THERE WAS NO sign of Romy when Matt opened the door at 7 p.m.—not even a wisp of aromatic steam coming out of the kitchen, which was where she’d normally be at this time of night.
He experienced a short burst of relief, followed almost immediately by a surge of panic.
But then he heard his name, “Matt?” called out like a question from her bedroom and the panic receded...and then surged right back, because he had no idea what he was going to do.
He’d had a turbulent night and a torturous day wandering the city, trying to work out why Romy’s I love you was different from every other I love you he’d ever heard even though it wasn’t different, why it made him want to stay instead of leave, why leaving therefore was exactly what he should do and why he needed to stay anyway.
Yeah, like any of that made sense.
“Matt?” she called again.
He opened his mouth to say yes, it was him, but when no sound emerged, he closed it.
And then she was there, in the room with him, smiling as though nothing had happened last night. “I’m glad you’re back. I need you,” she said, and walked over to him holding out something he accepted by reflex.
“Can you put that in for me?” she asked, and when he looked down at his hand he saw it was an earring. “The left ear is always tricky, as you know.”
Of all the openings Romy could have given him after last night, this was about as far from his imaginings as it was possible to get.
“Matt?” she prompted when he stood there like his own mummified remains, and she moved closer so that their bodies were almost touching. And God, how he wanted to touch her, even if it was only her ear. He wanted to beg her not to hate him. He needed her to put her arms around him and hold on to him. He felt so lonely for her, which didn’t make sense when she was standing in front of him.
She tilted her head as trustingly as ever, moving her hair out of the way. He started to put the spike of the earring through her lobe, but his fingers were trembling so much it took three attempts. “You need to get it repierced,” he said—an excuse for his clumsiness.
She offered him a tremulous smile. “I’ll get you a needle and you can do it for me.”
“Needles hurt.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “And I don’t want to hurt you, Romy.”
“So don’t hurt me.” Her smile failed. “Please don’t, Matt.”
He choked on what might have been a sob if he knew how to cry, and stepped back out of harm’s way. And that’s when he noticed she was wearing a silk dress and high heels. Her hair had been styled, her makeup carefully applied and there was a hint of Chanel in the air.
“You’re going out,” he said.
He saw her physically pull herself together. “My monthly dinner with my parents, which I completely forgot about until Mum called me this afternoon!” Pause, as she reapplied her smile. “If you want to come, I can wait a few minutes...?”
He swallowed. Shook his head. Took another step back, then stepped forward again because that was just too pathetic. What was he scared of—that she’d love him to death?
She took a gusty breath. “Okay then. I’ve left some menus on the kitchen counter—several restaurants nearby do home delivery. Or...or maybe you already have plans?” Pause, during which she very clearly braced while he said nothing. “Well, whatever. If you stay in and want to...to talk, about...about anything, I don’t expect to be out too late.”
She started to move past him but he stopped her. “Is Teague going to be there?”
“No.”
“Has he met your parents, Romy?”
“Yes, he’s been to a few of these dinners.”
“So why did I never meet them on one of my trips?”
She looked at him for a long moment. He got the feeling she was choosing and discarding words. Then she shrugged and said simply: “Because it didn’t work out that way.”
“Why didn’t it?” he pushed, because he wanted to know. Maybe it would help him to make sense of their relationship.
“Because we’ve never had the kind of...of friendship that would make such a meeting easy.”
“How can he have been enough of a friend to meet them but not me?”
“Probably the same reason you took Teague home to meet your parents but not me.”
“That’s...different.”
“Yes, and you and I are different from me and Teague or you and Teague. Or you and Veronica and Rafael and Artie and—Oh, Matt, can’t you see that we’re not friends in the same way? That we never were? We couldn’t be, because I—” She broke off. Shook her head. “Look, you don’t want to hear it and I’m late—I really have to go.”
She tried to move past him again—again he stopped her.
“Do they know about me, Romy?”
“My parents? Yes. They know we were friends in college. They know we’ve been friends ever since. They know you’re staying here. They want to meet you because they know about the sperm—in fact they half expect you to come with me tonight.”
“Have you told them how we did it? The sperm? That it wasn’t—”
“No. There didn’t seem to be much point since... Well, let’s just say I discuss almost everything with my parents, but not one-night stands.”
“Three nights.”
“Different number, same principle.”
His head felt like it might explode. “I think...” Trailing off. Clearing his throat. “Doesn’t matter. Have a nice time at—Where did you say you were going?”
“Petit Diable. I took you there last year, when I was dating the sous chef, Jules.”
“Oh, Jules—yeah, I remember.”
