“I think we both know that’s a lie.”
“No, come on. I promise to hype you up. Mark my words. I’ll spam you with compliments.”
My pleading expression must do the trick, because Matt death-marches over to his laptop and mirthlessly opens it up. He then turns and walks away and I power walk over to sit at his desk. After typing his name into the search bar, I click on the videos option and am stunned when a bunch of clips pop up, ranging in quality from people recording him on their cell phones at conferences to much more professional sit-down interviews. I choose one of the legit-looking links and press Play.
Five minutes later I’m cheesing so hard that it physically hurts as I keep my face hidden behind my hands, except for my eyes. Matt is lying down on his bed behind me, seemingly attempting to asphyxiate himself with a pillow.
Soon enough, I close the computer and plop down onto the bed to sit beside him, forcing the pillow away from his head, even though he refuses to relinquish his grip. “Okay, first and foremost, that interview was highly enjoyable. You have excellent posture, and your voice is, dare I say, bewitching.”
“Spare me your lies,” Matt groans, giving the pillow a yank to once again cover his face.
I pull it back with a laugh and he lets me drag it away even though I’m no match for his strength. “Stop, you were good!” I tell him. “And the near-constant homicidal glare that you gave the interviewer didn’t steal your shine at all.”
“Can we please talk about anything else?”
I give his outstretched arm a consolatory pat and hop up from the bed, moving toward his dresser to inspect the neat row of books that are lined up on top.
“You have an impressive little library,” I say as I read over the titles.
Matt sits up and watches my progression. “They belonged to my dad. I’ve read them all, but he was the real scholar in the family.” I grin and continue to look over the spines, finding myself surprised when Matt goes on. “I thought about writing a book once.”
I so badly want to turn around, but don’t. If I turn, he might stop talking. “Oh yeah?” I ask.
“I pitched an idea to a few literary agents, but no one was interested. I think when they took the calls with me, they were hoping I was going to write some sort of anOperation Starshipcompanion edition. Once they realized I wasn’t, I might as well have hung up.”
I do steal a peek then. Matt looks away, staring off toward the window, and I can’t help but feel like I’m being let in on a secret. Like I’m privy to something not many others are. Professor Leoni suspected Matt wrote for himself but never shared it. And now he’s sharing a whisper of something with me.
“What was the story about?” I venture to ask. He glances at me but doesn’t answer for several beats.
“Nothing important. Forget I mentioned it.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed. I wish I weren’t. I suppose it’s like the professor said. Maybe he’ll tell me someday.
“Well, then,” I reply, turning all the way around. “Since I’m not here to discuss your future literary pursuits, what did you invite me to your room for?”
Matt stands up and moves over to me. We’re only a few feet apart and the room feels smaller. The air not as breathable. I try to tell myself this isn’t what I’ve been waiting for, but that would be a lie.
“I can’t believe you waited this long to ask. Have you been scanning the space for booby traps since you’ve been here?” His voice sounds a touch bolder now. He likes knowing something I don’t.
I clasp my hands behind my back. “I may or may not have an emergency grappling hook concealed somewhere on my person. If you have any dastardly intentions, you should rethink them now.”
Matt gives me a questioning look. “Why do you talk like an old-timey storyteller?”
“That’s rude,” I tell him. “But also thank you because that’s the exact vibe I strive to emit.”
Matt shakes his head and places his hands on my shoulders. I stop breathing for a second, wondering what he’ll do next, when he merely shifts me to the side so he can move forward toward the dresser, opening one of his drawers and taking something out. He turns and hands me a smallish-to-midsize box, which I hesitantly take. I focus on the picture since the words printed on the front are all in Italian.
“You bought me a sound machine?” I ask after a few confused moments.
“I did,” he answers. “It’s a peace offering to apologize for how I acted since we met. I know I gave you a hard time about what happened with my laptop. I know that you felt guilty about it, and I didn’t really help you to feel otherwise. So this is myI’m sorrysound machine.” He points to one word in particular that’s written in small font beside one of the pictures. “Pioggiameans rain. Rain is one of the settings on the machine. I thought it might help you sleep. Or help you to not feel homesick.”
Pioggia.
Rain.
I’m speechless. I’m nervous. I’m feeling many feels. This might be one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received and I’m not sure how to process it.
“Where did you find this?” I end up asking.
