The part of him considering only his interaction with Mattie, before Andrew’s interference, claimed that a good looking, funny, interesting guy had sincerely been interested in him. The part of him that had been too damaged by his last relationship to be optimistic told him to let it go, to go home and write and put his son to bed and forget the entire ridiculous encounter. To learn, and to know better the next time a handsome young man showed interest in him. The kind of meetings and romances he so often read about were popular for a reason, and that was because they did not exist in real life.
Paying the driver, he headed on in and met Sarah in the living room. She looked up from her book.
“Hey.” She looked over at the clock on the mantel. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”
He shucked his jacket off. “It wasn’t really all that great. Just a lot of schmoozing and a lot of phony people.” He shrugged. “At least there were free drinks.”
“Shame.” She folded the page of her book and stood, stretching. “Here’s hoping Prince Charming will be at the next shindig.”
“Jamie asleep?”
“He’s as snug as a bug.”
“Any trouble?”
“No, we had a grand time. We watched the movie, and he convinced me to watch the DVD extras, but his eyes started to droop five minutes in, so….” She smiled, shrugging.
“Well, thank you for sitting, and as always, you’re a star.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a couple of bills.
“Thank you, Si.” She folded the money and headed into the hall. She slipped on her pumps and pulled her jacket from the coat rack. “Let me know when you need me to sit again.”
Simon shook his head and hugged her briefly. “I do feel like I take advantage of you.”
“Simon,” she groaned quietly. “We went through this. I adore Jamie. And….” She trailed off, zipping herself up. “Well, times are rough, you know?” She patted the side of her handbag where she’d put her purse and money. “Teaching doesn’t pay much, and being single with a car that’s on its way to the scrap heap and all… every penny helps. All right?”
“You know that if you ever have problems with money you can come to me, right?” He rubbed her arm. “I meant it when I said you’re family.”
She smiled at him. “I’ll be just fine, but thank you for the peace of mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He kissed her cheek, and waited at the door until she had driven away in her car, that did in fact have an exhaust that sounded like a tank, and then closed the door.
He toed off his shoes and pulled his tie loose and then over his head. He looked into Jamie’s room briefly before going on into his own to change into his sweats. Changed and more or less ready for bed, he headed back into Jamie’s room.
Jamie lay curled up on his side, fast asleep and with his thumb in his mouth. Simon smiled tenderly, extracted the thumb, and sat on the side of the bed gently so as to not wake him. He leaned against the headboard and sighed happily as Jamie turned in his sleep and instinctually curled up against his dad. With Jamie’s head resting against the side of his stomach, he stroked that little cowlick and wrapped his arm around him. Jamie’s cape was askew between them, but he’d put it right before he went to bed.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. There was no hiding from it. He felt terrible. He felt terrible that he had to rely upon Sarah so often because he trusted so few people with his son. He felt terrible because, deep down, he knew his third novel wasn’t working. He felt terrible that he hadn’t had a relaxed, normal evening. And he felt terrible because he could not shift the look of mortification and shame on Mattie’s face from his mind.
That look alone was enough to tell him that what Andrew had said was true, that it was something Mattie was not proud of, and that it must surely be out of necessity. What had Sarah said? Times are rough. Hadn’t Andrew said something similar? Simon knew he was fortunate. Privileged, even. His first two novels had done exceedingly well and were still on the shelves. He didn’t need to worry about the cost of replacing an exhaust, or money for Jamie to go to school. He owned his home. He was comfortable and had the means to take care of himself and his son.
Perhaps he needed to pull his head out of his ass. He did something he loved for a living. He spent half the day writing, and the other half with a son he loved more than life itself. He knew next to nothing about Mattie’s life, or the man himself, other than he had been kind to his boy, had attempted to ask him out in an alarmingly bashful but endearing way, and that he made sandwiches and wanted to go to art school. That was it.
He didn’t know the circumstances, and couldn’t rest knowing that he had made this perfectly nice guy feel miserable. Perhaps it was all in his mind and Mattie had already shrugged it off, but tomorrow he would have to speak to him, and if need be, apologize. It would go no further than that. Mattie was too young, anyway, and he certainly had enough complications in his life already.
Chapter Four
THIS was ridiculous. He’d been loitering across the street from the diner for an hour almost, afraid to go in. Or perhaps not afraid per se, but attempting to put off what would be a very awkward and uncomfortable conversation in Mattie’s place of work. Simon didn’t want to make him feel any worse, he truly didn’t, but a selfish part of him knew that he liked the diner. He could write there, and it was close to Jamie’s school. His hopes were to, at the very least, reassure Mattie that he wouldn’t pass on what he knew already and that he thought no less of him. (Even if part of him sincerely recoiled at the thought of Mattie being treated harshly or unkindly, despite their limited introduction to one another.)
After Sarah’s reassuring him about her sitting for Jamie, he felt less guilty in asking her to sit for him again so soon. She would keep him with her while she packed up for the day, and would then take him home for his supper. (He had long ago trusted her with a spare key to his home.) He’d made sure to repeat this break from Jamie’s usual routine a number of times, so as not to cause him upset when home time came around and he wasn’t there to pick him up. He had a feeling that Sarah knew that this “last minute meeting with his editor” was a cover for something else, but oddly enough, he had sensed her approval, and he now had the afternoon free. Whether it was to hopefully buy Mattie a coffee after his shift to apologize, or to find himself another place to write and give himself time to lift his morose mood, he was, as always, infinitely grateful to her.
