E –
I really hope you're up because I need you to help me sort out my life. Can I call you?
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 13:21 WEST
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
* * *
Unlikely. I drank my weight in the Portuguese equivalent of moonshine last night and I might have fried the speech portion of my brain.
* * *
Also: I'm getting on a bullet train to Italy. My capacity for support is limited.
* * *
And by sort out your life, you mean…what, exactly?
* * *
If you think for a second that I want to hear about how the Black Widow is ruining your life, you've really lost your fucking mind.
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: September 25 at 08:25 EDT
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
* * *
No, Shannon is fine. She's not ruining my life. You'd know that if you called her.
* * *
I met someone.
* * *
She showed up at my office yesterday in this dress, and we went to The Red Hat and she can pound tequila like a frat boy. Then she tripped and I brought her upstairs and my keys were in my pocket and she's so fucking hot, and we hooked up and now she's gone.
* * *
I should be over it, I get that, but I'm not. Not at all. I just don't know what to do right now.
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 13:32 WEST
Subject: Matt's mental breakdown
* * *
Stream of consciousness much?
* * *
Clearly, you're distraught. Maybe hungover. Maybe both.
* * *
Ok. I need a minute to process this. Are you saying that you like chica? I didn't think you were a hook-up and hang-out kind of kid.
* * *
And P.S.: The Red Hat? Classy, Matt. Classy. No wonder chica ditched your ass.
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: September 25 at 08:36 EDT
Subject: RE: Matt's mental breakdown
* * *
I'm not hungover and I'm not having a mental breakdown. I can't explain this, and that is why I'm asking YOU to sort ME out. By my count, you owe me a few.
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 13:41 WEST
Subject: RE: Matt's mental breakdown
* * *
Wow. Way to get all loan shark on me, kid.
* * *
Don't you have chica's number? CALL HER.
* * *
Say, Hey, chica. It seems we had an eventful day together and then you ghosted. WTF?
* * *
Or text her. Or go to her house.
* * *
If she wants to see you, she will. If she doesn't…find a new one.
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 13:59 WEST
Subject: RE: Matt's mental breakdown
* * *
You better tell me what happens. Don't think I won't send Sam to find you, and I know he'd feast all over this gossip.
9
Lauren
I set one copy of Oh, The Places You'll Go! aside for Steph and picked up the other to write a message inside the cover for Amanda when my phone signaled an incoming text. Pen between my teeth, I froze, seeing Matthew's name flash across the screen.
In the hours since fleeing his bed, my thoughts volleyed between estimating when he would call, debating if he would, and trying to decide which I wanted more.
The messages from Matthew kept coming until I set my phone face down and headed for the kitchen. I nibbled a square of dark chocolate—reminding myself it would be a morsel and not the entire bar—while the chirps seemed to amplify until they were reverberating off the walls. Flying into distraction mode, I washed a week's worth of dishes and edited my sloppy mail pile. I kept cleaning when the chirps stopped, suddenly concerned with polishing the bathroom faucets until they sparkled, but the quiet was strangling me and I dashed for the phone.
Matthew: Lauren, it's Matt. what happened? where are you?
Matthew: you have to know how truly mind-blowing and incredible last night was.
Matthew: I think it was good for you too.
"Don't worry, Matthew," I announced to my chocolate. "Mind-blowing and incredible all around.
Matthew: It scared the shit out of me when I woke up and you were gone.
Matthew: If there is anything I did or said that made you upset, I want to know.
Matthew: I was rough with you and I'm sorry for that. Please tell me you're ok.
Matthew: Lauren, please, I need to know you're all right. I'm going a little crazy here.
Matthew: Fuck, Lauren, do you have any idea what could have happened to you on the streets last night?
"Don't even start with that," I muttered. The role of Overbearing Male was already filled, and the Commodore had two promising understudies in Will and Wes. And it wasn't as if I couldn't handle myself.
Matthew: Lauren, please. Talk to me.
What was there to say? I didn't go home with guys I'd known for all of one hot second? Or I didn't know how to have a one-night stand? Or it hadn't been weeks or months since last having sex, it had been years.
Or maybe this was the time to tell him I was a hot messy mess and between crying in stairwells and stumbling around like a wobbly drunk girl, I was failing at damn near everything.
Or perhaps he wanted to hear that last night scared me. It was all well and good to flirt your pants off, but there was nothing flirty about the shit that went down between us. That kind of sex required agendas and protocols and some kind of how-to guide.
Matthew: I need to hear from you.
Matthew: I will meet you anywhere at any time. I'll come to you.
Matthew: Please just let me know you made it home.
Matthew: Lauren…please. I just want to make sure you're alive.
