by Unknown
I hated Norah for the fact she’d made me feel so ashamed of myself for looking up Raine in the first place. And because she was so vocal about how much everything hurt her feelings.
I hated Lucas, of course, because he was untattooed, unmysterious, and never smirked while leaning against things for support. And he was always so freaking calm. And because lately he’d been working so hard that sometimes I felt like a widow to his computer screen.
I hated my job, too. Because it was supposed to be artistic, but often felt like a slog of practicing and rehearsing. Because we had to play the same music so much, to please the audiences who never tired of The Four Seasons. I never tired of Vivaldi either, but sometimes I tired of playing it. Because it would never involve exposing myself or my genitalia for all the world to see. And because I felt guilty that the entire month of June and part of July had passed and I’d barely touched my cello at all.
Last but not least, I hated my cello. It lay in its case near my music stand, and I didn’t have to open it to see it in my mind. I didn’t have to touch it to feel it beneath my hands, in perfect detail. I hated the sounds I could coax from it, the low, mellow, rich notes that had haunted me since I’d first heard them, when I was still a kid and didn’t know any better.
I hated that I’d been so obsessed with one stupid instrument that I’d dedicated my whole life to it.
I sat there for a long time, bringing as much hate as I could, until my mood was significantly darker and I felt ashamed of every choice I’d made since I was a kid.
Only then could I relax, because all that self-flagellation made me realize how much I liked my life. I could enjoy it despite all the things I could find to dislike about it. That had to mean something.
And only then did I feel I was ready to seek out Raine, for more sisterly abuse.
“You should think about calling first, Princess,” Matt said.
He filled up the door of my mother’s house. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a gray T-shirt, and I told myself that was all for the best, because my mother’s sleepy suburban neighborhood was definitely not ready for an appearance of the dragon. Neither was I.
“In fact,” he continued after a moment, “it seems like you have some trouble with the general concept.”
I was glad I’d spent so long practicing the hate today, because it was easy to direct it at him.
“This is my mother’s house,” I snapped, glaring at him.
“That’s true,” Matt agreed.
And then he just stood there, looking at me.
It was not lost on me that we seemed to have a lot of moments in doorways. I still remembered that night he’d appeared at this very door six years ago; there was the whole overwhelming dragon tattoo door situation at his house in San Francisco; and then, of course, the conversation outside the doors at my hotel. Maybe it was some kind of sign.
Doors that I should just slam shut, I thought darkly. Preferably on his foot.
“I wanted to see if Raine was here,” I said finally, pushing past him and walking into the house. “And I’m not sure I need to give you any explanations for showing up at my own mother’s house.”
I stopped near the door to the living room, and looked through it toward the little room that served as my father’s shrine. I wasn’t sure what the presence of the sitting room meant, given what I now knew about my mother. I would have to think about that later, when my own past wasn’t literally breathing down my neck.
“Nobody’s here,” Matt said from behind me. “Raine went off somewhere before I got up this morning. Who knows what she’s doing, or when she’ll be back. And your mom is at work.”
“So you get to just hang out here in my childhood home,” I said, turning. I looked at him. “How fun for you.”
“I had some people to call,” Matt replied, his eyes on me.
His mouth curved a little bit as he said it, and I was immediately plagued with old, jealous visions: that glossy-haired brunette girl that he’d towed around with him for a while, she of the pouty lips and impossible, gravity-defying breasts. Or that horrible high school girlfriend he’d fought with for years: the obnoxious Kelly Ferrante with her flippy hair and mean eyes.
Then I remembered that I was twenty-eight years old, not eighteen, and who Matt Cheney chose to call was no business of mine.
“I didn’t think you knew anyone around here anymore,” I said after a moment or two during which I had to forcibly remind myself that I wasn’t in high school any longer.
“You’d be surprised what turns up,” Matt said. “Or who.”
I walked away from him, down the hall toward the kitchen, and, once there, rummaged through the refrigerator for something to snack on. I felt more than heard Matt follow me, and turned around when I’d found some grapes.
“So what are you going to do while you’re here?” I asked him. “Just look up old friends and hang around?”
“I don’t exactly have a schedule,” he said. “I think it’s called a vacation, but I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had one in years.”
Too busy with his onerous duties as a bouncer at Space, no doubt. I managed not to snort aloud.
“I’m surprised you came at all.” I looked at him, trying to read his mind and failing miserably. “At least Raine has family stuff to do. It must be weird to be back here.”
“It’s just a town,” he said.
One you ran away from, I wanted to say. I should have.
“Raine thought she knew what she was getting into,” Matt murmured, leaning a hip against the kitchen doorjamb. “But I couldn’t let her walk into the fire alone, you know?”
“What fire?” I scoffed at him. “This is her family!”
“Like you guys are easy on her?” Matt fired back. “Come on, Courtney. Raine’s everybody’s favorite scapegoat.”