“That was the time you met Poppy.” She took her overcoat off the coat stand by the door and slipped it on. “And you insisted Jules and I meet up with the two of you for brunch.”
“Why are you mentioning that, Romy?”
She faced him. “Because I’ve decided there are some things I won’t do anymore. Like having brunch or lunch or dinner or drinks or anything else with you and your latest hookup. I don’t want to talk to them on the phone or see them on video calls or read their emails. I just...don’t.”
“You have to do that, Romy! I need you there.”
“Why?”
“Stops them giving me ultimatums. Them, or you. I have to...to show them—”
“That I’m not a threat? Well, that makes sense. They meet me, they can tell what I mean to you and all is well in your world and theirs.”
“I choose you. I always choose you.”
She shook her head at him sadly. “Oh, Matt, that’s not a choice. That’s called having your cake and eating it, too. And I’m tired of being the vanilla sponge you refresh your palate with between bites of chocolate gâteau. I want to be the gâteau.”
“That’s not fair, Romy. I’ve never—”
“Don’t!” She held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter, Matt. It really doesn’t.” She opened the door, but stopped on the threshold, turned back. “You said something last night about old times and new times. Well, I’ll find a way to accept that the new times are over—San Francisco, last night, done. But in return, you need to know that what we’ve had for the past ten years has to be over, too, because I’m not going back to the old times. I can’t go back, even if what we end up with is nothing.”
* * *
I can’t go back, even if what we end up with is nothing.
Matt knew what nothing felt like—it was how he’d describe those four weeks after Romy had left San Francisco. But even in the midst of the full-blown freak-out that separation had brought on, he’d known that if he could have gone back and changed what had happened that night, he wouldn’t have done it.
The miracle was that he’d held himself back from her for so long. He should have known he’d wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her forever. It was what he was like, the real him, not the hero she thought he was. Of course he was going to engineer a way to have her eventually. And the fact that she’d been the one to suggest that infamous Plan B didn’t change it. He’d leaped at Plan B! And look what had happened when her email had arrived—not pregnant, off the hook! He should have taken that as a sign that it wasn’t meant to be—instead he’d thrown the first things to come to hand in his duffel, snatched up his passport and headed for the airport to get to her and try again, and if Teague hadn’t been there, he would have beaten his chest and dragged her by her hair to the nearest flat surface like a Neanderthal.
Hell, that’s what he had done! He’d taken her on the floor like an animal. What more proof did he need that he didn’t deserve her?
Ever since that night in San Francisco, he’d been trapped in a game of up and down. Take her, save her, take her, save her. It was a miracle her head wasn’t spinning off her damn neck with how hot and cold he’d blown.
But she’d told him she loved him anyway.
Why couldn’t he just accept that she did, no matter when she said it to him? What was the problem with her feeling close enough to him when they were having sex to say it then? He felt close enough to her when they were having sex to merge with her!
So...couldn’t he try to accept it?
What if he asked Romy what he should do to be a better person? Already all she had to do was tsk-tsk him to get him rethinking shit like drinking beer in the morning. She could tsk-tsk him some more, couldn’t she?
He could stop swearing as a first step. That’d have to go for the baby’s sake anyway.
And he could take a few leaves out of Teague’s book of saints—ones that didn’t involve stealing the guy’s interior-design flair. Teague had been to therapy after his sister died, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. So couldn’t Matt give therapy a try—deal with his demons that way instead of locking himself in the tower? Wasn’t Romy worth at least giving it a go?
What did he want out of the rest of his life, anyway? Not to fuck every girl he met the way he’d been doing forever—that was the way to turn into his father. Jesus! Scary.
The rest of his life... Forever... Ha. It was simple, really. His forever was tied up with Romy Allen—that’s how all this had started. The baby was his gateway to forever with her. She’d said that night in San Francisco they had a window of opportunity that was like fate. Neither of them had someone in their lives at that precise moment when she needed him, they were together, she needed his sperm, he needed a release.
What if she was right about it being fate?
What if he ignored fate, and didn’t get her into the tower with him and she got tired of trying to scale the wall and ended up with Teague?
Teague, who’d met her parents when Matt had not.
Well, fuck that! (Okay, stopping swearing would be a work in progress.) He should be the one meeting Romy’s parents, not Teague. They were his baby’s grandparents! And this wasn’t petty jealousy, it wasn’t. It was nothing to do with Teague personally, because he liked Teague, he did. No, it was about the past ten years and the past five weeks and...and finding his place in Romy’s life and not letting her hate him and...and...and God, he needed a shower and clean jeans and a half-decent shirt and a taxi to Petit Diable.
And Romy, he needed Romy.