Not That Kind of Guy

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  Hell, he was tempted to be a shithead and claim he wasn’t feeling well and beg off the group project. His stomach certainly ached at the idea of leaving Bridget. That was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to spend all his time with her. Drink her in. Having her would make failing out of law school worth it.

  But that would mean that Bridget had been right about him the first day of his internship—that he was only a useless rich kid, getting by on his family money and family name.

  “I have to go.” He hated saying it, and punctuated it with a deep, long kiss that couldn’t be mistaken for an attempt to placate her. It was a kiss that would lead to things that he couldn’t follow through on in that moment. “But I want to come back.”

  “I want you to come back.”

  “When?” He knew he had to pin her down when she was feeling good about them, before she closed up again on him.

  “I’m making dinner for Hannah and Jack . . . and Patrick tomorrow night.”

  So dinner with the family priest, the one who happened to be her ex’s brother? This was a big fucking deal. “Is this in service of the ruse, or because you want me here?”

  “I want you here. For real.”

  Matt got dressed and left her place before he let loose with any of the fist-pumping enthusiasm for a dinner party at his wife’s house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  STUDY GROUPS IN HIS constitutional law seminar were assigned randomly, but Matt had the feeling that Naomi had pulled some strings to be assigned to his group after he’d revealed that he’d gotten married to someone who wasn’t her. Sort of like she’d invited herself to dinner at his parents’ place the night before. He’d been hoping to end up with some of the friends he hadn’t spoken to for most of the summer out of embarrassment. Instead, he had to be here with his ex.

  She hadn’t wanted him before, when he was readily available to her. But now that he’d found someone else, she had to try to get him back. It was sad really, and he didn’t want to feel sorry for her.

  But he did. She wanted something that wasn’t any good. What they’d had together was like the bargain-basement version of what he had with Bridget. There was nothing wrong with it if you didn’t know any better, but now he did know better.

  Ironically, falling for Bridget had made him feel much more charitable toward Naomi. That was probably why he hadn’t told his parents about exactly why they’d broken up. He didn’t want to cause a rift in the family-friends fold, and he didn’t want to embarrass her.

  But as he sat in a conference room at the law library, feeling her gaze on his face while he was trying to work, his patience was waning. She hadn’t contributed anything, and spending time with her after his night with Bridget felt like wearing a hair shirt.

  Thankfully, the rest of the group was engaged, and they kept their meeting to two hours. He hit the head before leaving for his car, and thought he’d made his escape. But Naomi was waiting for him outside the bathroom.

  “Heading back to wifey?” He hated the sound of her voice in that moment, and he was deeply grateful that they’d broken up at the beginning of the summer. If she hadn’t pulled the trigger, he’d be hating the sound of her voice from inside their relationship. He’d never have bailed on the firm, and he never would have met Bridget. She’d done him a favor.

  He tried to remember that gratitude before responding, but a shitty part of him won out.

  Matt looked to the heavens and took a deep breath. “What do you want, Naomi?”

  “What I’ve always wanted.” She stepped closer to him, but he stepped back. “You.”

  He put a hand up. “You don’t get to have me anymore.”

  “It was just the one time.”

  He stepped around her to head to his car. He was not going to have this conversation. He was going to go home and work out and not think about this anymore. He was going to focus on a future—one that finally excited him.

  But Naomi grabbed his arm, her nails digging in. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

  “Because I’ve moved on.” He turned and looked at her, trying to summon up any dregs of empathy he could strain from the antipathy she was fostering at the moment.

  “Seriously? With her?”

  “Don’t do this, Naomi.”

  “Do what?” She stuck out her bottom lip in a way that used to make him want to bite it, not that she would be into that. “Keep you from ruining your life?”

  “No, ruining my life is what would have happened if we’d stayed together.”

  “She’s only with you because of your family’s money.”

  Matt saw red. The only woman he’d ever been with who’d been all about his family name and the money was standing right in front of him. And she hadn’t even had the courtesy to keep her cheating private like people of their ilk were expected to do. “You’re certainly not one to lecture me on gold diggers.”

  She balked at that, but it didn’t satisfy him. He just wanted this to be over. “Even if I wasn’t married to Bridget now, we would be over.”

  She slid back into her seductive nymphet persona so smoothly that he barely noticed the seams. It was really quite impressive. “You don’t mean that, Matty.”

  “I do. We’re done.” He moved around her again. This time she let him. “And don’t call me ‘Matty.’ I really hate it.”

  As he walked to the car, she said, “I’m not giving up.”

  “Wouldn’t expect you to.” He hung his head, feeling defeated, even though being married to Bridget and not being with Naomi anymore was winning.

  * * *

  • • •

  BRIDGET HADN’T BEEN TO church since her cousin Shannon’s wedding a year and a half ago. Despite twelve years of parochial school, she wasn’t really religious and wasn’t sure whether she believed in God at all. Still, it was comforting to sit in the hard wooden pew at the back of St. Bartholomew’s, mumble the words, hum the songs, and go through the ritual of standing and kneeling and sitting.

