: Chapter 14

Hours later, I finished the belt just as I heard the rumbling of a motorcycle pulling into the driveway. Aletha had gone into the house to make tea. I hung the belt inside the cabinet, closed it, and went to the door of the shed just as Matt opened it. He pushed me back inside and kissed me hard. I wrapped my arms around him and let him lift my legs around his waist. He slammed the door and pushed me against it.

“Don’t say no to me,” he said near my ear.

“Matt, your mom.”

“Take this off.” He set me down and removed the smock. “Actually, take all of this off.” He reached for my T-shirt but I stopped him. “She won’t come in here,” he said breathlessly.

“What, why?”

He let his hands fall to his sides. “Because she knows we’re in here. Now, where were we?” He looked up to the ceiling and tapped his chin, then pointed his index finger at me. “Oh yes, we were undressing you.”

“Wait, maybe she thinks we have a tiny bit of respect.”

“Maybe she thinks we’re young and in love,” he countered quickly.

Silence, as if the air were sucked out of the room and we were left in a vacuum, wordless, our eyes glued to each other. Matt’s expression remained impassive.

I arched my eyebrows.

He gave a quick shrug. “What?”

“Are we?”

“Young? Yes, relatively.”

“No . . . are we . . .”

“What do you think, Grace?” And then his mouth was on mine, except there was no urgency behind his kiss anymore. The kiss went on and on, like we were trying to melt into each other, romantic and sweet.

Finally, I pulled away. “You have a motorcycle?” I asked, dreamily.

He answered by nodding into my neck and kissing me right below the ear.

“Wanna take me for a ride?”

“You have no idea.”

“You know, we never really talked about the other night.”

“Do we need to talk about it?” His tone was suddenly stiff.

A sudden wave of paranoia slammed me back a couple of feet, out of Matt’s embrace. He was avoiding the topic. Why? I wondered if there was something he didn’t want to tell me. Was I not good enough? How could I be? I thought. He was like a god, dripping with an intoxicating blend of sweetness and sex. I couldn’t take my eyes off him most of the time. On top of it all, he was kind, smart, strong, and artistic.

Really, universe? That’s plenty. That’s just fucking plenty! You cannot make one person this delicious. It’s not fair.

Matthias was the kind of guy girls dreamed about marrying. The kind of guy whose last name you would doodle after your first name in wispy cursive letters across the cover of your Trapper Keeper. Graceland Shore. Graceland and Matthias Shore. Mr. and Mrs. Shore. Images of your family photos would zip through your mind in blurry streams, like stars moving at warp speed. You, standing there, glowing and pregnant for the twelfth time, with all of your beautiful little Adonis and Aphrodite children clinging to your legs as you and your husband gaze into each other’s eyes. You’d shout it out to the world, “This. Man. Is. Mine!” And you’d always give him lots of blowjobs. I hadn’t even done that yet, but I planned to. Anyway, the point is, you’d do anything for him.

And then, like a mythological creature, he would annihilate your heart with mere indifference.

Do we really need to talk about it?

Ouch.

He squinted at me, pleading, searching. Or was he playing with me? My stomach spasmed with anxiety.

“Okay, Grace, what the hell is going on?”

I couldn’t hold it in. “Was I terrible in bed?”

“What? What’s wrong with you? Are you kidding me?”

“Well, are you going to answer my question?”

He stood up straighter, “Do I really need to point out that I basically just told you I’m in love with you? I thought you got it. Fucking Christ, Grace. I have a raging hard-on and I’m trying desperately to defile you against the wall of a disgusting shed in my mother’s backyard. I thought actions speak louder than words?” We glared at each other and then he lowered his voice. “The other night was easily the most enjoyable night of my life, I swear to you. I doubt anyone else could ever top it. You are so uniquely beautiful and sexy, and you moved so perfectly that I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.” He looked down at his pants and laughed. “Which has made life on airplanes and in Aletha’s house extremely awkward.”

Heart slayed. He owned me.

He grabbed my hand. “Come on, silly girl. I want to take you over to my dad’s for lunch, and it’s already getting late.”