But first, he needed to go in there, offer him a friendly, approachable smile, and wait until he perhaps took a break to ask for a private word. As it was, he was sitting at the bus stop across the street with his laptop case in his lap, looking over at the glass front of the diner, attempting to grow a pair.
Was he being selfish? To approach him at his workplace may be flat-out unkind, but in a way it felt as if it were his workplace too. He knew the thought was unfair, because he could technically write anywhere, but only other writers knew that when you found the right spot—that comfortable, tucked away spot where you could allow your mind to let go of its surroundings and engross itself in the story—it was an important thing and not to be taken for granted.
And I want to see him, still.
Simon groaned as another bus came to a deflating stop with a “whoosh” beside the curb, its doors opening and the driver looking his way. Simon gave an apologetic shake of his head, and the driver pulled what he assumed was a lever, closed the doors, and pulled away.
Simon watched the bus pull away, and then glanced back to the diner to see Mattie leaving. He stood abruptly, nearly dropping his laptop case in the process, and stayed there stupidly, his heart in his throat, watching as Mattie zipped his jacket and hunched his shoulders with his hands in his pockets, as if a strong wind was pushing against him.
He was nearly out of view when Simon finally came out of his stupor, hastily hooked his satchel with laptop inside over his head, and quickly glanced both ways before cro
ssing the street at a jog.
“Mattie!” he called, somewhat breathlessly. (He blamed his inactive career for his less than Olympian health.)
Mattie looked back over his shoulder and visibly flinched. He stood rooted to the spot, as if caught, and looked around, contemplating a quick getaway. He looked back at Simon, his shoulders slumping in resignation. Simon came to a stop, still clutching his bag to his side, where it had been clapping against his hip, huffing and fighting the instinct to bend at the waist with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“Mattie,” he said needlessly, wanting to take away the look of caution and utter discomfort from his unhappy face. “You’re leaving work early today?”
“You’re not going in to the diner today?” Mattie replied, ever so quietly, a look of hurt ill-concealed.
“I’ve been sitting across the street like a coward, trying to think of something to say. And I didn’t want to make it difficult for you to work.”
Mattie nodded, looking to the ground with a sniff. Meeting Mattie’s gaze once again, the writer was relieved to see that the sniff hadn’t been caused by tears. He stood closer, one shoulder lifting unconsciously in apology. “Mattie,” he said quietly, “I barely know you, but I know I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry.”
Those gorgeous hazel eyes that looked so sad regarded him, and Simon felt such a compulsion to protect, to take away the upset he saw there. “Can I please buy you a coffee? Can we talk?”
Mattie’s brows drew up sadly, and he looked away to the side before quickly shaking his head. “You said sorry, Simon, that’s enough. You don’t gotta spend time with me or avoid the diner. It’s fine.”
He’s a sweet guy. There can’t be a bad bone in his body, despite how he may make his money. “Then will you let me buy you a coffee just because I want to?”
Mattie’s gaze was wary, not leaving his even when someone shouldered past, knocking into him. “I don’t want pity, Simon, or your disapproval. Even if I deserve both.”
“Just coffee, coffee and talking. I liked talking to you last night,” he pointed out.
That got him a hesitant smile, and Simon felt himself smiling back. “That a yes? Café Latte on me?”
Mattie bit his lip, hesitant, but then nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Great.”
THEY’D found a secluded booth in the back of a Starbucks, and Mattie unfolded and folded his hands restlessly on top of the table, watching as Simon walked over slowly with a tray. He’d wanted to sink into the ground when he heard Simon call his name on the street, but was glad that it appeared Simon was kind enough to approach him after the incident at the gallery.
He’d told his boss he was sick and left work early. As time’d ticked by with no appearance from Simon, he’d steadily begun to hate himself more by the minute. But this, this was promising. Perhaps it wouldn’t have to be awkward at work, and he could go back to just looking.
“Here we go.” Simon set the tray down and placed a small saucer in front of Mattie. “I got you a lemon square.”
He smiled sadly. Despite the encounter at the gallery, Simon seemed to be a stand-up guy. “Thanks, you didn’t have to.”
“And a Cinnamon Dolce Latte.” He placed the mug next to the saucer. “It looked so good I got myself one too.”
He broke a corner off the lemon square and watched Simon take a sip of his drink, mumbling something about it being good before an uncomfortable silence settled over them. Mattie ran his hand over his hair and sighed.
“This is so awkward.”
“It is a little, yes,” Simon agreed.
“I’m guessing that… I mean, you’re either a really decent fella or you’re not all… you know, disgusted by me.”
Simon shook his head. “No, no, I’m sorry, I must apologize for my uh… my rather harsh reaction last night.”
Mattie snorted. “That wasn’t harsh, believe me. Don’t get me wrong. It was humiliating and kind of crushing, but it wasn’t harsh.” He took a sip of his drink. It was cinnamon-y.
