The Coil (10 page)

“Yeah?” Simon smiled. “Which one?”

Mattie bit his lip, his hands curled over the edge of the seat as he took in the open, friendly, and interested man sitting beside him.
Why not?
He didn’t answer, and decided on a rather brave question of his own. “Simon? Would you… uh….” He broke off, laughing nervously, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Would you like to—maybe when, you know, when you’re free—can—can I take you out? Sometime, maybe?”

The beginning of a smile curled at the edge of Simon’s mouth, but before he could answer, like some kind of inevitable soap opera, he was interrupted.

“Simon?” They both looked up to see someone out on the veranda, searching the garden, spotting them, and then making their way over. Mattie’s stomach turned over, realizing who it was.

“I’ve been looking for you. I want you to come meet—oh.” Andrew stopped short, a slow smile, almost a smirk, appearing. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

Mattie hastily stood, his voice breathless and wavering when he spoke. “Actually, I have to be going.”

“Oh, please, no, don’t let me interfere.” He held his hands out to stop him from leaving, and Mattie backed up. “Simon, I wanted you to meet with someone, but it can wait for another time.” He glanced between the two of them. “I’m glad you took my advice.”

Simon frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“Here.” He dug in his back pocket and threw his keys at Simon. “Call your sitter and tell her you’ll be late getting back. You can use my place.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Simon frowned. He’d been having a nice conversation and was pissed to have it interrupted.

“Don’t worry.” Andrew nodded over to Mattie. “Justin knows the way.”

“Oh God.” Mattie closed his eyes, digging his hands deep into his pockets, unable to look at Simon.

“Just—” Simon’s eyes widened. “Justin?” He looked at Mattie, stood, and saw how Mattie—or Justin—cringed away. “I don’t understand.”

“Glad to see you’ve climbed off your high horse, Mr. Self-righteous.” Andrew smirked.

“Wait, you’re Justin?” Simon asked firmly, feeling like a fool.

Mattie felt his face grow warm, and was alarmed when his eyes began to sting. “I um… No. No, my name’s Mattie.”

Andrew frowned, but said nothing, looking between the two. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” Simon raised his voice before quickly looking away and clearing his throat. “Of course you’re a prostitute. Of course.” He laughed with little humor. “As if you’d ever… ugh.” He broke off, shaking his head.

Mattie flinched at hearing the word “prostitute” come out of Simon’s mouth, but the look of disgust on his face was more than he could deal with. “I have to go,” he whispered, pushing past the both of them, back toward the veranda, through the crowd, and started out at a jog when meeting the sidewalk outside the gallery. He didn’t slow until he was two blocks away. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling tight.

“Fuck.
Fuck.
” His voice hitched. He dug his hands deep into his pockets once more as he made his way back to his apartment. It was a long walk, but flagging down a cab, having to use his voice to give his address, to talk to anyone at that moment would be impossible. He was a prostitute. He was a fucking prostitute and the coil was choking him.

S
IMON
had shrugged off Andrew’s concerns, thrusting his keys back into his hand, and gone on after Mattie. He couldn’t decide if he was more shocked at the revelation, angry with Mattie, or angry with himself. All he had wanted was to have a nice evening out. That nice evening had quickly developed into a lovely evening in the company of the handsome young guy from the diner. He’d been enjoying their conversation, had felt his heart leap in a way it hadn’t since Tim when Mattie had tried asking him out. But then reality—horrible, disappointing reality—had come rushing in.

Simon couldn’t see Mattie anywhere, and with slumped shoulders and a resigned sigh, he flagged down a cab and headed home. He leaned his head against the window, staring out at the sidewalk rushing by as he tried to figure out what it was that had passed between Mattie and himself. Having never engaged in such activities, he couldn’t gauge whether Mattie had genuinely tried to make a date with him, or was setting up some sort of transaction.

The part of him considering only his interaction with Mattie, before Andrew’s interference, claimed that a good looking, funny, interesting guy had sincerely been interested in him. The part of him that had been too damaged by his last relationship to be optimistic told him to let it go, to go home and write and put his son to bed and forget the entire ridiculous encounter. To learn, and to know better the next time a handsome young man showed interest in him. The kind of meetings and romances he so often read about were popular for a reason, and that was because they did not exist in real life.

Paying the driver, he headed on in and met Sarah in the living room. She looked up from her book.

“Hey.” She looked over at the clock on the mantel. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”

He shucked his jacket off. “It wasn’t really all that great. Just a lot of schmoozing and a lot of phony people.” He shrugged. “At least there were free drinks.”

“Shame.” She folded the page of her book and stood, stretching. “Here’s hoping Prince Charming will be at the next shindig.”

“Jamie asleep?”

“He’s as snug as a bug.”

“Any trouble?”

“No, we had a grand time. We watched the movie, and he convinced me to watch the DVD extras, but his eyes started to droop five minutes in, so….” She smiled, shrugging.

“Well, thank you for sitting, and as always, you’re a star.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a couple of bills.

“Thank you, Si.” She folded the money and headed into the hall. She slipped on her pumps and pulled her jacket from the coat rack. “Let me know when you need me to sit again.”

Simon shook his head and hugged her briefly. “I do feel like I take advantage of you.”

“Simon,” she groaned quietly. “We went through this. I adore Jamie. And….” She trailed off, zipping herself up. “Well, times are rough, you know?” She patted the side of her handbag where she’d put her purse and money. “Teaching doesn’t pay much, and being single with a car that’s on its way to the scrap heap and all… every penny helps. All right?”

