I stared at him.
“It’s not gonna be that easy, is it?” he said.
“I need time.”
“We don’t have much.”
I sat on the windowsill, looking out at the lone tree in the courtyard, swaying back and forth. “That’s my problem. Time.” I turned to him. “Which photo did you sell?”
“The one of you. The first day we met. The one where you’re picking the button off the floor. Mr. Nelson chose it for the university gallery and it sold the first day. I jokingly put a thousand dollars on the price tag, thinking no one would buy it. It’s as much your money as it is mine. I want you to have it.” His look was sincere and sweet. We were talking and it felt good.
“It’s not mine.”
“Well, as my ex-wife . . .” He started laughing. “We might have been married at the time the photograph sold. Who would know?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, too. “We were married for a couple of days. And anyway, it would be fifty-fifty.”
“Okay, fine. I will take the other five hundred and then give it back to you for all the modeling work you’ve done for me.”
“I wish I could really laugh about this, but I’m just so angry with my parents right now. I can’t believe they act like I wouldn’t want them here for my graduation,” I said.
“It’s their way of making themselves feel less guilty.”
“They’re gonna fuck me up with this pressure.”
“No.” He was suddenly serious. “No, they’re not. As soon as you stop thinking that way and you see how amazing you are, all that resentment you have for them will turn into gratitude. You’ll be like, ‘I’m glad my parents didn’t give a shit because it made me fuckin’ awesome.’ ”
Letting his words sink in, I sat there quietly for several moments. I knew what he meant. “Yeah, I guess. Someday I’ll be like, ‘Thanks, Mom and Dad. You fuckers.’ ”
“Exactly!” Matt said, triumphantly.
“Thanks, Matt.”
“Anytime,” he said, standing up and walking toward the door. “Hey, will you stay here for a bit? I need to run and get something.”
“Okay.”
He returned a short while later with donut holes, orange juice, a tiny practice amp, and an electric guitar that I recognized as one of Brandon’s. I was lying on my bed so I turned on my side, propping my elbow under my head, and watched Matt move around the room. He put three rainbow-sprinkled donut holes on a plate and handed it to me, along with the mini bottle of orange juice. He didn’t say a word; he just gave me a small smile. It was early but already hot and stuffy in the room.
He kicked off his shoes and pulled his Smith’s T-shirt over his head then threw it at me. “You can wear it if you want.”
“Matt . . .”
“What, you like wearing my shirts.”
That was true. I stripped down to my bra and underwear and then pulled Matt’s T-shirt on. That Matt smell made me feel all warm and tingly.
“See? Better,” he said. I nodded.
He wore only his black jeans and the belt I had made for him, with his wallet chain swaying back and forth as he moved around the room.
Squatting near the amp, he plugged it into the wall and looked up at me. Tears were filling my eyes again. “You okay?”
I nodded. I wasn’t crying about the letter or the money or the photo; I was crying because the thought of Matt leaving, even just for a few months, killed me. He would be leaving in a week. He’d be a world away, and I would be left behind, crying over being too young to give it all up or to ask him to give it all up. Crying that I hadn’t met him later, when getting married would have made sense and neither one of us would have freaked out.
My face was throbbing and puffy with tears as I watched him sit on a wooden stool and position the green-and-white Telecaster on his thigh. He strummed it once and looked up for approval. It wasn’t loud; it was a perfect, clean sound. I had never seen him play an instrument or even attempt to, but something became very clear to me in that moment. Matt had been practicing . . . for me.
“Before I start, I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said, instantly.
“Can we please go back to the way things were?”
“But what about . . .”
“Grace, can we please enjoy the time we have with each other?”
“Yes.” I burst into tears.
His fingers plucked one note and I knew he was playing “Hallelujah.” I cried even more.
He sang the words softly and flawlessly. I marveled at him, so young and beautiful, sitting shirtless and barefoot, with undeterred focus. When he was finished, he strummed one last time and looked up at me. At that point I was a blubbering fool. His smile was a pitying, sad kind of smile, reserved only for when a person knows there’s nothing that can be said to make things right. He was leaving. And I couldn’t stop him.
In a shaky voice, I told him how beautiful his playing was and I asked how he learned the song. He told me that Brandon would sometimes hang out at the PhotoHut, so he had asked if Brandon would teach it to him. He’d practiced it over and over for me since the Jeff Buckley concert so I’d finally get to hear it live.
18. We Were in Love
Grace
The last weeks of the semester passed by, and with them came more pressure from Tati and Dan to join the orchestra. I always said no.