at him as he stares at the scenery, both impossible to look away from. His hair is messy, and his eyes are bright, full of laugh lines. His nose is strong. His lips are the kind of pouty, full ones that women spend a lot of money to achieve. He looks completely relaxed—his normally furrowed brow is smooth. He’s in his favorite jeans, a T-shirt, and a black corduroy long sleeve button-up shirt, and he spins his sunglasses on the table between two fingers, long legs spread wide. I feel like I won the lottery.
It's in this moment that I can see him here, in this place. Virginia. His vision here, the space, the dream house on the hill—it all makes sense. He'll travel the world, spend time in LA and New York. But he'll always come back here. It will be home. Home .
He catches me staring and smiles. "What?"
"I like looking at you," I admit.
He grins so wide it makes my chest ache.
"Look." He points at an arbor where a woman is standing on a chair weaving white flowers into it. Rows and rows of white chairs in neat stacks are being unfolded by staff. They are setting up for a wedding. A large one, by the look of it. "What do you think?"
"I think it's a perfect day for a wedding."
"Would you ever want something like that?"
"A wedding?"
"Yeah."
"I already had something like that, remember?"
"Yes, I mean another one."
"I'm not sure, I haven't thought about it."
A lie.
Of course I've thought about it. I've been resolute that I will never have another wedding. For a while I wasn't even sure if I wanted to get married again—the pain of the failure was so brutal, I didn't know why I'd willingly walk into it again. I've gotten over that, but to have another big wedding seems like a bridge too far, a farce. In my imaginary future wedding, I see myself in a simple, non-white dress, holding the hand of the man I love, waiting in line at city hall. Just us. We'll sign the paperwork, kiss, and head off to a tucked-away bar, toasting ourselves, no one the wiser, our own delicious little secret.
"Do you want something like that?" I ask him.
"Yes. I want all of it."
I nod and start wondering how we'd compromise on that … but I stop myself. A problem for another day.
We stay at the vineyard for hours, me drinking wine, Matt eventually switching to sparkling water, walking the grounds, sitting on the porch, ordering cheese boards and truffle fries and sliders—Matt's appetite is finally returning. We watch the wedding guests arrive, one by one, and I wonder if we're both dragging out our afternoon so we can watch this wedding. Either way, I enjoy the pace. Nothing to do, nowhere to be except here with Matt.
Music starts, and a groom and his men appear from the side of the property, followed by bridesmaids walking slowly down the aisle in pale blue gowns. Then it's time for the bride. She walks out, her mom on one side, her dad on the other. Her face is so beautiful, so hopeful, it reminds me of a Roald Dahl quote about how good thoughts will shine out of your face like sunbeams. The bride is sunbeams personified, only trumped by her groom, who looks beside himself.
I look at Matt, who is watching the scene unfold with his trademark intensity. When I see a sheen of tears glistening in his eyes, I melt into a puddle. Matt is such a sap. Such a hopeless romantic. An eternal—if not unrealistic—optimist. I love and respect that about him so much. It's easy to be cynical, to be jaded. It's almost what the world demands. But not Matt. To stand in the face of heartbreak, tragedy, and despair and say, yeah, I know that's a possibility, but I still choose to hope for the best is something I admire about him. I wish a little more of it would rub off on me. I grab his hand.
"What?" He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "I just love love."
"I know you do. I love that about you."
We watch the ceremony from behind the hedges, feeling like interlopers but unable to move away. We can't hear the vows, but we can see the emotion written across the faces of the bride and groom. Once they seal their union with a kiss and exit the ceremony space, Matt and I finally get up to leave. The guests start milling around, waiting for cocktail hour, and it only takes a few moments before someone recognizes Matt.
"Are you Matt Johnson?" a woman asks.
"Yes, that's me." Matt ducks his head, shrinking himself.
"And you're the girlfriend? This is like … confirming it?"
I look at Matt. He says nothing, so I answer. "Yes."
The girlfriend.
"Oh my God, I have to go tell Olivia. Can we take a selfie?"
A commotion is now underway. I see Matt's posture change. Tension ripples off him. He is uncomfortable.
"I wouldn’t want to upstage the bride," he insists.
"She won't care! She loves your music, too. Can you play a song?"
I watch Matt expertly and diplomatically extricate himself from the conversation, with several selfies as a consolation prize.
When we finally make it to the truck, he sighs with relief. "Shall we?"
We head back to the hotel to spend our last night together before we go to our respective coasts again. As we drive the winding two-lane road, the sun begins to set, and I see it all in a flash—the house on the top of the hill, a porch that wraps around where we'll watch the sunsets, a stone terrace out back leading to a garden, soup simmering on the stove, Murphy roaming the land, and me and Matt, just us. Together.
Home.