Page 60 of The Chameleon

Was Ares serious?

Dropping the neatly wrapped duck onto the counter, Matteo stared at the frozen man.

“You what?”

Ares turned to face him, cold, emotionless eyes staring back at him. “We’re done. This is over.”

Still in shock, Matteo walked around the counter and took a few steps into the living room. “What do you mean we’re done? Where is this all coming from?” Fear and panic began to churn in his stomach.

Was this really happening? After two blissful years? On their anniversary, no less?

“This was only a temporary thing. We both knew that. You and I were just having some fun.”

“Having some fun?” Matteo’s voice hitched higher than he would have liked. But what could he do? His life and future were falling apart before his eyes.

Ares stood and walked calmly over to his travel bag. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

“Yeah. You were a good lay, but it's time to move on,” Ares droned, refusing to look up and make eye contact.

Matteo rushed over and grabbed Ares by the arms. “I don’t believe you. Where is all this coming from?” He stared into Ares’s chestnut eyes and hated the reflection he saw staring back at him—a poor, whiny man trying to hold together the last remnants of his love life. When did he become this needy?

“Ares, please! Talk to me,” Matteo pleaded, holding back tears that were begging to be set free.

Ares ripped his arm away, eyes finally locking onto Matteo’s.

“I don’t love you,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Feeling the knife pierce his heart, Matteo stumbled backward, staring unbelievingly at the man he no longer recognized.

Where was all this coming from?

And with those devastating four words, the man Matteo had once loved yanked open the door and walked away.

Staring down the dark road, Matteo pulled himself from his memory.

I. Don’t. Love. You.

Four simple words that destroyed his life and shattered his faith in love.

Matteo made a right at the next corner, then continued his walk along the quiet road.

“Perdón, señor,” a timid voice whispered from the darkness.

Startled, Matteo turned to his right, almost missing the scraggly young teen huddled against a wall. He sat there with his knees pulled up against his chest.

“Do you have some spare change?” the young man asked in Spanish while holding up a dirty, shaky hand. The messy gray hoodie he wore was pulled gently over his head as if hiding his identity from the rest of the world.

Seeing the boy in such a condition pulled at Matteo's heartstrings. He hated seeing people hungry and homeless, struggling and doing what they could just to make it through another god-forsaken day.

A few years back, Matteo tried working with a charity to help raise money for the homeless, providing food and shelter and offering mental health resources to those in need. Matteo had to terminate his relationship with the charity when he discovered that three of the four directors of the charity were embezzling funds. They chose to divert donations to offshore bank accounts, where they were being used to refurnish their summer homes and put their children through expensive boarding schools. After that, organized charities left a foul taste in Matteo’s mouth. Instead, he did what he could to provide aid directly to those in need. At least this way, he knew where his money was going.

Matteo reached into his wallet and pulled out a fifty. He knelt down so that he was almost eye level with the boy, then slowly handed him the bill.

“Here you go,” Matteo responded in near-perfect Spanish.

The boy reached for the bill and crumpled it in his hand before shoving it deep into his sweater pocket.

Judging by the state of the boy’s clothing, Matteo guessed that he had probably been living on the streets for a few days now. His clothing was wrinkled and dirty but didn’t have the wear and tear that one would see on someone who had been living on the streets for months.

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