She stared at me for a beat, then picked up the stuffed tenderloin she’d just finished covering in foil and handed it—oven mitts and everything—to Nico. “Take this next door, please. And tell them we’ll be finished in just a few more minutes.”
He glanced between the two of us. “I see what’s going on here. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on.”
“You boys have your secrets, us girls have ours.” Fiona gave him a patient smile. “Goodbye, Nicoletta.”
Releasing a grumbly sigh, Nico mumbled something under his breath about Dan and Kat, and then left the kitchen. Fiona didn’t speak again until she heard the door to the apartment shut.
“How much do you know about Matt?”
I struggled for how best to respond, finally deciding on, “We’re not dating, Fiona. We’re just friends.”
And I wasn’t sure I even wanted us to be that anymore. Being just friends with Matt had been fine and dandy until I had to witness him being more than friends with someone else.
“Has he told you he was married?”
“Yes,” I admitted freely. “He also said he isn’t interested in long-term relationships.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact.
“Good. I’m glad he’s being honest with you,” she said, her eyes betraying a hint of concern. “You should believe him.”
Licking my suddenly dry lips, I rolled another piece of melon in the prosciutto. “Yes. He’s been very honest with me.”
Something in my tone must’ve alerted her to how I was feeling, because she softened her voice as she asked, “And he told you about his old job? Wanting him back?”
My head snapped up and I stared at her, my mouth working for a few seconds before I managed, “What?”
Fiona rubbed her belly absentmindedly. “He told Greg they’re pushing him pretty hard about it, offering him stock options and his own laboratory, his own dedicated line budget. Did he tell you that?”
I had to shake my head, because he hadn’t told me.
Fiona crossed to me and placed her hand on my arm, tugging me so we were facing each other. “Hey. Talk to me.”
I had the sudden urge to sit down. “I don’t really know what to say.”
Was he leaving?
Was he going to tell me?
Why hadn’t he told me already?
Her probing stare intensified. “Did something happen? You seemed out of sorts on Friday night when we got home.”
I laughed. Not a crazy laugh, more like a tired, sad, irritated-with-myself laugh, and crossed to the kitchen table, sinking into a chair. “I’ve been deluding myself for a few weeks, letting my hopes run away from me, but I’m honestly fine now.”
As Fiona sat in the seat next to mine, I gave her the CliffsNotes version of what had occurred, including the visit to my parents’ house and my mother’s sage advice. I did, however, leave out my brother’s hypothesis. I hadn’t decided what to think about that yet.
“Oh, Marie.” Just like my mom, Fiona reached for my hand and held it. But unlike my mom, her expression wasn’t sympathetic, it was equal parts frustrated and determined. “I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Matty Simmons. And as much as I’d like to see him with someone as amazing as you, there’s a reason it never occurred to me to set him up with any of my friends.”
“And why is that?” I had to admit, I was curious about Fiona’s reasons. I trusted her completely, both her as a person and her judgment.
“Did he tell you anything about his parents?” Her lovely brown eyes warmed with anxious affection.
“No, actually.” He hadn’t. I’d asked a few times, but never pushed the issue.
“I knew them, growing up. They’re still friends with my parents. Well, I guess they’re what my parents consider friends.” Her features rearranged into a look of forlorn sadness. “Matty’s parents are very cold people.”
“They didn’t hurt him, did they?” A burst of worry cinched my throat.
“They ignored him. He had a nanny who was very sweet. I babysat him on weekends and tried to give him lots of hugs and affection. And there was a chef on staff who adored him like a son—to a point—or a grandson, I guess. But his own parents had no time for him. The only people who gave him affection were paid to do so. And when those people left his parents’ employ, he never saw them again.”
“That’s awful.” Tears stung my eyes as I imagined a child version of Matt, being ignored by his parents. My heart swelled with hurt on his behalf.
“It is. It was. My parents weren’t perfect, but they told us they loved us, gave us their version of guidance, were there to answer our questions. He had none of that.” Fiona’s mouth curved to the side, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “If Matt told you he wasn’t capable of a committed relationship, he knows what he’s talking about. He’s an excellent person. He’s been married once and, as you know, it didn’t work out. He’s not the type to give up easily, or lightly.”
I nodded, swallowing a lump of grief along with Fiona’s pill of wisdom.
“He grew up without being held or treasured. I’m not saying he’s incapable of it, I’m just saying he didn’t learn from the people who should have loved him the most. His priority is his work, not people.”
Managing a small smile, I turned my palm over and held her hand in mine. “Yes. He’s said something similar.”
“Like I said, he’s a good guy, a really good guy, but you have such a big heart, Marie. You are entirely too generous and loyal and kind. You deserve someone who knows how special and amazing you are. I don’t want to see you get hurt by someone who is simply incapable of giving you what you need. It’s not his fault. But you are so wonderful. You deserve someone who is going to put you first.”
You deserve . . .
“Don’t worry. I see things clearly.”
Now.
I was seeing clearly now.
17
Synthetic / Bio-fabricated Rhinoceros Horn
A cultured, 3-D printed rhino horn which carries the same genetic fingerprint of, and is visually identical to, an actual horn; “printed” and made of synthetic keratin.
Source: Pembient
The café was much less busy this time, so I had my pick of spots. I’d selected the table. The coveted booth by the window, farthest from the door. The wall curved, creating a nook-type atmosphere. Noise was muted, making it feel private and cozy.
Instead of staring unseeingly at the worst novel ever written, I read a handwritten letter from my friend Camille, the software developer and my neighbor in the office co-op. She’d made good on her threat to take a vacation and was currently in Germany.
And she’d met a man. A German man.
Her words were cautiously optimistic as well as despairing: