When Joss Met Matt (11 page)

Jessie laughed.

“See? I told you. Karma.” Except that I was talking around the cherry-flavored iceberg in my mouth, so it sounded more like “Suh? I toe yah. Kah-uh.” I worked the chunk around until I could swallow it and repeated, “Karma.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Straighten out your chi already and forget about Kevin.”

“Way to mix your Eastern philosophies there, Jess.”

She waved a hand. “Chi, karma, getting right with Jesus—whatever you want to call it, do it.”

I wanted to call it Sorbet.

Luckily, Matt was a free agent at the time, and conveniently staying in Madison for his job that summer. We called that one The Chi Straightening.

Dating is not a logic problem, but I was slowly compiling a list of constants.

The Duck Painter taught me the last lesson. His name was Seth, and he painted duck decoys for fun. I thought he was joking when he told me on our first date. I laughed.

It wasn't a joke.

And Seth, despite being attractive, smart, and willing to watch a chick flick with me, was a non-option as soon as I saw his apartment. Because it was full of duck decoys in various stages of his artistic attentions. One might have been okay. Five would have been pushing it. The fifty-six that he had lined up on every flat surface was too much for me.

I didn't answer when he called the next day. Or ever again.

Matt, meanwhile, was in the middle of a streak of girls I liked to call The Squad. Four blondes and a brunette. They were a peppy collection: one former gymnast, two former cheerleaders, a show choir girl, and the one who wanted to audition for
American Idol
. To be fair, they were nicer than a lot of Matt's previous girlfriends. A couple of them practically sweated good cheer. Good matches for the always amiable Matt, I supposed, although his laissez-faire brand of nice was a far cry from the pep squad.

They were all younger than us. The last, a blonde named Kelly, was the youngest at eighteen. Her lack of a fake ID was only tolerable because it was summer, and they could spend time at the Memorial Union Terrace. Although a lot of the student population left for the summer, enough people had crappy leases that didn't end until mid-August that I could always count on having a few friends around for the summer. And Matt was always one of them, so I ended up spending a lot of time with Kelly. Enough that one evening, while Matt was winding his way through the crowd with a pair of beers, Kelly turned to me and blurted out a confession.

“I'm a virgin. Do you think that's a problem?”

After gagging on my own saliva, I managed to squeak out, “What do you mean by ‘problem'?”

“Well, Matt's not.” She looked at me with palpable hope. “Is he?”

My lips quivered as I fought hard against the impulse to laugh. “Um, no. Not exactly.”

Across the wide outdoor terrace, Matt had stopped to talk to someone. There would be no rescue from this conversation.

“So, do you think that would bother him?”

There were two possible paths she meant to take. I bought myself a moment of thought by taking a sip of my drink and looking at Matt from a distance. He was only a year older than her but he might as well have been forty for the gap in their innocence.

“Are you waiting? For—marriage?” I asked.

“No.” Kelly shrugged. “Just the right guy.”

I went noncommittal. “Mmm.”

“Don't tell him, okay?” she said. “If I think he's the right guy, I don't want him to get all weird about it.”

“Sure,” I said, affirming her last sentence, and letting her believe I meant her question instead. Underhanded? Yes, but I wasn't going to honor a request like that.

I snagged Matt away from her as soon as I could. “You cannot sleep with this girl.”

“Why not?”

“She's a virgin.”

His eyes lit up beneath the brim of his hat. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. She doesn't want you to know. She thinks you might be The One.”

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction she'd gone to find a bathroom. “Really?”

“Matt!” I pinched his forearm. “You cannot do this.”

“Why not?”

My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? You are
not
The One.”

“I could be.” He smirked, and I knew he was just playing with me at that point. “Sooner or later it comes down to fate …”

“Don't you dare quote Billy Joel to me.” I popped him in the shoulder with the heel of my hand. “You are not The One.”

“Why?”

I cocked my head. “Are you planning to marry this girl?”

“No,” he said with no hesitation.

“Then don't ruin her first time by being the guy who dumped her.”

“It's not that big a deal,” he said. “Why do girls always make it such a big deal? You didn't seriously think you were going to marry Ben, did you?”

“Kind of.” Completely, but I wasn't going to admit that to him.

His eyebrows drew together over a half smile. “Oh, come on, you're cooler than that, Joss.”

“Just don't do it, okay? Don't ruin it—she's too sweet.”