“Really?” I looked at my watch. I didn’t realize Matt wanted to see his dad on such short notice. “Oh shit.” I ran through the door of Aletha’s house like a whirling dervish, spinning in frantic circles. “I don’t know what to wear,” I moaned.

Matt trailed behind me and sat back on the guest bed, watching me, hands propped behind his head, a satisfied, smug grin on his face. “Just pick something. You look great in everything . . . and nothing.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Clothes went flying out of my suitcase and across the room. “I have nothing!”

“This,” Matt said, picking up an item of clothing from the floor. “Wear this.” It was the dress, the one with the black little flowers and a cut out in the back. “With tights and your boots. You look amazing in it.”

Grabbing it from him, I scanned the wrinkled material. “Throw it to me,” came a voice from the doorway. Aletha held her hands out. I almost started to cry when I looked up to see her warm smile. When I was at my home, I was expected to iron not only my own clothes but my dad’s and my siblings’, too. My mother always said it was about doing my part. Even when I was home from college on holidays, I would spend hours doing chores and ironing. I despised ironing. The mere sight of an ironing board made me angry. Aletha’s small gesture reminded me how much I yearned for a nurturing mother—one who didn’t let my father’s drinking rule our lives. One who sounded excited, who wanted to know me when I called. One who wasn’t spread so thin.

“Thank you, Aletha.”

“My pleasure, sweetie.” I think she meant it. Like ironing my dress actually made her happy.

Within twenty minutes, I found myself fidgeting in the passenger seat of Aletha’s van while Matt blared the Sex Pistols and banged on the steering wheel to the beat, weaving in and out of traffic, totally oblivious to my nervousness.

“Hey!” I yelled over the music.

He turned it down and glanced at me. “Don’t freak out, Grace. They’re a bunch of pretentious assholes. Just play a song for them. They’ll all be totally impressed. Monica will be jealous. Alexander will be a douche. My dad and his wife will be cordial but smug. They’ll all talk about how some famous chef cooked our meal and then my dad will remind you how much he paid for the wine.”

“I feel bad for showing up empty-handed.”

“My mom gave me a bottle of Prosecco to bring.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s sparkling wine, like champagne.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Perfect.”

When we pulled into the driveway of what I would modestly call a mansion, my eyes bulged out of my head. The house was decorated in white Christmas lights and there was a grand Christmas tree in the center of the circular driveway, covered in large, extravagant bows and huge ornamental glass balls.

“My stepmom loves this shit but she doesn’t do any of it herself. She just hires people.”

I spotted the wine behind his seat and grabbed it. We both shuffled toward the door apprehensively. Matt pressed the doorbell; I thought it was strange that he couldn’t just walk into the house he grew up in.

A plump woman in her midsixties, wearing an apron I thought only people in movies wore, answered the door. She was Alice from Brady Bunch, but not cheery.

“Matthias,” she said. Her accent was thick and obviously German.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Naina, this is Grace.”

“Nice to meet you.” She shook my hand firmly and turned. We followed her through an entry and down a long hall.

Who is that? I mouthed.

“Housekeeper,” he whispered, and then leaned in toward my ear. “She’s mean.” My eyes grew wide.

Naina turned around and stopped midstride. “I can hear you, boy.”

Matt grinned. “Naina has been here since I was twelve. She helped me with all my homework, taught me a bunch of German swear words, and would always sneak me tons of sugary snacks.”

Naina stomped her foot and put her hands on her wide hips. “Matthias,” she scolded, but it only lasted a second before her cheeks turned pink and she started laughing. “Come here, you.” The rotund woman practically lifted Matt off his feet in a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, Matthias. It hasn’t been the same around here without you.” They pulled away from each other.

Matt pointed a thumb at his chest. “I’m her favorite.”

“Come on now, enough of that,” Naina replied as she turned and continued down the hall. She blew off the remark, but I knew it was true.

It was two days before Christmas and I was about to meet Matt’s dad, his brother, his stepmother, and his vindictive ex-girlfriend/soon-to-be sister-in-law. I was happy to have something to carry into the room; it felt like a shield against whatever was waiting for us in the grand living room. Matt yanked the bottle of Prosecco out of my hands—so much for my shield—and entered the room ahead of me, holding his arms out wide, his chest up, bottle dangling from his right hand. “Merry Christmas, family. I’m here!”

