When Joss Met Matt (23 page)

Bartender Matt pushed the glass at me. “Interesting.”

“Long story.” I took a sip. The tonic water was bitter compared to the sweetness of my last drink, but I liked it. “The dealer has good taste,” I said.

“Thank you.”

A forty-something man eased up to the bar, and Bartender Matt turned his attention to the new customer. I sipped my drink and looked around. The crowd was thin for a Saturday night and I checked the time. Nine-fifteen. I really had showed up early. People would filter in over the next hour until finally there was a line at the door, I suspected.

Down the bar, a guy about my age smiled at me. I tried to smile back, but suddenly the idea of a one-night stand was loathsome. My salivary glands kicked into overdrive as nausea passed through me like a ghost. What was I doing? Did I seriously think I could just ease the loss of Matt with a random stranger? I should have known better. I didn't have the stomach to go through with a cheap one-night stand when I was eighteen, and I didn't have it at twenty-six.

I swiveled forward and picked up my drink. I would finish and go home before I did something stupid.

Bartender Matt returned, spreading his hands wide on the bar. “Slow down there, heartbreak, you're gonna fall off your stool.”

“That would be a fitting end.”

He left to serve a few more newcomers, and I finished my vodka tonic. But when I caught his attention to get my tab, he came back with another drink.

“I can't,” I said, pushing the glass away.

“What happened to being over-served?”

“Bad idea. This whole plan was a bad idea.”

“Do me a favor and taste this—” He pushed the glass back at me. “And it'll be on the house.”

I shrugged and took a sip. It was light and lemony, and barely tasted of alcohol. I supposed I could tolerate one more.

The next time Bartender Matt came around, he leaned on his forearms and smiled at me. “I get off at ten. You wanna hang around and have another drink with me?”

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I'd had enough to drink that my worries seemed distant and faded. I
should
stop and go home, start chugging water and hope my hangover wouldn't be too deadly. But a night of solo crying wasn't terribly appealing. I pushed my hair behind my ears and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“That's a deal.”

I waited for his shift to end, nursing my lemony drink and forcibly avoiding all thoughts of the other Matt. My Matt. I was mostly successful.

Then, when he logged out of the register, Bartender Matt gestured for me to follow him to the end of the bar. There was a sizable crowd to navigate by then, and he beat me there by a full minute. At the end, there was a clear space where the cocktail waitresses came in and out with their trays. There weren't any stools open, but Matt got a couple of beers with no wait.

“Why are you off so early?” I asked. “People are just getting here.”

“I'm the new kid,” he said. “I get the dinner shift.”

“That sucks.”

He shrugged. “I get to hang out and drink for free all night.”

“Classy.”

He laughed.

We sipped our beers and talked for a while. I found out he had just been let go as a tight-end from the Arizona Cardinals. He'd never even gotten to play—he'd been injured during training. So, he'd come home to Milwaukee to figure out what to do next. I wasn't enough of a football fan to know if he was telling the truth, but he did look big enough to be a pro. I told him a little about myself, leaving out the details of my recent not-dumping. All the while, my head was getting foggier and the room less stable. I wanted to sit down so badly I found myself looking at the floor for a clear spot.

“I think I have to go home while I can still stand,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You want a ride?”

“No, don't leave, it's only a few blocks.” My ankles were in a conspiracy against me, however, as one of them took that moment to wobble and knock me off my wedge sandals. “Ow! Shit!” I grabbed the bar for support and tried to bring my injured ankle up to my other hand. I couldn't do it without falling, though, so I let my foot drop and settled on sucking air through my teeth.

“Let me drive you home. You're going to fall off the curb if I let you walk.”

I couldn't say no.

Bartender Matt insisted on walking me into my apartment. It didn't take much effort on his part, I really was having trouble walking by then. He eased me onto my couch and pulled my feet into his lap to unbuckle my sandals for me.

“You don't have to do that,” I said.

“Hey, I've brought you this far.” He let my sandals drop to the floor with a
thunk
. “So, have you been sufficiently over-served?”

I nodded, and the room nodded with me. “More than sufficiently, I think.”

“How drunk are you?” His fingertips caressed my ankle.

“Just enough,” I said. “I know what I'm doing if that's what you're asking.”

“So, if I …?” He trailed off as he bent over and kissed me.

“That would be fine with me,” I said when he pulled back.

The couch was adrift on a sea of my own drunkenness as we kissed, and I had to stretch one hand down to touch the floor to be certain it was there, and not moving. It didn't seem to be, so I let go and set sail once more.

