Chapter Eight
I left him alone the next day. I suppose he didn’t know that I’d heard him. But I was sure he’d see it on my face. Besides, I was eggshell fragile. And today I was going back to Newton.
There was a dress I knew Jon especially liked. Gray-lilac cashmere sweater dress. Dolman sleeves, draped off my shoulders. Low cut but not scandalous.
I drove back to Newton, by turns numb and tearful. Thinking about this drive just a few years ago to meet up for dates. Now instead I was driving to meet Roop at the house I’d spent so many happy years in. I’d put the engagement ring back on, and was wearing the freshwater pearl studs he bought me.
I got there, Roop was texting me. Jon had hired the management company I always used for our bigger parties. They did catering, had servers and even guys to park cars. Roop was getting parked. I saw her lingering outside the front gate. I reached her, grabbing her hand briefly and giving her a rough squeeze. She had offered to let me stay the night with her and I would. I packed a little overnight. Usually I worked the weekends, but I’d told Timothy to not expect me before Sunday. He had just grunted, “good”– he didn’t work weekends himself.We walked in together. Several people stopped me to say hello and cast birdy looks of hungry curiosity. One of the regular caterers tried to pigeonhole me to ask about some kind of service for tonight, and I had to admit that I wasn’t sure what the plan was for tonight. He looked briefly irritated, then surprised.
“Are you not… Are you not running the household anymore?” he asked.
“Um… Not tonight, anyway,” I said, flushing brilliantly red.Right then I heard Jon.
“Darling,” he said, coming up to me. Curling a hand around my waist, the way he always did. The caterer directed his question to Jon, who answered it promptly. Then he turned to me, kissing my cheek.
“Thank you, darling,” he whispered.
Then he was flying off again. Talking to someone. Briskly shaking hands and clapping shoulders.
Roop came over to me with a cup of tea.
“So?” she asked.
“I have no idea…” I said slowly.
He was wearing my favorite suit. I always loved when he wore a three-piece. This one in particular was so winter country gentleman, I thought. Brown tweed, picking up his warm eyes, neat navy tie.About forty minutes of facing gimlet eyes and making soft patter about nothing at all, occasionally accepting compliments for how nice the Brewer mansion had turned out, he caught me again.
I melted into his arm around my waist. Looking up at him the way I always did in this position. Seeing his cleanly-shaved chin, his dark brows, smelling his hair oil and aftershave. Loving the warmth of him against me. He steered me into the kitchen and then out the back door. Glancing around, probably looking to see if anyone was having a cocktail hour cigarette, or any of his colleagues having a cigar. But we appeared to have the patio to ourselves.
“I’d like to hope that your reappearance performance tonight means that you’re considering making a more permanent return to your home,” he said.
“Um…” I said.
Surprised by what I felt like was an attack– even if he was using his softest voice.
“If you could just… Tell me anything. Tell me something. You said not ready. How not ready? How will you know when I’m ready?” I asked, already near-tears.
Hating myself for asking that last question. Sounding like a dumb baby. A totally beaten down woman. But now that I was here, all I wanted to do was come home. I missed the roses, I missed the stone walls. I missed the lamps I’d placed around the parlor. I missed settling the logs in the fireplace with the cast iron poker I’d gotten that matched another old photo I’d found at the town library. And god, I missed him. I missed his alarm at 6:10 every day. Chicken almondine every Thursday. How he double laced his cross-trainers before we went to the gym. How he poured me tea and squeezed my lemon for me. Cut my steaks, put on my necklaces. How every book he bought me had the inscription, in the same fountain pen Love Always, Jon. How he sharpened my kitchen knives for me, polished my watch. That I was wearing his grandmother’s ring.
“How could I possibly say? You ran away the last time I voiced any concerns… Which leads me to believe I was right,” he said. Hand circling my wrist gently.
“But how did you even come to the decision in the first place? You never did explain that to me and–”
“You’re focusing on things that don’t matter… You’re doing it so that you don’t have to face any mistakes or do any self-reflection,” he said.
I threw up my hands. I felt like I was asking something very simple; explain your reasoning. I wanted to be reasoned with. I wanted him to make sense of it, so I could say yes. So I could come home. But he was refusing to. Or worse, he couldn’t. I turned around so I didn’t have to look at him anymore. Loving his face and missing him and wishing that when this party ended we’d be going back up the stairs to our room to sleep and make love.
