Hurt flashes across Matteo’s face, and I hurry to patch my unintended wound. “I’m lucky my best boyfriend is here, or else I’d be all by my lonesome with these heathens.” I put my hand across my forehead dramatically. I suppose Matteo is technically now one of my best friends, though I still think those titles go to Lawrence and Ryan respectively.
“Something tells me you’d be okay without me here, but I appreciate the vote of solidarity,” he says, managing a wry smile. “Still no word from L?”
“No.” I set the glass on the drying rack. I really should invest in a repairman for the dishwasher too, but Ryan and I have both been hurting for funds.
“And you said Ryan was out?”
“Yeah, I assume with Lelani.” Matteo’s face doesn’t change, so I continue, “I invited them both; I hope that’s okay. And told them you’d be here just in case, well, in case . . . ,” I trail off, not exactly sure how to finish this thought without either sounding wildly jealous or paranoid. Or both.
“You think she skipped because of me?” He’s looking at me with something like dawning suspicion.
I shrug, nonchalant. “She could have skipped because she doesn’t like to mix with the underlings.”
But Matteo has the picture of me just right in his head. He cocks his hip against the counter, crosses his arms, and places one stockinged foot over the other like I’m suddenly entertaining.
“Michael-Grace, you just told me you specifically warned her I’d be here. As if there were something she needed to avoid. Do you think that she and I can’t coexist in the same space genially? We’re not wild animals; it’s not like we’re going to get into a fight over the artichoke dip.”
I’m indignant. “I didn’t think you’d fight.”
Something in the way I’ve said it outs me. Matteo’s eyes narrow further. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, do you think I still have feelings for Lelani?”
I study the soap suds on my chipped brilliantly orange-painted nails. “No.”
Matteo doesn’t buy it. “Well, this is the pot calling the kettle black, MG. I promise you if I wanted to be with Lelani, I would have stayed with her. I didn’t. It was mutual. I can assure you we’re over it. Both of us.”
I study his face, and he gazes calmly back at me. My rational brain is telling me that he’s being sincere. Matteo is nothing if not honest, even to a fault. My lizard brain is telling me that he and Lelani are perfect for each other, and there’s no way he prefers me and my hot mess of a life over Lelani’s polished adultness. She has silk office-chair cushions, and a shiny red sedan. It would sit so perfectly in the driveway of his neat and stylish desert house, next to his shiny white Prius.
Something of my thoughts must reflect on my face because he literally throws up his hands, then grasps me by the shoulders. He brings me in for a kiss on the mouth and then sets me back down in front of the sink. “Come on, MG. You’re going to have to let it go. Isn’t that a song?” He starts to hum, only slightly off-key, a song I remembered hearing a few years ago on every Disney On Ice commercial.
“Ah, yes,” he says, clearing his throat. He reaches over to the countertop, grasps my drying towel and puts it over his head like a babushka. “Let it goooo, let it gooooo . . .” he sings, twirling around the room.
I laugh. I can’t help it. It wells up from my toes, bubbling over my lips like an unstoppable force. Here is my super straitlaced detective boyfriend, singing Disney songs in my kitchen with a towel over his head. Soon I’m bent over my knees, laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes. “So, let me get this straight: you’d never seen The Princess Bride, but you can sing a song from a Disney movie on command? Do you have a secret Disney obsession I don’t know about? Hidden vault of Mickey Mouse Beanie Babies behind the fireplace?”
Matteo grins back good-naturedly. “Well, I figure it’s a good investment in my future. That way I can sing along with my kids.”
The picture of Matteo as he is now—work shirt slightly damp at the rolled-up cuffs from doing dishes, face open and carefree, hair mussed from the towel—is so charming, I can completely see him dancing around some future sunny kitchen with two little girls in tow. The picture is warm, sweet, and utterly charming. Matteo as a father seems as natural as Matteo as a detective.
And then something inside me seizes.
My heart catches up to my mind.
That picture of Matteo with children is so . . . vital. So real.