Simon’s voice was strangled. “I don’t want to make you feel that way. Christ,” he sighed. “I don’t even know you. I’ve got no right passing judgment on you.”
“That’s true,” he said quietly, “but… I don’t know. I wish I could have kept that from you. It was nice getting to know you.”
“It’s not like we can’t ever talk again.”
Mattie watched him, swallowed. “You forget that I asked you out? All right, not very smoothly, but….” He trailed off with a shrug.
“No, I remember.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I guess I, ah, I guess I don’t really know what you… what—”
Mattie’s eyes widened, and he turned his head away with a grimace. “You thought I was trying to make a deal?”
Simon said nothing in response, and Mattie let out a small, sad laugh. “I think you’re handsome, okay?” He kept his eyes on the drink. “I think you’re good-looking and a nice guy. I didn’t want your money. I wanted to date you.”
“Oh. Oh, that’s….” Simon looked down at his drink, frowning.
Mattie winced and pushed the plate away, starting to stand. “Chalk it up to a simple mistake, but I’m heading off now. You’re a nice guy, but I don’t need to put myself through this.” He paused when Simon grasped his wrist.
“Please don’t. Please?”
Mattie sighed and slowly sat back down. He held no animosity toward him. Hell, Simon was being a gentleman right now, but he didn’t want any more apologies. He wanted to pretend that the entire exchange last night never happened; he wanted to go home and paint.
“I’m so—”
“Don’t,” Mattie bit out and closed his eyes to calm himself. “You don’t gotta do that. Don’t apologize, and please don’t feel bad for me. Just—just treat me normal-like, okay? I know you’re not going to want to date me, but you can look at me like a normal person, can’t you? I’m no different. No different at all. I just have financial problems. I’m a little stuck, and I have to dig myself out sometimes, but I’m not what you’re picturing. I don’t do drugs, I don’t… I don’t hang out in any gangs, I just… I struggle, that’s all.”
“Well,” Simon said quietly, “that’s one thing I certainly can understand.”
“Struggling?”
“Yes, but not in the same way, I think. I have financial security, but, well… the rest of my life is very complicated. I’m bound to it, to my son. I love him to death. I would never give him up, but that freedom I used to have is gone. My life revolves around his routine. Whereas you… you’re young, you could do anything, but money—well, it can cripple a person, can’t it?”
“That it can.” Mattie leaned closer over the table. “I want you to understand that I don’t… I don’t enjoy it. It means nothing.” He shook his head. “This is hard to talk about. I don’t even know you, but I feel like I’ve dared to try and do something normal, like ask you out, and now I almost… owe you the details.”
Simon shook his head. “You owe me nothing. But if you want to talk to me about it….” He sat back, wiped his hand over his mouth and chin. “Well, we’re here, talking. You’re not working, and I’ve got the time.” He smiled. “And for some reason, it is inexplicably easy to talk to you.”
Mattie leaned back, and they eyed each other. It felt neither unfriendly nor cautious, merely curious. “Do you want to know?”
“Know why you do it? I think so, though you’ve kind of alluded to that already. But we can just as easily sit here and talk about the weather if you want. It doesn’t have to be about that.”
Mattie watched him, took a deep breath, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “There’s never a good reason to get into it—hooking. I just need the extra money.”
“Your job?”
“Minimum wage. I make sandwiches, for crying out loud.”
“Family, friends?”
Mattie shook his head. “Family is a no-go. F
riends….” He tilted his head and wet his lips. “There’s a few, and sometimes I can accept a little help when I can’t stand the alternative, but I don’t want to be a burden. Friends—good ones—are important, and I want to keep them, not sponge off of them.”
“Why the diner? Why not an office or somewhere that pays a little better?”
“I… ugh, I’m not really qualified.”
“You’re inexperienced? Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“No.” Mattie controlled the urge to whimper and looked away. “God, as if you don’t have a low enough opinion of me already.”
“Mattie…,” Simon encouraged softly.
“I kind of….” He shook his head. “Okay, here’s the thing. My mom took off early, my dad took to the bottle, and my teachers never really noticed that I never quite learned how to read.” He sat back, trying to gauge Simon’s expression, which appeared, ironically, to be unreadable. “I just fell on through the cracks, dropped out of school, and here I am.”
“That seems so unfair.”
“That’s how the cookie crumbles, I guess.”
“So… manual labor is pretty much…?”
“All I’m qualified for? Yes. Although….” He shrugged, self-conscious. “I’m, uh, I’m putting myself through this adult reading and writing course at the central library, over at 820 E Street?”
Simon had been leaning forward, his chin resting in his hand, but at that revelation his brows rose and his arm splayed down across the table with a thunk. “Mattie, that is entirely admirable.”
Mattie bit his lip, raised his eyebrow. “How do you think I pay for that course?”
Simon’s expression froze, and he leaned back against the booth with a quiet “Oh.”
“Still think I’m admirable, mister writer?”
Simon frowned. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do admire a person who’s trying turn their life around for the better.”
“Well… as long as you know it’s not a career choice—hooking, that is.”
The Coil Page 8