by KD Fisher
Chapter Ten
Mikah
“UM, what is this thing?” I gestured to the beaded ornament hanging front and center on Matt’s small Christmas tree. It looked like some kind of fucked-up, surrealist green dog. While the rest of Matt’s house was tidy and cozy—whitewashed wood walls, comfortable but simple furniture, minimal clutter—his Christmas tree looked like a grade-school art room exploded all over it. Every ornament was handmade and brightly colored. A few included choppily cut photos of Matt and a tiny dark-haired girl who I assumed was his niece.
“Apparently it’s a dog. My guess that it was a crocodile did not go over too well with Abby.” Matt mock-grimaced from his post behind the counter. But his face went soft at the mention of his niece. He was too charming for his own good.
I quickly snapped my attention back to the tree. In addition to being an adorably devoted uncle, he’d pushed up the sleeves of his dark green henley, revealing thickly muscled forearms that flexed with his every movement. Probably it would read as slightly creepy for me to stare at him slack-jawed as he made dinner. Really, watching him, calm and precise, as he chopped vegetables and reached for pans was incredibly distracting. So distracting in fact, that I’d almost cut my thumb off trying to mince some garlic and had been banished to relaxing in front of the blazing woodstove with Moose.
Although I’d only been in Matt’s cabin a handful of times, the place was so cozy that it already felt homier than the majority of the places I’d lived in the past. The SoHo apartment I grew up in was always pristine, with fresh-from-the-showroom designer furniture arranged just so and big abstract prints adorning every wall. I’d only felt at ease in the poster-collaged confines of my bedroom. My college dorm and subsequent shared apartment had been pleasantly chaotic, but both were transient spaces filled with mismatched, disposable furniture. Really, my one-bedroom walkup in Cambridge with its view of traffic-clogged Mass Ave and clanking radiators had been the closest I’d ever gotten to my idea of home. I’d been sad to leave as I loaded my clothes and books into my car for the multiday road trip out to Jackson the month before. Now that I was gone, though, I didn’t miss the place.
Here, though, my shoulders relaxed as the smell of fresh pine mingled with the delicious aroma of the onions and herbs Matt was sautéing in butter. I snuggled into the shirt I’d borrowed for a second time, surreptitiously sniffing the soft cotton that smelled like Matt. After getting distracted from the what’s-for-dinner conversation by a make-out session that turned into a second round of sex, I’d been so sleepy and content that the idea of changing back into my stiff jeans and scratchy sweater seemed nearly impossible. So I’d asked Matt if he had something comfy I could put on. I kind of had a thing for wearing his clothes. Now, my body had the soft floaty sensation of a fever breaking. Everything was bright and hazy and perfect, like being pleasantly tipsy, although I’d had nothing to drink. I smiled to myself when I realized this was what people must mean when they said they felt totally relaxed. I’d never really felt that way before. Scratching Moose’s head, I leaned back against the couch and allowed my eyes to drift out of focus as I stared at the Christmas tree. The white lights expanded over the spots of color and dark boughs of green, everything merging into a glimmering blur.
“You sure your family’s okay with you being over here on Christmas?” Matt’s voice pulled my attention back to the kitchen. He’d moved on to peeling potatoes, and I stood, hoping he would actually let me help. When I gestured for him to give me the paring knife, he shrugged and handed it over carefully, handle first.
“Oh, for sure.” I laughed. My dad and Naomi were going to a vegan dinner party at the ultramodern home of the woman who co-owned the yoga studio with my stepmom. Elena, in a rare moment of anxiousness, hadn’t even looked up from her laptop as I walked out the door to leave for Matt’s place. She’d been mumbling all afternoon about needing to get work done on some big collaborative structural dynamics project. Luca, as usual, was determined to catch up on emails. “Seriously, Christmas Eve is the big holiday for us. So no worries at all. If I were at home I’d probably just be, like, marathoning the Harry Potter movies and taking BuzzFeed quizzes.”
“This is a nice change of pace,” Matt admitted, his eyes locked on the winter greens he’d started meticulously chopping into thin, even strips. “Christmas is usually pretty quiet for me. Kinda nice not to be by myself.”
