The Muse's Undoing

“Not yet.”

“What does it mean to you?”

I don’t like that question. Not tonight. But I tell him as best I can. “It’s kinda like…a memoir.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say?” he asks with a smile of incredulous disbelief.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“It’s fucking incredible. I can’t believe you made this. I didn’t realize how much glass…” he turns to take in the scope of it again.

“You know what I think people are gonna say about it?”

“What?”

“That it’s a pretty tree.”

“It’s way more than that,” Fischer argues.

“To me. And maybe by extension to you, but aside from some of the details—it’s basically a giant Tiffany lamp.”

“Matty—It’s extraordinary. Don’t self-reject.”

“But I’m really good at it.”

“Yeah. Too good at it.”

“Wanna know what else I’m good at?” I ask, dropping my voice.

He pivots to face me and smirks. Fucking smirks, and it’s one of the sexiest things his face has ever done—and I’ve seen him come twice.

I rub the back of my neck, my nerves taking center stage. I’ve never been intimate with someone I know this well. But Fischer and I are nothing if not intimate, which changes everything about how I feel about what’s likely coming.

I’m about to make a joke about how this is probably the farthest we’ve ever stood from each other in the same room when he walks over to me and tugs at the hem of my shirt. “This shirt’s driving me fucking crazy. I almost can’t stand looking at you in it.”

I look down because I can’t even remember… I make a mental note—he likes henleys. “Was the kiss that good?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve never looked at me like this before.”

He cocks his head. “Haven’t I? Do you doubt my intentions?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t,” he says. Running a hand through my hair, he wraps a hand around the nape of my neck. “I promise I’m here for the right reasons.”

“Meaning it didn’t just suddenly occur to you that we could have sex with each other?” I ask.

“No. It’s occurred to me plenty.”

“When?” I need more information. I need to know this means something to him, too. I don’t need for him to have pined for me for years the way I’ve longed for him, but I do need to know this isn’t born of some fear of losing me. Whether I’m allowed to have his body or not, I know I’ve got his heart, which has always been enough—I can still come back from this.

“We slept in the same bed for nine months,” he says.

I nod.

“And you saw me completely broken.”