Page 191 of Matteo

“You can’t have much to do now that we know who was behind it all.”

“I still need to write up a report for your father.”

He looks away. “I’m sure that can wait. I still need to tell him what’s been going on.”

More silence follows. I wait, wishing he’d hurry up and get on with it. Something is obviously weighing on his mind.

“You were right about all of it. I was an asshole.”

The way he repeats it, like saying it again might magically change something, is laughable.

“Is this what you called me in here for? To state the obvious?”

He blinks a few times, like he's thinking about something. “I should have trusted you, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.”

I feel sad that things between us have broken down irrevocably. This is so painful, and stilted. Such a complete reversal of the conversations we used to have when we were getting to know one another.

“I had my reasons—”

“Please don’t explain. It's too late for that and I really don’t want to hear it.”

“Elizabeth, please.”

“Why? So you can feel better about yourself? You think your words will wipe away how you looked at me? That you believed this was my doing?” I'm not letting him get away with this so easily.

“I understand why you’re mad at me. You have every right to be.”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face like this is excruciatingly painful. I see the raw misery etched out in every part of him, not just his face, but in the way he sits, shoulders hunched, looking smaller and a shadow of himself, and something inside me cracks. He's trying so hard, and it's obvious he's been struggling with what he did, and how he treated me. Maybe I should let him have his say. But not until I’ve had mine.

“I don’t need an explanation, Matteo. I’ve experienced this for most of my life, seeing the looks on people’s faces when they don’t believe me. When they don’t see the best in me, but the worst ... I just never expected you to be one of them.”

My voice turns shaky, because this has been my life, what I've known, how people looked at me, at the little girl who wanted only to belong and be loved. I hate that I'm breaking down like this. I promised myself I wouldn't, but Matteo has hurt me deeply, and I don't know how to handle it.

He gets up and moves around the side of the desk.

“No.” I hold out my hand, warning him not to come closer. I'm scared he's going to try to comfort me. He remains standing, in limbo, like he'd do anything to wrap his arms around me, but he's lost that right.

“You don’t know enough about me, Matteo.” I pause to take a few breaths because my voice turns shaky again, and I can't look weak, not now. I need him to know how much he’s hurt me. “You don’t know my past. You don’t know what I’ve seen or the things I’ve lived through. But instead of asking and trusting what you did know, you filled in the gaps with the worst possible scenario.”

He sits back down, and I hear a loud exhale from him, as if he’s resigned himself to me keeping him at a distance.

“Elizabeth …” His voice is hoarse, raw with emotion, and he sounds worn down and defeated. “I fucked up. I fucked up badly, and I regret it so much but I was ... I was grappling with so many things. I ... I couldn't untangle the mess inside my head.”

He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anything, and his voice fills with such emotion, he closes his eyes every now and then, as if what he has to say pains him greatly. “Hand on heart, I fucked up. I let you down, and I doubted you when I should have known better. I looked at everything in front of me, and even when you proved to me that it was Alex, I still struggled to believe you.”

His eyes finally meet mine, sending a jolt through my body. Even now, he has the power to affect me physically, just from the way he looks at me. I find it unsettling how he affects my body and my mood.

“You did let me down.” My voice is low, and I struggle for air, to fill my lungs, to steady myself. “And your reaction to Alex was almost like you were sad that it was him, and not me.”

“No, that's not—” He bolts upright, eyes defensive.

I cut him off. “That's something that’s going to take me a long time to get past. It … it would probably have been easier for you if it had been me.” I glare at him in resentment and take a moment before I deliver the final blow. “You're not so different from your father.”

His eyes widen, hurt and confusion swimming in them. I've said the worst possible thing to him. And it hit.

Moments pass before he answers, and when he finally does, “How?” His voice is a croak.