And everything that’s warm freezes. I turn to a White Walker on the inside, laughter dying on my lips.
Matteo quirks a brow. “What, you don’t like my Elsa impression? Okay, fine, I’ll do an impression of that caribou thing, but I can assure you it’s not very good . . .”
I paste a smile back on my face, and clear my throat. “I—ah, I can really picture you with children.”
A smile lights his face, and he returns to the counter, content to continue our conversation. “Honestly, it’s the one thought that keeps me going sometimes in my job. I see so many kids who didn’t have parents to help equip them for the real world. Who didn’t appreciate their joy and innocence. I’m going to soak in that stuff as long as the real world will let me.”
“Mmmm,” I manage in response.
He notes my odd tone and turns to face me again, taking the glass I’ve washed automatically from my fingers. “Er, have you ever thought about that? A little MG nerdling to raise up in the ways of the Falcon?”
I clear my throat again. I have no idea how to navigate this conversation, and not on the heels of having such a good time with him tonight. I feel like Atlas, holding up the weight of a world—our world—only Matteo has no idea. “I’ve thought about it,” I hedge.
Matteo’s smile slips slightly as he studies my face. I see the moment he decides not to press the issue and breathe an internal sigh of relief.
“Well, you threw a great party,” Matteo says by way of bypassing our awkward topic. His brow is still furrowed slightly, but he sets a determined grin back on his lips. “I’m so proud of you. Who would have guessed that the girl I guilted into attending her first work party would be hosting her own a mere three months later?”
“The pupil becomes the teacher,” I agree. “Except that artichoke dip. I can’t get it right myself. Nina will just have to be my friend forever.”
“It is delicious. Maybe you can keep practicing and bring it to the Christmas party. Everyone will love it. I promise to eat any and all efforts.”
He pats his stomach in jest, and I give a halfhearted laugh, trying to cover that for the second time in as many minutes, my insides have gone from jelly to something curdled and awful. His statement rings in my head: Christmas party.
“What?” he asks, obviously replaying his words in his mind. “Are you upset I assumed you’d cook? I really didn’t think before I spoke. Of course, if you don’t feel like making the dip—”
“No,” I interrupt, “I’m sorry. I’m just in a touchy mood, I guess.”
“Touchy . . . about Christmas?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
Everything I have bottled up starts to boil over and froth like Dr. Horrible in his singalong blog. I can’t stop it. Something in my thoughts is going to come out; I’m just trying to do damage control. I wipe my hands on my jeans and smooth back my hair, unsure of how to address this without saying something that sounds insulting.
“You’re so sure of what you want.”
This doesn’t clear anything up for Matteo. “Like . . . artichoke dip?”
I should laugh, but I don’t. I square my shoulders, suddenly serious. If this is where we’re at, then I’m going to meet it full force. I’m going to ignore the insane pounding of my heart in my ears and the part of me inside that insists I’m about to ruin the only happy thing I have in my life. “No. You’re so sure about everything.”
Matteo isn’t laughing now either. He regards me with a mixture of concern and apprehension. “Well, you are too? It’s one of the things I love about you. You kn
ow what you want, and you’re going after it.”
This time the laugh that burbles up is hysterical in nature. There’s that word again. Love. Love. Christmas parties. Babies. Just go ahead and tie my hands, stick the white veil over my face and walk me down the aisle to be chained into tradition. I know my fear is slightly irrational, but at this point Matteo has pushed so many of my unseen buttons, I can’t help but unravel just a little.
“I may be going after what I think I want, but I’m a mess. A hot mess. If I get any hotter, I’ll have to be the Girl on Fire for Halloween.”
Matteo nods, and it’s clear he’s sensing danger. “Well, pursuing goals like these isn’t always straightforward. You’re not afraid of hard work. You’re going after it with everything you have.”
“Yeah, all these part-time things that don’t even really add up to a whole. I’m barely adulting these days. You have a real job, your car is spotless, you want kids—”
Real panic shows on his face at this. “Don’t you? I mean not now, but eventually?”