Matthew: and I know your phone is never more than 3 ft away from you so if you don’t respond soon I'm going to assume you're dead and not ignoring me.
I could hear the tension coiling between his shoulders with each message, and though I wanted to unknot every muscle, I wanted to smack some sense into him. Roaming the streets while female didn't require a chaperone.
I stared at his phone number alongside the string of texts, debating whether I should add him to my Address Book. The gesture was inconsequential but after last night, it was loaded with significance—I was deciding whether I intended to communicate with him ever again, and while I considered this, I barely registered the knocking at my door. I didn't consider the holey yoga pants and tank top I was wearing when I answered.
I probably should have.
"You left a few things behind, Miss Halsted."
Matthew leaned against the doorframe, and hanging from his fingers were my panties. My very expensive, very pretty panties. They glared back at me, all judgey and sanctimonious. It was my karmic punishment for sneaking out, for leaving a perfectly scrumptious naked man, and I could hear those panties condemning me.
"Unless, of course, you wanted me to keep them," he said, a playful edge creeping into his voice. "I'll take good care of them."
"I don't even want to know what that means!" I said, snatching the skivvies from him and tossing them into my apartment. I couldn't burst into those flames quickly enough, and that was before I determined what he'd do with my undies. "What are you doing here, Matthew? How do you even know where I live?"
Straightening, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes vanished. "I wanted to make sure you made it home, Lauren, and your address is on your business card."
"Fine, so that proves you didn't inject me with a tracking d
evice. Magnificent." I shook my head and pointed to my door. "I'm home."
He glanced inside my apartment, and nodded in that direction. "Can we talk, or…something? We were going to hang out today."
Why couldn't he let me crawl under a rug and die, like I wanted? Why did he need to show up holding my panties and looking adorable? This had to violate numerous one-night stand rules.
"Before you say no," he said, holding up a hand. "Just say yes instead."
Part of me wanted to close the door on him, close the book on this whole encounter, but another part of me wanted to kick it wide open, and I knew we'd be naked within five minutes if that happened.
And if I stepped back from it all—the chaos in my head, the ache between my legs, the swaying in my stomach from the tequila, chocolate, and not enough sleep—I wanted the naked option.
I also wanted a croissant, and if there was one thing I knew well, it was playing the trade-off game. Matthew was my treat yesterday; today it would be a croissant.
Easy enough.
"All right. But not here. No, you can go and, um, I'll meet you at the Frog Pond in a little while. Practice not being a creeper."
"Half an hour," he said. It was delivered as a statement, a warning: I won't wait for you all day. "Oh, and sweetness? You might have those panties back, but this?" Matthew's hand dipped into his pocket, and in an achingly slow movement, like a lurching movie in my mind, too slow to be real, he held my rose quartz necklace up by the chain. "I'm keeping this."
A happy perk of subletting from a colleague of my brothers' was living a block away from the Boston Common and the Public Gardens. It was my spot. I loved the Swan Boats, the Make Way for Ducklings statues, and the skating rink constructed over the Frog Pond every winter.
Not that I was cut out for ice skating, but I did enjoy the hot chocolate sold nearby.
I entered the park at the Charles Street Gate and adjusted the plaid scarf around my neck, my clothes strategically selected as an extra layer of confidence. Power heels and fancy panties didn't jive with weekend wear, so I need every scrap of fashion armor I could find.
Who did he think he was, showing up with my freaking underwear in his hand? And announcing he intended to keep my necklace? I was going to have some words with him.
Matthew was easy to spot, pacing in front of the pond, his hands perched on his hips and his long legs eating up the path. I watched him for several quiet minutes, trying to piece together why I agreed to this. I didn't get involved with this kind of drama, and I didn't let beautiful boys take over my life.
Just when I convinced myself to stop this ridiculous flirtation and leave, Matthew looked up, his eyes giving it all away. He was confused and annoyed and relieved, and behind that was a twinge of hurt. And I was responsible for all of it.
The distance between us evaporated, and he reached for me, running his hands from my shoulders to my fingertips and back up again. It was a decent response, considering I kicked him out of my apartment. Regardless of what he said in his texts, I expected to hear I was an awful hook-up and he was dumping me as a client and telling all his architect-engineer friends to steer clear.
"Miss Halsted," he sighed. He studied me, shaking his head while his hands skimmed up and down my arms.
"Mr. Walsh."
"Do you have any idea what you put me through? You leave in the middle of the night, then you don't respond to my texts? What the fuck happened?"
His sharp tone didn't align with his gentle hands as they pulled me closer, working over my shoulders and down the planes of my back, settling on my waist. He was a demanding little shit, but at least he was sweet about it.
