Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“We can’t have that. Not with the things I have planned for you.”
Damn. I couldn’t wait to find out what those were. He’d taken me to heights I didn’t even know existed already. How it would feel to be with him properly, to explore him in the ways he had me, was beyond imagination.
“You take the en-suite, I’ll go down the hall.”
I gave Alex a quick peck on his forehead and rolled out of bed, making my way to the door.
“Matt?” Alex called. I turned to face him. “I’m so happy right now.”
Closing my eyes and concentrating on the rhythmic thud of my pulse in my ears, I answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Chapter Nine
~Alex~
ONCE I’D SHOWERED, I headed back to my apartment to grab some clean clothes. I’d been living out of a suitcase for the last few days in the hotel and the jeans I wore had been covering my ass for three days already. I also called my mom before I left. I hadn’t been home for over three years and although we spoke on the phone, the last time was two months ago. She seemed thrilled to hear from me and I frowned as guilt pooled in my stomach. It was the same guilt that forced me to keep my parents at arms-length in the first place. I was responsible for the pain and worry that swam around in my mom’s heart when I told her I was HIV positive. We didn’t talk about it anymore but I knew it was there. I could hear it, feel it, in her voice.
We talked about work, my dad’s business, and my uncle Barry marrying a woman half his age. She ended the conversation as she always did, by telling me not to wait so long before calling her again, only this time I meant it when I said I wouldn’t. Seeing Matt losing his mom, watching him struggle, it made me realize how selfish I’d been for pushing my parents away. I blamed myself for the fact my mom feared my diagnosis meant she was going to lose her only son, and I dealt with that by abandoning her in a different way. I’d neglected everyone over the last six years, including myself. I thought it was the only way I could cope, but since Matt chipped his way into my guarded heart I was starting to think I hadn’t been coping at all.
Just…existing.
When I got back to Matt’s place it was almost time for his doctor to arrive. I felt apprehensive as I clambered out of my car. When faced with the cold, hard facts there was every chance they would scare Matt away. It almost broke me seeing the uncertainty in his eyes earlier. I hated putting him in this situation and for the first time in a long while, I fucking despised my disease.
The idea of having to discuss my HIV at all strangled me with nerves. When Corey died I became so damn confused. So angry. At him, myself, the whole freakin’ world. Despite repeated recommendations from my doctor I only attended a couple of my counseling sessions before I dropped out. I was too stubborn, too bitter to take anyone’s advice, certain I could learn to deal with it on my own.
As a result, I’d spent the last six years cutting myself off from people, unable to let anyone get too close. Truth is, I knew Matt was scared and it killed me that I couldn’t help him…because I was scared, too. After opening up to Matt last night, and speaking with my mom earlier, it became painfully apparent that I hadn’t come to terms with my diagnosis as well as I’d thought.
Maybe today would be the beginning of a journey toward understanding and acceptance for both of us.
When I entered the living area of the vast open-plan ground floor of Matt’s house, I dropped my backpack next to the reclining chair and stood, utterly confused, next to Matt who, lying flat out on the couch with his arms folded across his chest, continued to stare at the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” I asked, baffled at his lack of acknowledgement to my presence.
“Trying to figure out how to get my pasta down.”
“Huh?” My eyes followed his gaze to the white ceiling and saw, bizarrely, a shell of cooked pasta stuck to it. “Um…why is there pasta on the ceiling?”
“I was trying to catch it in my mouth. Threw it too high. I’ve looked everywhere for something long enough to get it down and all I got was depressed.”
“How high do you actually need to throw it when aiming for your mouth?” I asked, still staring at the ceiling.
“I was trying to challenge myself.”
“And you cooked?” That was actually more surprising than the fact he’d been playing games with his food.