I saw Matt’s dad and stepmother standing near a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto a huge backyard and sparkling pool. His father was wearing a dark suit and tie. His stepmother wore a beige pencil skirt, white blouse, and a glowing set of pearls. She was the polar opposite of Aletha, with her blonde hair, cut into a flawless bob, and her taut, medically altered skin.

His dad had the distinguished looks of a man who spent a lot of time in front of the mirror, but his smile was genuine, like Matt’s. From the couch rose a figure, who I knew without a doubt was Alexander. He was in a stark white suit, pink dress shirt, and no tie. The three top buttons were open, revealing his tan, hairless chest. His hair was lighter than Matt’s and plastic looking from gel.

He reached Matt in three strides. “Matt’s here and late as usual,” he said, cheerily. Taking the bottle from Matt’s hand, he examined it. “And look, everyone, he’s brought us a bottle of poor man’s champagne. Whaddya say? Maybe we can roast the pig with it.”

Was he for real? My god.

My gut clenched and my heart dropped at the thought of Aletha giving Matthias the bottle and Matt knowing how they would receive it, but not having the heart to tell her . . . or me. It must have been why he took it from me at the last second.

Ignoring his brother, he stepped out of the way and took my arm. “Everyone, this is Grace.”

I waved awkwardly and then his stepmother approached. “Hello, darling. I’m Regina.”

While I shook her hand, Matt’s father walked up to Matt and hugged him wordlessly, then he turned his attention to me. “Hello, Grace, lovely to meet you. I’ve heard about you and your music.”

I swallowed, wondering what he had heard. “Thank you, sir. Nice to meet you.”

“Please, call me Charles.”

The urge to say, How ’bout Charlie? struck me, and I laughed nervously. “Okay, Charles.”

Alexander stood back until I saw a black-haired woman enter the room from the other side. She was beautiful, in a girl-next-door kind of way. Long, sleek hair with bouncing curls at the ends. Big brown eyes, surprisingly warm. I smiled as she approached but then noticed her Joker grin, big and fake, with a hint of mischief. Her movements were feline as she slinked toward us. “Matthias.” Her voice was haughty.

“Hi, Monica. This is Grace.”

Her creepy, closed-mouth smile was back as she slowly looked down to my boots, then back up to my face. I stuck my hand out to shake hers but it dangled there, helplessly. Finally, she took it. “Nice to meet you. You look like his type.”

“Uhhh . . .”

Monica looked back to Matt. “Does she speak?”

“Kids, let’s take this into the dining room,” Charles interrupted. I was grateful.

The six of us sat around a large, shining black table laid with silver serving pieces and crystal champagne flutes. Matt and I sat across from Alexander and Monica while Regina and Charles capped each end of the table. Naina moved quickly and gracefully in and out of the room, setting dishes on the table.

Charles announced that the food was prepared by Chef Michael Mason. I leaned over and whispered to Matt, “Who’s he?”

“Who cares?” Matt said out loud, but no one acknowledged him.

Regina and Monica were having a conversation about some designer who was working on Monica’s wedding dress, while Charles droned on to Alexander about the firm’s latest contract negotiations. They basically ignored us for the better part of the meal, and I should have been thankful. By the time dessert came around, and Monica and Alexander had had a few flutes of champagne, they turned their undivided attentions on us.

“So, you play the cello?” Alexander asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Monica’s voice was filled with knowing. “You’re the cello player?”

“Yes,” I said again. I saw worry etched on Matt’s face. He was staring hard at Monica, trying to read her tone.

Her saccharine smile and fake laugh sent a cold shiver through me. She looked at Alexander but pointed to me. “This is the one?” Her eyes darted to Matt’s dad. “The one you bailed out, right, Charles?”

“Excuse me? Um . . . bailed out? I don’t know what you mean,” I said, barely getting the words out above a whisper. Who was this meek, stupid girl I had become around these people?

“Nothing. This isn’t lunchtime conversation, Monica.” There was an edge to Matt’s tone.

I pushed my chair back from the table. “Restroom?” I asked to anyone who would rescue me.

“Down the hall, second door to the right,” Regina said.

