Page 38 of Every Rose

Chapter Thirteen

While Matt cut and patched and spliced, he was aware of a vague sense of annoyance in the back of his mind, like the hum of a faulty appliance. He could ignore it for a while but the hum wasn’t going away until he fixed the problem.

After Wednesday night basketball, he usually showered and cleaned himself up a bit before heading to Cheryl’s place. She’d arrived back a couple of days ago from a two-week trip to Barcelona. This would be the first time they’d seen each other since she’d left. He drove over to her place, a high-end townhouse that boasted top-of-the-line everything. She let him in, kissed him lightly on the lips. “I poured us some wine,” she said, walking ahead of him into her living room.

The gas fire flickered over her collection of modern art. Cheryl had a passion for art and a good eye. She consulted for a few galleries. “How was Spain?” he asked, accepting a glass of red wine.

“Fine. Busier than I expected. The weather was warm.” She crossed to sit beside him on the sofa, reached for him. “But I don’t want to talk about Spain.”

She kissed him.

He let her kiss him and then he pulled slowly away. She raised her head and, while she didn’t say anything, her eyebrows rose in a silent question.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! He drew in a slow breath, faced the inevitable. “I think I might have met someone,” he said.

She picked up her wine glass and sipped. “You think you might have met someone? You don’t sound too sure.”

He tried to smile but he felt as foolish as he must sound. “I’ve definitely met someone. In fact, I’ve known her for a while. But I’ve become . . . interested.”

“All right. And is this other person interested in you?”

And wasn’t that the question. He leaned back, staring at something that looked very much like a Picasso and probably was. All angles and confusion, a woman with part of her face under her clavicle and another part where her belly ought to be. He slumped back against the couch. “Yes.” He turned to regard another of Cheryl’s paintings. This one as natural as a photograph, a woman in an evening gown staring back over her shoulder, smirking as though she knew more than the viewer. Certainly more than Matt did. “Maybe.” Then he let out a breath. “The truth is I’m not sure.”

Cheryl nodded. “And you don’t want to continue this,” she gestured from him to her and back again, “because you want to pursue this woman who may or may not be interested?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t chuck her wine in his face or act hurt. She was as cool as she’d always been. “Well, I will be sorry to see you go, but we always knew this day would come.”

He nodded, feeling a rush of sadness. “Still be friends?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I wish you well, Matt, I really do, but neither of us has time for more friends. I think maybe we’re done.”

He nodded slowly. She was right, of course. But damn, he felt set adrift. They chatted a while longer, but Cheryl was right. Their relationship had always been simple and uncomplicated, the end clear.

But, as he walked back out of her townhouse an hour after he entered it, he wondered what the hell had just happened. He’d had no intention of ending things. Not until Cheryl had kissed him and he’d known she wasn’t the woman he wanted to kiss.

Trouble was, the woman he was pretty sure he wanted didn’t seem to feel the same way about him.

As he headed home, he contemplated calling Rose. In fact, he had his cell phone out and her number staring at him when he put it away again. He didn’t think he’d made the greatest impression on her recently.

Well, apart from that saving her dad’s life thing, but he didn’t want to have to play that card to get her to see him. That would be pathetic. In his relationships with women he’d never had to stoop to pathetic, and he wasn’t about to start now.

What he needed was a plan.

Or maybe advice from the coolest woman he knew: his mom.

It wasn’t too late so he called home.

His mom answered and as soon as he’d identified himself, asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, mom, everything’s all right. I almost hate to call you because every time I do you think something bad’s happened.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “I like to ask about trouble immediately so I know if anything terrible has happened. Now I know it hasn’t and I can relax.” His folks had been in America for nearly forty years but they still had pretty strong accents. Mostly because they spoke Greek to each other and most of their friends were Greek. Since they’d been determined their kids would assimilate they’d always spoken English at home when the children were around but now everyone had moved out, phoning home was like calling Athens. His conversation with his mother was half English half Greek. He’d been doing this for so long that he never even noticed when they switched from one language to another.

“So, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

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