My first instinct is to just say that I don’t. I’ve never pictured myself with kids—been terrified of having them since I was in college. The commitment. The lifelong commitment. The soul-sucking, completely life-draining amount of work those little creatures are. I much prefer my corgi, whom I could leave with a friend or in a kennel overnight if need be. But. Picturing Matteo with kids—picturing myself there with him has thrown me for a significant loop. One I’m not sure I even want to acknowledge. “I don’t honestly know.”
Matteo’s silence is only punctuated by the dripping of my faucet into dishwater. I study his face, and he studies the counter for a long time before raising his hazel eyes to meet mine. “How unsure?”
Sickness invades my lower half. I don’t want to have this conversation. But is this a giant Band-Aid that just needs to be ripped off? I’ve been feeling tension for weeks. I should just be honest and let the cards fall where they may. Maybe we’re just not meant to be, and I’ve been loath to end this happy dream. “I . . . I don’t want to be tied down. Trapped. I saw my parents suffocate under all that: monogrammed towels, two kids, gigantic mortgage, picket fence.”
I swear Matteo’s face has gone a bit ashen, but he still questions me with directness. “And have you felt . . . trapped . . . then?”
No. No. No. This will kill him. But in some sort of morbid sense of being honest to a fault, and with about as much horror as I have watching the end of Infinity War, knowing what’s coming, I whisper, “Yes.”
His eyes close briefly, and I scramble to explain.
“But only a few times. I’ve also felt incredibly wonderful and not tied down. See? I’m a mess.”
Matteo’s gaze has gone from searching to a little defensive. “Care to explain so that I can understand just exactly when you felt trapped?”
I bite my lip. “That night you made me chicken cacciatore when you were telling me about the flowers you planted.” At his complete look of bafflement, I sigh and flail my arms slightly. “It wasn’t the dinner or the flowers. It’s what you said about the flowers. You said that it’s the very least you could do for the girl you loved.”
I wait for a moment and then see the light click on, and his eyes fly up to meet mine. “You . . . you felt trapped because I told you I loved you?”
I study him back. “Well, no, not exactly, I guess. It wasn’t the . . . love . . . part.” I have a tough time even getting those words out and rush on. “It’s the ‘what comes after’ part.”
“What comes after?”
I realize he thought I felt trapped by physical intimacy. I can’t help but give a laugh, though the mirth quickly dies. “No, not that, the whole life part after that. The part where I sacrifice my dreams for my role as a wife and mother. Where I resent my children for making me give up my career. Where I stop dyeing my hair because the PTA disapproves of my Ariel-colored hair and mermaid skirt. Where I stop going to cons, stop designing for Lawrence, and stop being . . . me.”
As awful as I feel, a weight has ascended up off my shoulders like a hot air balloon taking flight.
“I’ve never asked you to give up anything for me,” Matteo says quietly. The quiet unsettles me. We’re wandering into the tone he uses with suspects. Matteo is slipping into Detective Kildaire—closing himself off. It’s terrifying.
I feel like reaching out and holding on to him, anchoring Matteo to the here and now. I don’t. “I know.”
“And I never would. MG, I’d never ask you to have children if you didn’t want them. And I’d never want you to be anything less than fully you, because that’s what makes you so vibrant. And amazing. And wonderful, and smart, and passionate. Why would you ever think, after I’ve been supportive of everything you’ve done and grateful for all you’ve done for the case, that I wouldn’t continue to do that?”
Tears prick my eyes, and I don’t know what to say to him, so I sort of just shrug. “Because you’re the best man I’ve ever met? And you’ve got it so together. House, car, job. Suit and tie. Straitlaced. I guess I kind of assumed somewhere in the back of my head I’d end up with someone more like me.”
I’ve finally hit a nerve. I see the fire roar to life behind his hazel eyes like the ignition ring on a spaceship in a movie. “You, MG, are a nerd snob.”
My temper flashes, hot and white. “I am not.”