  And Patrick really was a good priest. Unlike a lot of the old dudes, it didn’t seem like he was phoning it in. During the homily, he made eye contact with almost everyone in the mostly empty church. And his sermon wasn’t what she’d call traditional. It was more about generosity and kindness rather than what to do with body parts.

  It made her think about Matt and how she hadn’t been generous with him when they’d first met—how she’d made shitty assumptions about him because of who his parents were. And it shamed her as much as an old-fashioned no-sex-before-marriage lecture.

  She wasn’t actually here to reflect on her own actions; she was here to check in with Patrick to see what he knew about the trip to Vegas—and everything that Chris had said. Even though she didn’t care if the church condemned her, she didn’t want Patrick to be mad at her. He was sort of like the spare older brother she’d never really wanted, but she still needed him in her life.

  Losing Chris had been painful—even though she could now admit it had been a long time coming. Losing Patrick would be like adding insult to injury. He was the one of their crew who had always tried to make sure she was included. Good people like him didn’t happen every day. He needed to be cool with how things had gone down. Or at least accepting.

  She lingered after the recessional outside of the sanctuary, waited while more than one old lady hugged Patrick for a little too long. He was a Father What-a-Waste, so she could understand, even though she was half-tempted into asking him if he wanted to file a complaint against Mrs. O’Toole.

  After everyone left, she waited in the sanctuary until Patrick took off his robes. She didn’t take out her phone, just sat in silence and looked at the light dancing through the stained-glass windows.

  No one knew why Patrick had decided to enter the seminary after his mother died—not even Chris. When she’d asked, Patrick had said that he fe
lt obligated to. Bridget hadn’t been satisfied with his answer, but sitting in the quiet church, she could kind of understand why he seemed to like it. It was a peaceful life, predictable, and he could help and heal other people without letting personal concerns intrude.

  She’d tried to do the same thing when she’d sworn off relationships after Chris. And she’d failed—probably because she didn’t have vows to God to keep her safe.

  Patrick came out and sat next to her. He didn’t speak right away. Eventually, she did. “Did Chris tell you?”

  “About what?”

  “The thing that rhymes with schmaschmortion.” She still didn’t feel ashamed but didn’t think it was right to say it in church.

  “Told me ages ago.”

  She couldn’t believe that Patrick sounded so nonchalant about it, given their location and his occupation. “And you aren’t upset?”

  Patrick shrugged. “It’s not really my business. You aren’t a believer. And I care about you, but that’s because you’re practically family. And even if you’d come to me wanting absolution or whatever the fuck you’re looking for, I would have told you that you did the right thing.”

  “You said ‘fuck,’ and you approved of my abortion?” Bridget shouldn’t have been shocked, but she was.

  “It’s not about approval or disapproval, Bridge.” He nudged her shoulder. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I always thought that Chris and I would get married and have kids.”

  “Everyone did.”

  He probably knew the whole story, but Bridget said the next thing anyway. “The night we broke up, he told me that he’d bought a house.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “He didn’t even ask me. I’d never even seen it. I knew when he told me that and just expected me to fall in line that it was never going to work. If I acquiesced right then and there, it wouldn’t be my life anymore.”

  “My brother was never good enough for you.” He let out a soft laugh. “He’s one of God’s children, but he couldn’t keep up with you.”

  They were quiet for a moment then.

  “I didn’t want to do it alone—having a kid.”

  “You wouldn’t have been alone.” He was right. Her dad and brothers would have been around. But if her mother had freaked out even with a co-parent, what kind of hope would she have had when the buck stopped with her? And Chris would have tried—not that he would have been much help.

  “Chris and I were done, and I felt like it just needed to be done.”

  Patrick turned to her and she met his gaze. “Then you did the right thing.”

  “Really?” This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d expected it to. She’d sort of expected it to be awkward. “You’re not even going to encourage Hail Marys?”

  “Nah. That works with the biddies. It’s really more for them.”

  Wanting to change the subject, she said, “Mrs. O’Toole totally went in with that hug.”

  Patrick laughed, and it made him look incredibly handsome and incredibly young. She sort of ached for that version of Patrick. His eyes seemed tired now. “I think I’ll have a bruise on my ass. She pinches.”

  “I noticed.”

  Patrick sobered. “You came here to make sure that I was cool with your life choices.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Anything else you want to talk about? Like, I don’t know, a new husband?”

  Bridget wasn’t about to lie to him after this conversation. “We didn’t exactly make a conscious decision to get married.” She was starting to really want it to last, even though Matt was the last thing she expected. Staying with him forever and ever, amen, would make her life so different from what she’d envisioned with Chris that she was still getting her head around it.

  “Jack really likes him.”

  “That makes me feel better.” Her tone was sarcastic, but it did make her feel better that her brother liked Matt. Despite his generally affable demeanor, Jack was fairly exacting when it came to people’s ethics and morals. He was loyal and kind, and he expected that from others. Bridget always sort of expected the worst from people. She used to blame that on her job, but it was starting to seem like it was a really shitty outlook on life.