“You know that if you ever have problems with money you can come to me, right?” He rubbed her arm. “I meant it when I said you’re family.”

She smiled at him. “I’ll be just fine, but thank you for the peace of mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He kissed her cheek, and waited at the door until she had driven away in her car, that did in fact have an exhaust that sounded like a tank, and then closed the door.

He toed off his shoes and pulled his tie loose and then over his head. He looked into Jamie’s room briefly before going on into his own to change into his sweats. Changed and more or less ready for bed, he headed back into Jamie’s room.

Jamie lay curled up on his side, fast asleep and with his thumb in his mouth. Simon smiled tenderly, extracted the thumb, and sat on the side of the bed gently so as to not wake him. He leaned against the headboard and sighed happily as Jamie turned in his sleep and instinctually curled up against his dad. With Jamie’s head resting against the side of his stomach, he stroked that little cowlick and wrapped his arm around him. Jamie’s cape was askew between them, but he’d put it right before he went to bed.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. There was no hiding from it. He felt terrible. He felt terrible that he had to rely upon Sarah so often because he trusted so few people with his son. He felt terrible because, deep down, he knew his third novel wasn’t working. He felt terrible that he hadn’t had a relaxed, normal evening. And he felt terrible because he could not shift the look of mortification and shame on Mattie’s face from his mind.

That look alone was enough to tell him that what Andrew had said was true, that it was something Mattie was not proud of, and that it must surely be out of necessity. What had Sarah said? Times are rough. Hadn’t Andrew said something similar? Simon knew he was fortunate. Privileged, even. His first two novels had done exceedingly well and were still on the shelves. He didn’t need to worry about the cost of replacing an exhaust, or money for Jamie to go to school. He owned his home. He was comfortable and had the means to take care of himself and his son.

Perhaps he needed to pull his head out of his ass. He did something he loved for a living. He spent half the day writing, and the other half with a son he loved more than life itself. He knew next to nothing about Mattie’s life, or the man himself, other than he had been kind to his boy, had attempted to ask him out in an alarmingly bashful but endearing way, and that he made sandwiches and wanted to go to art school. That was it.

He didn’t know the circumstances, and couldn’t rest knowing that he had made this perfectly nice guy feel miserable. Perhaps it was all in his mind and Mattie had already shrugged it off, but tomorrow he would have to speak to him, and if need be, apologize. It would go no further than that. Mattie was too young, anyway, and he certainly had enough complications in his life already.

Chapter Four

T
HIS
was ridiculous. He’d been loitering across the street from the diner for an hour almost, afraid to go in. Or perhaps not afraid per se, but attempting to put off what would be a very awkward and uncomfortable conversation in Mattie’s place of work. Simon didn’t want to make him feel any worse, he truly didn’t, but a selfish part of him knew that he liked the diner. He could write there, and it was close to Jamie’s school. His hopes were to, at the very least, reassure Mattie that he wouldn’t pass on what he knew already and that he thought no less of him. (Even if part of him sincerely recoiled at the thought of Mattie being treated harshly or unkindly, despite their limited introduction to one another.)

After Sarah’s reassuring him about her sitting for Jamie, he felt less guilty in asking her to sit for him again so soon. She would keep him with her while she packed up for the day, and would then take him home for his supper. (He had long ago trusted her with a spare key to his home.) He’d made sure to repeat this break from Jamie’s usual routine a number of times, so as not to cause him upset when home time came around and he wasn’t there to pick him up. He had a feeling that Sarah knew that this “last minute meeting with his editor” was a cover for something else, but oddly enough, he had sensed her approval, and he now had the afternoon free. Whether it was to hopefully buy Mattie a coffee after his shift to apologize, or to find himself another place to write and give himself time to lift his morose mood, he was, as always, infinitely grateful to her.

But first, he needed to go in there, offer him a friendly, approachable smile, and wait until he perhaps took a break to ask for a private word. As it was, he was sitting at the bus stop across the street with his laptop case in his lap, looking over at the glass front of the diner, attempting to grow a pair.

Was he being selfish? To approach him at his workplace may be flat-out unkind, but in a way it felt as if it were his workplace too. He knew the thought was unfair, because he could technically write anywhere, but only other writers knew that when you found the right spot—that comfortable, tucked away spot where you could allow your mind to let go of its surroundings and engross itself in the story—it was an important thing and not to be taken for granted.

And I want to see him, still.

Simon groaned as another bus came to a deflating stop with a
“whoosh”
beside the curb, its doors opening and the driver looking his way. Simon gave an apologetic shake of his head, and the driver pulled what he assumed was a lever, closed the doors, and pulled away.

Simon watched the bus pull away, and then glanced back to the diner to see Mattie leaving. He stood abruptly, nearly dropping his laptop case in the process, and stayed there stupidly, his heart in his throat, watching as Mattie zipped his jacket and hunched his shoulders with his hands in his pockets, as if a strong wind was pushing against him.

He was nearly out of view when Simon finally came out of his stupor, hastily hooked his satchel with laptop inside over his head, and quickly glanced both ways before crossing the street at a jog.

“Mattie!” he called, somewhat breathlessly. (He blamed his inactive career for his less than Olympian health.)

Mattie looked back over his shoulder and visibly flinched. He stood rooted to the spot, as if caught, and looked around, contemplating a quick getaway. He looked back at Simon, his shoulders slumping in resignation. Simon came to a stop, still clutching his bag to his side, where it had been clapping against his hip, huffing and fighting the instinct to bend at the waist with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Mattie,” he said needlessly, wanting to take away the look of caution and utter discomfort from his unhappy face. “You’re leaving work early today?”