He slows a little at that, like the words catch him off guard. I keep walking, pretending not to notice until he falls back into step beside me.
“Do you still talk to the girls?” he asks after a beat.
I shake my head. “Hailey’s in Dubai now, her husband got a job there and Anny moved to Texas. We text every once in a while, but it’s not the same.”
I follow him down some steps, “what about you?” I ask once we get back on level ground. “Does the frat still get together?”
He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t a frat. And yeah, sometimes I still talk to Henry and Stevie. The rest… not so much.”
I nod, understanding. “It’s hard to hold onto people once college ends. Everyone just… drifts.”
“Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I had no idea that would be the last time I’d feel truly free. I thought once I got a job, I’d have money, travel, and do all this exciting shit. Instead, I spend half my life stressing about what to make for dinner.”
I burst out laughing. “Right? Like, why do I even have to decide? I used to complain when Stella made the same thing over and over again, but now I’d kill for her boring chicken casserole.”
“How is your sister?” he asks, glancing over.
I bite my lip. “She’s good. Stell and her husband, Zeke, they separated.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Zeke’s a contractor, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “In Jersey.” I don’t tell him that they broke up cause, he turned out to be a drug addict just like our father, that’s more third date material.
Matthew leads me off the main street and into one of those narrow side lanes you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
“Here,” he says, stopping in front of a tiny storefront tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. The windows are fogged from the warmth inside, the sign above the door hand-painted and slightly chipped.
It’s not one of those shiny tourist cafés with overpriced croissants and English menus, this is the kind of place locals guard like a family heirloom. Inside, the air smells like butter and herbs and freshly baked bread. A small chalkboard behind the counter lists the daily specials in messy handwriting.
We squeeze into a little two-person table by the window while a woman behind the counter calls out orders in rapid-fire French. Matthew orders for us, a couple ofpissaladières, flatbreads with caramelized onions, anchovies, and olives, and a bowl ofsausage stewthat sounds so good my stomach actually growls. Definitely not the typical tourist spread.
He glances at me once that’s done, squinting slightly. “I thought your sister and her husband separated two years ago.”
I pick at the edge of my napkin and shrug. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he says, almost too casually.
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wooden table. “Yeah, they did. For a while. But then COVID happened, and Zeke had to move back in. And, well…” I lift a shoulder. “One thing led to another. They got back together. And then… they separated again.”
“You approve,” Matthew says, not accusing, just observing.
“I feel like a terrible person,” I murmur.
“You used to like him,” he says gently.
“I did,” I admit. “Then he started using.”
Matthew makes a small, knowing “oh,” his brows lifting slightly.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “He and I used to be close. I mean, he practically raised me.” I shake my head, lips tightening. “I had this feeling something was off. I told Stella, but she thought I was projecting our dad onto him. Turns out I was right. He started drinking after they separated the first time, and it spiralled to drugs. He OD’d, and she kicked him out.”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just lets me sit with it. I pick at a crumb on the table.
“Anyway,” I exhale, “Stella’s been left to pick up the pieces. Again.”
“All you can do is be there for her,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I know.” Then I shake my head, forcing a smile. “Enough about me. What about you? How’s your mom?”
