Page 122 of Unloved

“I have a lot I want to say,” he says. “But I don’t know where to start.”

The confession is genuine, as is the layer of anxiety dripping over him. So I stand up and reach for his hands with a soft smile.

“How good are you in the kitchen?”

He blanches. “Where’s your fire extinguisher?”

“About yesterday. Do you want to talk about it?”

Turns out Matt Fredderic isn’t as bad as he thought in the kitchen. Granted, he’s mostly boiling pasta and using the pesto sauce I made from the fridge, while I’ve already cooked and diced the chicken.

We did most of the prep in silence, letting the movements and instructions keep him concentrated and calmer, while Phoebe Bridgers croons “Smoke Signals” over the Bluetooth speaker sitting on the counter dangerously close to the sink.

He pauses, shoulder hiking up while he stands stirring over the stove. I wait for him to laugh and make a quick Freddy-like excuse. But instead, he takes a deep breath.

“My, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, refusing to turn and look at me. “My dad showed up at practice.”

His dad. A subject we’ve never truly broached. At first, I’d assumed that Archer was his father—because of the way he speaks about him so reverently—but I didn’t understand why Matt called him by his first name.

“You and your dad don’t get along?” I try the question, continuing to focus on the last chicken strip, cutting a little slower as I wait for him to respond.

He huffs a laugh that makes my chest hurt, an ache only worsened as he peers over his shoulder at me.

There’s a deep hurt etched almost permanently into his eyes, the effect of a buildup of rejection.

“My dad would rather I didn’t exist,” he says frankly. It’s like he’s accepted it but still feels it like a fresh wound. “But I do.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, demanding myself to be strong, for him. So he can share this piece of himself without having to comfortme.

“He… he played hockey?” I think he mentioned it once, or maybe I saw it in an article.

“Yeah. I think he wishes I never picked up a stick.”

“Hates the sport now?”

He shakes his head, hanging it slightly as he crosses his arms and leans against the creaky countertop of my little dorm kitchenette.

“I think he doesn’t want me to ever be better than he was.”

I slide the cutting board to the side and meet his gaze.

“He pushes me to be better, to work harder, constantly there to remind me of every mistake I make along the way. But he doesn’t want me to succeed—not if it means I’ll be seen by anyone as the betterFredderic.”

“Was this how he always was?”

“Not as bad, but…” He shrugs and nods. “Yeah.”

Matt turns to the cabinet and grabs us bowls, telling me to sit at the table, but I decide to make us comfortable on the floor pillows in the living room, like usual.

It isn’t until we are sitting in the glow of the golden lamplight on jewel-tone pillows with warm bowls of my favorite comfort meal that he opens up even further.

“My mom used to make this,” he says, mouth still half full. He smiles a little cheekily and swallows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods.

“How old were you when your mom got sick?”

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