Page 83 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Ah, okay. So my first step is to find people who matter . . . got it.” I laugh, mostly to keep from sounding like a loser. How is it possible that this guy, who is purposefully being a grump, has people and I don’t? “I’m really not as pathetic as I sound. I just maybe . . . latch on to the wrong people? I don’t know.” I don’t know why I made that sound like a question when it’s a proven fact. “I’ve gotten burned—a lot—so I guess I’m trying to, you know, care less.”

“So what you’re saying is you want to be more like me,” he says.

“Whoa, hang on,” I say, holding up my hands and standing. I stiffen, hunch over a bit, and in a low, gruff voice, I say, “I don’t want to be friends! Custard takes time! This needs more salt!”

At that he laughs. “That’syour impression of me?”

I chuckle, then make a show of screwing up my face. “Nailed it.”

“If that’s what you see, then I need to work on a few things. Like my posture,” he smirks. “You made me look like Quasimodo.”

I sit back down. “All I’m saying is there has to be a balance between your way and my way.”

He nods. “Probably.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, and I search my brain for a way to change the subject. But then Matteo says, “Maybe the solution isn’t to care less but to find people worth caring about.”

I meet his eyes and freeze. Because even though it makes no sense, there’s one simple question racing through my mind—Are you one of those people?

“In my experience, those people are really hard to find.” My gaze dips back to my half-eaten French toast, and I stab another piece with my fork. “I thought maybe I’d controlwhat I can control. That way, you know, I won’t get hurt so much.”

He holds my gaze. “That—I do understand.”

And I wonder, for the millionth time, what his story is. “We’re both going to end up old and alone if we aren’t careful,” I add in a joking tone as I take another bite. “The newspaper will have to send someone to save us.”

“Eh. I’m okay being alone.” He shrugs.

“I don’t think I am,” I counter.

“How so?”

I set my fork down. “So . . . because you’re asking, it’s okay for me to talk about stuff, right?”

He makes a face. “Yeah, that’s kind of how conversations work.”

It’s an invitation. It would be rude to shut down now, right? “Okay. Here it is. When my parents got divorced, everything sort of changed for me.”

I think about the day my dad left after quietly falling in love with a woman in his office named Ginny. And her family.

They got married the following year, and I spent the next several years trying to figure out a way to convince him I was still worth his time. I don’t think I ever succeeded. He had a new wife and stepkids who he was really trying to impress.

I reach for my coffee and take a drink, then pull one leg up underneath me. How much do I tell him?

“When I was in high school, I had this art show.” I turn the warm mug around in my hands, the memory of it forming in my mind. “It was my senior year, and it was a really big deal. I was up for this state-wide scholarship, and they were hosting an art show with a ceremony to announce the winner.”

And then I’m back there, standing on that stage, searching the crowd and finding the seat I’d saved for my dad empty.

“I’d been working all year on perfecting my portfolio, and it had been a huge process trying to decide which pieces to submit. I really wanted to win.” I’m there, in the memory of it all. “I sent my dad an invitation in the mail. When he didn’t respond, I emailed and called, and finally, he told me he’d be there. I made it so obvious how important this was to me, and I was so sure that if he could see me there, in my element, doing something other people thought was really good”—I shrug—“I guess I thought then he’d think I was really good too.” My hands are cold at the memory. “I really thought he’d come.” I look down. “He didn’t.”

My mom made excuses for him, clapped twice as hard and cheered twice as loud, as if that could make up for it. We both knew the truth. He’d moved on.

“It’s such a cliché,” I say on a wry laugh. “I mean, the absent father doesn’t show up for his daughter? The empty seat in the auditorium? The daughter who is wounded and spends years dealing with her abandonment issues? It’s like an episode ofOne Tree Hill.” I pause. I need a second to step out of the memory.

I don’t look at Matteo, aware that I’ve probably shared too much.

But then he says, “So, did you win?”

I meet his eyes, and the heaviness lifts. “Actually? Idid.” I smile at that. “I got a ton of new art supplies as part of the prize, which was even better than the scholarship. At least to me.” I clasp and unclasp my hands, then turn my ring around on my finger. When I find him watching, I stop. “The worst part was that after the art show, my friend, Charlotte, convinced me to go to the basketball game. Our school was playing its crosstown rival, and she said it would be a fun distraction. We got there just before half-time and squished into the student section, and after about ten minutes ofsitting there, I saw my dad in the stands, cheering for the other team.”

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