The Muse's Undoing

“What’s that supposed to mean? Not overthink it?”

I flinch at his sharpening tone. “Exactly what I said.”

“But which part?”

“Any of it,” I tell him. Honestly I don’t know what the fuck I mean. I just know I hate seeing him like this—unsure of me of all people.

His brow draws, expression baffled. “I don’t understand.”

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” I say, scared it may already mean too much, and maybe that’s what I should be saying. I feel myself getting desperate for reassurance, too.

But I’m clearly not going to get that. What I do get is the sense that he wants to push my hand away. Instead he leans back, out of my reach. He’s a brick wall.

“Let me know about next weekend?” I ask, not wanting to leave things too open-ended.

I get a silent nod. Zero eye contact.

I’ve been dismissed. When I turn and walk away, I realize it’s the first time in months I’ve left him without a hug goodbye.

Dread and apprehension settle in when I step onto the elevator. What happened tonight wasn’t a mistake. It was a big fucking deal, and there’s no doubt in my mind it’s changed something fundamental about us. But I think I needed that.

I think we both did.

We’ve been at a breaking point for a while now, and either we’ll survive it or we won’t.

I’m not sorry. It’s past time for both of us to move on. One way or another.

All I can do is hope we figure it out together.

21

FISCHER

It’s difficult not to second guess every minute of what went on from the moment Matthew stepped into the apartment this morning to the moment he left. But I am so fucking embarrassed I came in my pants after a few minutes of kissing. He probably wasn’t even close.

One nut fucking wonder. Jesus.

But it “doesn’t have to mean anything.” Any of it.

Therefore, the most sudden, startling, gut-twisting orgasm I’ve ever had can be chalked up to “whatever.”

Granted, it’s never taken an act of Congress to get me to come—I’m easy, but this one with Matthew was faster, harder, and he wasn’t even touching my cock. Still, every thrust of his tongue went straight to it. When he pulled my hair—I went into complete meltdown mode.

And now, bordering on humiliation, I try once again to parse through his words. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

The kiss? My premature ejaculation? The fact that he didn’t ask me to return the favor? There’s a smorgasbord of doubt to pick from.

All I know is he sounded worried when he left, and I was the one scaring him. It’s like the only thing I truly excel at.

I rub my face, unable to bring myself to get off the bed, wanting to text him, forbidding myself from touching my phone. If he wants to see me, he’ll reach out. If he doesn’t…then I was right about needing him more than he needs me. Win-win. It’s actually easier to think about how to manage Raven’s expectations than it is to think about what I might have just destroyed by kissing my best friend. Who also happens to be my brother.

I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.

I get lucky because it rains on Sunday, and it’s the perfect excuse to have a quiet movie day with Vaughn. I tell him I’m not feeling good, which keeps him from literally bouncing off the walls—he’s not completely selfish, but I feel like a terrible father for wanting to curl up into a ball and shut out the world while I should be teaching him how to bake cookies or something.

Vaughn asks if Matthew is coming for dinner, and that’s a punch in the gut. Instead of saying, no—Daddy fucked everything up with Uncle Matty, I tell him something along the lines of, “Uncle Matty has a bonkers schedule. Wanna order a pizza?”

We eat pizza, and I start his bath early. Once I get him down for bed after a few more rounds of arm wrestling where I let him win once, I sit at the dining table and try to get some work prepped for the week. Ravenna texts, but I ignore it.