"Nothing. I'm fine." I rolled my eyes. "You don't think this is all a bit much? Showing up at my place? The texts? My panties, my necklace? Aren't you coming on a little strong?"
Matthew tilted his head and shot me a measured glance. "I think last night was a little…strong."
It didn't matter whether I agreed with him—I did—but what I really wanted to know was whether last night was normal. What he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about. And perhaps the question wasn't about last night so much as it was about me: was I what he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about? Or was I convenient? Was it possible he did this, this whole crazy production, on a regular basis?
Or was it something else? Something different?
"Don't do this, Matthew. Don't go all caveman on me. You do not get to call the shots. I didn't mean to scare you, however you cannot send me, like, three dozen texts. I don't care what happened last night. It's ludicrous and overbearing and suffocating, and I don't put up with that shit."
"Are you kidding me? You actually believe I shouldn't freak out when you disappear from my bed in the middle of the night after promising to stay and you don't respond to my texts?"
"Well, yes."
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. "Miss Halsted, that's bullshit and you know it."
I gazed at his long-sleeved Cornell t-shirt, and my argument dried on my tongue. I didn't know why he generated such strong reactions in me, but there was no in-between.
I told myself to stop analyzing, stop dissecting. The day was crisp and sunny, and these jeans did amazing things for my legs, and this scrumptious man wanted my attention. It didn't have to fit into an agenda, and it didn't have to mean anything.
"Do you like croissants?"
"Hmm?" He squinted at me.
"Croissants. One of my favorite bakeries is over on Charles Street, and they have the best croissants, and I'd rather have a croissant than yell at you in the middle of the Common."
"Fine, but you need to promise me you'll never do that again."
I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Fine, but you need to promise you're not telling me what to do, or blowing up my phone with obsessive and stalkery texts again."
"Fine, and just so you know? All that eye rolling is adorable. Keep doing it."
"Fine, I will," I snapped, my voice cracking into a laugh at the end. "You're a caveman."
"You're bossy. I have to keep up."
Matthew smiled, and brushed his lips against mine. A hot blush stole across my cheeks and I studied the wash-weathered lettering on Matthew's shirt.
"I'm sorry I freaked out, Miss Halsted. I kept thinking you'd trip into the harbor and be swept out to sea. And then pretend you did it on purpose."
Another eye roll. "Can we talk about that croissant now?"
Matthew's fingers laced with mine as we walked to the bakery, and they stayed that way while we ordered and chose a sun-drenched table outside. He tore into his sandwich as I slathered apricot jam on my croissant, and from the right angle, we were a regular couple out for brunch. The unlikely history of us fell away, and we weren't trying to formulate the right words without the shelters of night and alcohol.
"You're not from around here," he said.
I unwound my scarf and dropped it to my lap. "Why do you say that?"
Matthew watched as I adjusted my chair in the direction of the sun's rays. "I know Boston people. You're not Boston people." He rubbed his knuckles over his jaw. "And you'd never heard of The Red Hat. So where are you from?"
"I grew up in California. Outside of San Diego."
He nodded and sipped his coffee. "And you're here because…why? You have a problem with great weather and beaches?"
"No. I love all beaches. They're my favorite places. And sunshine, too, but I'm into seasons. San Diego is summery and slightly less summery. I came out here to go to Williams College, and I wanted to work in urban schools, which is how I made my way to Boston. Chelsea, actually."
"Do you visit California much?" Matthew leaned back, his ankles crossed over each other and his arms folded against his chest.
Licking my lips, I tried to remember the question. Too scrumptious. "No, not much. My parents are mostly retired, and they do this whole motor-home-and-road-trip thing. My dad does some consulting, and my mother's blog is basica
lly five minutes from being featured on the Travel Channel, so they're busy."
Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Not even for the holidays?"
Frowning, I sipped my latte and mentally scrolled through my calendar. Surviving September was my top priority. "Uh, no, I hadn't planned on it. My parents are touring Baja California for the next few months. A group of friends usually get together for Thanksgiving and some form of mash-up of winter holidays, and…"
I trailed off, realizing that we wouldn't be hosting a Christma-Hanu-Festivus party this year. Not with Steph in Chicago and Amanda in DC. Sure, other friends would extend invitations to their celebrations, or try to recreate our festivities. Not so unlike book club, it wasn't the same, and I wanted—maybe I was being a petulant child—to remember the way we did it, not the spin-off.
"I like this area," he said, looking around. "My sister lives on Mt. Vernon, near Louisburg Square. She's obsessed with Beacon Hill."
I hated the idea of dismissing his comments, but I didn't want all of these personal details. I couldn't pretend this never happened if I picked up another uniquely Matthew story. "You said you wanted to hang out today?"
The Walsh Brothers Page 8