Something went hollow in my chest at his words. Gently, I set down the potato I was peeling and wrapped my arms around Matt, pressing my chest into his back as close as possible. If I could, I would leach away whatever made his voice go low and distant.
“This is nice for me too,” I said into the broad expanse of his back. “I like hanging out with you a lot.” This was a massive understatement. With the exception of my family, spending time with others tended to drain me. Sometimes I’d enjoyed grabbing a quick cocktail with a friend or going for a jog with a fellow teacher after school, but more than a few hours of prolonged human contact rendered me desperate for the quiet of a cozy chair and a novel. With Matt, though, the time flowed by, easy and gentle. I actively craved his presence. I could imagine myself sprawled on the couch, with my feet in his lap, both of us reading or talking for hours. But my heart stammered at the realization that this cozy tableau was only temporary. I was leaving. In a little over a week I would be back in New York, camping out at my mom’s place and making pleasant conversation with her steady stream of aggressively chic friends.
Still plastered to Matt’s back, I burrowed my face into his warmth and matched my breathing to his. Long inhale, slow exhale. After a moment he turned to face me, his gaze tender. So tender, in fact, that my heart started to pound in my chest, and I lost the even pace of my breaths. But then his lips quirked up, and he bent down, pressing his lips to mine.
“You like chocolate chip cookies?” he asked when we parted.
“Yeah. My mom used to get these amazing ones from this French bakery on the Upper West Side. She still sends me boxes of them a few times a year.”
“Okay, well, I don’t think these will be that fancy. But chocolate chip cookies are kinda my specialty. Want to help?” Matt chuckled, nodding in the direction of flour, eggs, and butter laid out on the counter.
“Cool!” I grinned, genuinely excited. “I’ve never made chocolate chip cookies before.”
Matt shot me a skeptical look. “I thought you liked baking?”
“I do. Just, I make Italian stuff for the most part. And chocolate chip cookies aren’t exactly a Sicilian staple.”
“Well, these are pretty much the only thing I know how to bake. People seem to like ’em fine. We even bring them to the market sometimes.” Matt actually looked a little sheepish, color rising to his cheeks. He really was too adorable. I wanted to kiss him, so I did, pressing up onto my tiptoes to ghost my lips over his. In addition to being unreasonably handsome, Matt was ridiculously tall, so it was hard to reach his mouth without him bending his knees.
“Why are you so tall?” I grumbled, reaching for the red-and-white mixing bowl next to the cookie supplies.
Matt ignored my question, instead handing me the bag of flour and instructing me to measure out two and a half cups while he checked on the meatloaf in the oven. I felt happy, almost silly, in a way I hadn’t since I was a little kid. As Matt turned to provide me with further cookie instructions, I blew a tiny cloud of flour at his face. For a moment he looked shocked. His blond eyebrows, lightly dusted with white, shot toward his adorably rumpled hair. Then he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto the counter. I lost myself in the sensation of his lips on mine. It was a good thing he’d set a timer on the oven.
MATT fussed with his stereo for a long time, clearly deliberating over the music, before we settled onto stools at the counter to eat. I’d never really liked country music or meatloaf very much before, but in Matt’s warm, cozy cabin, both were perfect. Plus the meatloaf was actually delicious. The food, like the man who made i
t, was wholesome and hearty. Matt grew the potatoes and winter greens himself, and his brother, apparently, had hunted the elk for the meatloaf. I joked that a farm-to-table meal like this would probably cost about fifty dollars a plate in New York, and Matt looked appalled. We chatted nonstop as we ate, about how he’d adopted Moose after some skiers abandoned the dog in town two winters ago, about how he and John built his timber frame cabin themselves, about the trials and tribulations of my solo road trip from Cambridge to Jackson in November. The conversation lulled to a comfortable silence, and Matt finished the food on my plate. He’d served me far more than I could possibly eat in a single sitting. I leaned forward against the countertop, relaxed and satisfied, running my fingers over the fine, light wood grain and tapping my foot along with the music.
“Huh,” I said suddenly. Matt glanced up from polishing off the rest of my potatoes. “I never would have thought I’d enjoy country Christmas music of all things. Who is this?”
