A heaviness settled between us, and before the waiter could present the dessert menus, I held up a hand and said, "One of everything, and another round."
We sampled the crème brulee, flourless chocolate cake, and pain perdu, and I set the pecan pie aside for the morning. My position on pie for breakfast brought him to the origin of his family's famous butternut squash pie recipe—his mother substituted squash after he and Patrick climbed the roof of their childhood home for a pumpkin-smashing experiment—and that it was the only thing Shannon was allowed to cook, ever.
As a transplant to New England, that was a new one for me, and I filed it away with the frappes and fluffernutters, and whoopee pies and Indian pudding.
With a fresh sazerac in hand, Matthew leaned forward and said, "I actually need to hear this from you, Lauren. I need to understand why you stopped talking to me because I don't. I don't understand any of it."
Licking chocolate from the fork's tines, I shrugged. "I've had a really hectic few weeks."
My words sounded flimsy and hollow, and while we both knew I was busy, we also knew there was more to the story.
He folded his arms on the table, his hands circling the tumbler, and I watched his fingertips as they tapped the glass. I liked his hands. Long fingers, light freckles all over, and a dusting of hair near his wrist. His watch was the size of a puppy's head, but on him, it was almost proportional.
"And you thought I wouldn't want to hear about that?"
"I didn't know what you wanted," I said.
Eyebrow lifted, Matthew leveled me with a sharp look. "Yes, you did."
Instead of trying to fill the most awkward silence in the history of humanity with empty babble that certainly wouldn't make him happy, I finished the crème brulee. He signaled for the check, and snatched it up when I reached across the table.
"You're a caveman," I murmured.
"You're bossy."
He didn't look up when he said it, and it wasn't the same loving quip without his usual smirk and sarcastic tone.
Is this what I've been doing all this time? Is this what it feels like to be shut out and pushed away?
The return trip to the hotel was quiet, and he didn't reach for me. The French Quarter was vibrant and pulsating, and I wanted more than anything to feel that way with Matthew right now, to banish the prickly energy between us. He stopped at the corner of Bourbon Street, gesturing to lively venues boasting jazz and bourbon, voodoo and hurricanes, and asked, "Will rum bring you back to me? Or is it just tequila?"
"I don't know what you want me to say," I sighed and wrapped my scarf around my shoulders. Armor. The thin, flowery fabric was the best shield I had, and I needed it to protect me right now.
"Tell me why. That's all I want."
Partiers spilled onto the streets, laughing and singing, and I shrugged. "The past two weeks have been…awful. I mean, I've learned things and met people, but awful. It's been ridiculous and shameful and appalling how much I've missed you. We had an incredible weekend, and that should've been the end of it. But I can't get you out of my head. Okay? Was that what you wanted?"
"Yeah," he said, brushing my hair over my shoulder. "Keep going."
"I never sleep and all of this travel is kicking my ass. And it's really obvious I only have half a clue of what I've gotten myself into with opening this school. I'm pretty sure I'm failing at life."
"And if you'd mentioned any of that to me, I would've told you it was bullshit. I would've said dirty things over the phone to make you feel better because I missed you too and I want to solve these things for you."
"Matthew," I laughed impatiently. "I can't find room in my life to breathe right now. I thought if I kept my distance, if I only talked about the project…I thought it would be easier."
"Was it?"
We both knew the answer. We knew it the second we kissed at the airport. We knew it every time our eyes locked. We knew it when he was so deep inside me that he took my breath. Finally I shook my head, and said, "No, but I didn't see any other way."
"Let me find one, Lauren. Just let me in and I'll find one."
I studied the brain throughout grad school: how it worked, how it stored and organized information, and how teachers could make instruction more accessible for all kids. While my focus was classroom-centric, I also learned how the brain perceived experiences and engaged the senses to form emotions and memories.
I knew the brain decided what it wanted to see. The rods and cones within the eye's structure transferred images, but in the process, the brain morphed them, shifting and shaping and shading until they aligned with each person's unique cognitive structures. The hard-wired neural pathways made eyewitness accounts unreliable, and meant we didn't notice our keys were in their usual spot all along. Sight was belief's most subjective, manipulative source.
I'd known this yet ranked myself above it. I thought I was the ultimate seer. I thought I could look beneath the layers, understand more than I saw, and read between the lines, but I couldn't see what was right in front of me.
When had it stopped being just for fun, just for now? When had Matthew and I transitioned from drinking buddies to an us, an entity requiring care and communication? I paged through memories of Matthew while the humid air and rich fragrances of the Quarter rose around us, and realized it had never been casual. Not even once.
It was controlled chaos, and I needed to embrace it. Or running screaming.
Maybe it was the whiskey or the anise-flavored Herbsaint, or maybe just the sharp and sudden realization that I wasn't in charge now, and perhaps I never was, but I wanted to close the distance between us. I wanted to get back to the place where I knew him, and with my head against his chest and his arms around me, I was close enough.
He pressed his lips to my hair and murmured, "I didn't fly here for drinks. I flew here for you."