Matt—the wrong Matt—shifted to put me on top and slipped his hand under my shirt. I tried to focus on the feel of his fingers on my skin and the warmth of his lips, but it was all wrong and I knew it. I wanted to cry.

He opened the clasp on my bra and I pulled back. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Get girls drunk and talk your way into their pants?”

He grinned. “You're direct, aren't you?”

“That's not an answer.”

“Do you really want one?” he asked and cupped my breast. His thumb flicked over my nipple and heat dripped into my pelvis.

“I don't know …” I had to think, but it was so hard. My brain was so muzzy and my body had turned traitor. “Maybe not.”

“Think about it,” Bartender Matt advised before pulling my shirt off.

I didn't. I didn't think about anything; I just gave in to my body's urging.

Thud. Thud.

When the knocks at the door startled us, I was down to my panties.

“Who's that?” he asked.

“I don't know?”

“Joss?”
It was Matt.

“Oh my God,” I gasped.

“Who is it?” Bartender Matt asked.

“Um, um …” I was on my feet and trying to struggle into my jeans.

“Joss?”
Matt called again.
“Are you home?”

“Just a minute!” I called.

“Damn it,” Bartender Matt muttered.

I made a dash for my bedroom, stumbling into the walls twice, and pulled my bathrobe over my bare torso. When I walked through the living room again, Bartender Matt was working his shirt on, and although his pants were still open, he was sitting down. It would do.

I opened the door.

Matt took a step back when he saw me. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was pale. “You're okay,” he said, as if he was expecting otherwise.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” I kept the door at about an eighteen-inch crack. My heart was hammering.

“You weren't answering your phone. I saw your car in the parking lot …” He gestured helplessly. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

I looked over my shoulder to see Bartender Matt getting his shoes on. “I'm fine.”

“Look, you left so quickly last night. I think we need to talk.”

I didn't want Matt to see Bartender Matt. I either had to get Bartender Matt to psychically determine he should hide in a closet, or I had to get my Matt to leave. My choice was obvious. “You don't want to see me anymore, and you're moving to California—what's to talk about?”

He winced. “You're mad.”

“I'm not mad. This isn't a good time.”

“You're very mad,” he amended. “Please, can I just come in and talk to you? I think you misunderstood me.”

“Joss?” Bartender Matt spoke up, and startled Matt and me into looking at him. “I'm gonna go.”

Matt looked at him, then me, then him again. “Who are you?”

“Matt,” Bartender Matt said, holding out his hand.

Matt turned his eyes back to me, ignoring the proffered hand.

I cocked my head defiantly. “What?”

“Matt,” Matt said, keeping his eyes on me as he belatedly shook hands with Bartender Matt.

Now they were both staring at me. I didn't say anything.

Bartender Matt shook his head and put up hands of surrender. “Well, this is gonna be a real shitshow, I'm sure. So … I'm gonna go.”

Matt stepped back and made a sweeping gesture for him to leave.

“You don't have to go,” I said.

“I really do. I don't want any part of this voodoo exorcism, or whatever it is you're doing here.” He slid in the small space between me and the doorframe, and nodded at Matt. “Take it easy, man.”

Matt watched him disappear into the stairwell and looked back at me. At my bathrobe, more accurately. “I should go.”

Panic welled up in my throat. “Are you really moving?”

He looked at me like I didn't speak English. “I've got some job applications out. We'll see. I applied to transfer to Tulane, too. I have to go to New Orleans for an interview next week.”

My chin started to quiver. “Oh.”

“Is that it?”

I looked down at the floor, realizing that the whole world was still in motion as far as my brain was concerned. A sudden wave of nausea crashed through my stomach, and the acrid taste of all those mixed alcohols crept up my throat. “I think I should go lay down.”

“Are you drunk?”

So, so drunk.
“A little.”

Due to staring at the floor, I could only see his feet shuffle. I had no idea what he was thinking. “Did you—?” He cut himself off. “Never mind. I'm gonna go.”

“'Kay,” I said.

He walked out of my limited field of vision and I closed my eyes. “Joss—”

I lifted my head and found two Matts. I blinked hard, and then there was only the one.

“What?” I asked.

He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Right.” I nodded. “Nothing.”

His eyes darkened. “What the hell were you doing with that guy?”

“What do you think I was doing?” I snapped.

“Looking for another drunk frat guy, huh?”