“I think Raine and Norah have some stuff to work out, sure,” I said, frowning. “But I wouldn’t call Raine a scapegoat. I mean, she actually did do what Norah’s accusing her of doing. She actually did cause a huge commotion at Norah’s—”
“Yeah, the wedding.” Matt made a face. “Don’t you think she’s holding on to that a little tight?”
“It was her wedding.” I could only stare at him, feeling helpless. That it was a familiar feeling didn’t make it any better. “She’s only planning to have the one.”
“It’s just a day,” Matt told me. “You wear a stupid dress and people say shit that they already believe, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place. I don’t understand what the big deal is.”
It was the way he said it, too. Like he was trying to hurt me. As if I had personally created the entire concept of weddings and foisted them upon the world. The feeling this produced in the pit of my stomach also made me feel like I was back in high school again. Ninth grade, to be precise. Matt could so easily make me feel this way: young, stupid, and clueless.
Then again, this whole interaction felt as if it could be taking place about fifteen years ago, back before it had even crossed my mind that someday Matt might reciprocate my feelings. I would have come home from orchestra practice, or one of my tutors, to find Matt looming around in the kitchen, Raine off somewhere doing something mysterious, and my mother still at work in the law office. I would gaze at Matt adoringly, he would alternately ignore me or say strange things designed to confuse me, and then Raine would appear or call and he would forget I existed.
Just like old times.
“I guess this explains why you’re not married,” I said then, determined not to show him how unsteady I felt.
“Maybe I just haven’t found the right girl.” He smirked at me.
“I think you should give that Bronwen a chance,” I told him, smirking right back. “Some of the things I saw her do in yoga class were truly awe-inspiring.”
“Yeah, well.” Matt shrugged. “Bronwen is about seven different kinds of a mess.”
He didn’t elaborate. I wasn’t sure it was required. Though I did e
njoy imagining seven different messes, all of them Bronwen-shaped.
“Okay,” I said, throwing the picked-clean grape vine into the trash beneath the sink. “I’m going to head back. Tell Raine I came by.”
“I’ll do that.”
He didn’t move when I walked toward the door he was blocking. I hated myself for it, but I stopped a few feet away and searched his face.
“What are you doing?” I asked, hearing my voice go sort of soft and hating that, too.
Matt looked at me. Something in his eyes flashed, then darkened.
I knew exactly what he was thinking.
And I stopped breathing.
He didn’t move. I didn’t dare.
But in my head, I remembered.
I remembered the first time he’d kissed me, in this very kitchen. I had been talking too much, nervous and fluttering around while he just watched me. When I’d turned back to look at him he’d reached out a hand, wrapped it around the nape of my neck, and settled his mouth against mine in one smooth movement.
I hadn’t actually swooned. I’d only felt like I might.
I felt the same way all these years later.
I jerked my gaze away from his and concentrated for a moment on the baseboard near his foot. Breathe, I ordered myself.
“So we’re not even going to talk about the conversation we had?” he asked after a long moment. “We’re pretending it never happened?”
“What conversation?” I asked, trying to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Fine,” he said. “Whatever, Courtney. Hide in there if you have to.”
“I’m not hiding anywhere,” I told him, feeling temper crackle through me. “I don’t want to talk about it.” And then something else spilled out of me, before I could think it through. “And do you know what would be great? If you would stop acting like you know me so well. You really don’t.”
“I never said I did,” Matt replied, but it was clear to me that I’d lost points somehow. Or that he’d won them, which was worse.
“You left me,” I said, because it couldn’t be said enough.
“You keep throwing that in my face,” he retorted.
“Because it’s true, and it’s like you can’t seem to remember that part of it.”
“I remember.” His voice turned almost dangerous. “I remember everything.”
We were so close.
And there was something about him. He was magnetic. It was like I couldn’t keep from imagining what it would be like to lean over—to move closer—to do something with all these memories that threatened to swamp me.
As if he could read my mind, he closed the distance between us. His green eyes seared into mine. I stared back at him.
And then he bent his head.
So close that I could feel his breath. That I could almost taste him—
Which was when reality intruded. Painfully.
Lucas, I thought. His name screamed across my brain.
“God!” I heard myself swear. “No!”
I threw out a hand and slapped it against Matt’s chest, holding him back but more than that, pushing myself away from him.
I couldn’t believe what had happened. What had already happened, and what had almost happened.
I couldn’t bear to look at him.
“I have to go,” I whispered, and bolted.
“So let me get this straight,” Verena said a few hours later, squinting at me through the smoke that dominated the sidewalk outside Scruffy’s, a hole-in-the-wall bar that hosted an open mike night every Tuesday. “You actually went all the way out to your mother’s house? And then all the way back? Without even seeing Raine? Why would you do that?”
We were waiting for it to be Verena’s turn at the mike, and so were standing with a collection of people who looked as if they fit in with a bar called Scruffy’s. These, supposedly, were Philadelphia’s next generation of comics. Most were muttering to themselves and looking about as far from funny as it was possible to get.
