Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(82)

His fingers tightened for a moment, then relaxed, allowing me to move fully away. I rolled out of the bed and rushed to the bathroom, hoping against hope that he'd take this hint and be gone by the time I returned. I even loitered in the bathroom, brushing my teeth twice, flossing twice, plucking my eyebrows.

When I peeked my head out of the door, Matt was sitting at the foot of the bed. His shoes were on, that was good; but his elbows were on his knees and his hands were in his hair. I didn't know what to make of his posture. 

"I'll meet you for breakfast?" I asked lightly, quickly crossing to the bed and jumping under the covers.

"Thank you, Marie."

I waited a beat, waiting for him to explain his gratitude, but he didn't. And he didn't move.

"For what?"

"For all the times you made me dinner. And lunch. And bread."

I shrugged even though he couldn't see me. "I'm happy to do it. I love to cook."

Matt straightened, his hands falling to his thighs. "I don't know if either of my parents know how to cook."

I blinked at that, at the defeated slump of his strong back. "They never cooked for you?"

"No. Never." He didn't need to tell me because I'd already guessed based on Fiona's description of his family. "They didn't eat meals with me ever. I promised myself, if I had kids, I'd eat every meal with them."

"You plan to go to their school and have lunch with them every day?" That was sweet. And it made me feel things I had no business feeling for a friend.

"It doesn't matter." He cleared his throat, his tone thick with something I couldn't define.

My breath caught as my heart did a twisting, painful maneuver in my chest. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to him. I began to wonder if I was just as much a crutch for him as he was for me, but perhaps in a different way. And if that was the case, then perhaps I needed to take Matt's advice and confront the issue head-on, starting with challenging his last statement.

"You don't want kids, Matt?"

"I don't want . . ."

"What?"

"Indifference," he finished solemnly, turning to look at me over his shoulder and giving me a sad smile. "More indifference. My parents are the most indifferent people I know-to me, to each other, to life-and I don't want that for my kids. And I don't want to do that to someone who loves me."

The last of his words rang through the small room and seemed to echo in my head like an accusation, like he knew what I felt for him and was giving me a warning shot, reminding me to focus my hopes and dreams elsewhere.

Tears stung my eyes, making me blink furiously, and I had to moderate my breathing in order to maintain control of my reckless emotions. I wanted scream at him, shake him, ask him why it was so easy for him to believe he'd be indifferent toward me, why it was so difficult to believe he might love me in return.

I didn't scream at him. He was the dehydrated horse. He had to drink water himself. He had to want it.

Instead, once I'd calmed my racing heart, I asked with forced steadiness, "Have you really never wanted to love anyone?"

"It was easy for me to stop wanting Kerry," he said instead of answering my question, and I got the sense he was speaking to himself more than to me. "It was easy to stop asking about her day. It was easy to let her fight her own battles, to not want to fight them alongside her. It was easy to dedicate myself to my work. I'm good at what I do. It didn't matter that she was intelligent and beautiful. I wasn't . . . attracted to her. I didn't waste time during the day wondering what she was doing, making plans for us, playing hooky from work so we could be together."

"Why do you think you lost interest?"

He made a face and shook his head dismissively. "I didn't lose interest. I married too young, before I knew what I wanted . . . what I needed . . ." Something behind his gaze shifted, heated, as it moved over my forehead, nose, lips, neck, lower.



       
         
       
        

The air felt suspended between us, as though even the molecules were holding still, and I likewise held my breath. A languid warmth spread through me, traveling the same path as his gaze, followed quickly by the piercing pain of realization.

His thoughts couldn't have been any clearer than if he'd worn a shirt that read, "Marie, I want to fuck you."

I didn't flinch, though it hurt. It hurt horribly to want a whole person and be wanted in return for just a small piece of who I was. It hurt so badly I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to distract myself from the hurt.