A flash of enthusiasm transformed Matt’s stoic face. “Loretta Lynn. She’s great, isn’t she? My mom was a huge fan. Had a picture of her tucked into the frame of her mirror and everything.”
My head buzzed with questions about Matt’s family, but I had an inkling that he didn’t really like being asked about his upbringing. So I just nodded enthusiastically and kept quiet. After a long moment, he continued, his words steady and measured.
“My mom was a good lady. She had a hard time. Both my parents did. They were always big drinkers, regulars at all the local dives. But when I was in middle school, it got worse. My dad got hurt shoeing one of the horses. Fell and messed up his back. The pills the doctor gave him, well, I guess he and my mom liked them a little too much. They started drinking more too… and things changed. Farm started suffering.” Matt turned toward me, unwilling to meet my eye. I had no idea what to say, but I was glad Matt felt comfortable opening up to me. I listened, scooting my stool a little closer to him but giving him space in case he wanted it. But he closed the gap between us, hauling me into a tight embrace. This time when he took me into his arms, it felt different. Like I could give him back some of the calm he’d poured into me.
“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” I spoke carefully. As much as I wanted to give Matt room to share, I also didn’t want to pry.
“Shit, I want to tell you. It’s… embarrassing, I guess. My family wasn’t like yours. We didn’t talk and cook together. Hell, John and I pretty much raised ourselves.” Matt released me and folded his arms over his broad chest.
Standing, I gripped Matt’s shoulders and relaxed my features, hoping to show him with my body that he could say anything to me. I bent to look in his eyes, shifting so he couldn’t avoid my gaze. “Matt,” I said as softly as possible, “I want to know everything about you. You don’t have to act a certain way around me. And please don’t be embarrassed. Just because your parents struggled with addictions does not mean they were bad people. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
Matt hesitated. “Look, I’m not trying to make a big deal of this. The past is the past. But I mean, when they died they didn’t leave anything good behind.” His fingers flew to the necklace, brushing over it gently. He was still breathing steadily, calmly, but his gaze remained fixed on the floor. “The farm, the house, and some debt. That’s it.” Moose, who had been snoozing next to Matt’s feet, leapt to follow as he stalked into the kitchen with our plates.
“Matt….” I started, close behind, wanting to hold him.
“Mikah, you went to Harvard. I didn’t even finish high school. I’m lucky I love farming because I can’t do anything else.”
“That doesn’t matter, though,” I said, rushing to set him at ease. Now Matt was visibly upset, jaw twitching with tension that I felt in my own body. “Like who gives a shit where I went to college?” I bit my lip hard. A lot of people, unfortunately, did care about things like that. “I went there because my dad did. Because that was the plan. I just followed along. Going to a good school doesn’t make me smarter or better or anything.” Frustrated, I raked my hand through my hair, tugging on it and welcoming the tiny bloom of pain. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I glanced around Matt’s cabin, my gaze coming to rest on the large windows. It was dark out but not quite night. Everything was cast in shades of evening blue: the stirring trees, the neat fields, the distant mountains.
“This—” I swept my hand around his home and toward the view. “—you should be proud of this. You’re happy here, right?”
Matt deflated and sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he ground out. “I never thought I’d have anything this… healthy. I am proud of the farm. We worked hard to build this. Don’t know about happy, though. Content for sure.” Matt shrugged and turned toward the sink to start doing the dishes.
I eased the soapy sponge from his hand and bumped my hip against his. Thankfully he didn’t argue when I started scrubbing the pans from dinner. “Hey, if you’re not happy here, you could totally come to New York with me,” I teased as I stacked dripping plates in the wooden drying rack laid out on a towel next to the sink.
Thankfully, Matt rewarded my pathetic effort to lighten the mood with a smirk. “Think I’d stick out?”
“Everyone fits in New York. But you might stand out because you’re so gorgeous.” I shrugged. I couldn’t help but smile at the image of Matt, tall and broad in a flannel shirt and work boots, navigating the tourist-clogged streets of lower Manhattan, apologizing quietly and smirking as he ducked selfie-sticks and skirted around bedsheets laid out to display knock-off designer bags.
