Grace followed.
Pasting a polite smile on my face that didn’t feel at all natural, or right, or good, I lifted my eyes as high as their necks and waved. “Well. Goodnight.”
I thought I heard Matt say my name, but it was too late. I couldn’t stop my forward momentum if I tried.
Moving quickly, I shut the door behind me. Then I locked it. Then I flipped the deadbolt. Then I leaned against it, wondering if it would be overkill to move the heavy console table in front of the door as well. But then I stopped.
I didn’t need to erect any more barriers between Matt Simmons and me. There was no need. He’d already done that himself.
16
Weighted Myopic Matching
Helps physicians match kidneys with donors using AI technologies (a process called dynamic matching via weighted myopia).
Source: Carnegie Mellon University
I decided that there was something seriously wrong with me.
Matt had texted me not a half hour after Hurricane Hallway—because that’s how I felt, like I’d been stranded outside in a hurricane—and I felt nothing but numb as I read his message.
Matt: Can I come over?
He wanted to come over?
Why?
I didn’t want him to come over.
Marie: No. I’m trying to get the kids ready for bed.
Matt: I can help
I didn’t respond. I felt hollow. But also, too full. I couldn’t eat the pizza, so I made tea instead. But I couldn’t drink that either.
When Fiona and Greg arrived home, I left immediately after, claiming a headache. It was the truth. I did have a headache. I tried not to think too much about my instinct to sprint down the hall past Matt’s apartment and how I’d pressed the elevator call button seventeen times.
A rush of both relief and misery washed over me as soon as I stepped onto the lift and the doors closed. I walked home in a daze, my mind unable to concentrate or focus on any one thing. Instead, I played the five minutes of seeing Matt with his date over and over and over in my head.
I watched it. I analyzed it. Until I realized doing so made my heart ache anew each time, so I eventually stopped repeating the scene in my head.
The next morning, after not sleeping much, but not crying either, I needed to hear my mother’s voice. A phone call didn’t feel sufficient, so I went online and arranged for a rental car. They even picked me up.
Listening to loud angry music on the way helped me concentrate on driving and not the odd splintering sensation in my chest. I made it to my parents’ place just after 11:00 AM, parking behind my mom’s Toyota in the driveway.
I hadn’t told them I was coming, and so I hesitated, sitting in the rental car.
What if they have plans?
What if my mom isn’t even home?
What if they have a woman over and my being here will make things awkward?
My last crazy thought made me laugh, but it was a sad laugh. Regardless, it was enough to push me out of the car. I walked up the path and hadn’t quite made it to the rose bushes before the door opened, revealing my mom.
She wore a big smile, one hand on the door, one hand on her hip. “Well, if it isn’t the most brilliant and beautiful woman in the world! To what do we owe this honor?”
I returned her smile.
And then I promptly burst into tears.
“Sometimes a person just needs their mom, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” My mom sent me a loving smile from where she stood stirring the lemon curd, then shot my brother an irritated look.
“What? What did I say?” He stood next to her, cutting the butter into the flour for pie crust.
Presently, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my parents’ kitchen, watching my mom make my favorite foods while my brother teased us both.
Upon my watery arrival, I cried for several minutes. My mother and I sat on the couch and hugged. When I’d calmed down enough to form words, I told her about Matt.
I told her how we’d met, who he was, how I’d coerced him into showing me his research, and how we’d subsequently become friends. And then I told her how I thought, maybe, we were becoming more than friends.
But I was wrong. How wrong I was became painfully obvious to me as I related the story from the night before.
I didn’t realize it at the time I was pouring my heart out to my mom, but my brother was visiting from New York and he was in the other room. He must’ve overheard the entire conversation, because he’d been making peanut gallery comments since entering the kitchen.
But getting back to my mom, after listening patiently to my wretched tale, she dabbed at my tears and made me tea. And then she started cooking. Everything.
For dinner we’d have crab cakes (my favorite), roasted beets (my favorite), mushroom risotto (my favorite), and lemon meringue pie for dessert (my most favorite).
“Thanks, Mom.” I sipped at the tea, letting the aroma of chamomile sooth my frazzled nerves. It smelled like home. Like tea parties from when I was little, and late nights when I couldn’t sleep. It felt like a salve to my heart.
“Honey, I know you’re still feeling sore, and I understand why after hearing your story. But I have to say, I think what happened last night was a good thing. Seeing things with your own eyes can give a murky situation clarity.”
“I know.” She was right, of course.
“I don’t understand women. Didn’t he tell you from the get-go that he wasn’t on the market for a committed relationship?” This came from my brother.
My mother hit him lightly on the shoulder. “You can keep your comments to yourself, Abram.”
“Yes,” I answered him anyway as I examined the bottom of my cup, wishing I could read tea leaves.
“And didn’t you two agree to be friends? You friend-zoned him, right?” Abram continued, shifting away from my mom so he was out of her reach.
She tossed daggers at him with her eyes, which made me smile.
“Yes.” I nodded, confirming his question.
“So the man told you the truth,” Abram moved to the fridge and placed the crust inside, “and now you’re surprised to discover he didn’t lie.”
I chuckled at that, appreciating how he’d worded it. I didn’t need to read tea leaves to visualize the picture he was painting.
“Leave your sister alone, I mean it.” My mom held up her wooden spoon, to show my brother how much she meant business.
“It’s okay, Mom. I don’t mind.” Then to my brother, I responded, “That’s exactly right. We both agreed we just wanted to be friends, so I guess that makes me the liar.”
My mom sighed and my brother gave me a sympathetic smile.
My family would never say it, but I’d been acting like a fool.