I flinched and went into full wounded animal mode. “Fuck you. I sprained my ankle and he gave me a ride home.”

“You and your God damned damsel in distress fetish.” His hands flexed and curled at his sides.

“Excuse me for knowing what I like.”

“You have no idea what you like,” he said. “You think love is flowers and sappy greeting cards and fucking carriage rides. Well, I've got news for you, Joss, that's just what guys do to get girls in bed.”

“You have no idea what love is,” I said. “You don't have a romantic bone in your body.”

“Like you know. You think you want romance, but look at you—” He pounded his fist once against the wall. “You think you want it, but you don't.”

I pulled the door open hard enough to bounce it against the wall. “Excuse me?”

“If you had any clue what love was, you wouldn't need flowers and your fucking knight in shining armor assholes. You're not their type.” He threw his hands up.

I crossed my arms, which challenged my balance quite a bit. “And I suppose you think you know what I need?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Well, enlighten me,
sensei
!” I clasped my hands in front of my chest.

“You—” He cut himself off again, holding up a flattened hand between us. “You know what? You're drunk, and I'm not having this conversation with you.”

“Fine by me.” I scrabbled my hand against the door until I found the edge. “Have a great night.” I almost closed the door, but at the last moment, decided on a final, cheap shot. “Scratch that. Have a great life. Get me your new address, okay? Maybe I'll send you a fucking Christmas card.” Then I slammed the door.

And then I slid down the wall and buried my face in my fuzzy robe so he wouldn't hear me sobbing.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Now

My hangover was born at three in the morning, and it was immortal. No amount of hydration, coffee, greasy food, or vitamin B could quell it. I began to suspect it was a hangover of the soul when it was still there—pulsing in my temples, churning in my stomach, stripping my mouth of moisture—a week later. Alcohol was a mild poison when it came down to it, guilt, disappointment, and a broken heart were far more potent.

Every day that went by was another day that made reconciliation less likely. We should have been talking to each other. But we weren't. It felt strange and awful to be estranged from someone who meant the world to me. He was always there if I needed him. Even if it was for something stupid, like getting my Christmas decorations out of the storage locker in my basement, or coming over so I could order a pizza without feeling like a pig.

He would be in New Orleans, I realized at one point. If I'd had any courage, I might have been there with him. If he'd wanted me to, that is. Was there even a chance he might have seen me as more than his future ex–Sorbet Girl if I'd only told him I saw him as more than a part-time booty call?

When no one was looking at work, my eyes leaked tears. The sound of my footsteps tapped out accusations as I walked:
You. Hurt. Him. You. Lost. Your. Chance. You. Stu-pid. Girl.
At night I lay awake, turning over our last conversation until it didn't resemble a human interaction so much as a term paper after a harsh teacher had corrected it.

I applied to Tulane
—I don't want to leave law school, I just have to get away from you.

Looking for another drunk frat guy, huh?—
You haven't changed at all, and I've outgrown you.

You think love is flowers and sappy greeting cards and fucking carriage rides
—You immature little girl.

Well, I've got news for you, Joss, that's just what guys do to get girls in bed
—Girls like you, Jocelyn Kiel. Girls just like you.

The truth was there in the subtext. He thought I was an immature idiot, and I could hardly blame him. I'd labeled myself childish when I'd made the pros and cons list. How could I argue with both of us?

Not that he was one to talk. The only person that he'd ever been in love with that I could even think of was Meghan, and that was probably just a matter of duration. He didn't know anything about true love.

Which was what exactly?

The question stayed with me as days passed. I prompted myself so many times: Love is … Love is … Often, the only completions came from quotes I'd heard throughout my life:

Love is patient, love is kind—1 Corinthians 13:4

Love means never having to say you're sorry—Love Story

The stuff of wedding vows and Hollywood. But what was it really?

Love was knowing someone, truly knowing him, and still wanting to be with him. Love was caring so much about another person that you willingly put his needs before your own. Love was sharing passion, history, trust. All of that, plus a fearless belief that life is better with your love than without. That everything that comes next will be made easier, happier, richer by his inclusion.

I'd become an ad hoc philosopher. I was centimeters from the truth, and the only thing that separated me from it was my own stubbornness.

Love was coming to my apartment on a Tuesday night so I could decorate for Christmas. Love was calling in sick to work so I could get to the hospital when his father died. Love was the best kisses I'd ever had in my life, and the lazy, sleepy talks we had in bed.