“You are. You rail all the time about being put in a box. About being afraid of being pigeonholed by being what you are—a woman, a nerd, a geek, a comic book artist, a costume designer. You continually tell people you want to be judged for who you are and not what you’re into, or what people assume about it. And here you are doing exactly the same thing. You’re about to excuse me from your life just because I don’t fit the picture of who you thought you’d end up with. Even though I’ve come to every event, dressed up in costume willingly, watched—and loved—your shows and movies, you’re holding it against me that I just don’t seem like someone you thought you’d end up with? You’re judging me against a man that doesn’t even exist, and I’m found wanting?”
I open my mouth to argue back, to unleash some of the fury I’m feeling, but I can’t form words. There aren’t words, because what do I say?
Matteo’s just getting going; I can tell he’s mad now, his cheeks pink. “And you didn’t even talk to me about what you thought I meant. You just went ahead and assumed the worst-case scenario. I was tried and convicted before even knowing my charges.”
The shame I feel wars only with my own internal logic. I’m set to disagree, to defend my right to my feelings, but his point still rankles. I surprise myself by admitting that I own a small piece of this mess. “Okay. I’ll agree that maybe you’re right. I could have been a little . . . snobby. But, Matteo, every other guy I’ve dated has wanted to change me. It’s not like I just made it up or have rampant paranoia.”
I expect hot debate, but what I get is the fire in his eyes banking to smoldering coals. He’s still upset but getting ahold of himself. “Did they love you?”
A beat. “No.”
Another beat. His point is crystal clear, shining like a beacon in the dark night. But it still takes several breaths for me to develop the support in my abdomen for my next words. Because if this is it, I guess I’d like to know. “Do . . . do you?”
He waits until I’ve raised my eyes from the kitchen floor’s grimy tiles under the dishwasher to his brilliant eyes to answer me.
“Michael-Grace Martin, I love you.” His voice is sure. Quiet. Self-possessed and certain beyond shadows of doubts.
My insides rearrange. Tears prick my eyes. I’m silenced by the sheer power of emotion that rises within me.
Matteo watches this unfold on my face, and he sways closer, hand brushing like a feather against my cheek. I think for a moment he’s going to kiss me, and I lean toward him, welcoming it.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, he holds my gaze, waiting. Waiting for a response.
�
��Do you love me?” he asks when it’s clear I’m not going to offer it without question.
Like a niffler searching for shiny things, I sort my feelings as quickly as I can. The vast majority is screaming yes louder than I could have yelled from a mountaintop. But I’ve never loved someone before. And, in among the shiny jewel flowers of my new feelings is a forest full of weeds and dark places—my fears about being forced to change are still there. And my past few weeks with Daniel have thrown some wrenches into my otherwise perfectly spinning wheels.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, settling on the truth. For it is the truth. My truth, and if the ship is going down, I’m captaining it until the very end.
Matteo seems satisfied by my answer, rather than enraged or hurt. “That is entirely fair, and I appreciate your honesty.” His tell is when he runs his hand through his hair, and I catch the fleeting expression of longing and heartbreak that exists on his face before he’s back to neutral. It undoes me.
“Matteo, I think—”
Matteo reaches out and grasps my hand, stopping my words short. “MG, I love you. That doesn’t change. I told you once you were worth the wait . . . you are. And I’ll wait for you. I’m sure, but you need to be sure too. At least now everything is out in the open, right? I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, and that includes being with me. Maybe a break will help you clear your head and sort out what you want. Just take some time, and let me know what you decide.”
Those jewel-bright feelings in my chest explode into shrapnel that pierce my lungs. My heart. My stomach. A break? Matteo was breaking up with me? Right after declaring his love? This would never happen in a comic book. This is when the hero kisses the heroine and they charge off into battle together. It’s not when the hero gives the heroine space to suss out her feelings.
This is all wrong. This isn’t what I want, is it? “Matteo, I—”
He silences me with a quick kiss, and then he’s gone.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 23