by Penny Reid
I was not his girlfriend.
I would never be his girlfriend.
His battles were not my battles unless they were suitable for a friend.
Just friends. Forever just friends.
Matt returned my smile as I forced myself to think about what he’d said, and I wondered if I felt the same about myself.
Am I in competition with myself?
No. Not really.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking at me with curiosity.
“I think you and I are very different, Matthew Simmons.”
“How so?”
“I am not in competition with myself. I’m not in competition with anyone. In fact, I might be the least competitive person I know.”
His smile returned, softer than before, coaxing. “That’s because you’re already great. There’s no improving on perfection.”
I laughed again, but it was forced. A pang of dissonance and longing had me lowering my eyes, not wanting him to see my turmoil. I wished he wouldn’t say such things. How was it that he didn’t realize saying such things to me actually hurt?
How was I supposed to keep him in the friend zone when he kept launching verbal sneak attacks against my heart?
And if I’m so perfect, why doesn’t he want to be with me?
Ugh.
Just, stop. You’re wrecking yourself. Don’t twist yourself into knots.
Recovering quickly, I sent him a mock-suspicious glare, but my accompanying smile felt weird, too big. I made it smaller. “I’m serious. It’s why I need to work in an office. It’s why I need my friends. It’s why I need a . . .”
I stared past Matt, at a spot made blurry by my realization. It’s not just a want. It’s not just envy that causes me to feel so inadequate and alone. It’s not just that I hate going home to an empty apartment. I need a person. My person. It’s why I want to fall in love, and be loved, and love.
These articles I was writing about solving loneliness, they weren’t going to work for my loneliness.
For me, they would only ever be Band-Aids, not cures.
I can’t settle for less.
We retrieved our bags from the concierge and Matt insisted on carrying mine. I didn’t care either way, so I let him, my brain too tired to argue.
“Are you going to work?” he asked, walking into my room as I held the door open for him. “Where do you want the bag?”
“Um, no. I think I’ll just veg out for a bit, then go to sleep. And you can put the bag anywhere.” I trailed after him inspecting the room. “Do you see the thermostat? It’s freezing in here.”
Every hotel room in New York is small, at least every hotel room I’ve ever been in, and this one was no different. The full-sized bed took up most of the main area, with about two feet or less on each side between the mattress and the walls or furniture.
“I don’t see it over here.” Matt glanced around the diminutive space, setting my bag on a tiny desk. “This room is like a closet. An ice closet.”
Searching the wall for the air conditioner control and finding it by the door, I discovered it was set to 62 degrees. I increased the temperature to 70.
“Yes, well, journalists do live glamorous lives. Where do you usually stay when you’re in the city?” I smiled tiredly.
He returned my smile, not looking even a little bit tired, and shuffled two paces before lying on the bed. Matt twisted from side to side as though testing the mattress. “I can confirm, this mattress is comfortable.”
I didn’t miss how he’d neglected to answer my question, but decided to let it go. “I find Marriott beds to always be the most consistently comfortable.”
I moved to my bag and pulled out a pair of yoga pants, T-shirt, and my toiletries, wondering how high on the irresponsible scale it would be for me to raid the minibar. Deciding my bruised heart trumped sensible spending—at least for the night—I went to the bathroom to change and wash my face.
When I finished, I found Matt still stretched out on the bed, but now his shoes were off and he’d propped himself up using my pillows. He’d also flipped on the TV.
“What are you in the mood for? Law and Order reruns? Or Law and Order SVU reruns?”
“Actually, no TV for me.” Feeling wearier than I should, I pulled the covers back on the side he wasn’t lying on. “But I’m sure your room has its very own TV, should you wish to spend your evening with Lenny.”
“Nah. I’d like to spend my evening with you.” He immediately flipped off the TV and rolled toward me, clearly missing my hint.
Matt brushed an errant hair from my forehead and I caught his hand before he could place his ice-cold fingers anywhere else.
“Holy crap! Matt, you’re like an icicle.”
“You said yourself, it’s freezing in here.” He shrugged, shivering as his gaze traveled over my face. “I think your lips are a little blue.”
“Get under the covers if you’re cold,” I said . . . like an idiot.
And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I thought to myself, Self, what the hell is wrong with you?
Matt didn’t need to be told twice, to my infinite vexation, and was under the covers before I’d finished chastising myself.
“Here, turn around. I will spoon you so I can steal your body heat.”
I twisted away, sighing loudly and bringing my knees to my chest, deciding that facing away from his handsome face was better than being forced to look at it.
He pressed his front to my back but didn’t place his hands on me, a jolt of whoremones—YES, I SAID WHOREMONES—sending a thrill up my spine, making my toes curl.
This was the worst.
I was lying in bed, under the covers, with a mountain of unrequited feelings posing as a man. My heart strummed an aching beat, each contraction a painful this can never happen, you did this to yourself, this can never happen, you did this to yourself . . .
“I can’t find your legs.” He’d lowered his voice to just above a whisper, his lips close to my ear. I felt movement at the bottom half of the bed, as though he was searching for my legs with his.
