Chapter 43

Matt cooksme a celebratory dinner that night, even though it's not clear that there's anything to celebrate. He planned the dinner like a week ago, saying he was that certain I'd do well.

As for me, I'm not nearly that confident. That midterm was hard. I can't stop analyzing every question in my head and wondering if I got the right answer.

When Matt answers the door for me, I'm practically ready to faint. I try to gauge how I did by the look on his face, but it's hard to tell. "Did you grade my test yet?" I finally ask.

"Rach, this dinner is supposed to help you forget about the exam," Matt says. "The important thing isn't your grade. It's that you learned the information."

I just stare at him.

He sighs. "You got honors."

I'm so happy, I might cry. I throw my arms around him, which sends him slightly off-balance since he's not holding his cane, but he manages to grab onto the wall and right himself. And then we kiss in the hallway. For like five straight minutes.

"I told you that you'd do well," he says when we come up for air. "Now how about dinner, huh?"

I follow him to the living room, where he's got an elaborate meal of pasta with herbed chicken. There's an open bottle of pinot noir (my favorite) and two wineglasses next to it. And of course, there's a single candle lighting the table.

"Did you seriously cook this yourself?" I ask him. "This is incredible."

The plate looks like something a professional chef would have put together. And Matt's only got one working hand.

Matt nods. "I used to love to cook, but I don't have much opportunity to do it anymore. Doesn't seem worth it when it's just me, but I wanted to do something special for you. To celebrate your achievement."

Before we sit down to eat, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. To be honest, I just need a few moments to collect myself.

I'm very familiar with Matt's bathroom now. It's much larger than the one I share with Heather, and I love the way it smells faintly of his aftershave. He's got a grab bar set up by the toilet and the sink, but other than that, it's a pretty ordinary bathroom. I've been in here dozens of times, and there's only one difference today:

The medicine cabinet is open.

Well, not open exactly. More like slightly ajar. But the point is, it's not closed, and it's clear there are medications inside it. And in all honesty, I've never been great at respecting other people's privacy. That's how I know Heather uses acne medication.

So I tap the door open all the way.

Immediately, I'm sorry I did it. Mostly because there are a lot of pills in here. Like, way more than I'd guess the average thirty-eight-year-old would be taking. It frightens me to see all those pills. Why is he taking so many medications? What's wrong with him?

Okay, fine, he did get shot in the head. Still, that was years ago. He seems mostly okay now.

I pick up one of the bottles: Vicodin. That's a painkiller, but I've never heard Matt say that he had significant pain before. But clearly, he does—why else would he have this medication? Where is he having pain? Why didn't he tell me about this?

Then I pick up a second bottle. This one is for oxycodone—another narcotic painkiller.

Both bottles have his name on them, prescribed by an actual doctor. But why does he have two medications that are both for pain? And what are all the rest of these bottles? Are they all pain meds?

What is he doing with all these narcotics? Is it possible that he's… selling them to students? Is Matt the source of the drug problem at DeWitt?

No. No way. Matt would never do that.

I've been in here long enough that Matt must be wondering what's taking me so long, but I can't resist looking at a third bottle. And this one makes my heart sink: it's Zoloft. I know what that is from my high school days when my parents sent me to a therapist. Zoloft is a medication for depression.

I shut the door to the medicine cabinet. I should never have snooped on him in the first place. Well, it's his fault for leaving the door open.

I spend another thirty seconds studying my reflection in the mirror on the cabinet door. I'm not pretty, in case you were wondering. My dark hair is way too stringy, and I'm always pale like a ghost, no matter how much time I spend in the sun (which, admittedly, isn't much). I don't wear makeup, but it probably wouldn't help. I'm just not pretty, end of story.

But Matt seems to think I am.

I wash my hands off with his foaming hand soap and return to the dining area. I can see Matt sitting at the table, patiently waiting for me. I watch him as he pours wine into the two glasses and places mine in front of my plate. He adjusts the candle in the center of the table, trying to get it centered perfectly, but then he swears and yanks his hand away.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, racing over to the table.

Matt looks up at me, still cradling his hand. "Really hot wax," he admits sheepishly.

"That's what you get for trying to be too romantic," I scold him.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot," he says.

I run to the kitchen and get a paper towel, which I run under cool water for a minute then fold into quarters.

"Let's see," I say.

"Nah, I'm fine," he says.

He's trying to be macho—it's adorable.

I have to coax him until he shows me the burn on his hand. It's his right hand—the bad one. There's an angry red area on the back of his hand where the wax got him, and I kneel beside him as I gently press the washcloth onto his skin.

"How's that?" I ask him.

"Nice," he sighs.

The fingers of his right hand feel very stiff, even more so than usual. I try to slip my hand inside his, but it's difficult to pry his fingers apart.

Matt notices what I'm doing and says apologetically, "The muscles are probably spasming from the burn. Plus I'm overdue for Botox shots."

"Botox?" I stare at Matt's face. He has a few lines around his eyes, but he doesn't seem like the cosmetic procedure type.

He grins crookedly. "Not for my face. It loosens up the muscles in my hand. I get shots to my finger flexors." Then he adds, "Can you name the muscles that control finger flexion?"

I stare at him.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I shouldn't have… this is your night to relax…"

I turn the paper towel over on his hand and say, "Flexor digitorum profundus and flexor digitorum superficialis."

"That's right," he says, and he grins so wide that I'm really glad that I read ahead this afternoon. "Come here," he says, holding out his arms to me.

An hour later, the specially prepared meal has gone cold, and the treacherous candle has burned down to nothing. But I don't care.

I'm in love.