Love was Matt, and I was wrong not to see it before. I would be a fool not to tell him. We were already as distant as we'd ever been, what risk was there in putting myself on the line? None, really. He was slipping through my fingers, and I would never forgive myself if I did not tell him the truth before he was completely out of reach.

So, what's a girl to do on the morning after she realizes she's in love with someone? If my life was a movie, it would have been the point when I got dressed up in something girly and made a mad dash to my love's side to declare my feelings and we'd kiss and live happily ever after.

My life was not a movie.

I woke up feeling like a lukewarm cup of death after a broken night of sleep. I got dressed in my least-favorite scrubs, since everything else was still in the laundry. I drove to work in a sloppy rainstorm that flooded the storm sewers and drilled through my shirt with needle-like determination. I got puked on by a poodle named Francie within the first hour of work.

I drank coffee to keep my eyes propped open and watched the clock. Although my mind was clear and the ache had gone from my chest, the day did not seem any less monotonous than the preceding weeks. Because it is one thing to admit to yourself that you love someone. But it is entirely another to admit it to that someone. And after that, you have to figure out what you're both going to do about it.

In the past, I'd told only a few guys that I loved them. It had been a straightforward process: start seeing someone, become exclusive, realize I loved him, and tell him. With Matt, I had clearly gone a long and circuitous way around the normal process. It was something of an advantage to know how I felt going in, but it was also terrifying. Was it possible that the act of dating him could make me not love him? I hadn't considered the possibility until that morning. What if I loved him, and we became a couple, and I learned about a million little quirks that would send me screaming for the hills?

I tried to imagine what he might be hiding; what idiosyncrasies could I have missed over the years? I already knew he watched way more sports than I could stand, but that was true of every guy I'd ever known, much less dated. I knew he ate ketchup on his scrambled eggs, which, despite being akin to eating a plate of garbage in my opinion, was hardly a deal-breaker. I ruminated on the subject all day, trying to come up with something about Matt that I could tolerate as a friend, but would certainly drive me mad as a girlfriend.

My list was short and limited to things that annoyed me about men in general, rather than Matt in particular. It included: leaving the toilet seat up, a considerable gap between our standards for housekeeping, and a tendency to snore if he slept on his back.

From there, my focus moved on to listing my own idiosyncrasies. Which of my tiny compulsions would be the one to drive Matt to leave me? My reality TV habit? My inability to cook chicken? The high cost of maintaining the infamous lingerie collection?

At the end of the day, I was forced to involve Nellie again. She'd gone out on a call with one of the vets. Dr. Srivastava was the only one who did it, and Nellie loved to go to the far-flung purebred breeders' compounds where Dr. S was the vet on retainer. She'd been gone all day. I nearly jumped her when she returned—I couldn't be alone with my thoughts any longer.

“Hey, girly-girl, how was your day?” she greeted me.

“Francie puked on me,” I said in a conversational tone.

“I got bitten by a cat,” she replied.

“You win.”

“I know.”

“Did it break the skin?” Cat bites were awful.

“Yeah.” Nellie sighed and held up her right arm. Just below the wrist, she wore loosely taped gauze, stained with dried blood. “Antibiotics.”

I winced. “Ooh, ouch.”

“Hurts like a sonofabitch,” she agreed.

She'd be back at work the next day, though. I would have bet on it. It takes more than a bite to get a true animal lover to leave the business. I'd been bitten half a dozen times myself, and had the scars to prove it. Animals are terrified at the vet; it's not personal.

“Sorry, Nell.”

“I'll live.” Her tone said the matter was trivial. “Now, tell me about something more interesting than poodle puke.”

I was ready. I hooked my arm through hers and dragged her into the cramped supply closet. “I'm in love with Matt.”

She tipped her head back to look down her nose at me. “When did you figure this out?”

“Last night.”

“You're an idiot.”

“What?” I demanded. “Why?”

“I can't believe it took you that long.”

I gaped at her for a second before shaking myself back to the present. “I swear to God, I will never figure out how your mind works.”

“At least you'll never say I'm predictable.”

“Never mind that.” I swatted that line of thought away, knocking my hand into a stack of boxed gloves. We both tensed for the collapse, but it steadied. I turned my attention back to Nellie. “Is he going to love me back?”

“He'd better.”

“I'm serious, Nell. Have I completely screwed this up already?”

She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth and took a centering breath. Then she put one hand on each of my shoulders and stared straight into my eyes. “I'm going to tell you something right now, and I need you to know that I'm saying this out of love. Got it?”