I caught sight of the porch door to my right. He’d painted it. White to go with the rest of the house. Stripping off all those old peeling layers, covering up the small scratches of bare wood I’d so loved. That door spoke to me of summer– the smell of cookouts, the wap of the screen falling back into place, the stickiness of watermelon.
I slid the ring off, tucking it into his breast pocket.
“I love you so much,” I said, tears falling down my cheeks.
“Hold onto the ring–” he said, reaching into his pocket. I stayed his hand.
“I can’t,” I said, swiping tears away. “I’m not ready yet.”
I took a deep breath, putting on my game face. Wandering quickly through the front room, parlor and dining room and finally finding Roop.
“Time to go,” I said.
“Thank God,” she agreed.
We drove to her house. She already had her fireplace piled, kindling waiting for us. We stripped in front of it, getting into pajamas. She made me tea, warmed herself some cider.
“Ring’s gone,” she grunted at me, flopping onto the floor beside me in front of her fireplace.
“It was time,” I said.“
Is it over-over?” she asked.
I heaved a sigh.
“Okay,” she said, putting up her hand.
“I really… I really don’t want it to be,” I said, burying my face into one of the pillows we’d thrown on the floor.
She lay face down next to me, pressing the crown of her head into mine and cried with me. She was one of those women who couldn’t bear to see tears and inevitably cried if anyone else did. I’d seen her get teary with a kid about to throw a tantrum in a store once. But I liked this about her. I’d never had someone love me enough that when they saw my tears their body responded. We cried together a few times. And somehow it was more cleansing, or more peaceful than just comfort alone. But as I started catching my breath I felt wormy again. Knowing I should have done for Matt what Roop had done for me. Wondering why I was so incapable.In part, it was because I didn’t know how to ask for help and comfort. In part because outside of Roop, no one came to me for it either. I think it was because once people got to know me at all, they found me cold. That I looked squishy but had little natural affection or caretaking. When Jon and I had a bad day, or faced adversity or were just plain feeling low, we tended to separate. I told myself I just didn’t want to burden him with moodiness. That while he’d been raised in the lap of luxury I couldn’t imagine either of his parents being particularly warm with him when he needed them. I could pretty clearly imagine either of them telling him to “walk things off” or “man up.”So when I heard another human in distress I tended to leave them alone. Because that’s how I’d been treated. And it didn’t matter that I didn’t want to be left alone, I didn’t know how to change it. So instead I was a coward.Once we sat up and started drinking our drinks again, we talked about work. Once more, I could feel myself holding forth, but she didn’t shush me. Matt didn’t either. He looked at me with a kind of delighted confusion. Like someone speaking rapidly in a foreign language that struck your ear beautifully. Roop looked at me fondly, as though surprised by a particularly articulate child. I liked it. I was used to Jon’s quick pecking kiss when he’d heard enough. A very loving “shut up.”
Neither one of us had eaten at Jon’s so we fell into her kitchen, pulling things apart to get snacks. Went back in front of the fireplace, eating handfuls of licorice, crackers, salami, grapes, olives, biscotti.
“Didja fuck your neighbor yet?” she asked.
I laughed. Told her no but that he’d become a reliable friend in the city. Told her about how he was well aware I was listening in. She gasped and covered her mouth, eyes big and pretty over her fingers as I told her about mutual masturbation.
“So why not… Why not remove the wall?” she asked.
I shook my head, opening my hands, looking for an answer in the air.
“It’s… Well, number one I feel like it’s way too built up now, right? Neither one of us could possibly satisfy the other. The anticipation would ruin the real thing. And I still think… I think it’s a bad idea to just jump on someone else’s dick… And Matt is so–” I shrugged, trying to think.“He’s so desperately looking for… I don’t know? Validation? Looking for love in infatuation? He’s looking for stability in hookups. Permanence in one-night stands. He clings to people who just seem to be viciously pushing him away and… I’m not going to be another person who hurts him,” I finally said.
“I have so many problems with this breakdown,” she said laughingly, falling backwards. “Number one… What’s so wrong about another dick? You’ve been gone for two months– do you think Jon is staying ‘loyal’ to you?”
“I do,” I said. And I did.
