As if he could read my mind, his expression changed and his smile faded. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I was okay—happy, even, and bubbling with anticipation—but I still felt a tiny bit of trepidation. Why? My first time had been perfect—almost too good to be true. After hearing so many horror stories from girls in high school about how awkward, painful, and messy their first times were, how could I not memorialize what we had done? Every single moment with him had been amazing. He hadn’t pushed me and he’d been totally patient and respectful. He’d been gentle but in control, and then afterward he’d been sweet and attentive. All the thoughts and memories started swirling around in my head . . . the way his hands touched me under the covers of his tiny dorm-room bed . . . his mouth everywhere . . .
Matt watched as I stared, blankly. His eyes dropped down to my open mouth. He knew what I was thinking about. He blinked. “I love that mouth.”
Leaning in, I touched my lips to his, seeking comfort. We surrendered to the charged energy between us, almost like we were feeding it, trying to satisfy it. We kissed slowly and softly, our tongues dancing around, until I heard the unmistakable sound of an intentional throat-clearing. I looked over my shoulder to see the woman in the aisle seat, watching us intently. She seemed like a jovial southern woman, with lots of make-up and big, white-blonde hair.
Were we being rude twisting tongues in the cramped seats of an airplane? Probably, but I didn’t care. I was almost willing to strip naked right there, if Matt asked me to. I smiled at the lady. With a sort of wise, “I get it” look, she smiled back and then rolled her eyes dismissively.
Matt looked worn out. He reached languidly for my hand and clutched it with his before resting his head back and closing his eyes. I reached for my drink from the tray table and sucked it down in three large gulps. It was delicious and the alcohol took effect almost immediately. I leaned against Matt’s shoulder again and fell asleep.
“I FORGOT TO ask, how are we getting to your mom’s?”
Matt reached for my purple suitcase off the luggage carousel. “She’s coming to get us.”
When we reached the curb outside of LAX, a maroon minivan pulled up. “That’s her.”
Matt slid the large door open and threw his arms out to his sides. “Mama!”
She beamed with happiness. “Matthias, I’ve missed you! Get in here, you two.”
“Mom, this is Grace,” Matt said. I stood by, nervously as he loaded the luggage into the back.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Grace. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Aletha.” She reached out and took my hand in hers. She had a subtle Greek accent and was small-boned, with exaggerated but beautiful features and the same perfect nose as Matt. Her dark hair was streaked through with gray, and she wore a long, thin scarf wrapped around her neck so many times that it looked like a high-necked sweater.
“Nice to meet you too, Aletha.”
Matt got into the front seat and I buckled up in the middle bench seat in the back. The third-row bench seat that was normally in minivans had been replaced with art supplies, including a large metal pottery wheel.
“Matthias, I just picked up that wheel in the back for pennies. I need you to set it up in The Louvre; it’s too heavy for me.”
“Of course, Mom.”
She shot a glance his way and smiled radiantly. “No more Mama? Is my son too old to call me Mama?”
“Mama,” Matt said in a squeaky baby voice.
“You silly boy.” There was an ease between them. I wished my mother and I had that kind of relationship.
“So, Grace, Matthias tells me you’re a musician?”
“Yes, I’m studying music.”
“The cello, is it?”
“Yes, but I can play other instruments, too. I’m just best at the cello.”
“Well, Matt’s father has a beautiful grand piano at his house. You must play for them while you’re there. It would be a shame for that instrument to live out its life as a piece of furniture.”
“I agree,” Matt chimed in.
“Maybe I will. I’ll have to think of something to play that they’ll like.” I wasn’t sure if I liked that idea, though. From what I knew of Matt’s family, they sounded judgmental toward artists of any sort.
A short while later, we pulled into a long, narrow driveway next to a small but charming Craftsman bungalow, with green wooden shingles and maroon-painted double-hung windows.
The front yard looked like an English garden of wild, waist-high plants but it was manicured enough so it appeared more enchanting than overgrown. The air was crisp but it was nowhere near as freezing as New York.
“This place is so neat,” I said, stepping onto the path.