Matt scoffed and rolled his eyes, his demeanor settling back to his usual calm. I wasn’t joking about him being gorgeous, though. One glance into his intense blue eyes or one flash of his surprisingly sweet smile and I melted. I craved the taste of his mouth and that low, possessive growl that rumbled through him each time our lips met. But there was no denying this was far more than sexual infatuation. My attraction to Matt was elemental. With him, I was at peace. Even tonight’s heavier conversation felt safe. His sturdy quiet grounded me, leached away my unease and undid me. Although I sensed Matt was holding some of his emotions back—and I certainly didn’t know how to unravel the knotted mess of feelings writhing inside me—I was filled with the blood-deep conviction that we fit together.
“Did you hear anything I said?” Matt asked without ire, tapping me gently on the forehead. He was once again busy at the stove, tipping spices into a small pot of something that smelled like comfort itself.
“Umm….”
Matt kissed me, and his mouth tasted like sweet apples and winter spices. “I asked you about the song you played last night.”
My ears heated. Playing for Matt the night before, the music flowed through me, warm and bright, in a way it rarely did. I hadn’t wanted to stop playing. I’d started piano lessons in preschool. And for years I’d fretted through performances for music teachers and crowds of high-achieving, competitive peers, and through long hours perfecting pieces, laboring over tiny flaws and tugging at my hair when a composition felt slightly off. After I’d been passed over for the conservatory spot, sometimes, sitting down in front of the piano, my fingers refused to move and my palms got sweaty. But they hadn’t last night.
Matt laughed, and I buried my face in my hands. Yet again, I’d spaced out. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” I grumbled. “But, yeah, the song I played was Tchaikovsky—the ‘Waltz of the Flowers’ from The Nutcracker. Did you like it?”
“Yup,” Matt said softly as he tipped amber liquid into two mugs. “Never heard it before.”
I tried not to let surprise show on my face. My mom was a season ticket holder at the New York City Ballet, and we’d seen The Nutcracker so many times I could probably play the entire score in my sleep. It seemed strange to me that Matt could be unfamiliar with such a famous piece of music.
“Here.” I hurried over to Matt’s stereo system, eager to share this with him
. “Is there an aux input? I have it in my music library. If you want, we can listen to the whole ballet.”
A moment later we settled on the couch, a plate of chocolate chip cookies and two steaming mugs of cider on the coffee table in front of us. Biting into a cookie, I groaned as the crisp exterior gave way to a buttery sweet center, still a little warm. Matt looked undeniably pleased as I devoured the thing in two bites. I leaned into him with a small, contented sigh. The living room was dim, illuminated only by the shifting golden glow of the fire and the white strings of light on the tree. Moose, realizing we were not going to share anything with him, curled his giant brown-and-black body into a loop in front of the woodstove. The delicate notes of the overture floated around us, drifting through the air like snow. I looked again and again at the Christmas tree, the lights twinkling on the deep green boughs. Outside a wash of stars shone in the sky, sharp and clear white against the inky dark. I closed my eyes, desperate to sear every detail into my memory, knowing I would spend the rest of my life pining for this moment.
“You falling asleep, baby?” Matt drew me closer, his arms wrapping tighter around me, heavy and warm like a blanket. Shaking my head, I relaxed into him and breathed his smell.
“No,” I murmured against the soft fabric of Matt’s shirt, “I’m just really happy.”
“Me too,” he said softly. And his kiss felt like home.
Chapter Eleven
Mikah
THE mountaintops were chalk-white, so clear against the sky, it seemed like I could reach out and touch them. The sky out here was bigger, wider. I liked how it made me feel small. The snow had stopped this morning, but the air still smelled like it, fragile and clean. Gently, I ran my fingers over the coarse hair of the horse’s mane. When Matt had suggested we go horseback riding, I’d completely failed to hide my horror. I’d never actually been on a horse, only seen them miserably pulling tourists around the city or kicking at the dirt paths in Central Park as the cops riding them blandly surveyed throngs of joggers and nannies with expensive strollers.