15. Fischer

15

FISCHER

M atthew has an excessive amount of my attention this morning. When Donna commented that he looked thin, I found myself doing a full visual assessment, which left me feeling like he looked particularly good. He's trim, but I wouldn't call him thin. He's all long, lean muscle and sun-kissed skin.

He takes a seat next to me at the table, smelling like me—my sheets—and I get slightly disoriented. My head hurts this morning, mainly where I hit it—a small lump and a bruise having appeared overnight, but also in general. Tylenol hasn't helped.

In front of Dick and Donna, Matthew takes hold of me by the chin, turns my head and examines the injury with a scowl. "How's your head?"

"Hurts," I admit.

"You didn't take aspirin, did you?" he asks.

"Just Tylenol."

"Good." To Dick and Donna he says while still examining me, "He hit his head last night—knocked him out."

"I told them already," I say, annoyed by all the fuss. "It was the first thing they noticed."

"You didn't say you lost consciousness," Donna says. "You should see a doctor."

"She's right," Matthew says, letting my chin go.

"I don't remember you saying anything about that last night."

"I have a feeling there's a lot you don't remember about last night," he mutters.

I frown at that as Donna clears her throat. Ignoring her, I want to tell Matthew that I remember most of last night pretty well. Including the part where he used his undershirt to clean my cum off my slacks in front of a room full of people. This just went from awkward to awkward .

"Boys," Donna says with a tight smile at us both. I'd think she'd appreciate how close her sons are now, especially given the fact that I spent the entirety of my teen and young adult years doing everything I could to deny the twins' existence.

You've never seen anyone switch from angel to asshole the way I did at thirteen. College couldn't come quick enough. When I changed my name, I was a breath away from annulling the adoption, too, but I didn't.

The problem wasn't Dick and Donna—the problem was me.

They told me I was adopted when I was in elementary school. Their love was so undiluted then that I didn't even mind. I felt lucky. They chose me. But then came the twins—their own flesh and blood. Their miracles .

Now that I have a child of my own, I can't imagine how hard having two newborns at once must have been. But the selfish teen I was back then felt attacked by it. My needs went immediately to the back burner, and I was left to more or less fend for myself. Dick and Donna were in survival mode.

Like I said, I get it now, but I can't undo the feelings it brought up about not belonging—about not being enough. About being a burden it turned out they didn't actually need to take on.

To be clear—they've never said anything like that to me. I'm relatively sure I broke their hearts. I think they see Vaughn as their do-over—either that or as a way to prove to me that they've never once regretted adopting me. They love him without reservation.

I'm grateful for them. Which is one of the reasons my feelings for Matthew are so complicated. Still, I care more about his opinion than theirs. And I refuse to fuck things up with him, no matter how good he looks in sweatpants. He's seen me at my best and my worst, and, with the forever exception of my son, I love him more than I love anyone.

I've put far too much work and time into this friendship we've built to have it blow up over something as stupid as the fact that I sometimes want to touch more than his legs. He doesn't think of me like that, and I'm way too attached to him.

Dick and Donna only stay for breakfast, and the conversation is mostly about how things are going with my kid. They're excited for Maggie's upcoming wedding, ecstatic she's set a date, and eagerly anticipating new grand babies. I'll be happy when that happens, too. Then maybe they'll stop breathing down my neck about coming up to Larchmont every time it's my weekend to have Vaughn.

As they're leaving, I overhear Donna saying to Matthew, "You're on your way home, aren't you? We'll wait for you to get your things if you want to come down with us."

I glance at them to watch the exchange which involves Matty giving Donna an exasperated look. "What's that about?"

"Hm? What do you mean, hon?"

"I was invited. Last I checked, you're the ones who stopped by unannounced. But it was great to see you. I'll happily see you to the door."

She huffs and shakes her head at him. Another thing I didn't know I missed was watching Matthew passive-aggressively manage our mother's tendency to meddle.

Once Dick and Donna are on their way, Matthew starts making his moves to leave me, too.

I look on bleakly from my bed as he carefully rolls up his suit and stuffs it into his backpack.

"At least let me get it dry cleaned," I beg him.

"I can take care of my own laundry."

"But will you?"

He glares at me, his hair falling over his eyes while he hunches over his bag.

