His smile waned, the light in his eyes dimming by degrees as he openly inspected me. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation the other day, about my proposition.”
“Oh.” I closed my laptop and reached for my glass of water. “Go for it.”
Matt scrutinized me for a long moment, as though searching for . . . something.
Eventually, he cleared his throat and asked, “How have you been?”
I stared at him, confused by his question. “Fine. And how are you?”
“Did anything happen? Are you—is anything—is there something I should know?”
Shaking my head, I made a show of moving my eyes to the left and then up. “No.”
“You haven’t been responding to my texts.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been really busy. With work. You know how that is.” That was actually true. I’d been focusing on finishing several articles, none of which related to his research or my story on replacing relationships with paid services. I needed some distance from subjects that made me think of Matt.
“Are you angry with me about something?” The muscle at his temple jumped and his eyes turned hard, frustrated. “Did I do something wrong? If so, I wish you would tell me.”
I straightened in my seat. He’d caught me off guard with his directness—though, I shouldn’t have been surprised, he was always direct—but I didn’t know how to respond to his pointed questions. I wasn’t angry with him. Not really. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
I was irritated with myself, with my stupid hopes, with how dejected I’d felt after seeing him with his date. My mom’s words of wisdom repeated between my ears. Only you get to decide how you stand, what you stand for, and when you do it.
He’d been honest with me, and now what? I was punishing him, pushing him away for his honesty? That didn’t seem right. Looking at him now, at the hard set of his jaw, the unhappy curve of his lips, I felt a pang of regret so strong, it sent the walls I’d built between us crumbling to the ground.
I’d been a bad friend. I’d been inconsistent. Knowing what I now know about his childhood, his parents, how could I be so unfeeling and selfish?
I rubbed my temples and shook my head, exhaling a tremendous sigh, and with it—I hoped—my residual anger.
“No. I’m sorry. I have been busy with work, but I should have returned your messages. So, I’m sorry.”
He continued inspecting me, and I couldn’t decide if my response relieved him or frustrated him further.
Eventually, he twisted his lips to the side and nodded once. “Fine. Apology accepted. But it’s going to cost you.”
“Oh no.” I made a scaredy-cat face, going through the motions of our friendship. “Have you finally come to collect? Are you going to make me take the rest of your deception interview?”
Right on cue, his eyes grew cartoonishly shifty. “No. Not today. I—uh—left the guided questionnaire in my other jeans, or at work, or something.” This nonsense was always his excuse for not administering the questionnaire. At this point in our friendship, I felt like it had become a running joke and would be shocked if he ever actually followed through.
“Likely story,” I teased, waiting.
I can do this.
I can open my heart to a friendship with Matt. I can let my hopes go, and my anger go, and stop noticing how much I like everything about him.
“What are you doing next weekend?” he asked, not quite his normal (peculiar) self yet, but getting there.
“Oh, I have to go to New York for work. I thought I mentioned that.”
He slumped a little in his seat. “No. You didn’t. Is that next week?”
“No. Sorry. Not next week, this weekend. I’m leaving on Friday.”
He straightened again. “You’ll be in town next weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because my friend—um, my ex—Kerry, and her husband, Marcus, will be in town, and want to go out. I’d like you to help me show them around.”
Matt had lived in Chicago for less than a year and therefore didn’t know his way around with complete proficiency.
“Sure. I can do that,” I said, but then immediately wondered whether it was a good idea. I suspected that, in addition to what Fiona had divulged about his parents, he had unresolved feelings for his ex-wife. And these unresolved feelings were the main cause for his avoidance of committed relationships. Spending the day with him pining after his ex would be unpleasant.
“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked, scrutinizing me. “You don’t look sure.”
“Yes. I don’t mind. But . . .” I paused, trying to figure out what to say. “Are you sure?”
“That I want you there? Absolutely.”
“No. I mean, are you sure you want to be there? Isn’t it difficult? Watching your ex move on with someone else?”
Matt looked at me like I was cute and weird. “No.”
“It’s not even a little bit hard?” I didn’t know why I was pushing.
I thought I heard him mumble something like, “It wasn’t hard with her for years.”
“Pardon?”
“No. It’s not even a little bit hard. We all get along really well. I promise I’m not asking you to come along and be an unwilling participant in some sort of spectacle. I wouldn’t do that. Plus, I think you two might get along.”
“Okay,” I said on an exhale, confused. “Sounds good.”
He truly seemed to believe that he was over her, over their marriage. Maybe he was deluded.
Or maybe he is over her, and is simply one of those guys who didn’t want to be in a relationship, like Fiona said. Like my mother said. Like Abram said.
What the heck was wrong with me? Why was I doing this to myself? Wishing for a way to fix this part of him?
There is no fixing something he doesn’t want fixed. Believe him and let it go.
“But one warning,” Matt flipped over one of the glasses I had on my desk and poured himself some water, “they’ll probably want to pay for your dinner, as payment for acting as tour guide.”
“That’s fine, but not necessary.”
“Just wanted you to know.”
“That’s it? That was the entire proposition?” I sipped from my water.
“No. There’s another part. But first, remind me why you’re going to New York. I don’t think you ever said.”
He was right, I never told him why I was going. It wasn’t entirely on purpose, at least not at first. As time progressed and we were spending more and more of it together, I began to feel strangely about the trip, wondering if I should cancel it. But now that all my delusions of grandeur had been dispelled so effectively, I’d decided to go.
And there was no reason to keep him in the dark.
I waited until he’d brought the glass to his mouth and had taken a gulp before I said, “It’s so I can be dry humped by a professional.”
Matt choked, his eyes bulging, and he covered his mouth with a hand. I smiled serenely as he coughed and struggled to draw air.