He was so careful about sex, so sure about who he was having sex with. He was actually looking for compatibility. He’d told me he’d rather just make himself come, then make even one mistake on the wrong partner. It was partially why he’d waited so long to have sex with me. He said he wanted to be sure. Also, to be frank, he didn’t have much opportunity where he was. Everyone knew him. All of his friends were married, and I could just picture his moue of disgust considering having sex with a married woman. He’d had fewer sexual partners than myself by far. Although he hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed by that– he seemed genuinely titillated by it. I’d even told him about the married man I’d slept with. He got angry– but not at me– at the man. Feeling I’d been tricked, and led astray. That might not have been true, but again, I liked that he felt like he had to go out and be my protector. Champion my softness, coddle my naïveté and make sure I didn’t go off the path. I so badly wanted that. Some cradling, protective force in my life.
“Okay,” she sighed. “Even if that is the case, that doesn’t mean you’re required to. And you like sex, Anna! Why deny yourself?”
“Jerking off seems safer, right now,” I said.
She tipped her head to her shoulder in a little “fair enough” shrug. Although, I watched her eyebrows pop up when I told her about dancing with him. How he remembered my song.
We finally went to bed, kicking around in her flannel sheets and iron bed stand. She had these huge down comforters that I loved. I had sewed her covers for them and made sure they had all her favorite colors in it. Rusty orange and eggplant and ocher.I listened to her snoring gently. To the wind in the trees outside her bedroom window. A sudden spattering slap of rain on the window that hadn’t been called for. I was just rolling into sleep when I thought I heard a knock. But it was just the sound of the farmhouse settling.
Chapter Nine
Matt knocked on my door Tuesday evening.
“Oh, good,” he said, smiling when I answered.
I waited to feel all those bad feelings I’d had. The jealousy, the disgust at my cowardice, the pointless arousal and guilt, but all I felt was warm looking into his face.
“Where were you this weekend? The Forge was doing death metal Saturday,” he said.
I gestured him in, but he shook his head.
“Just some traveling,” I said.
“Nice,” he said, mildly. Not being nosey. “I can’t come in, I have a gig… But… I’d love for you to catch the tail-end of it. And I’m provided with dinner for my services, so you could join me, if you so desire.”
“Oh great, beer and onion rings?” I asked, laughing. Picturing people whipping glass at a chicken-wire stage at him playing bass somewhere.
“No, at uh, Keys? On the northside?” he asked.
I took into account what he was wearing then. Still the black pants, white button up. But he had a jacket slung over his shoulder and was wearing dress shoes.
I’d been there before. Their whole deal was live piano playing. Little date-sized tables, a small dance floor. Wine tasting, soft music, small-bite plates. I’d been there with Jon, in fact.
“Oh,” I said, pondering, set back on my heels. “Um, yeah, okay,” I said.
“Come by after seven. I’ll only have a little longer on my set after that. Then we can eat. If you want we can even stick around for whoever is coming in to play dancing music after me and work off the dinner,” he said. Waving his fingers again and heading toward the elevator.
“Okay!” I called back.I went back inside, throwing open my closets. Definitely cocktail attire. Which I had plenty of. At first, I grabbed a long-sleeved dove gray one I usually wore for ev ening events at the club. Then roughly pushed it back onto the closet bar. Not tonight.I pulled out that hot pink dress I’d so liked– incidentally the first thing Jon had seen me in. It didn’t reveal really any skin, but it was a slinkily tight wiggle dress. I liked how dangerous it looked in combination with red nails and lips.
The crowd at Keys was a mixed bag, though mostly my age and older. Though I saw a few Jon-and-Anna style pairings. Dull gray older men with fluttering bird-bright younger women. Not that Jon had ever been dull. Definitely some folks from the financial sector jobs in the area. A lot of blue shirts, blue ties and blue suits.
I sat up at the bar, glancing around. Eyes going big seeing Matt up on the short platform playing the piano. He was clearly a “background noise” player for tonight. His hair far neater than usual. No tip jar on this piano.The bartender set a highball glass in front of me. I pushed it back across the bar with my fingertips.
“Oh no, I’m sorry I didn’t–” I began to say.
“No, it was sent to you,” the bartender said.
“Well, still, in that case, thank you, but I don’t drink and–” I said, pushing a little harder.
“I know,” the bartender said, tipping his head up toward the platform. “This is a Matt– it’s sour orange syrup in cream soda with a sugar rim. He asked for you to get one when you came in.”
I laughed that Matt had a mocktail named after him at Keys of all places– and that it was so obviously a ‘Matt.’I lifted my glass in a ‘cheers’ and caught his eye. He smiled back, tipping his head. I listened to him finish out his set. Only about a little over half an hour left in his shift, apparently. Sipping my silly drink.