He tipped my face up, his lips hovering over the corner of my mouth, and in that split second, life was perfect. I was perfect. There were no overdue action plans, no epic strangeness, no failing at entry-level life. Right now, with his hands in my back pockets and his lips on my mouth and those gazelles storming across my lungs, we were perfect.
And that was all it was—now.
I wanted to step outside of myself and snap a photo of us, and then I'd always be able to find that perfection when everything else fell apart.
20
Matthew
Lauren: flight officially changed to Fri night.
Matthew: good. I want you back in my time zone
Matthew: and bed
Lauren: your bed misses me now?
Matthew: every piece of furniture in my loft. shower. dick. hand.
Matthew: they all miss you
Matthew: the next time I'm jerking off in the shower, I'd really like your tits there so I can come all over them
Lauren: that's very specific
Matthew: you're all about specific requests, sweetness. I learn from the best
Matthew: …where'd you go?
Matthew: I thought you'd be into that. it's cool if you're not, it's fine
Matthew: I want what you want.
Lauren: just clearing my weekend schedule. wanted to block time on my calendar for these little shower adventures you've described
Matthew: can I ask what you've titled that event?
Lauren: hydraulics inspection
Matthew: YES
It shouldn't have been that easy—a flight to New Orleans, a spicy meal, and two days buried in my hot blonde—but that was all it took to unwind the deep knot of tension in my neck and the numbers in my head.
"Look at this: clean-shaven, sharp clothes, no bitter scowl. What a difference a weekend makes. Speaking on behalf of the tribe, it's delightful to see you've dislodged the steel I-beam that was in your ass, Matt," Sam said as I took my seat around the attic conference table. "Even if you are ten minutes late."
"Hells yeah," Riley said. "Did you say hi to Miss Honey for me?"
"For everyone's
safety and sanity, it's fair to say that Lauren isn't allowed to leave town without you anymore," Patrick said.
I indulged their ribbing with a self-deprecating shrug, busying myself with testing the temperature of my coffee and adjusting the volume settings on my phone. I knew her conference would keep her tied up through the evening, but I wanted to know immediately if she messaged, and I didn't care if Patrick lost his shit over it either.
For once, the firm and this job weren't coming first. Lauren was.
"So it went well?" Shannon asked.
I studied my screen as I formulated a response. I wanted to keep my weekend with Lauren in a private place far from the ravenous purview of my siblings. At times, I regretted holding Shannon at an arm's length when I shared so much with Erin, but Shannon required more explanation, and she wanted to analyze everything beyond recognition. I knew last night's quick text when I landed at Logan was inadequate, but it was the best I could give her then, and probably the only thing I could give her now.
Looking up, I met her glare with an even expression. "Yeah."
"Christ almighty, you are impossible! What happened? What's the deal with you two?"
"Not during my meeting, Shan," Patrick said. "Today's agenda is packed and I have a nine o'clock consult. We need to get moving."
"Okay people, let's get high-level updates on projects, whiz bang fast," she said with a snap of her fingers. "Sammy, you start."
I half listened as Sam walked through his current work, turning my attention to my weekend emails. I'd plowed through several hundred at the airport and during my flight last night, but many more appeared early this morning. All of my masonry contractors were working straight through the weekends wherever city regulations and building permits allowed, getting in as much time as possible before snow and frozen earth made their craft substantially more difficult. Famously unpredictable, Boston winter weather could bring my stonework to a grinding halt, and I needed to wrap up several projects before the first major snowstorm.
My thoughts turned to Lauren and I pictured her curled up next to the fireplace at my loft, watching a storm blow in off the water. The idea of being snowed in with Lauren landed in my chest, and my heart beat harder, heavier. I barely noticed when Riley leaned toward me and tapped my arm.
"Dude."
I refocused on my siblings, quickly realizing that four pairs of eyes were staring at me. Sam pressed his fist to his mouth, a poor attempt at concealing his smirk, and said, "We need to take a minute to observe this. Many moons will pass before anyone else at this table shows up looking quite this love-drunk."
"Updates?" Shannon prompted, her knowing smile a stark contrast to Patrick's bland scowl.
"Back Bay properties are down to punch lists, and I'm going to spend most of the day sitting on the GC to get them knocked out," I said. "Shan, plan to list them in a week or two. HVAC and flooring upgrades are finished at Trench, and framing and drywall are on track for this week. Newton is a mess because the homeowner has requested a fifth floor plan overhaul. North End needs a foundation rebuild, as I predicted two months ago, and we're pouring concrete tomorrow."
"Add an extra twenty percent to Newton. Call it the dicking around fee," Patrick said, his eyes focused on his master spreadsheet of projects, timelines, and budgets. I envied no part of that. "What about Angus's Bunker Hill buys?"
"RISD, you got this?" I glanced over to Riley, waiting for a confident response. I spent weeks coaching Riley through the process and overseeing the development of his proposal, and despite Angus's pissing and moaning, I knew he had some strong, unique ideas for the four properties no one wanted to touch.
"Yeah," he stammered. "I drafted a few different scenarios. Depending upon whether we're going for single-family, multi-family, or mixed use." He spread his designs over the center of the table, pausing while Patrick, Shannon, and Sam studied his work.
