49. Matthew

49

MATTHEW

T onight, in the Bronx, my bed still smells of him. It doesn't reek of sex anymore, but it's covered in us. Maybe mostly him. He's come a lot on these sheets, and God knows I suck at doing laundry. I don't know how he stands me.

Except that I guess he doesn't.

Although, I know the sheets aren't our problem. I'm the problem.

Maggie's texted me half a dozen times since we talked yesterday, even in the middle of the night when I somehow fell asleep. She's my sister. I love her. I'll forgive her one day. But the fact that she told Fischer to stay away from me is going to take me a minute.

That he took her advice? I'm not surprised. She made strong points. He has his kid to think about—his career. And I can admit the truth to myself—there's no way any outsider could look at our situation and give him the benefit of the doubt. There's no way anyone would believe that nothing even remotely inappropriate happened before I was legally an adult and no longer a virgin. Fuck, Maggie doesn't believe it, and she was there .

To believe the truth, you'd have to know Fischer. You'd have to understand how anti-Cannon he was. How rarely he was around, and how absent he was even when he was in the same room.

Living with him during his surgeries was the first time I'd ever seen beyond the mask of indifference he donned every time he came to visit. You'd have to know what he told me when we were curled up together last Friday night unable to stop talking even when it was way past time to sleep: that until he left the bed we used to share together, he thought he didn't need a family.

So, yeah, I miss him. But I won't fight him on this. If he chooses Vaughn over me—so fucking be it. He wouldn't be the man I love if he did anything less. Maybe that's why I've been so desperate. Why I've clung so hard knowing I couldn't hang on long. Maybe some part of me knew it would always come down to this.

The good news is, I think I've changed some since realizing I'm still in love with him and probably always will be. I haven't yet had the urge to drown my sorrows on Grindr or on my knees in a gay bar. But it hasn't been that long. I may still be in shock. I'm definitely reeling. But I haven't started to spiral.

I swipe away yet another notification from Maggie and get out of bed for the first time in twelve hours. It's raining, so the loft is gloomy. I consider contacting Gibson to see if he can use me in one of his other properties because there's no way in hell I'm going back to the Eastmoor. All I know is I can't sit around here all day, uninspired and going broke.

I fool myself into thinking I'm okay, and this is nothing new and no big deal until I stumble out of the shower and start puking bile into the toilet. The memories come at me hard and fast. Some old, but mostly recent.

My stomach is empty, but my body won't stop trying to purge itself. But in this case, it feels like I'm trying to eject him from my system. Like he's deep, deep in there. Like our love is poison and my body can no longer tolerate it.

I fall asleep, or pass out, naked on the bathroom floor. When I come to, it's dark again, and I'm shivering. I turn my head away from the toilet, afraid to look at it in case the retching starts up again. My mouth is sour and dry, my body achy and weak. I drag myself up to standing, but I'm so light-headed I have to bend over the countertop until I'm positive I can stand up straight.

When I make it to bed without incident, instead of lying down, I go the extra mile and shuffle into the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water and drinking it slowly, giving it time to settle.

I spend the next twenty minutes hurling into the kitchen sink.

When the sun comes up again, I'm in bed, and I power up my phone.

There are two missed texts from Maggie and one missed call from Fischer.

My hand shakes so hard, I drop the phone.

When I realize he didn't leave a message, I start crying. It's just a few tears at first and then it's a waterfall, and I'm choking, and then I'm gagging, and I'm over the toilet again. What the fuck is happening to me?

Anyone watching would think I'm coming off heroin. It's hard to imagine even drug withdrawal could feel worse than this. I'm so fucking miserable. It's a literal hour before I can even tap out a coherent text to him. And I don't know why I do it. It's not like he had words for me. And I don't know why I can't just tell him I love him, but I don't.

I'm so sorry.

Fischer

I'm sorry too

I'm not sure what time it is—only that it's dark when the knocking starts. I make it to the door solely on the power of my own belief that Fischer is on the other side of it. Unbolting the locks with shaky hands, my breath is shallow and inadequate. I'm shocked to see Gavin in the hallway holding a wet umbrella without a spot of rain besmirching his perfect outfit.

"I thought he might have been over-reacting, but I guess not," Fischer's assistant says, concern pinching his pretty features.

"What are you…?"

"He's worried about you. I'm not saying he sent me because he technically didn't, but I got worried too when I saw the state he's in. Can I come in?"

"Is he okay?" I ask, my voice hoarse from coughing into the toilet.

"He's alive."

I let Gavin in, and he takes a cursory look around, eyes widening slightly when he sees the tree, but he doesn't comment on it. My legs are too weak to hold me up much longer. I waver on my feet. "Come on," he says, sliding an arm around my waist. "Let's get you back in bed. I'll make you some tea."

"I don't think I can keep it down."

"We'll work on that," he says. "It's gonna be okay."