  “If you need to talk about it, I’m here.” And she knew he would be. She was relieved that this conversation had taken the turn that it had, but she wasn’t eager to share what was going on in her head with respect to Matt before she’d sorted it out herself.

  “I think you’ll assign me a novena if I go into too much detail about Matt.”

  “Sounds juicy.” He stood up. “I heard a rumor that you’re going to feed me?”

  “Yes, I’m making a chicken.”

  Patrick pumped a fist. She’d never met anyone who appreciated a home-cooked meal more than him. “My favorite.”

  “I’ll see you in a few hours.” She got up to leave because Matt was going to show up at her place shortly to “help” her.

  Patrick hugged her before she could walk out, and her heart felt lighter knowing that not everything from her old life had fallen away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MATT DID NOT KNOW how to cook. Bridget didn’t know why this surprised her, given that he’d grown up with actual butlers. But he was an adult who lived on his own. The fact that he relied on takeout and meal delivery was sort of disturbing. It delineated the differences between them when they needed to find common ground, and it reminded her of Chris’s helplessness.

  Even though she’d generally rejected stereotypical gender-based tasks, Bridget loved to cook. After her mother left, she was on her own after school and spent a lot of time watching television. For some reason—probably because her sense of home had been so fucked up by her parents’ divorce—she’d gravitated toward the Food Network.

  Every afternoon after school, she’d done her homework while watching the Barefoot Contessa. Each day, she could take a little vacation to the Hamptons, where everything was easy and beautiful and domesticity was something to be celebrated. Sometimes, she would pretend that Ina Garten was her mother—even though the real Ina didn’t have kids.

  If Ina was her mother, she would have come home to warm cookies every day and a delicious dinner every night. Her parents—Bridget loved her dad, but Jeffrey would have been a good substitute—would have gotten along. They would have still been in love.

  But they were probably still happy after all these years in part because of the no-kids thing.

  Eventually, she’d started cooking the meals on the show. Her brothers and dad had appreciated her new hobby, and they never questioned why. They’d even bought her every single Barefoot Contessa cookbook. And she’d never resented cooking for people. It was a way that she could share love with them without any sappy, mostly empty words. It was a tangible thing.

  She didn’t think to hide her cookbook collection, all lined up in a cabinet her father had built for exactly that purpose. But Matt, seated at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, noticed. “Holy shit, you have a lot of cookbooks.”

  “I guess.” She felt her skin heat. It was the sort of thing she’d missed growing up with her first and only boyfriend. There’d been no slow reveal, no gradual increase in intimacy. And even though this was nothing that she had any reason to be embarrassed about, it felt strange to show this little anomalous thing about herself to someone who was still a stranger in a lot of ways. “Do you think it’s weird?”

  He was paging through Barefoot in Paris, the book she needed the chicken recipe from today. “I think I hit the jackpot.”

  “Don’t tell me you think that I’d have a home-cooked dinner waiting for you every night if we stayed together.”

  Her words must have sounded as bitter and wary as she felt in that moment, because he stopped cold. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  �
��What way did you mean it?” She kind of hoped he had the wrong answer so maybe she wouldn’t be quite as smitten with him anymore.

  “I just meant that it’s cool that you are so into this. I know that you work really hard and really late. I’d never expect some Leave It to Beaver dystopic fantasy Stepford Wife shit.”

  “Good answer.” His shoulders fell in relief. “Now wash the chicken.”

  * * *

  • • •

  MATT HAD NEVER WANTED to stab a priest before—at least not until Patrick took the last of the chicken-fat-soaked croutons out of the bottom of the pan. Before that, the whole evening had been markedly more relaxed than the dinner parties at his parents’ house.

  Jack, Bridget, and Patrick had inside jokes that he could only sit back and enjoy vicariously. Hannah had been folded into their little crew, and it seemed like she had always been there.

  Even though he knew that they’d be divorced inside a couple of weeks, he wished he could have that. He ultimately let Patrick have the last crouton. It was only fair. Matt had Bridget—for now—and Patrick had taken a vow of celibacy.

  When everyone was done eating and the last wineglass was drained, Bridget stood to clear plates. When he jumped up and said, “Sit down,” she looked a little startled. Then Hannah gave Jack a pointed look, and he got up to help.

  “I have him well trained,” she said with a smile.

  Jack scoffed. “I showed up trained.”

  “Ha! You and Michael were like feral cats in high school.” Bridget handed Jack her plate with a raised brow. Patrick got up, too, said something snide about still being sore from Mrs. O’Toole, and the kitchen was clean rather quickly.

  Since it was a Sunday night, everyone left, and Matt and Bridget were alone. He didn’t want to make any presumptions, but he really hoped that he could stay with her tonight. He’d have to rush out in the early-morning light for class, but he knew he wouldn’t see Bridget until the rehearsal dinner that weekend. Between school and work, they wouldn’t connect. And he needed her.