When I stood, I swayed, dizzy from the champagne. Matt got up but I quickly moved past him down the hall. I could hear his footsteps behind me. I went into the bathroom and tried to close the door but Matt’s big steel-toed boot was jammed in the opening. “Wait. Let me in.”

“No,” I barked.

“Grace, I’m serious. Let me in . . . please.”

My eyes were watering and I was looking down when I finally let go of the door and let him in. He lifted my chin. His eyes were burning, like rum on fire. “Listen to me. I borrowed some money from my dad to help you get your cello back. I didn’t go into detail with him because I knew he wouldn’t fucking understand your circumstance. They don’t even deserve to know. You’re good and kind and pure, and you don’t need these people to tell you that. Let them think the worst. Let Monica unleash her judge-y bullshit. Let Alexander think we used the money for your fifth abortion. Let them all go to hell. I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. They will never be satisfied in life because, no matter how much they have, they will always want more. Right now they want to strip some dignity from us because we have something they don’t.”

I sniffled. “What’s that?”

“This.” He bent down and kissed me softly, slowly.

When he broke away he moved across the bathroom, opened the cabinet below the sink, and reached as far back as he could. “Got it! Naina never fails.” It was a bottle of tequila. He unscrewed the top and took a swig. “I have to drive, but you’re welcome to get blasted. It’ll numb the pain of being around my family, trust me.”

After three large gulps, I could feel the heat spreading over my face. I turned instantly pink-cheeked when I drank tequila. “I’m ready.”

He messed up my hair. “There we go. Now you look perfectly just-fucked. Let’s make them squirm.”

The group was in the living room standing near the gleaming grand piano when we returned. Monica looked startled when she saw us. Alexander looked jealous, and Charles and Regina looked curious, as I fanned myself.

“Took you long enough,” Alexander said.

Passing Alexander from behind, I murmured, “Yes. Matt takes his time.” As I sat down at the piano bench, I made one last dramatic fanning gesture before placing my hands on the keys. “Can I play you all something?”

“That would be wonderful, Grace,” said Charles.

The tequila was blasting through my veins, working loose all the stressed-out muscles in my body. I began playing, first slowly, allowing the song to build. The music started swirling over and over, higher and higher, bringing every emotion to the surface like a spiritual experience. I felt like shouting, “Can I get an amen?!” I closed my eyes and played for five minutes without missing a single note.

When I was finished, there was silence. I nervously waited to open my eyes until I heard the sound of clapping. I looked to Charles first, who was beaming. “That was fantastic, Grace. Who was that, Bach?”

“Pink Floyd. ‘Comfortably Numb.’ ” I smiled.

“Well, it was beautiful at any rate,” Regina said.

“Thank you.” I stood and noticed that Monica was standing at Matt’s side, staring at him. He was unaware because his eyes were on me and he was grinning, a full, cheesy, million-megawatt grin full of pride.

As I walked toward him, he held his fingers up to his face like he was snapping the shutter of an imaginary camera and mouthed, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Monica saw the whole thing, but the best part was that Matt didn’t care whether she saw it or not. I’m not sure she even existed in his mind anymore. Just as I reached him, Alexander smacked Matt hard on the back. “She’s really talented, bro.”

Matt’s eyes went wide. He was shocked, clearly. Maybe it was the reminder of an old brotherly love they once shared, or maybe it was because Alexander was looking at me as a prize.

“Yeah, she is,” he said, still staring at me. “We have to go now.” Matt took my hand and pulled me toward the door then wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Thanks Dad, Regina. Lunch was great. We have to get back with Mom’s van now.” Leaning over, he kissed my ear and whispered, “I want you all to myself.”

We turned back just before walking out the door. Matt gave a big “Merry Christmas!” and we were gone, leaving behind a room full of gawking faces.

“What was that all about?” I asked as we pulled out of the driveway.

“That was me telling them you’re mine.”

I couldn’t stop smiling.

The Sex Pistols came back on. Matt turned it up and began doing his best Sid Vicious imitation, chanting something about holidays in the sun. I smiled and stared out the passenger window, watching the traffic on the other side of the highway blur into streams of red.

