I didn’t dare move or make a sound.
She turned to look me straight in the eye as she continued, “Is that honest enough for you, or do you want me to read my diary to you, too?”
How had I become the type of person I hated? The type of person who put their feelings before others’, as long as it protected me. Someone who didn’t just tell people when their words hurt, and punished them without giving them a chance to explain.
“I’m sorry, Matilda,I—”
“Luca. I don’t want to talk about this now. I ambeggingyou, pleasego.”
My heart sank with shame. The Matilda that stood in front of me—the one I’d pushed to this point—was nothing like the bright, bubbly person I’d come to know. Her voice was devoid of her usual happiness, and the weight of my actions hit me like a punch in thegut.
“OK.” I stalled, not wanting to leave her when I’d been so despicable, but also wanting to respect her wishes, knowing what she’d asked was genuine. “How are you getting home? Do you need a ride?”
“Please just leave. I’ll call a cab.” Her voice wobbled.
So I turned and left.
When I climbed into bed in my empty house, I pulled out my phone and opened our text thread. I scrolled through the few messages we’d sent to each other, wondering how I’d sunk solow.
I stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then let it fall to my chest. What the hell was I doing?
I tossed and turned for twenty minutes before I typed out a message and clicked send.
Luca: I’m sorry, Matilda.
I’d always been a selfishfucker. It was a necessary evil when trying to make it in Hollywood. The industry was too competitive and too cutthroat to consider how your actions might affect others. But I’d fucked up yesterday. I grimaced at the memory of Matilda’s tear-filled eyes. Even if I was right about what I’d said, confronting and tormenting her in a way I knew she’d find distressing was wrong.
I’d slept fucking horribly. My back ached from the constant tossing and turning, and a dull headache throbbed behind my eyes, probably from checking my phone too many times in the night hoping she’d replied. She hadn’t, and I deserved that.
She was right. I was a hypocrite. She’d called me out for not just asking if she was hiding something, instead choosing to be an asshole toward her for weeks. I’d missed my hypocrisy because I thought I’d been so blatant about my dislike of her, but I’d never outright asked her until yesterday.
That said, when I had eventually asked her, I’d caught her red-handed. So, if I’d asked her weeks ago, would she have told me the truth then?
But it had finally clicked. Matilda’s phone conversation withher mother last night had reminded me of something similar I’d heard from Mom. It was still early, but my mother would be awake.
I muted the TV that I hadn’t been able to concentrate on and shifted to the edge of the sofa, forearms braced on my knees. Wasting no more time, I dialed.
“Hey, my love,” she answered after a few rings. Her voice was quiet, as it often was in the morning. Like many people with ALS, she suffered with dysarthria—a disorder that weakened the muscles that control speech. Most of the time, you could barely notice, but it seemed to be worse in the mornings.
“Hey, Mom. How are you? The nurse said you weren’t feeling too great yesterday.”
“I’m fine this morning. Feel lots better after a quiet day and a good sleep.” Some of the tension immediately eased from my neck. “How about you?”
“I…I’mOK.”
“What’s wrong?” Her soft tone now carried a worried edge.
“I messedup.”
I recited the events of last night, feeling every word as if it were sticking in my throat. The look on Matilda’s face when I’d hurled insults at her was not one I’d easily forget.
Once I’d finished telling my mother what had happened, silence greeted me from the other end of the line.
“Have you spoken to her since?”
“No. I texted her last night apologizing, but I wanted to give her space. But, Mom…some things Matilda was saying…it reminds me of some stuff you’ve said before.”
“And what’s that?”
