Launched a bitter diatribe against his elderly father.
He told Matt—his tone tenser and with volume more robust than was necessary, “He needed a ride to the cardiologist. Can you believe he asked me? Me? His son? I mean, do I have to spend the next thirty years driving him to all these boring places? I don’t have time for that. So we’re in there, and I’m raring to get on the road to save you from the airport mess, and what does he do?”
Matt took a slow, deep breath and said, his voice stiff and tight, which should have been a clue to this loser, “I’m sure I can’t guess.”
“He keeps asking the doctor all these questions! Can you believe that?”
The car smelled like French fries and sweaty socks, ketchup smeared in a streak across the dash. A cheeseburger wrapper stuck to the bottoms of Matt’s designer shoes, and the poor old man’s biggest crime was an insidious desire to understand the condition of his own heart? The guest comedian from Hollywood had wanted to punch the old man’s selfish dirty lazy son in the face.
He went for the more politick “teaching moment” angle and asked, “How many times did he drive you to the doctors or to ‘soccer’ practice or even on dates?”
“How did you know I played soccer? Are you, like, a mind reader?”
Matt bit—hard—on his lip and threw up his hands.
“He drove me to tons of things, but so what? He’s the dad. It’s, like, his job. He shouldn’t have had kids if he didn’t want to drive them around. But, me? I didn’t choose to have parents.”
Matt laughed, but not because his jerk of a driver was any kind of comedian, whatever he fancied himself. Matt’s father had never given him a ride anywhere.
He would’ve just as soon this fool tonight hadn’t ever given him a ride either.
At the club, he’d gone through his prep and done his set on autopilot. The thoughts of the injustice of life had swirled around in Matt’s head all night. Even after the show, as he dressed down—in more ways than one—and hated himself thoroughly and ached for needing Molly, for needing to be with the only person closer than freaking Brisbane who loved him.
Seriously, the moron with the short temper and the fast food-scented Cadillac had gotten a good father. One who loved him and was there for him and even drove him to soccer practice on Saturday mornings. Though he never ever until the day his poor dad died would choose to appreciate it.
But Matthew Andrew Patrick Kelly had never been worthy of that? Instead he got nasty words about his mother and sucker-punches about the face and head and putdowns about absolutely everything, all followed by the famed and final disappearing act.
This world was
Messed
Up.
Matt shook his head, though, because he sure wasn’t helping to fix it.
He couldn’t even fix a freaking pot of coffee.
Cornered in Molly’s tiny kitchen by the morning after, Matt’s hands shook like crazy. The glass decanter tapped against the side of the sink while he filled it with her super-hard water.
He’d made coffee in this kitchen more than a dozen times before.
And it’s just like that. This time is no different. It’s just like I’d make coffee to go with our dessert back when we were just mates. Back when we were friends.
Are we still friends?
“Flip the switch, Matthew,” he coached, trying to interrupt the confused thoughts swirling around his mind. “Brew the coffee.”
This is normal. I’m normal. Talking to myself out loud is a well-known indication of my sanity.
Matt jabbed at the toggle several times before he finally hit it. Real smooth. I should try runway work.
Finally, Molly came out through the bathroom door. He looked at her and put on his best everything’s-fine smile, just like the comedian and Hollywood actor the tabloids said he was.
The smile faded quickly.
In spite of the foregone conclusion of, well, having sex with her last night, Matt swallowed audibly as he looked down at his boxer briefs. This was all he’d put on when he’d gotten out of bed—her bed— gotten up.
Face flaming, Matt ducked his head and did a whirl around, locating his jeans on the floor in the doorway of her bedroom. With his back to her, Matt hurried to pull on the worn pants.
These old jeans had been Matt’s favorites for years. He’d loved them long before he met a freelance journo named Molly Cooper. Not anymore. He tried not to admit this would be the last time he put them on. They’d go in the bin the second Matt was back in his hotel room.
His t-shirt had some new miles on it. It was on the floor in the center of the living room. Matt half-scrambled, half-crawled towards it, snagged it up, almost dropped it again, and backed out of the living room with awkward new modesty as he yanked it over his head.
Finally covered, Matt turned back toward Molly, suddenly painfully conscious of the fact he’d still put on yesterday’s underwear. Not that leaving them off would have been better. Oh, dear God, I am crap, utter rubbish.
The lovely/beautiful (former?) best mate in question leaned into the fridge, snatched out a bottle of kefir, spun the cap off, and flipped said top onto the tiny counter next to the miniature coffeemaker. Her feet, bright pink and bare, with chipped bits of periwinkle blue polish on the nails, peeked from under the cuffs of jeans two sizes too big. A baggy long-sleeve t-shirt covered half of her soft fair hands. Molly’s hair hung in loose, stringy-wet curls, and her face wore a grizzly looking flush—hopefully from the heat of her shower and not her current opinion of her “best friend.”
She didn’t look at him. Not even a glance, let alone the hug and “good morning” Molly’d have given him if she’d seen Matt this time yesterday.
Molly bit into her bottom lip. He remembered the way she’d nibbled his lips last night while they were pashing, and his knees buckled. Matt was fit to topple and tried to cover by leaning back against the counter.
Matthew stared—hard—down at the coffee grounds he’d spilled on the floor. He wanted to pull this girl into his arms and hold her against his chest where she could hear his heart pounding its answer to all this junk he was thinking right now.
“Where’s your broom?” Matt asked. “I feel like I should know that, but—”
She followed his gaze to the coffee dust. “Don’t worry about it.” Molly’s tone was flat.
“It’s no problem, hon.”
“I’ll get it later.”
“But—”
“You’re a guest.”
A guest? Yeah, but since when was he only that? Her best mate… No, no, no.
Matt understood why Molly was angry, but they were still friends. Friends having sex once wasn’t the huge sin she thought it was. They could still be friends afterward.
Only…If someone didn’t want to have sex with you, and you did it anyway, that was rape. Or if you lied to them about who you were, and they only let you do it because they believed you were someone else…in Matt’s mind, that was rape too.
But what if you knew for years someone didn’t want to have sex with you, and you pretended to agree with them when all you thought about was getting them to do it…
Was that rape too?
Because Molly had never wanted to be with Matt. The first day they met, she’d even said it, “It will never happen.” In so many words too.