“I bent them.” I gave in to a shiver caused by his hot breath falling over my neck. “I’m all curled up. Where are your hands?”
“My fingers are still too cold.”
I hesitated at that, but only for a moment, deciding that if I was in for a penny, I was in for a pound. “It’s okay. Here.” I reached behind me, grabbing the frigid fingers of one hand, and placed them on my stomach. “I’d prefer if they were warmed quickly, as I don’t want to be maimed by these mini-glaciers you call fingertips.”
“I’m not going to argue.” Matt curled his legs up and snuggled closer. “By the way, speaking of unsavory fingertips . . .”
“Yes?” I rubbed his hand between mine, focusing on warming his chilled bones, which gave me something to think about other than how nice this was. And how unhealthy this was.
Matt had become my crutch.
I’d come to that conclusion sometime after dinner and before this moment. I may not have been paying him to cuddle or dry hump me, but he’d become my crutch nevertheless. Like any crutch, I had two options: keep using the crutch, or get rid of the crutch and learn to stand on my own.
I wasn’t ready to make a decision either way. Neither option appealed to both my head and my heart.
“When is your—uh—orgasm thing?”
I stiffened, staring at the wall in front of me, searching my mind for what on earth he could be talking about. “Pardon?”
“Your meditation session, with the guys who . . .” Matt made a jazz fingers movement with his hand still in my grip.
“Oh!” I exhaled a relieved laugh. “That’s next month, a month from this Monday.”
I felt him hesitate before he asked, “You’re actually going to do it?”
“Yeah. I don’t see why not.”
An odd sound reverberated from the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. It sounded like part growl, part breat
h.
“Tell me something,” he demanded, his tone now gruff.
“What?”
“Tell me something I don’t know about you, something I would find surprising.”
He repeated his request from the first night I’d made dinner for him months ago and my first thought was, I think I’m falling in love with you.
I closed my eyes, willed the inconvenient realization away just as I willed the concurrent throbbing in my chest to retreat. It didn’t work. At least, not as well as I wished. But then, I was lying in bed with him, under the covers; he was spooning me, caressing my arm.
His touch wasn’t loving, because he didn’t love me, but it certainly felt that way. And knowing the lie of it only made me feel isolated and alone.
It was difficult to dispel these thoughts, especially when they felt intrinsically tied to what we were currently doing. So the reflection, I think I’m in love with you, was replaced with, I’m so lonely.
Clearing my throat, I eventually managed to say, “I feel like you already know everything there is to know about me.”
His fingers stilled. At length, he tugged on my arm, encouraging me to turn and face him. When I did, I was met with his dreamy brown eyes caressing my face, and his now warm, dreamy fingers, also caressing my face.
“Or everything you’re willing to share,” he said softly.
“Maybe there’s such a thing as sharing too much . . . between friends.” I caught his hand at my temple, pulling it from where he’d begun pushing his fingers into my hair, and placed it on the bed between us. “Or maybe I don’t want to bore you.”
Matt plucked my hand from the bed, and massaged my fingers, studying them as he did so. “Nothing about you could ever bore me. You’re the most remarkable person I’ve met.”
His earnestness, like so many times before, made me wish anew for things that would never be possible. But the wishing this time felt overwhelming, dangerously unwieldy. I decided to do the only thing I could do.
Leave.
I scootched away, trying to move out of his grip, but Matt’s fingers flexed on my hand, holding me in place.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I have to use the bathroom,” I faked a yawn, “and then I think we should go to sleep. We have an early flight.”
His fingers tightened for a moment, then relaxed, allowing me to move fully away. I rolled out of the bed and rushed to the bathroom, hoping against hope that he’d take this hint and be gone by the time I returned. I even loitered in the bathroom, brushing my teeth twice, flossing twice, plucking my eyebrows.
When I peeked my head out of the door, Matt was sitting at the foot of the bed. His shoes were on, that was good; but his elbows were on his knees and his hands were in his hair. I didn’t know what to make of his posture.
“I’ll meet you for breakfast?” I asked lightly, quickly crossing to the bed and jumping under the covers.
“Thank you, Marie.”
I waited a beat, waiting for him to explain his gratitude, but he didn’t. And he didn’t move.
“For what?”
“For all the times you made me dinner. And lunch. And bread.”
I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m happy to do it. I love to cook.”
Matt straightened, his hands falling to his thighs. “I don’t know if either of my parents know how to cook.”
I blinked at that, at the defeated slump of his strong back. “They never cooked for you?”
“No. Never.” He didn’t need to tell me because I’d already guessed based on Fiona’s description of his family. “They didn’t eat meals with me ever. I promised myself, if I had kids, I’d eat every meal with them.”
“You plan to go to their school and have lunch with them every day?” That was sweet. And it made me feel things I had no business feeling for a friend.
“It doesn’t matter.” He cleared his throat, his tone thick with something I couldn’t define.
