Why didn’t you tell us? I ask.
He scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m scared,” he admits. He looks me in the eye and then his gaze moves to meet Paul’s. “I’m going to fucking die,” he says. He grins but there’s nothing funny about it. “So you don’t have to worry about me asking her out.”
“Don’t joke about that shit,” Paul bites out.
“I’m not joking,” Matt says. He’s serious.
Paul leans forward and squeezes Matt’s knee in his hand. “You have to believe it’s going to work. If you don’t, you don’t stand a chance.”
Matt pushes forward to perch on the edge of the sofa. “You guys believe for me, ok?” he says. “Because I’m too fucking tired to do it.” He gets up and goes to his room, closing the door behind him.
“When did he start admitting he’s afraid?” Paul asks.
I shrug. It’s the first time I’ve heard him say it. I look up at Paul. Fear clutches my heart in a death grip. He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?
“I don’t know,” he admits. He swipes a hand down his face.
I pat my shirt pocket, reaching for my cigarettes.
“Matt has fucking cancer, dumbass,” he snarls at me, his hands flying wildly. “And you want to smoke?”
I jerk the pack from my pocket and toss it across the room, into the waste basket.
Paul nods. “Thank you,” he signs dramatically. He sags back into the lazy chair.
He’s going to make it, right? I ask.
He nods. “Of course he is.”
I believe him. Because I can’t imagine a life without Matt in it. I won’t allow myself to think he’s going to die. I just won’t. If Matt can’t believe he’s going to live right now, I’ll believe enough for the two of us.
Paul stands up and ruffles my hair, and it quickly changes into a noogie. I brush his hand away. “Don’t worry,” he says.
The starts down the hallway, and I clap my hands to get his attention. He turns back to me, scratching his stomach. “What?” he asks.
“I want to talk to her,” I admit.
His eyebrows draw together. “Yeah?” He shrugs. “So talk.”
I want to tell him about her dyslexia, so he won’t feel like I’ve been holding out all these years, but that’s not my story to tell. It’s hers. I shake my head. It’s just too hard to explain. She’s making me feel things I’ve never felt before. She makes me want things.
“I wish you’d just fuck her and get it out of your system. Then you can be done with her. And stop wishing for things you can’t have.”
She gasps behind him. Her mouth falls open and her eyes fly open wide. I can imagine her gasp, even if I can’t hear it. But Paul must hear it. His eyes clench shut. “She’s right behind me, isn’t she?” he asks. He opens one eye and looks at me.
Kit’s wrapped in a towel with another turbaned around her head. Paul turns to her, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It had better be a profuse apology.
She glares at him for no more than a moment, and then she ducks into my bedroom and closes the door behind her.
“Shit,” Paul signs. “I fucked that up.”
He knocks on the bedroom door. He knocks again. His hand wraps around the doorknob, and he starts to turn it, but she’s wrapped in a towel. I can’t let him in there. I leap over the back of the couch, and put myself between him and the door. I push his chest back and point toward his bedroom door.
“I need to apologize,” he says. He’s grimacing, and his face is flushed. He didn’t mean it. Well, he did mean it. But he didn’t. “I didn’t know she was there.”
I sign the word tomorrow. I place my hands on his chest and push him back gently. I couldn’t manhandle Paul even if I wanted to. He’s a great big son of a bitch. Even bigger than me. And twice as mean. Tomorrow I say again. I got this. I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her you didn’t mean to hurt her feelings.
He nods and runs a frustrated hand across the stubble he calls hair. “Sorry,” he says.
I nod, and let myself into my bedroom. I lean back against the door. I expect to see her angry and throwing things. Or crying. I really don’t know what to expect. I don’t know her well enough to have a clue. She’s doing neither. She’s standing there looking at me. She unrolls the towel from her hair and her locks spill down over her shoulders. Her hair is all wet and tangled and she fluffs it with the towel, blotting it dry. She looks at me, but she hasn’t said anything yet.
“He didn’t mean that,” I start.
“I think he’s right,” she says. Then she raises her arms, pulls the towel free of where it’s tucked between her tits, and drops it to the floor. She kicks it across the room with her delicate little naked toe. She’s starkly, completely, beautifully, perfectly, delectably naked. “I think you should fuck me and get it out of your system. Then you can be done with me.”
Emily