“Sweet?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Like Bambi. Like a kicked puppy.”

He sucked air through his teeth and groaned. “Do you have any idea what you're asking me to give up?” This was Razzie-worthy martyrdom.

“If it's not supposed to be a big deal to her, why is it a big deal for you to pass on it?” I arched my eyebrows at him.

“Come on, who doesn't want to be someone's first? It's like being the first person to walk in new snow.”

“Don't be gross.”

He laughed. “That's rich, coming from you.”

“Matt, I am serious!”

“About me being gross?”

I caught sight of Kelly making her way back to us over his shoulder. “She's coming.”

“Ah, I don't know about this, Joss. How often do you have someone offer you their virginity on a silver platter?”

“God, do I even know you?”

“What if she begs?”

“That ugly-ass hat is infecting your brain. You've become disgusting! I should take it off your head and throw it in the lake.” I took a swipe at his head in a fake attempt to grab his hat, but he ducked away, laughing.

He clamped one hand over his hat. “I'm just messing with you—come on, you know me better than that. And leave my hat out of it.”

Kelly was about twenty feet away now.

“Tell me you're not going to deflower that poor girl, Matt, or I'll never forgive you.”

“Deflower?” he repeated as if the word had a sour taste.

I nodded, eyes fixed on Kelly.

He twisted to look at her—a petite, fresh-scrubbed, blond, country girl—then back to me with disappointed puppy eyes. “You know my conscience would have been sufficient. You're just beating a dead horse.”

I made another move for the hat, but he dodged me again. “Very big of you not to be scummy.”

“Don't push your luck, Alvin.” He'd taken to calling me Alvin after I'd made the mistake of comparing myself to a chipmunk.

“I'll tell her about us,” I threatened with arched brows.

“That's just low.”

“What is?” Kelly asked, arriving at the table.

“Nothing,” Matt said, accepting her kiss on his cheek. “I was just reminding Joss that she owes me a favor.”

“As soon as you finish your part, Matty.” I darted my eyes to Kelly for a second.

He glared at me. “I got it.”

Kelly looked confused, but after a moment she faked a yawn. “I'm getting tired! You wanna walk me home?” Her eyes glistened in the light of the nearby lamppost. She was excited and nervous. She'd made up her mind.

“Sure,” Matt said.

I kicked him under the table as he stood.

“Hope you don't mind, Joss. It was cool to hang out with you tonight.” Kelly smiled at me.

“No problem. Have a good night.”

She bounced on her toes as Matt paused to take a final swig from his cup. “I'll talk to you soon, Joss. You owe me.”

“You know I'm good for it.”

He grinned. “Always.”

He called the next day. We named that one The Payback.

Chapter Fifteen

Now

I shook my head free of the memories of that summer, and pursued him into the apartment. I was surprised to find the new addition of a grand piano in the living room.

“Whoa! When did you get the piano?” It hadn't been here the last time I was over.

“It was my dad's.”

“Oh.” That stopped me short. Matt's dad had died unexpectedly of a heart attack just six weeks earlier. I dropped my oversized bag onto the couch and went closer to inspect the instrument. It was clearly well cared for, although a few of the keys were chipped. A thought struck me, and I wandered toward the kitchen to avoid shouting. “How did you get it up here?”

Matt grinned at me. “Very carefully.”

“I'm serious.”

“We had to have professionals do it,” he said. “My mom wanted it out of the house. She's selling, did I tell you?”

“No. Where's she moving to?”

“Arizona.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Her sister is down there. My brother is in Nevada. Apparently, I'm not enough of a draw to stay here.” He smiled to show me he was joking.

“My mom moved to Arizona, and all I got was this lousy piano,” I said.

“Something like that.” He pulled a pot off the stove and dumped its contents into a waiting colander.

“Can I help you?”

“Nope.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Amuse yourself.” He waved me off, eyes focused on his task. It was a familiar gesture, but I'd been thinking so much about the first few years we'd known each other that it struck me how much older he looked now.

I went back to the living room. As always, I was drawn to the bulletin board that hung above his desk in the corner of the room. He'd had it in every apartment he'd lived in since sophomore year. Over the years, the pictures had piled up, to the point that some of the older ones were totally obscured, but he never took them down. It was a miracle that ordinary pushpins could still penetrate to the cork. I peered behind some of the looser photos, seeing a montage of my own life as it intertwined with Matt's. In one corner, barely visible, I found the unmistakable Caribbean blue of Meghan Lowry's eye.