My breath caught as my heart did a twisting, painful maneuver in my chest. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to him. I began to wonder if I was just as much a crutch for him as he was for me, but perhaps in a different way. And if that was the case, then perhaps I needed to take Matt’s advice and confront the issue head-on, starting with challenging his last statement.
“You don’t want kids, Matt?”
“I don’t want . . .”
“What?”
“Indifference,” he finished solemnly, turning to look at me over his shoulder and giving me a sad smile. “More indifference. My parents are the most indifferent people I know—to me, to each other, to life—and I don’t want that for my kids. And I don’t want to do that to someone who loves me.”
The last of his words rang through the small room and seemed to echo in my head like an accusation, like he knew what I felt for him and was giving me a warning shot, reminding me to focus my hopes and dreams elsewhere.
Tears stung my eyes, making me blink furiously, and I had to moderate my breathing in order to maintain control of my reckless emotions. I wanted scream at him, shake him, ask him why it was so easy for him to believe he’d be indifferent toward me, why it was so difficult to believe he might love me in return.
I didn’t scream at him. He was the dehydrated horse. He had to drink water himself. He had to want it.
Instead, once I’d calmed my racing heart, I asked with forced steadiness, “Have you really never wanted to love anyone?”
“It was easy for me to stop wanting Kerry,” he said instead of answering my question, and I got the sense he was speaking to himself more than to me. “It was easy to stop asking about her day. It was easy to let her fight her own battles, to not want to fight them alongside her. It was easy to dedicate myself to my work. I’m good at what I do. It didn’t matter that she was intelligent and beautiful. I wasn’t . . . attracted to her. I didn’t waste time during the day wondering what she was doing, making plans for us, playing hooky from work so we could be together.”
“Why do you think you lost interest?”
He made a face and shook his head dismissively. “I didn’t lose interest. I married too young, before I knew what I wanted . . . what I needed . . .” Something behind his gaze shifted, heated, as it moved over my forehead, nose, lips, neck, lower.
The air felt suspended between us, as though even the molecules were holding still, and I likewise held my breath. A languid warmth spread through me, traveling the same path as his gaze, followed quickly by the piercing pain of realization.
His thoughts couldn’t have been any clearer than if he’d worn a shirt that read, “Marie, I want to fuck you.”
I didn’t flinch, though it hurt. It hurt horribly to want a whole person and be wanted in return for just a small piece of who I was. It hurt so badly I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to distract myself from the hurt.
Eventually, his eyes lifted, his stare scorching. He took a step forward. “Marie—”
I shook my head, feeling raw and exposed and fatally close to bursting into tears. “I think maybe . . .”
You should stay.
No.
He should leave.
We should have hot sex.
No!
That’s a terrible idea.
You should tell me what I need to do to make you love me.
Damn it! What the hell? Be quiet, heart! I shouldn’t have to do anything to be loved.
“I think you should go,” I blurted, my brain finally winning the standoff. Tearing my eyes from his, I lay down on the bed and turned away from him. “We have an early flight, so . . .”
I lay perfectly still, my lips rolled between my teeth to keep my chin from wobbling. I listened to him breathe. I listened to my own heart, sluggishly beating. I listened to the air conditioner finally click off.
And eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I heard the door close as he left.
20
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Automated Teller Machine- an electronic telecommunications device that enables the customers of a financial institution to perform financial transactions, particularly cash withdrawal, without the need for a human cashier, clerk, or bank teller.
Source: Wikipedia
I switched off my phone, completely off, and dialed the front desk for a wakeup call.
And then I cried and drank all the tequila in the minibar.
The next morning, when my scheduled wakeup call informed me that I was alive and had forty minutes to get ready, my eyes were puffy and my mouth tasted like a cactus. But it was also obvious what I must do.
The time had come to relinquish the crutch, to set the crutch free.
Now I just had to decide whether to do it fast, an abrupt and complete cessation, or to take a gentler, more gradual approach.
Powering up my phone, I left it on the bedside table and shuffled to the bathroom, turning on the shower.
Brushing my teeth, I debated both options. Ending things swiftly would be better in the long run, but I knew myself well enough to know I would never be able to summarily cut out him out, I cared about him too much.
As I took my shower, a plan of action began to solidify in my mind. I left the bathroom and marched to my bag, pulling out clothes for the day. By the time I was dressed, hair dry and styled, makeup applied, I was feeling much better. Stronger. More like myself. Empowered by my decision rather than terrified because of it.
Nearly finished packing my things, I picked up my phone, intent on checking in for my flight. And that’s when I noticed I had several unread text messages and about a dozen missed calls.
6:15 p.m. Greg: Fiona is in labor, we wanted you to know. Will text when our new imperial highness graces us with his or her presence.
7:13 p.m. Elizabeth: Quinn told me to text you to let you know they’re on their way to the hospital. Janie’s water broke. I’m meeting them in maternity.
8:35 p.m. Elizabeth: MARIE! They’re both here. OMG!!!!! Fiona is almost done. Please come help me with Quinn. He is completely loco.
9:01 p.m. Sandra: Where the hell are you? Are Dan and Kat with you?