Page 33 of The Cupid Chronicles

By all logic, I shouldn’t be hungry yet—it’s only been a few hours since lunch—but even if my mouth wasn’t watering, I would still want to eat whatever Matteo is making over there. It smells like heaven.

Home-cooked meals weren’t really a part of my childhood. After Dad left and before she met her new husband, Richard, my mom went back to work, and “trying to make ends meet” took priority over “family dinners.” We existed on quick meals. Cereal for dinner. Pop-Tarts. Peanut butter and jelly. It wasn’t fancy, but it kept me alive, and I suppose that was the goal back then.

As a result, I don’t have high-end tastes when it comes to food. I still bring PB&J to school every day.

But the way it smells in this apartment?Sweet mamma mia.

Matteo goes back to cooking, cleaning each utensil as he goes. When he’s finished, I get the distinct impression there will be no sign he was ever here.

“Tell me about you, Iris.” The cat jumps off of the carpeted tree and starts off toward the living room as Winnie turns her attention to me.

Matteo doesn’t turn around, but he’sright there, so whatever I tell Winnie, I’m telling him too. It’s a good thing I’m trying out my new skill of sharing without really sharing.Nobody needs your whole life’s story, Iris. It’s too much.

“Oh, there’s really not much to tell,” I say. “I grew up near Boston and moved here at the start of the school year.”

“To foster the imaginations of children through art . . . what important work.” Winnie is so earnest when she says this, I take the compliment as genuine.

I smile at the sentiment because I do think it’s important work, but I’m aware that most people don’t think so. Even in elementary school, the arts are the first things to go.

Winnie goes on. “You get to inspire kids to use their creative gifts. I don’t think enough people recognize the importance of that these days.”

I nod again. “I completely agree!”

“You get to be the teacher who tells a child they aren’t wasting their time if they spend it learning to draw or paint.You get to help them see the world in a different way.” She squeezes my hand, looking proudly at me for a moment. “That’simportant.”

I smile. “Tell that to the public school system,” I nod ruefully, trying not to think about all the people who have belittled my own love of art over the years. How I always felt like a disappointment—just a little—because I didn’t pursue something practical.

Winnie leans back and studies me. “Did you move here with friends? I don’t see a ring, so I assume you’re not married.”

My cheeks flush, and I wince acaught melook. “Ah! Yeah. Well.” I wiggle the fingers of my left hand at her. “No, not married. And no friends. I moved here alone.”

Winnie claps her hands together in front of her face. “An independent woman! I love to see it. It must be nice to have a blank slate!” She leans in, eyes narrowing. “Were you just looking for a fresh start? Or did some scandal force you to look for a new life?” Her eyes flicker, and she reminds me of Brooke—always searching for the drama, regardless of whether there is any.

I glance up in time to see Matteo pause as he’s stirring whatever is in the pot, pretending not to listen.

My laugh sounds nervous in my own ears. “Ha! Nothing so podcast-y as that, Winnie. I’m not running away. Just came for the job.” It’s not entirely true, but the truth is almost as boring.

I can practically see the disappointment in her face. “How’s it going so far?”

I shrug and say, “Eh.” I know I’m giving her nothing of interest, but what am I supposed to do, blurt out the myriad reasons why I left? The endless cycle of carbon-copy relationships where I fell for guys who needed fixing, whether they were good for me or not? Do I explain that I never got usedto randomly bumping in to my father’s new family, or the fact that I still, after all these years of trying, haven’t found a place where I fit?

“I’m working on changing. You know, holding back a little instead of throwing myself into every—” My eyes dart over to the kitchen, then back to Winnie. I lower my voice, as if that’s going to prevent Matteo from hearing me. “I’m just trying to stop getting my heart broken.”

“Ah. Say no more.” She cocks her head and smiles at me. It’s like she’s sliding the pieces of a puzzle into place, and I don’t have to explain it. We’ve just met, and I feel like I could tell this woman anything.

Plus, it’s a well-documented fact that having a big heart and big feelings only leads to big hurt. Because people leave.

Winnie reaches across the table and covers my hand with her own. “Iris. Our world has enough cynics. Having a big, open heart when you meet someone new is never a bad thing.”

The words have an unexpected weight to them, and I’m suddenly looking at her through clouded eyes. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know me. That big, open heart has gotten me hurt. Alot, actually.

I want to tell her all the ways life has proven she’s wrong. All the ways being super open and going all in causes big, messy problems.

“I think . . .” I pause.

I think I’m too much.

“You think . . .?” Winnie’s eyes are expectant.

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