I had a sinking feeling I wasn't going to like this. “Yeah …”

“Okay. Here it is:
Talk. To. Matt.
I cannot answer any more questions about this. You have to take responsibility for your own happiness. Tell him. Make it happen. And if it doesn't work, then you're allowed to come back to me and cry, okay?”

Take responsibility for your own happiness
 …

Those were some words to live by, if ever I'd heard them.

I had to stop wondering what if. I had to do something. Anything.

Perhaps I needed to do it like pulling off a bandage. As I drove away from the clinic, the sound of rain drumming on the roof of my Honda would normally have been a sufficient excuse for me not to call Matt. I was busy feeling like a brand-new girl, however, so I speed-dialed him, shocked when the call went straight to voice mail.

Even with my damn-the-cannons attitude, I didn't think a confession of love was voice mail material. Nor was I willing to hang up without leaving a message. I decided to go simple.

“Hi. It's me. Listen, I know we left things badly last time we talked. If you're willing, I'd like to try again. Please call me.”

Just that baby step made me feel lighter.
Maybe,
I thought,
I can have this whole thing resolved by the end of the day
.

Of course, that depended on Matt calling me back. Which he didn't.

I didn't know if he was out of town or ignoring me, but I figured I could give him a couple of days to adjust.

At least, I hoped I could.

Despite my best efforts to be brave and confident, I still had to be alone with my thoughts as I lay in bed, waiting for sleep. Dewey was there, of course, offering feline moral support in the form of purring loudly and kneading my stomach until I groaned. I thought about Nellie's advice, and the last words Matt and I had spoken to each other.

Take responsibility for your own happiness.

You and your God damned damsel in distress fetish.

They amounted to the same thing. I counted on someone else to make me feel special, wanted … loved. And
that
was what made me childish. That was why I kept Matt shoehorned into the tiny box I'd created for him. He counted on me to know who I was and what I wanted, which I clearly didn't. Hadn't. Now it was starting to come clear.

Who was I? Just me. A little more insecure than I'd imagined myself to be, but ready to admit it for the first time. A work in progress.

Dewey flopped over in his sleep and twitched against my thigh. I furrowed my hand through his downy chest. One thing was certain—I wanted Matt and I had to take a shot at getting him.

Giving Matt time to adjust got me nowhere. He never called me back. As tempting as it was to turn tail and run, I knew I had to be brave. I had to take responsibility. So I called him again.

“Matty, it's Joss. I—I miss you. I'm sorry for the things I said. Please call me. Before you leave, at least. I just want us to be okay. Even if I never see you again.”

And while I waited for him to reply, I had to make plans for Jessie's wedding. My plan was simple—take the train to Chicago and count on the kindness of one of my college friends to put me up for the night. It could backfire, for sure, but I didn't think it would. Worst-case scenario, I could pull an all-nighter and get the first train home in the morning.

With only two days to go before the trip, I called Matt one more time.

“Hey, it's me again. Here's the deal: You don't have to talk to me, but if you could at least let me know if you're still coming to Jessie and Evan's wedding, I'd appreciate it. And if you are, can we agree to be civil? Please, Matty. I hope I mean enough—
meant
enough to you, at some point—to get an answer to this.”

The next day I got a text message:
Yes, yes, and yes.

And I promptly burst into tears.

I was relieved that he responded, angry that he'd obviously chosen not to respond to my other messages, and nearly shaking with anticipation. I wanted to see him so badly. And what exactly did he mean by all those yeses? I tried to remember exactly what I'd said to him. I recalled asking about the wedding, and whether or not we could be civil. Was the last yes supposed to tell me that I'd meant something to him? Did I still?

For the third time since our argument, I drove to his apartment. The house was dark and his car wasn't in the service drive. As it hadn't been every time I'd come by. I didn't know where he was spending his time, and with him not answering his phone, I had no way to find out. I was starting to feel like a stalker, and I vowed not to stop by again without an invitation.

I was late for the wedding. I'd had two options for departure times on the train, and I'd obviously made the wrong choice. That meant slipping in the side entrance of the chapel and waiting for a good moment to take a seat.

I paused to take off my shoes—I am not a quiet walker in heels—and stuff them in my voluminous shoulder bag before I opened the big exterior door. The processional was in progress, with only a few members of the wedding party left to make their entrance. I'd known Jessie's bridal party was all relatives, but I hadn't expected them to look so alike. It was immediately obvious who was related to Jessie and who to Evan.