The Muse's Undoing

“I could order?—”

“I think maybe some air,” he says, his gaze eating me up again. “If you want to talk, the bed’s probably not the place to do it.”

My chest and neck heat. “Okay,” I say, sitting up.

We get dressed, him in the jeans and t-shirt he showed up in, and me in sweatpants, a tank, and a zip-up jacket. Once I’ve got my keys, wallet and phone, we leave the Eastmoor, duck out of the service entrance and walk to a small cafe on Lexington. He holds my hand on the walk as the sun rises on Manhattan. The smell of earth and dewdrops in the gardens we pass mixes with the shower fresh scent of him.

He asks me a lot of questions on the walk. Mostly about my physical well-being, covering everything from how my leg is doing to the state of my throat and ass. I reassure him I’m coping well without using the word fine again.

At the café, we order decafs at the counter and he gets two pastries, one savory, one sweet. I opt for a mixed berry parfait.

The barista keeps sneaking glances at me, some more obvious than others. She’s young with dyed black hair and a septum piercing. Lots of tattoos. I smile awkwardly and she finally leans over the counter and says, “I love your show. I literally watch it every day.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you.”

I can feel Matthew looking at me. Feel the laugh he wants to let out like it’s in my own throat.

“Do you have a podcast?” she asks. “I’d love to hear more about your take on things. You always manage to make me think.”

“No, but, uh…thank you.”

She grins and hands over our coffees. “Think about it. Enjoy. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

There’s one remaining table in the tiny establishment. Matthew makes a beeline fore it, claiming it before anyone in line behind us tries to. He holds out my chair for me, and I sit, leaning my cane on the wall. Matthew takes the other seat across from me, opens the lid on his drink, blows across the top of it, and says, “You’re adorable when you blush.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Am I?” I hate it when people recognize me. It makes me feel like I need to put on a show, be calmer, cooler, and more collected than I am. When I go out with Vaughn, I wear a cap and sunglasses so shit exactly like this doesn’t happen. Not that she was rude or inappropriate, just that—like Matthew said—it makes me feel like there’s a spotlight on me, and I tend to get flustered.

He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. “Okay, I’m ready. What do you want to talk about?”

“This,” I say, gesturing between us, relieved the woman who recognized me is busy behind the counter and not staring.

“Be more specific, my mind’s all over the place with this right now.”

“Give me a minute,” I say, feeling too vulnerable. I have a few spoonfuls of my yogurt, drink some of my decaf and think about where I want to begin. “You’re really…passionate,” I finally say, aware it sounds somewhat ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better or less awkward word.

His mouth pauses mid chew, and then he swallows. “In a bad way?”

“I feel like maybe in a way that could be misinterpreted.”

“Oh.”

We’re silent a while, and I keep eating, giving him more time to respond because sometimes he needs it. Plus, I feel like I’ve just dropped a major downer bomb.

“This whole situation between you and me…” He trails off a moment, but I’m patient. “It’s always felt intense. Even while you were gone.”

I nod and internally brace for whatever comes next.

“I missed you,” he says. “A lot.”

Oh shit…there goes my heart. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it’s the first time I’ve felt it in my gut. I hate this tiny table because it’s between us. I, for one, would have rather had this conversation in bed.

“Look. I’m not the most stable person,” Matthew says. “I mean, I feel like I missed you in a lot of ways and not all of them were good.”

“Explain,” I say.

“I’m not sure I want to.”