"That's interesting," Sam mused, pointing to one of the designs. Patrick nodded in agreement, and I sensed Riley's anxiety multiplying as the minutes passed. He still couldn't manage to zip his fly or make it to the office without spilling coffee on his perennially wrinkled clothes, and it didn't appear he owned any socks, but I was starting to see some potential. His work clearly reflected a different approach than the one Sam, Patrick, and I shared, but after some fine-tuning, I liked it.
"What's your recommendation?" Patrick asked.
Riley turned expectant eyes to me, and I nodded in encouragement. "That area's coming up fast, but it's mostly triple deckers and apartments. Not a lot of single-family. The data seems to indicate that the few single-family properties listed sell in days."
Patrick studied the designs again. "Have you approved these?" he asked, pointing the papers at me.
"Yeah. Everything checks out."
Patrick nodded and pushed the papers back toward Riley. "RISD, you're still Matt's shadow. Do this, do this well, do everything Matt says, and we'll talk. Shan, look into the Charlestown market to be sure about the SFH demand and get some conservative sales estimates by midweek. Let's look at bottom lines before we lift a hammer. And someone get Angus to decide how much we're investing without letting him in the office, please."
"I can do that." Riley shrugged indifferently, but I noticed him biting back a proud smile.
"That's all I got," I said.
"Good," Patrick murmured. "Nothing to report on the intern front. Shannon is meeting with accounting and payroll providers to get that off her plate, and we're looking at candidates for another assistant for her. Someone to support marketing and publicity, and all that shit."
"Nothing to report on the intern front because Patrick is literally impossible to please," she said. "We've met nine perfectly pleasant candidates."
"We've met nine morons," Patrick said, scowling. "Bring me someone who can spell sustainable preservation, and I'll consider it. We're not talking about this right now, Shannon."
"Wow. Shit just got real," Riley said.
"You have a decent design. Now you have to stop with the quippy catchphrases," Sam said. "Expand your lexicon."
"Hate the game, not the player," he scolded with a wink.
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: October 13 at 11:25 EDT
Subject: answer your phone
* * *
E –
I need you sorting me out right now. Call me. Whenever.
M
"If we blow out this wall, we get all the natural light from the front windows, and the flow of the space completely changes." Riley gestured to the dusty parlor windows with one hand and pointed to the adjacent wall with the other. "I think natural light is the best asset of this one."
I paced from the windows to the back of the Bunker Hill property, mentally calling up the blueprints and scanning the space for load-bearing walls. "While I agree with that, I'm concerned about structural support without that wall. Original plans seem to indicate it supports the second and third floors."
"Which is why we need to move the staircase. Here, look." Riley spread his latest draft on the window seat and pointed to several new arteries of steel. "Struts here, here, and here."
"That's a lot of steel," I murmured. "What's Angus thinking for a budget on these properties?"
Riley cleared his throat and rolled up his drafts, tucking them into his cylindrical canister. "Half million, all in. He's not talking about where that kind of scratch came from. I'd rather not be implicated in the affairs between him and his bookie, so I'm not about to ask."
I whistled, my palm running along the recently discovered carvings in the arched doorway to the parlor. I couldn't understand the logic behind covering such fine craftsmanship with shitty composite wood paneling, hiding it for decades, but underneath it all, these properties were hidden gems waiting for someone to understand their structures, put in the work, peel back the layers, and honor their original beauty. As much as I hated giving Angus credit for anything beyond taking up
space, these were incredible finds.
"By all means, load up the steel. That's going to double the timeline, though. We'll want to save a lot of this." I waved my hand at the exposed brick walls and plaster detailing around the windows. "Let's get White's crew in here next week. They're the best at gentle demo. We'll want to supervise, too. I'm thinking we're going to find more when we start tearing out walls."
"These plans, they're good? You'd tell me if I needed to fix something, right?"
"I would tell you." I gestured toward the door. "Let's get out of here. It's freezing."
Riley followed me to the Range Rover. "Does it make sense to get rid of the parlor if we're restoring this property? Wouldn't a restoration preserve the original design? Sometimes I don't think I understand what we do and if I'm doing it right."
I swiped my phone to life and waited for the airline's app to load while I considered Riley's question. I typed in Lauren's flight information and stifled a groan when I saw it delayed by ninety minutes. At the same moment, she texted.
Lauren: hey. Not getting in until 1015 now. crazy day getting crazier.
Matthew: yeah, I just saw that. Are you ok?
Lauren: yes. hold on tight for this: woke up late. put on the wrong suit coat and I'm rocking black pants and a navy jacket. got salad dressing on my silk shirt. tripped because I'm wearing the wrong shoes with these pants and grabbed some lady's boob to break my fall.
Lauren: karma's kicking my ass over something today.
Lauren: So…I might spend the next hour and a half in the bar. introduce myself to nola's other specialty: the hurricane.
Matthew: pace yourself, sweetness.
Lauren: we're going to miss dinner. gah…hate that.
Matthew: tomorrow.
Lauren: but I had a plan.
Matthew: you always have a plan, sweetness. sometimes you just need to roll with it.
"Dude." Smiling brightly, I looked up from my phone and realized Riley was still waiting on my response. "I was talking."
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