Jesus … Meghan …

Three Years Earlier … First Year After Graduating From College

The first date I got after I became a reasonable facsimile of an adult—a college graduate, with a real job, and my own apartment—was thanks to my cat. I'd sort of forgotten what it was like to live with a cat, and I left the door open as I carried a few boxes from the spot where I'd left them by the elevator. When I went out for the last box, I saw Dewey's feather boa tail disappearing down the stairwell at the end of the hall.

For a moment, I did an unintentional slapstick comedy routine, going for the box, then the stairs, then my door, then the stairs, and back again all without accomplishing anything. Finally, I shoved the box through my front door, slammed it, and ran after the cat. He was only one flight down, pawing and yowling at the door of apartment 207. His objective was clearly the source of the intoxicating smell coming from within. I reached him just as the door opened. A guy with a warm smile and the ugliest pants I'd ever seen was on the other side.

I froze with the marmalade puffball that was Dewey dangling from my arms. “Sorry, my cat—”

“I heard—” he started.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Mmrrrowr!”
Dewey did a full body twist, slipped from my grasp, and headed straight for the stranger's kitchen.

“Dewey!” I rose on my toes, looking for him, but hesitant to follow.

“My chicken,” Ugly Pants murmured, rushing after the cat.

I bobbled on my toes in the doorway. “Do you want me to come get him?” I called in.

“Yeah, please. Come in.” His voice was a soft tenor, incongruous with his buzz cut hair and the tattoo I could see poking out of the sleeve of his T-shirt.

I left the door open and stepped into the full force of the cooking smells. “Oh my God, what is that?” His apartment was basic, but nicely furnished. A stark contrast to the world of student housing I'd just left, and the still-moving-in chaos of my own place. When I turned the corner to the kitchen Ugly Pants was holding a plate aloft like he was considering it for a hat. Meanwhile, Dewey was on the kitchen counter, standing on his back feet and pawing the air below the plate. “Dewey!” I snatched him off the counter. He tried another escape maneuver, but I clamped one elbow tightly to his ribs and wrapped my other hand around his back feet.

He protested with a pitiful mewl.

“Oh hush, you big boor.”

“You got him?” Ugly Pants asked, still levitating the chicken out of the cat's reach.

“Yes, I'm sorry. Really. He just got away from me.”

“It's okay. It happens a lot.”

“He's been down here before?” I asked, eyes wide.

“No, but whenever anybody loses a pet in the building, they almost always end up at my door.” He looked at me, smiling easily for the first time, now that his plate was safe. He was actually quite nice-looking, I realized. Light coloring and faded blue eyes. He was older than me, I could tell. Probably over thirty, if the bare imprints of lines around his eyes were any indication.

Dewey wrenched his body again, and almost got loose, but I shifted him to a cradle hold with all four feet trapped in one fist. I didn't want to get clawed.

“It's the smell of the chicken,” I said. “He's a food whore.”

Ugly Pants laughed. “I've never really heard it described that way before.”

I grimaced as I realized I'd probably gone a little crass for a first conversation. “Oh. I … What are you making? It smells incredible.”

“Chicken with shallots, prunes, and Armagnac.”

“Oh!” The hideousness of his pants clicked into place. “Are you a chef?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh wow. That's—” I stopped before I said “hot.” Because I'd already worked “whore” into our first conversation, I didn't need to embarrass myself any further.

Dewey made another bid for freedom, this time getting enough momentum to make me take a few steps before I got control again. “I guess I should get him away from here. Sorry, again.”

“It's all right.”

I was at the open door when he spoke again. “Where do you live? In case … Dewey?… comes back.”

I turned to look at him. “Three-oh-five.”

His lips shaped the words as he repeated my apartment number to himself. He smiled. “It was nice to meet you …”

For some reason, I gave him my full name. “Jocelyn. And you're …” I found myself caught in his gaze while warmth spread through me from my stomach outward.

“Martin.”

Dewey squirmed once more, pulling me back to reality. This was no time to make goo-goo eyes at the neighbor—even if he was a handsome, tattooed chef who seemed to be smiling at me in just the same way. “I'll see you around, I guess … Martin.” I made my exit, while the cat redoubled his efforts to stay by the source of the heady scent of chicken with shallots, prunes, and whatever it was he'd said.