As he finished he took a brief and heel clicking bow and introduced the next player. Stepping down he nodded toward the back of the house when he caught my eye. I set down my empty glass and a too-big tip and weaved my way through the dining floor toward him. Feeling a few admiring eyes on me.When I caught up to him, he took my hand again, pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. I hesitated for a second, but he pulled me forward.A man yelled out his name and waved us down. There was a little folding table back there. A very poor chef’s-table sort of situation, but well out of the fray of the kitchen.He made conversation with the sous, or whoever he was. Smiling, yelling greetings back to other people in the kitchen. Immediately slinging off his coat as though it had caused him great trouble. The sous had already set a second chair for me.We ate and it was shockingly good. Somehow better for not being in the dining room. Like the food was hotter or more vital coming straight from the kitchen.We talked and laughed like we always did. I was glad there was no weirdness or unhappiness between us. I was so happy to fall into the hammock of our goofy little conversations after this tough weekend. I heard someone sweeping through, and I looked over his shoulder. His back was to the kitchen, but I could watch everything. Frowning a little. I recognized her. Well, maybe I didn’t. She moved so quickly through the kitchen I couldn’t quite be sure.When we finished he stood up, taking my hand once more.
“Dancing?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I nodded. I knew this wouldn’t have the cathartic relief of the club but dancing with him would feel good regardless. And I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Leading me out on the dance floor he fell easily into holding me. Nothing crazy or difficult. Not many other dancers out on the floor yet. Hand on my back, the other holding my right, and he felt so good I could have melted.
“You look like trouble tonight,” he said.
“As though you can sit in judgment, sir. Who would you be taking home if I wasn’t here?” I asked teasingly.
“Probably anyone I wanted to,” he said, flashing his teeth at me. I knew it to likely be true.
“Slut,” I whispered jokingly up at him.
“I like women,” he said. “More accurately, I love women. And I really like making them come. It seems to be the only thing I’m truly useful for. If the gig work ever goes down the drain I’ll go into sex work.”
“You’re more than that,” I said, fiercely. Thinking again of whoever had dared to laugh at him. He looked a little surprised by my tone. Spinning me briefly as though trying to disorient me.
“You’re nice,” I said. Then I sighed. “I don’t mean nice. Not some pat, throwaway meaningless thing. I mean… Kind. You listen, you really listen, Matt. You behave as though listening is your favorite thing. You’re more than just giving good head.”
“Thank you,” he said, chuckling nervously. Clearly one of those individuals for whom compliments were difficult to receive. I felt my fingers spasm on his shoulder, wanting to rest my cheek on his chest, even if just for a second.
“Although I have been told I’m rather good at head,” he said, defusing the situation, making me laugh softly and blush at the same time.We didn’t last nearly as long here. Heading out into the street, taking the train back to the apartment. We unerringly headed toward his instead of mine. I was fine with that. He made us cocoa again as I shivered. The cold had seeped into me on our commute home. He returned from his bedroom with a blanket, which I gratefully cuddled into.We sat on the couch, talking slower this time. A movie running in the background. He sat up against the arm of the love seat, tucking his feet under the blanket I was in. I liked it. Wanting to reach out and rest my palm on the top of his foot. The urge became so impossible to ignore that I did. He didn’t move or seem surprised or even seem to notice.
The movie ended and he sighed. Probably waiting for my exit.
“Let’s watch the third one,” I said instead, knowing this series had at least eight iterations.
“Okay,” he agreed happily, flicking to the next one.
Talking a little about Keys, a little about fancy food, a little about idiocy and rich people. He and I had a similar scorn. And we were both employees to the rich quite often. A fun proletariat kind of grinding complaint when we got onto this subject. When we fell quiet again, though, I brushed my hand on him. Making him look away from the screen and at me.
“Is it… Is the… Is the listening still okay?” I asked.
He sighed heavily, shoving his hair off his face. He was clearly looking at the question from several different angles. Which was fair. It was multifaceted. But then he grinned at me.
“Let’s just say… I’m a whore for attention. I’m a people pleaser. I like having an audience… especially such an… enthusiastic one,” he said, clearly teasing.But I didn’t mind. Because it did sort of answer the question in a variety of ways. I nodded briskly, like some deal had been struck, and turned back to the movie.I heard him take a deep breath after perhaps two minutes.
