“Come, sit.” Matteo waves both Thomas and I in.
The chairs are uncomfortable, more for looks than for the comfort of those who occupy them.
“You good, brother?” I ask him right out of the gate, even though I know he’s not.
Fumbling in his desk, he pulls out a small silver tray and busies himself, breaking the bud on it apart meticulously. Spreading the small white paper with the greenery, the potent smell already hitting my nose, he looks at me and Thomas as he licks the paper, melding it together, before lighting it. Holding his breath longer than needed, when he blows out, there is no smoke to follow.
Easing back in his chair, he lets his eyes close, all while holding his hand out to us.
“I’m good,” Thomas tells him, but I immediately take the joint, inhaling the burn, letting my lungs fill up, before blowing it out. We pass the joint back a few times before I wave it away, my eyelids feeling heavy.
“Why is this all so fucking hard?”
With a slow gaze, I find Matteo with his head on the desk.
“I wish someone would tell me as well. I don’t have any clue.”
Thomas’ chair creaks, trying to get himself comfortable, having both of us wincing, worried it’s going to break with him in it. “Sometimes, the broken ones are what our souls yearn for. They love and fight harder. Brokenness teaches us our strength. Just at the moment we don’t think we’re worthy of them, here they come, rearranging themselves to fit us in. Molding together just right.”
My high ass mind tries to piece together what he just said, looking at him, dumbfounded. I’ve never heard Thomas speak that way. He’s always the one with a joke or a snide comment. The jokester of the group, for him to talk like he just did, isnew. And I know right then and there, he has a broken woman he’s trying to help piece back together, from something he didn’t even break. He looks at me and smiles, knowing what I’m thinking. But I don’t ask him; he’ll tell me more about her when the time is right.
“I love her more than life itself. I’d do whatever it takes to help her heal, but she just pushes me away.” Matteo’s accent peaks through the words.
“I feel you, man,” I agree with him. Because I know all too well.
The time blends together while we're in his office until our conversation about what lies next for me is broken by a knock on the door before Clover's red head peeks in. In a joking motion, she acts like the lingering smoke is too thick. “Damian and Soleil won’t be able to make it to family dinner.” She informs us.
“That’s okay,” Thomas tells her.
I was hoping he’d come, but I know they got their own shit going on. The last time I saw them both together was when we came and had family dinner a while back. And apparently, that ended badly for Matteo and Clover, him hearing what she was telling the girls while they were talking to each other. Girls gossip.
“How long till dinner?” Matteo’s voice is authoritative when speaking to her.
“Another thirty minutes.” Without another word, she closes the door.
I can’t help but shake my head. “You both have to find a common meeting ground, or this really will not work.”
“We did; it’s called the embalming table.”
“Holy shit.” Both Thomas and I call out at the same time.
“I’m fucking trying.” He shrugs.
An embalming table… I try to envision that, but I’m glad I can’t piece that together in my head.
The dinner is amazing; Clover put her cooking skills to the test once again and aced it.
I watch her and Matteo throughout dinner, but it’s so hard to understand them.
But it’s not my story to understand, either.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Rowan
“They fucked on an embalming table.” His eyes are wide as saucers and bloodshot like he hasn’t slept. The smell of weed is strong on him, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s high as a kite, trying to make out why the hell they fucked on the embalming table.
Already knowing the lore about the morgue, I say, “I fucked myself with a hairbrush last night. We’re all screwed in some way.” I giggle when he bites his lip, envisioning the scene I gave him.
