404: I already like where this is going
404: I’m in.
33
Matthew
Matthew held his breath, twisted the doorknob, and opened the front door to his father’s house inch by agonizing inch. The hinges didn’t creak, which was a small miracle, and the floorboards didn’t groan under his weight, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. At a snail’s pace, Matthew closed the door while the doorknob was still twisted, then gradually turned the knob until it was back in a resting position. He twisted the lock as quietly as he could and sighed in relief. The only obstacle between him and the safety of his bedroom were the stairs, but he’d crawled up them enough times as a teenager that he was confident he could do it without making a peep.
Alas, all of his efforts were for naught.
Despite the early hour of the morning, Matthew’s father was seated at the kitchen island in plain sight of the hallway, a mug of coffee held loosely between his hands. He lifted his head as Matthew tiptoed down the hall. “Good morning.”
Matthew froze. “Morning.”
“Can we talk?”
“I’d like that.” Matthew had never been good at telling lies, and this time was no exception. His father frowned, and Matthew’s pulse skyrocketed. If his heart beat any harder, a heavy metal band would undoubtedly swing by the house and co-opt it as their new drummer. “Just… um, can we hold off half an hour?”
“Yeah. Go shower, change, and we’ll meet back in the kitchen when you’re ready.” Matthew’s father lifted the mug and took a thoughtful sip. The gleam in his eye and the upward tick of his brow made it look like he might say something else, but whatever it was died before it ever made it to his lips.
Grateful for his silence, Matthew hurried up the stairs. He tugged his shirt over his head as he ascended, then tossed it into his laundry basket on the way into his room. One comfortable tee, a pair of shorts, and some underwear later, and Matthew locked himself in the bathroom.
He couldn’t hide from his father forever, but for now was a good start.
Yesterday’s clothes in a heap by the door, Matthew turned on the tap and waited for the water to heat. He hadn’t had time to shower before leaving Damien that morning—they’d had time for a quickie and not much else before Damien had needed to rush off to the airport. His flight was scheduled to leave first thing that morning, and after what had happened the night before, he couldn’t afford to miss it.
It surprised but flattered Matthew that he hadn’t hopped on a flight immediately following the drama with Bankes, but according to Damien, all would be fine. He’d divided the night between showering Matthew in affection and chatting with his siblings, Catherine and Hunter. There was something fishy going on, but whatever it was, Damien was keeping it close to his chest.
In time, Matthew was sure he’d understand.
If he was lucky, he’d figure out if Damien was actually a single dad around the same time. Matthew kept forgetting to ask.
A quick shower and a towel dry later, Matthew dressed and headed downstairs. His father sat at the kitchen island exactly where he’d been when Matthew had come home, his empty mug the sole indication that he hadn’t stared into oblivion the entire time Matthew was gone.
“Do you want some coffee, Dad?” Matthew asked. He hovered across the counter from his father, not sure if he’d be better off sitting or standing. Coffee, at the very least, would give him something to focus on apart from the death metal drum solo going on in his chest. It might very well extend the olive branch after all he’d done.
Maybe.
Possibly.
At the very least, Matthew liked tothinkthat it would. There was a chance that his father would never accept an apology, but Matthew was of the opinion that he was a reasonable human being who could be convinced to change his mind once given the facts.
All Matthew had to do was avoid screeching at him like the child he was trying to prove he wasn’t.
“I’m good on coffee, thanks.” His father took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. With his hair pushed back at strange angles and his age-worn V-neck shirt wrinkled, it looked to Matthew like he’d just rolled out of bed after a restless night—or maybe that he’d never gone to bed at all. “Would you like to take a seat?”
“In a sec. I’m going to go get some for myself.”
As Matthew scooted around the island destined for Alex’s beloved French press, his father cleared his throat. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Matthew stopped and furrowed his brow, then sighed. One of the things he’d loathed during his first pregnancy was watching what he ate and drank—no coffee, no cold cuts, no fish. “I forgot. Guess it’s back to bread sandwiches for me.”
Defeated, Matthew took a seat at the island opposite his father. He folded his hands on his lap and stared at the nail of his thumb, focusing a little too hard on the tiny striations that were only visible in direct light.
Could he find yet another excuse to shower? Maybe he could claim he was going for the world record. Only that wouldn’t do anything to solve his problem. Running from confrontation would only make it worse.
Why was adulting so damn hard?
