“Holy shit. That’s a lot of movies,” I blurt out, and Matt chuckles at my comment. Walking over to the shelf, I check out the selection and find there’s everything from action and comedy, to drama, and even romance. Interesting.
“I guess it’s pretty obvious this is my man cave and I watch a lot of movies,” he says, before pointing out three other doors leading to a laundry room, a tool room, and a spare bedroom. For a place he spends a lot of time in, it’s exceptionally clean and barely looks lived in at all.
I follow him up to the next level and my mouth drops open as soon as we hit the last step. It’s gorgeous. The walls are painted in a muted green, complemented by cream leather couches laid out with chocolate brown pillows, black accent tables, and a selection of abstract art covering the walls. When I look to the left, there’s a full kitchen with granite counters, top of the line stainless steel appliances, and a center island. I catch a glimpse of Matt who’s staring at me. “This place is amazing. And it completely holds up to your tight-ass reputation.”
He laughs and heads into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of wine from the fridge. “What, because there aren’t any clothes lying around or beer bottles on the floor?”
“Pretty much,” I state blandly, taking a closer look at some of the artwork.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he begins, removing two long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet in the center island. “I was actually kind of a slob growing up…dropping clothes wherever they landed, leaving candy wrappers around my room. My mom always got on my case about it.” He holds up the bottle of wine. “Is white wine okay?”
I nod in response before spotting some photos on a side table and making my way over to them. There are five different pictures and all except one include Matt.
“That’s my mom and dad, and Clara. Of course you recognize Brad.” He continues milling about the kitchen, placing an assortment of peppers and broccoli on the countertop.
“Wow. You and Clara looked so much alike, and your mom…she was pretty.” I hold up the picture and examine it more closely. “Where was this? It looks like Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Yeah, it was, actually. We took that trip after my mom was diagnosed with cancer.”
I put the picture back in its place and prance into the kitchen, planting myself on a silver stool at the center island, kicking my legs underneath me. “So your mom taught you to cook?”
“Let’s put it this way. I always spent time with my mom in the kitchen when I was younger and she encouraged us to be independent and to do things for ourselves. I remember one time, I’m not sure how old I was, but I told her I wanted an apple, and she said ‘get it yourself, sweetie,’ and when I asked her to wash it, she walked out of the kitchen, brought a stepstool in and pointed at it. So yeah, I cook and pretty soon you’ll find out just how good of a cook I am.”
I swirl the wine in the glass and take a sip, the sweet flavor rolling around my tongue before gliding down my throat.
“Would you like to know what’s on the menu?” he asks with an air of confidence, reaching over and pulling various spices from one of the cupboards.
“I’m all ears,” I answer, realizing I’ve already drained the entire glass on an empty stomach, which won’t bode well for my head.
“Okay, so I’m making sautéed eggplant with capellini, broccoli and peppers, you like?”
“Yes,” I reply, my belly agreeing with a slight rumble. “Can I help?”
“Nope, just make yourself comfortable. Do you want some cheese and crackers?”
He must’ve heard the earth-shattering grumble of my belly.
“I thought you’d never ask. Yes…I’m staaaarrrving.”
Matt opens the fridge, grabbing a hunk of cheese and handing me a box of crackers to set on a plate. I take the box, and as I do, his fingers skim mine, our eyes locking momentarily before we both go back to occupying our hands.
“So do you cook?” Matt asks over his shoulder as he fills a large pot with water. He places it on the stove and adds a dash of salt.
“Well, let’s see. Does boiling water and scooping Cheerios into a bowl qualify?” I say with lighthearted sarcasm.
He cuts the eggplant into thin slices and tosses them into a sauté pan. “Your mom didn’t cook growing up?”
“My mom worked two jobs and wasn’t home a lot, so I usually ate at a neighbor’s house or had some sort of frozen food that could be heated in the microwave.” I press a slab of cheese onto a cracker and quickly devour it.
“What about your dad?”
“So, are you sure you don’t want me to help you do anything? I can slice some peppers. I’m decent at slicing,” I answer, as my stomach tightens, anxious to get away from the unpleasant subject of my father, not wanting to waste any more breath on him. He’s stolen enough of my ability to breathe over the years.
Matt’s hand stops mid-stir and he looks back at me with another question in his eyes, but when he sees my gaze darting back and forth and the amount of cheese I’m currently inhaling, he decides to end the inquisition. “Sure. The water is just about ready, could you add the pasta?” I nod in response and, with the utmost finesse, dump the capellini into the pot.
A half hour later, Matt and I are at the table in the large dining room adjacent to the kitchen. He takes a seat across from me and proceeds to serve the food, but stops short of sitting down. “I forgot something, hang on.”
He comes back a minute later with two candles encased in glass and sets them on the table.
“This looks really great, Matt. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve actually been eating a lot of takeout lately, so this is a welcome change,” he says, taking a forkful of pasta and grinning. “This is really good.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I retort, twirling the pasta on my fork and lifting it to my mouth, a combination of sweet and spicy hitting my tongue. “Wow, this is delicious. I’m impressed.” I take a bite of the eggplant, closing my eyes briefly and savoring the taste. “So…how many women have sat here before me eating sautéed eggplant?”
“None.”
I swallow another bite of pasta and raise the glass to my lips, eyeing Matt with a speculative glare. “None? Why is that?”
“Because I don’t typically bring women here,” he says after taking a sip of wine. “This is my private space and I like to keep it that way.”
I nibble on my bottom lip, my mind swimming with a variety of thoughts, none of which make any sense.
Matt puts his fork down, rubbing the light stubble on his chin, regarding me thoughtfully. “Listen,” he says, his eyes radiating warmth and crinkling with sincerity, “about today at the lagoon. I’ve been there and if you ever want to talk about what happened, you can trust me with it. I’ll keep it safe for you.”
The strange thing is, I do sense that I can trust him. But what can I tell him that won’t sound selfish? I miss Kyle, but it’s how he made me feel—that someone so broken inside could still be deserving of love.
I puff out a breath, wiping my mouth on a napkin and pushing my plate forward. “Remember when I was telling you that I lost someone special? Well, he just made me feel—” I swallow, forcing the words past the blockage in my throat as I fiddle with the tablecloth “—special in a way that no one else has before.”
Matt leans forward, resting his chin on his fist, studying me. “It’s hard to believe, Fran, that no one else has noticed how special you are. If anything, it’s kind of hard not to notice.”