And I hate myself a little bit for even thinking that about him.
The server returns with our drinks, and while he’s here, he takes our entrée orders. Once he’s gone, Matthew examines me, puzzled. “I still can’t imagine you as a bruiser.”
I laugh at the word. “I’m notthatbad. And I’ve mellowed with age,” I assure him. “Now, I’m all about the Zen.”
Only two people get under my skin. I’m making a conscious effort not to argue with my mother. The other person I’ve pushed out of my mind—at least for tonight.
“Why didn’t you come back after graduating college?”
I shrug. “I wanted to prove to myself and my family that I could make it outside of Mayhem.” I slap my palms on the table. “Okay, enough about me. Your turn. What brought you to our humble, little town?”
Mayhem may be small, but it’s far from humble.
“My father worked in construction. But when the government installed those new regulations, he lost his job,” he’s quick to answer. “They didn’t give any warning. He had no choice but to chase work and followed a job to Mayhem. That was…” He calculates for a moment. “Eight or so years now. He worked at Avery Farm, but after his heart attack, he can’t do hard labor. So here I am. I help as much as he lets me, but he’s prideful, and he makes it difficult.”
Weird how the mention of his father’s condition causes my limbs to go numb right down to my fingers and toes. “My father suffered a heart attack, too,” I breathe.
Grief is a raw wound even after all these years.
“I hope he’s not as ornery about his as my old man is.”
My white linen napkin is suddenly the most interesting item in the world. I twist it, knot it to within an inch of its life. “His was fatal.”
He’s silent for so long, it becomes awkward. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, Faith.”
“We all go sometime, right?” I release my napkin and slap a tight, false smile on my face. “Other than working at Black Bean and being an amazing son, tell me more about you.”
“There’s not much more to tell.” He fidgets with the million pieces of silverware set around him. “I was born and raised in Philadelphia. I dropped out of medical school after my father’s heart attack, but I’m going back next semester. As much as I love my illustrious career as a barista, my plan has always been to become a trauma surgeon.”
Of course, he’s going to be a doctor. And if I squint and look hard enough, I bet I’ll see an honest to God halo hovering over his head.
I have no business sitting across from this man. He’s too wholesome. Not when my brain and heart are locked in a brutal battle of wills over someone who is pure sin.
Matthew’s quest to be a doctor also means my diabetes shouldn’t be an issue—and if it is, this is our first and last date.
I pull out my phone and insulin kit from my backpack and do a quick BG check. I show him my phone screen, which boldly displays my sugar level. “Type 1.”
He nods. “Got it.”
Dining out used to be super stressful, and for years, I was a hermit because I was afraid to eat anywhere but home. Now, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a pro at this because having an autoimmune disease means living on the edge of your seat. But I can do a pretty good carb calculation on the fly. Also, I’m not embarrassed to pick apart my meal and weigh it on my portable scale to get it right. Not when it’s a bitch dealing with the rollercoaster of chasing my numbers if I screw up my insulin.
After I give myself the shot, I stuff the supplies and my phone back in my bag, aware Matthew is watching me. “I was diagnosed at ten.”
“That had to be tough.”
I shrug one shoulder. “It is what it is.” Then, to get us back to our original subject, “Trauma surgeon, huh? Wow. And here, if I were going to be a doctor, I would choose proctology since this world has an abundance of assholes that need fixing.”
“True.” His laughter is infectious. He truly is adorable. “But sadly, no. I’ll leave that area of the body to someone else.”
Although I’m an extrovert, I’ve never been good at dating. I’m too bold, too loud, too… Mayhem. As a result, I have a habit of chasing people away. To counter my attitude, I usually tone myself down, which makes things awkward because I end up acting fake. With Matthew, though, the conversation flows naturally, and by the time the food arrives, it’s like we’ve known each other forever.
But a pit opens in my stomach midway through the meal. It’s an unsettling sensation of impending doom. The more I try to dismiss it, the more agitated I become. The calm before the storm. I set down my fork and glance around the restaurant, sure the world is about to come to a violent end.
Even Matthew notices my agitated condition. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. I’m fine.” I clear my throat and struggle to keep my focus on him. “Is it hot in here?”
He shakes his head, eying me with more than mild curiosity. “No. Are you sure you’re okay? Did you give yourself the wrong dose of insulin?”
