Page 167 of Lovers' Dance

“I—” Matt paused, unfolding his arms and rubbing a hand vigorously over his face. “I left her to it, Nathan. I knew this time would be difficult for her, and I allowed her to convince me she would be fine. She’s not fine. Drinking for four days straight is not fine.” He finished on a frustrated note.

Nathan chewed his lower lip silently, then said blandly, “So you feel partially responsible for her current state, and your guilt is causing you to fight with the very person you’re worried about. Is my deduction correct?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, you tosser,” Matt groused, before stalking over to the window. Silence descended between them. Nathan waited. He knew his friend, and he knew he would talk when he was ready. Hopefully, Matt didn’t take too long to speak his mind; Bella was downstairs and Nathan wanted to get back to her as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know what to do, Nathan,” Matt finally said, facing the window and staring out bleakly. “The women I’ve been with…my past relationships, they’ve all tried their hardest to insert themselves in my life. Confided their secrets in hopes of deepening the relationship. You know all of this, you’ve seen it for yourself.” Matt turned to face him with that bleak expression on his face. “But Madi won’t. She keeps me at arm’s length, doubts us. It’s bloody perplexing, not to mention annoying. How the hell do you deal with Bella? How do you make a committed relationship work? This is a first for me.”

Nathan hid his dawning astonishment at Matt’s heartfelt outpouring with a light chuckle. “You’re absolutely smitten.”

“Is that all the advice you have to offer?” Matt said bad-temperedly.

Nathan sighed, then shrugged. “Just love her, Matt. Faults and all. It’s what I do with Bella, and I’m sure she does the same with me, although I have more faults than her.” Nathan sighed again, holding Matt’s gaze with his own. “I’m sorry.”

Matt’s face became guarded. “Sorry? About what?”

Nathan tugged his tie loose and scowled before taking a large bite of humble pie. “You love her, and I’ve been a complete arse about it. I’m sorry, mate. Truly I am.”

“Thank you,” Matt said sombrely. “Now tell me what the fuck I should do.”

“Let her cool off for a bit, then apologize.”

Matt arched a sceptical eyebrow at him, and Nathan chuckled before adding, “I bloody hope you’ve gotten her something smashing for her birthday.”

Matt cracked a small smile. “I have.”

“Good,” Nathan said with a nod. “Let’s go downstairs and sort your love life out.”

Matt’s smile wavered and he turned back towards the window. “You go ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Nathan held his tongue and walked out the bedroom. He understood. Being in love was hard for men like themselves. He’d experienced it with Bella. The gnawing fear that made you second guess yourself, made you wonder if the shine was real or a façade of something that didn’t exist. Trust was something men like him didn’t give easily. Not with their money or their time. Trusting someone with your heart was the greatest risk of all but, if you found the right person…the gamble was worth it. So worth it. Nathan smiled softly as he quietly closed the door behind him, leaving Matt to his thoughts. Bella was worth it, and it seemed Matt had finally found someone worthy of giving his heart to. All Nathan had to do now was put the fear of God into Madison DuMont, because if she broke his best friend’s heart, he would make her regret it.

Everyone was acting normal, never mind the unspoken tension between Matt and myself. We were in the dining room, a room I rarely used. The boxes of old ballet costumes stacked on one side a testament to that fact. The conversation around the table was not about anything in particular. My friends talking to Matt’s friends while we both avoided each other’s gaze. I sighed and pushed the food around my plate. My buzz had disappeared and my appetite had gone AWOL since the argument. It seemed Matt wasn’t hungry either, as he silently drank his glass of water, eyes meeting mine over the rim for a second before our gaze skittered away from each other.

“Blimey,” Nathan coughed and snatched up his glass. “This is spicy.”

I caught Matt’s eyes on me, and we shared a slight smile.

“I’ll get more water,” I announced, reaching for the almost empty jug and getting to my feet.

“I’ll help you,” Matt said, pushing back his chair and standing up.

My back stiffened. Everyone started talking louder to cover the sudden awkwardness as I walked out of the room and headed to the kitchen with Matt close on my heels. It was obvious he wanted to ‘talk.’ I didn’t need help to get a jar of water, unless he felt I was too drunk to do it. I gritted my teeth in silent irritation, remembering the verbal assault he’d hurled at me upstairs. Humph. Cutting just like Grumps. I didn’t know what he’d done with my last bottle of whiskey. If I found out he’d thrown it down the sink, I would kick his ass into another race.

“Poppet,” he murmured, resting his strong hand on my lower back. A tingle of electricity went through me at his touch. I eased away. Electricity was all well and good, served a purpose, but it was dangerous, too. Both literally and figuratively in Matt’s case.

He sighed and let me move away. I grabbed a bottle of water from one of the cupboards and emptied it into the jar under Matt’s intense stare.

“Are you going to talk to me?” he asked.

I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. He sighed, then reached over to take the pitcher from my hands.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back, poppet.”

I watched as he walked out of the kitchen, noting the lines of his broad back under his shirt. His jacket was on my bed. I needed to remind him of that before he left. Was his tie upstairs also?

“Stupid man,” I muttered under my breath. I went over to the fridge and grabbed a can of beer. The fizzing sound when I opened it brought me comfort. It was fucked up, I know. My behaviour the past couple of days was cringe-worthy, but it helped me through this dismal time. Helped me deal with the pain…hide from the pain, numbed the pain. I brought the can to my lips and drank like a parched convict seeking freedom at the bottom of the aluminium can. Screw therapy, I had my own therapy and all it cost was a trip to Sainsbury’s or Marks & Spencer’s and a walk down the alcohol aisle. The demon drink. Once a year, he was my closest friend. He helped me in a way no one could. He made me forget my dreaded secret.

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