"What if I hire a service?" I ask. "They can come to your place, pick up your things and bring them back once a week. All you have to do is remember to put it out for them."

"I'm not leaving my clothes in the hall of my building," he says. "And I have my own washer and dryer."

"Bring your dry cleaning here, then. They can pick it up and drop it off in the lobby. Put it under my name."

"Haul my laundry on the subway? No thanks."

"Just your dry cleaning."

"This is my dry cleaning." He gestures at the suit.

"You have more than one suit."

"My other one's too small. It doesn't fit my shoulders anymore."

"Ah, well… poor you."

He rolls his eyes and zips his backpack. "I gotta go. You should stay off screens today. Rest your brain. I read that on WebMD last night. At least until the headache goes away, and if it doesn't, you need to see a doctor."

"What's a doctor gonna tell me that you haven't?" I ask, leaning back on my pillow and folding my arms over my chest firmly.

"Are you pouting?"

"No."

"Could've fooled me."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do the rest of the day?"

"You're supposed to rest."

But I'm restless. Is that not obvious? "Am I really not allowed to see the sculpture until it's done?"

He sighs and turns to look at me again. "You're not coming with me."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're not going home to work on the sculpture are you?"

He grimaces, his biggest tell. He's planning to get laid, and because I try not to devote a lot of brain space to Matty's sex life, I'd rather this hadn't occurred to me.

"I am going home to finish it, and then, yeah…I may have plans."

"Right," I say stiffly.

"Can I get you anything before I go?" he asks.

"I'm fine." My words are short and clipped.

"Obviously," he says. "What do you need, Fischer?"

You , I want to tell him. But I can't say that. "I just don't want to sit here all alone with my thoughts. It can be a dangerous place."

He stands with his backpack strapped to his shoulder. He's actually leaving .

"Matthew," I say, but it sounds more like whining.

"What?" He's exasperated.

"Don't go…"

So fast I almost don't register it, he flicks his gaze down my body and swallows. Something in me stirs, because I do register it. My legs twitch, the urge to bend my knees and open my legs is sudden and strong. My heart thuds with the need to keep him here, not because I want to alter our relationship for all time or anything, but because I want to bask inside it.

It's a mind fuck.

Teasing him might keep him here longer, but ultimately he'll get annoyed and bored and leave anyway. But not for the first time, I'm having a hard time with the idea of him leaving and not knowing when I'll see him again besides in the lobby.

I guess we did cross a couple of those increasingly blurry lines last night, and it's all the more reason I don't want him to go. What if he thinks about it too much like I will? What if he pulls away? What if he doesn't think about it at all and dives headfirst into his muse?

"I need to clear my head," he says.

Exactly what I was afraid of. He's already thought about it too much. It's probably why he had trouble sleeping last night. I fucked up.

I can't look at him anymore. My jaw is clenched. I'm getting too emotional about this. Maybe I do have a concussion. "When do you work next?"

He takes a second to check his phone. "Tomorrow night. You want me to send you a link to my calendar?"

The question isn't sarcastic. "Yeah," I say. "That'd be great."

"It's nothing exciting. It just has my work schedule on it," he says, tapping at his screen.

My phone buzzes with the link. "Thanks," I mumble.

He comes over to my side of the bed, and I scoot to make a room for him to sit. He's offering a hug.

"How'm I supposed to give you a decent hug with a backpack on?" Jesus, I am pouting. Right out in the open like an unsatisfied spouse.

"Now who's the needy baby?" he asks, sliding it off and letting it thunk to the floor.

I go directly into his open arms, and he sighs sweetly once his chin rests on my shoulder. After a few breaths, around the time I expect the hug to end, it doesn't. It's a great hug, so I allow myself to indulge in it. I rub his back, and he rubs mine, too.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you, too." And maybe I squeeze him tighter. For whatever reason, it's harder to breathe. I even feel like I could cry actual tears.

I never cry.

As he eventually pulls away, he presses a soft kiss to my lips. I feel it everywhere .

"Call me if you need anything? Please?"

I'm reeling so hard, all I can do is nod my head.

"I'm serious," he says. "If I don't hear from you, I'm calling an ambulance."

I try to smile, but I'm not sure I manage it. "Okay."

He runs a hand down the side of my face and presses his forehead to mine. "Rest," he whispers.

"Okay."

Then he lets go, picks up his backpack, and leaves.