“I thought the preemptive strike was the way to go,” I said, leaning back against the brick wall, angling myself away from a short, bald guy who looked faintly homicidal. “It worked with Norah. Sort of.”
“But that’s like an hour round-trip!” Verena frowned, obviously calculating the distance in her head. “You completely refused to go to that bridal shop the other day because you claimed the fifteen-minute round-trip was too far, but you can make an hour round-trip—”
“Please let go of the travel details,” I begged her. “Concentrate on everything I just told you.” Not that I had told her the most important part of the day—the near miss kiss. I couldn’t tell her—or anyone, even myself, really. Because I was still trying to come to terms with the fact it had happened. And what it meant about me.
“There’s nothing to concentrate on,” Verena said matter-of-factly, her brow smoothing as she looked at me. “It’s all business as usual. Raine and Norah fight, Matt broods and snarls. It might as well be ten years ago.”
“It definitely feels like it’s ten years ago.”
“The key difference being, of course, that it is not ten years ago,” Verena said.
“Are you sure?” I asked, only half-kidding.
“You know, I don’t get along with my brother all that well either,” she said, smoothing her hair back, “so after years of war, we just don’t talk about things that will start a fight. Problem solved.”
“Part of me thinks that they must enjoy it,” I said, “because why else would they do it every time they lay eyes on each other?”
“They clearly get something out of it,” Verena said with a sniff. She smiled very fakely at another comic on the sidewalk, who I knew, from previous open mike experiences, Verena thought was dreadfully unfunny.
“And do you know how weird it was to be hanging out with Matt Cheney in my mother’s house?” I asked when the fake smile had been returned, social conventions had been attended to, and we could get back to our conversation. “It could have been any afternoon from high school. Except I didn’t have to run upstairs and practice.”
“I’m sure it was all kinds of weird.” Verena studied my expression. Her lips pursed slightly, and I was convinced she could somehow see what I refused to think about. “Luckily, one way to distinguish now from high school is the existence of your fiancé. Where was he while you were playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with Matt Cheney?”
“Thank you,” I said sarcastically. “If it weren’t for you, I might forget I was engaged at all.”
“I wonder,” she snapped right back. Her eyes narrowed. “And tell me you didn’t let Matt Cheney get under your skin.” She sighed when I didn’t respond. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s good at it. He had years and years of practice. It’s like riding a bike for him.”
“You’re not still in love with him, Courtney.” Verena’s stare was hard, determined.
“Of course not,” I said, annoyed, as if she’d phrased it as a question. “It’s really bizarre to be dealing with him again, that’s all. But I’m definitely not still in love with him.”
“And you know what?” She shook her head at me. “I’m not sure you ever were.”
I gaped at her.
“What are you talking about? I loved him so much it defined me!” I was actually a little bit offended that she would say otherwise.
“That’s not love,” Verena said, and let out a snort. “Please.”
“I think, of the two of us, I’m the one who knows how I felt about him,” I told her. Through my teeth.
“I know how I felt about Luke Perry in 90210,” she retorted. “I can only guess how he felt about me.”
“I don’t think that you can compare my first love to your celebrity crush!” I snapped at her.
“Oh, come on,” Verena said. “You had a crush on him. For your whole life. Then you got together, and then he left. That’s not love. That’s . . . a
CW series. Seriously.”
“It was a little more than that!” I argued hotly.
“For you, yes,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t make it love. Do you want to know how I know? How I’m so sure that I’m not even trying to be respectful of your feelings?”
I could only stare at her.
“Not really,” I muttered.
She ignored me.
“Because you were never happy with him,” she told me. “You were always worried, or off-balance, or upset about something. And then, occasionally, you’d be giddy. But mostly you just cried.”
I dropped my gaze to the ground, because she was right: I’d spent most of that summer in agony. Would he call me back, or would he disappear for the weekend without a word? Would he tell me what he was thinking when his eyes went all sad, or would he pretend nothing was wrong, shutting me out? Would he tease me in that affectionate way he had, or would he make me feel awkward and young with all his mocking comments? I never knew how he felt about me. I hadn’t known, in fact, until he’d thrown it at me in San Francisco.
“I loved him,” I told Verena. “I always did.”
“Why are you arguing this?” she asked, her brows drawing together. “Please, please don’t tell me this craziness is happening again. Please don’t tell me you think Matt Fucking Cheney can even hold a candle to Lucas!”
“Of course I don’t,” I told her, kicking at the concrete sidewalk with the toe of my Converse sneaker. It was looking a whole lot more off than white. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But she just stared at me.
There was a bustle at the door, and then a list of names was rattled off by the guy with a clipboard. As Verena’s name was on it, I was saved from that stare, and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up instead of having to respond.
“We are not finished having this conversation,” she informed me, and then stepped inside.