“Although,” he said softly. “Just once… Just the once, mind you… I’d like to hear you up close. Just one time.”
I looked at him. He didn’t look away or blush or flash his teeth at me. Just watched me.
“Once?” I asked.
“Just one time,” he reiterated.“Just um…” I struggled to think how to put it without being vulgar. Wanting to say; you, me, a bed, jerking off?
“Mutual masturbation,” he agreed, saving me from fumbling out stupidity.
I nodded that same exact way, standing up. Too quickly, my heels sliding out from under me, looking and feeling clumsy. I led the way into his bedroom. Sort of as I’d been expecting. Unmade bed (I didn’t do mine either, now that I was alone) the anticipated stacks of records and CDs but neatly in bookcases. A record player, a double-deck stereo on a table. Speakers.
He lifted an album at me. The one he’d been listening to the other night. The one I said I liked.I shook my head, kicking off my shoes.
“You want to hear me… I want to hear you,” I said.
He nodded, looking nervous and excited. I pushed him toward his bed, letting him fall onto it. Turned around and lifted my hair so he could unzip my dress.I’d gotten one of those tools to do it on my own since leaving Jon. But what else was Matt sitting there for? He did, surprising me by taking the zipper down all the way, past my waist. Men got nervous usually and didn’t. I wriggled out of it, knowing the best sight for him would be my hips shimmying out of the dress. I turned back to him to get the rest of the way unclothed.He was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor. His hands fisting and unfisting on his knees. Spasming with how he wanted to reach out and touch me. I was astounded and in love with him for not doing it though. I reached out and unbuttoned his shirt. Stripping that and his undershirt off. Knelt briefly to undo his jeans and he slithered out of those.I wasn’t wrong, he was glowingly pale, the contrast made stark by his dark hair. Besides, he was well-built. Distracting because he was already erect. One of the rare instances where he was better than what I’d been imagining. I pushed him back onto the bed, and he fell into it. I crawled beside him, laying prone like I ordinarily would. He lay on his side, facing me, surprising me. But apparently that was his usual position. I wondered if he faced the wall previously. If his forehead had been against it, fist popping into it while I lay on the other side.We started, I felt awkward and briefly shamed. I’d never done this with anyone else. But it was okay as we hit rhythm. My eyes dropped shut, listening to him just like I had been. More aware of his breath, now because I could actually hear him. Listening to the sound of his flesh for the first time.
“Can I–?” he panted.
“No,” I said back.
He groaned but almost playfully. Like he’d expected my snappy answer. I heard his wind-up, that midpoint when he became staccato. Moving fast to get the drop on him, I pushed him onto his back. Rapidly mounting him, drawing him inside me. I groaned, because he felt good. He quickly tucked his hands behind his head like he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me if he didn’t trap them. After just a few strokes I rolled off him again and finished, somewhat furiously, louder than usual. He groaned heavily, thumping his fists into the pillow behind his head.
“Well, go ahead, finish,” I panted.
He groaned again.
“You’re all nicely lubed up,” I teased, lying on my side to look at him.
“Fuck,” he said, starting to stroke again.
“There you go,” I said gently.
“Women don’t do this to me,” he said, picking up speed again.
“I’m sure they don’t,” I said, reaching out, cupping his jaw in my hand. He nuzzled into it, pressing his lips into the heel of my hand.
“I can’t imagine any woman would treat you as badly as I do,” I said. Listening to his breath hitching, begin his upswinging moans.
“No woman would do this to you,” I said softly. “You’re gorgeous.”
He nuzzled deeper into my hand, moaning.
“And you’re beautiful when you come,” I said, because I heard he was on the edge. Staring at him as he did. Partly right, partially wrong. Keeping eye contact with me. Mouth going soft and blood flushing his cheeks.
“Oh, Anna,” he groaned. That minutes-long breath he’d do, letting everything drain out of him.
I got up off the bed, going into his bathroom. Grabbing what looked like a clean face towel off the counter and going back to him. Tossing it down onto his still-panting face. He laughed underneath it, swiping at his forehead. I meant to look away while he cleaned himself up but didn’t want to. Wanted to watch him do it. He let me, moving without shame. Turning back onto his side again, looking up at me.
“Please?” he said, reaching out to me.