WE SPENT THE next three days at his mom’s, exploring the streets on Matt’s motorcycle. At a thrift store, I found a cool, square belt buckle made of black pewter with a gray owl in the center. I made Matt wait outside while I paid for it.

When I got out the door, he was in the parking lot, straddling his motorcycle, looking sexy as ever. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was wearing that cocky Matt smirk, his eyes squinting against the sun. A gust of wind blew my hair back as I came walking toward him. He held up the invisible camera and took a shot.

“Gracie, I hope you got me that owl belt buckle.”

I punched his arm. “You jerk. Why’d you have to ruin it?”

“Kiss me.”

“You ruined my surprise,” I whined.

“KISS. ME.”

On Christmas morning, we all sat around Aletha’s tree and exchanged our mostly homemade gifts. Aletha had thrown four beautiful mugs on her new pottery wheel and gave them to both of us.

“I had them glazed. Two have your initials and two have Grace’s on the bottom,” Aletha explained as Matt pulled them out of a box.

“Huh,” Matt said. “These are great, Mom. Thank you.”

He handed her a large wrapped frame. “It’s from both of us.” I squeezed his hand gratefully. He knew I hadn’t been able to buy her anything.

She unwrapped it and stared. I didn’t know what she was looking at so I got up to stand behind her. When I finally saw what was framed, I swallowed and felt tears fill my eyes. It was a matted collage of us. You couldn’t see our faces in any of the photos but they were all of Matt and me, just our legs, arms, hands, hair, mostly on each other, or embracing, or lying across one another lazily. Some were blown out by the light so you could only see our silhouettes. It was a breathtaking collection, and it truly showcased Matt’s talent so beautifully.

“Matthias,” Aletha started, already breathless. “Son, these photos are so incredibly stunning. And Grace, you are such a naturally beautiful subject. I will cherish this always.”

A tear fell from my cheek and landed on Aletha’s shoulder as she hugged me. She looked up at me in surprise. I shook my head, embarrassed, and looked away.

“You hadn’t seen this, Grace?” she asked.

“No,” I said, my voice strained. “It’s amazing, Matt.”

“Glad you like it, ’cause I got you the same thing.” He laughed. “It’s waiting for you in your room when you get back. I snuck it in there right before we left.”

I plopped onto his lap and kissed him quickly. He hugged me close. “I love it. Thank you.”

When I gave him the belt, he examined it. “Gracie’s eyes,” he said, and I nodded.

“I told you he would get it,” Aletha added.

ONCE WE GOT back to New York in early January, we fell into a regular routine. We’d explore the city, go to our classes, study together in the dorms, or at least try to study. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. On the nights Matt worked at the PhotoHut, I’d practice music with Tati.

About a month later, Matt asked me to meet him in the lounge, with only the hint that he was going to take me somewhere special.

“This is the other part of your Christmas present I was waiting to give you,” he told me, his eyes twinkling as he grabbed my hand and led me out of the dorm.

All bundled up in coats and scarves, we walked to Arlene’s Grocery, a small venue where local bands played. “Don’t look at the signs,” he urged.

We made our way through the crowd to the stage. Matt forged ahead, pushing people to the side, but I couldn’t see anything beyond people’s backs. When I finally looked up, I was staring right into Jeff Buckley’s eyes as he tuned his guitar.

Holy. Shit.

We watched the entire set, right there at the front of the crowd, swaying back and forth, three feet from my favorite musician of all time. At one point, I thought I caught a smile from Jeff but then he looked away and started rambling about his nicotine patch. I looked back at Matt and mouthed, “OH. MY. GOD.” I knew I was in the presence of greatness.

Jeff disappeared after the show, but I didn’t bother looking for him. A year earlier, I might have waited around like a groupie so I could get a handshake or tell him what a devoted fan I was, but that night I just wanted to get back to the dorm with Matt. I was inspired. I wanted to play music.

Walking home, I said absently, “He didn’t play ‘Hallelujah.’ That’s too bad.”

“He’s probably sick of playing it,” Matt replied as he swung our hands back and forth.

“Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, by the way. That was amazing.”

“Anything for you.”

“Don’t go getting mushy on me, Matthias.”

He laughed. “Now who’s the one who can’t be serious?”