Page 43 of Matteo

Matteo has the nipple of Layla’s bottle between his lips as he attempts to fix a bottle one-handed because he has Layla on his hip. When he sees me, his mouth falls open, losing the nipple. He blinks a few times.

His eyes are gold. “Good god. I mean, morning. Good morning. Beautiful, you look beautiful.”

Layla cries out, “Mama.”

I’m blushing and don’t dare meet his eyes. I focus on Layla. “Good morning, my sweet girl. Come here.”

I try to take her, but his arm is still tight around her. “Sorry. I, um, yeah. Okay. I’m going to make a bottle. I was making a bottle.”

He lets her go and I cuddle her close. My stomach growls.

“I’m starving.” I open the fridge. “What sounds good for breakfast this morning?”

Motioning to the toaster oven. “I’ve been up since seven this morning. I ordered in. You mentioned liking that fast-food chain’s biscuit breakfast so there’s one in the toaster oven to stay warm for you.”

“Seven in the morning? Did Layla wake you?” My tummy is warm at him remembering my favorite breakfast.

“No, I just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I’ve got a ton of paperwork I need to do on a daily basis. I was backed up on it. I’ve worked my ass off to get it done. My eyes feel like they’re about to cross, but it’s almost done.” He sighs as he finishes the bottle and takes Layla from me when I begin trying to reheat the breakfast one-handed.

Her cry of delight at the bottle he offers has both of us laughing.

“Wow, that is a lot of paperwork.” I do a double take at several piles of paper spread out along the long dining table.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m almost done. If you could just slide that pile over.” I do as he asks. “Thanks. No, Layla. Mommy can’t share that with you. Drink your bottle.”

Layla pouts around the nipple in her mouth. “I’m going to get a glass of orange juice. Do you want something while I’m up?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Filling the glass, it comes out of the container faster than I thought it would. I’m worried about spilling some when I carry it to the table and take a sip.

I’m proud I didn’t spill on my walk from the kitchen. When I set it down on the table, some of it sloshes over the rim of the glass.

“Careful, please.” Matteo murmurs.

I don’t know what comes over me. His words were his usual quiet. There wasn’t even a warning to them. What happens when I don’t do what he wants? When I mess up. The back of my hand sends the glass on its side with a light clink of glass to wood. The moment I do it, my stomach falls to my feet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Amy. Don’t worry about it. Take Layla, and I’ll clean this up.” There’s a twinge of defeat, nothing else. I hear it, but I don’t. Why isn’t he angry? When will he hit me for messing up?

I was wrong. I messed up hours of work. He spent all morning on it, and I ruined it. But he’s not yelling. He’s telling me that he’s going to clean it up.

What? No. I have to clean this up. I have to clean the mess I made. I’m moving fast, trying to save the paper from the orange juice. I swipe the orange juice to the floor, better the floor than the papers. Then I’m on the floor to clean up the orange juice. Only I have nothing to clean it up with. I use the skirt of my dress to try to soak it up. Except it's silk and not soaking up anything.

Matteo is on his knees with me. He takes the dress from my hands. “It’s okay, Amy. It’s okay. Stop saying you’re sorry. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s all right. I’m not mad. It was an accident. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I will never hurt you.”

What does he mean I’m still saying I’m sorry? Oh, I am. I can’t stop saying it. I mean it. I need him to know I mean it. I’m sorry I ruined all his hours of work. I’m sorry I did it on purpose. I’m sorry that I am going to wreck this because I wreck everything. He’s going to figure it out any day…

I’m in his arms, his hand at the back of my head, pressing me into his neck. Inhaling him, the words finally stop. He’s rocking me like I do with Layla. One large hand is cradling my head, the other is running up and down my back.

Vaguely, I hear Layla speaking gibberish to herself. Still, Matteo doesn’t let me go. I realize I’m clinging to him so tightly my hands hurt. His breath is coming in deep and out slow. I find I mimic him when the deep breath centers me. I allow one hand to unclench his shirt, then the other. But I can’t bring myself to even think of unwrapping my arms from around him.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I did it on purpose and?—”

“Nothing you do will ever make me mad at you enough for me to hit you—hurt you. Not today, tomorrow, or any day of the week. Do not apologize for doing what you needed to do to feel safe with me. It’s another trauma response. And it’s nothing a hundred hours of therapy would fix because you had to know. There was no other way than to do what you did. I’ll give up three hours, three days, three weeks of work if it helps you feel safe with me.”

How does he always know the right thing to say? The only thing he said was for me to take Layla. Matteo was going to clean up the mess I made. I’m positive he didn’t know I did it on purpose. It wasn’t until I lost my shit like some kind of psycho and told him that he knew.

Except Matteo didn’t think I was psycho. Once he figured out why I was waiting for a blow—the math I thought was calculus—he figured out like it was simple addition and subtraction.

---