I shifted, barefoot and still nude, by the side of the bed. Shivering in the cold, feeling the press of loneliness everywhere. I fell into his bed with him. He pulled up his quilt around us. Hesitantly opening his arm to me. I rolled to him like a drop of water to a low spot. Head on his chest, arms around him, dropping my leg over his. I wasn’t wrong, feeling his arm and hand and fingers clamping on me hard enough to bruise. Just for a moment before releasing me.
“Sorry… It’s been… A long time since somebody has… held me,” he said. Hearing the crackle and static in his voice and breath I rolled my nose and face into his chest hair. Smelling clean sweat and his deodorant or whatever scent he was wearing. Tried to hold him tighter so he’d feel it, feel secure in it.
I knew it couldn’t last, but I also knew he wouldn’t recognize that it couldn’t last and was therefore insecure. He was so focused on the ‘now’ he wouldn’t be worried about how in a few minutes I’d have to get dressed. Go back to my apartment. My room, my bed. Leave him alone.That this ‘just one time’ was rolling toward its close. And I didn’t know what would happen after tonight. Feeling a little bit regretful. Not terribly, but a little. Worried that I was just another girl lashing out at him because he made himself just… so damn lashable.
I could feel myself dozing and shook it off. Starting to roll away from him. He let me do it but reached out for me, fingers almost glowing in the dimness of his room.
“Stay, stay, stay,” he said. Not begging, not whining, just asking.I sighed, looking around for my dress in the gloom, knowing it was likely buried under his dark clothes.
“Anna,” he said, stopping me, making me look at him. “You look cold. Get into bed.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. Compulsively having to do it over and over. He opened up the quilt again, and I fell back into bed with him. We lay in silence for a long while. Had I ever heard his room silent? Or near silent, anyway. Hearing our slowed-down breath, the muted traffic down on the street.
“Who was it?” he asked into the ever-darkening room. His face toward the ceiling.
“I was supposed to be married in four months,” I said.
In that moment something besides just the shocked hurt fell on me. Disappointment too came in. I wasn’t looking forward to the performance of the wedding. In fact, I was dreading it. The dress, the whole-day-ness of it. Having to do pictures. Hundreds of pictures. Having to smile all day. Having to show my love to a bunch of people. Having to smile over the fact that ‘his’ side of the church would necessarily spill over onto my near-empty side. To do this whole thing in a church. I’d barely stepped into a church before I began planning this wedding.But there were important things, things that made my eyes fill up near instantaneously. Thinking about the dancing lessons Jon and I took together. We were both good, but we did it both in a spirit of fun and because we wanted that first dance to look right. Honestly, that wasn’t the real point for me. I just liked those months of dance practice with him. Meeting at the lesson space. Him in his work clothes, or just jeans and sneakers. Dancing for an hour for months together. Laughing, making private jokes that we were the best looking and most talented people there. I missed going to the bakery with him and trying maybe a score of different cakes. Playfully arguing until we both agreed we barely even liked cake. I was disappointed I wasn’t going to walk to him and that somehow that journey down the aisle was going to fix me. Place me in some solar system in a permanent and shining way, and I’d be okay. I’d have made it and would be in a firm constellation of safety.
“I can’t imagine the man who would let you go,” Matt whispered.
I sniffled, swallowed again. Throat bobbing over and over.
“He didn’t let me go. He pushed me away,” I said.
We were quiet again for a while. I didn’t sense that he was looking for more information. Which was good, I simply wasn’t capable.
“What about you?” I finally asked.
“Catharina,” he said. Hearing him linger over the name. Noting that he liked to put the accent on it. That she was clearly a whole-name kind of woman. Not short like ‘Matt’, never silly like ‘Anna-banana’ but Catharina.
“The tall girl?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, kind of laughing, which I was glad about. “She calls you ‘the rich girl.’”
I laughed, bitterly. Wondering how I’d managed to evolve into ‘the rich girl’, especially clearly living here. Never believing my performances myself, I didn’t know that I’d faked so well as to be disparagingly called what I played at.
“Who is she to you?” I asked.
“Hmm,” he murmured, holding me closer. “A friend with... it would be more accurate to say an enemy with benefits,” he said laughingly.
“Do you like her?” I asked. Knowing he must. Guessing she was the woman who made him cry.
“I love her. Or I loved her. It doesn't matter. She doesn't. But she says she can't get over the dick so… We fuck,” he said.
I brushed his hair off his face again and again. Wrapping my legs and arms around him.
“I've never met anyone who hated themselves as much as you,” I sighed.
“I say this with love,” Matt said, voice sleepy. “Get to know yourself a little better.”