The waiter smirked without looking up, finished writing our order, and left us.
As soon as he was gone, Matt asked, “Are you still thinking about Zara?”
I nodded, setting my elbow on the table and placing my chin in my palm. “I just feel so badly for her.”
I’d told Matt the gist of Zara’s story as we’d searched for a place to eat. I’d be writing about her anyway, so I didn’t feel I was breaking her trust by telling Matt what we’d discussed. Plus, I needed to talk about it. I needed to process it.
“Why? Because her choices don’t adhere to traditional ideas of normality? Because she doesn’t want a romantic life partner?” Despite the pointed nature of the questions, his tone was gentle.
“No. Not at all. If she’d eschewed traditional ideas of normality because it was her choice to begin with, or because she’d found an innovative solution that brought her true happiness, then I’d applaud her resilience against the pressures of society’s dictates. But it’s not. She’s not happy. This isn’t her first choice. She feels . . . trapped.”
Matt nudged his silverware until they were all perfectly parallel. “Did she say that?’ His voice sounded odd, tight, and he wasn’t looking at me.
“She didn’t have to. She’s found a work-around, and recognizes that it’s not what she wants, but fear keeps her from moving forward. She’s crippled, but she’s not too broken, not enough to put the effort in to fix her situation.”
He examined me, looking surprised. “Not too broken?”
“Exactly.”
“Interesting choices of words.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” An edge of something new entered his voice; was it defensiveness? “Because not everyone wants or needs to be fixed, Marie.”
“I know that, Matt. I’m not trying to fix her, and I’m not judging her,” or you, you stupid, stupid dehydrated horse, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish . . .”
Damn.
“What? What do you wish?” he asked quietly, studying me intently, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.
Crap.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
What are you doing?
I thought I was over wishing for more with Matt, but it continued to rear its ugly head.
Again, nothing is ever going to happen. You know this. Still wanting him, after seeing with your own eyes that he’s sleeping with other women, makes you pathetic. He said he loves sex, didn’t he?
I was so frustrated with myself. I should have known he’d be hooking up with other people. He’d probably been sleeping with other women this whole time. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw him last Friday.
Let it go. Let it go. Why can’t you just let it go?
What was it going to take for me to stop wishing?
Zara’s words from earlier floated to my forebrain, knowing and believing are two different things.
“Never mind.” I closed my menu, leaned back, and crossed my arms. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Surprisingly, he allowed me to change the subject without pushing back. “What are you getting?”
“Matt, you ordered so many appetizers, I don’t need to get anything.”
“No. You should order something. You know me, I’ll probably eat all the appetizers, and my dinner, and part of yours.”
He had a point there. Which led me to ask a question I’d been wondering about since he first came to my apartment and ate everything I’d placed in front of him.
“How can you eat so much all the time without gaining any weight?”
Matt took a drink from his water glass, eyeing me over it. “I have a really high metabolism. I was that kid in high school who never got picked for football because I was so weak, but always got picked for dodge ball.”
“Why’d you get picked for dodge ball?”
“Because I’d turn sideways and disappear.” He returned his glass to the table and seemed to be meditating on its condensation drops.
“Is that why you started working out? To become bigger? Stronger?”
Matt lifted his eyes to mine, the side of his mouth curving into a flirty smile. “Who says I work out?”
Stopping myself just before I snorted, I opened my menu and looked through their pasta dishes again, in the mood for something with a lot of veggies but also meat sauce. I was not in the mood to flirt with Matt the Impervious.
The ache in my chest told me I should never be in the mood to flirt with Matt the Impervious ever again.
He was quiet while I perused the menu, then he said, “I started working out because I wanted to be more attractive to women.”
That grabbed my attention, my eyes cutting to his. “Really?”
Matt nodded once. “Yes.”
“You didn’t think you were attractive before you started working out?”
He shook his head, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “No. I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t.”
“Matt—”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be admired by the opposite sex, especially when the opposite sex is notorious for not giving guys like me the time of day,” he said stubbornly, though he didn’t raise his voice.
“Guys like you?”
“Nice guys,” he said, sounding defensive, almost defiant, like he dared me to disagree with him.
Before I could catch myself, I asked, “Is that why you still work out?” but then I bit my lip to stop from asking if he’d been working out to impress women.
“No.” He shook his head, his attention dropping to the table as much of his defensive posture eased. “That’s not why I do it now.”
“Why then? For health?”
“No.” His eyes moved up and to the side. “Once I did it for a while, I couldn’t stop. I like being stronger, faster, more agile. I have a lot of room for improvement and constantly improving myself appeals to me.”
“Hmm.” I peered at him, absorbing this information.
I have a lot of room for improvement . . .
“Do you think,” I held my breath for a beat, “do you think you’re in a competition?”
“Yes. But not how you mean.” His attention was back on his silverware, nudging it with his fingers. “I’m in competition with myself, not with others.” He released a breath and it sounded tired, then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, his mouth hitching to one side wryly. “I’d like to think of myself as fine wine, getting better with age, more robust, more complex. But I accept that when I was young, I resembled the simplicity of grape juice.”
I exhaled a short, surprised laugh, but then a wave of melancholy crashed over me followed by a spark of anger directed at his parents. Even so, I forced a smile and determined not to allow my emotions to run away from me.
I was not his girlfriend.
I would never be his girlfriend.
His battles were not my battles unless they were suitable for a friend.
Just friends. Forever just friends.
Matt returned my smile as I forced myself to think about what he’d said, and I wondered if I felt the same about myself.
Am I in competition with myself?
No. Not really.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking at me with curiosity.