A few minutes after I'd given Dewey a stern talking to and poured him some cat kibble, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it to find Martin.

“Hi,” he said.

A flock of butterflies took off from my stomach and filled my chest. “Hi.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked. “I always make too much.”

I smiled. “I'd like that.”

“My place?” he offered.

“If that chicken is still there—yes.”

Martin was eleven years older than me. I'd never dated someone younger than me, but the biggest age gap I'd ever dealt with before was two years. Eleven was a whole new ball game. When I was graduating from high school, he was getting ready to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. When he was going to prom, I still had training wheels on my bike.

We spent our first dinner finding all the most extreme examples of our age difference and laughing over it together, but it seemed to be a subject Martin never tired of. The second time he asked me down to his apartment for dinner, he started in again.

“First concert,” he challenged.

I smiled. “I don't want to tell you.”

“Oh, come on, everyone's first concert is a little embarrassing,” he said. “Mine was Iron Maiden.”

I laughed. “Then you really don't want to hear mine.”

“It wasn't *NSync, was it?” he asked, nose wrinkled.

Cheeks pink with wine and embarrassment, I confessed. “Britney Spears—but it wasn't my idea.”

He dropped his head onto his arms. “You're so young.”

I grinned at him. “Oh, come on, you're not exactly dying of old age here.”

He sighed and stood to clear the table. I gathered up what he couldn't carry and followed him to the kitchen. He loaded everything into the sink and ran the tap hot.

“I'll dry if you want,” I offered, sliding next to him. He was taller than me—everyone was—and built strong. If I hadn't seen the hideous pants, I would have guessed he worked in construction, or ran with a biker gang in his spare time.

“I'll do it all later,” he said, taking the dish towel from my hands.

We looked at each other for the length of three breaths. The corners of his eyes crinkled, then smoothed as he contemplated me.

“How old were you the first time you had sex?” I asked, because why not just get it all out there?

He licked his lips. “Eighteen.”

I popped one eyebrow at him. “I was—”

“Seven, I know.” He broke his gaze from mine and rubbed one of his earlobes between two fingers for a few seconds.

“Do you want to know how old I was?” I offered.

“Not in the slightest.” He caught me by the waist and crushed his lips to mine.

Martin had stories, furniture that he'd bought himself, and patience in bed that made me feel like a kindergartner.
He
never made me feel that way, but there was just no avoiding the contrast.

There were times he seemed to love the gap—he went on about my relaxed attitude and willingness to try almost anything. Luckily, as a chef, he didn't cook any blue food. He loved and contributed to my lingerie collection. He had great taste in underwear. Yet, other times, like when I didn't know a movie or song he referred to or when he found out that I'd been in grade school during September 11, he would just close his eyes and rub his temples in a my-head-is-going-to-explode way.

We both knew we were doomed as a couple from the start—we even talked about it on our first date. Still, two days before New Year's Eve, I was surprised when the age gap made another appearance. I wanted him to come to Madison with me, where I had invitations to three parties. He didn't want to go.

“Come on, it'll be fun!” I waggled my nearly invisible eyebrows and nodded.

“Sweetie, I know you're going to have a great time, but I'm too old for that crowd.” He was cleaning up after cooking me yet another to-die-for dinner. He was very particular about his pans, so I was sitting on a stool in the doorway to keep out of his way.

“No one will care.” I crossed my heart. “They're all really nice. You'll love it.”

“I'll care.” He crossed the small kitchen to wrap his arms around me and rest his chin on my head. “Just call me at midnight.”

“No, it's okay. We don't have to go.”

“Just go, Joss. These are your friends.”

“You're my friend, too.”

“I see you a lot more than they do.” He released me from the bear hug and smiled. “Please go.”

I frowned, but I really wanted to go. I missed my college friends horribly.

Martin could see my hesitation. “I thought you were all gung ho to meet Matt's new girlfriend.”

I was. “Well, yeah, but …”

“Go.” His soft smile took the sting out of the implication that he might not want to be with me on New Year's Eve. “Meet the girl. Drink champagne. Have fun.”

I tried a final enticement. “Geena's party is a James Bond theme.”

“You said.” He went back to his soapy sink.

I took a sip from my wineglass while my thoughts formed two distinct factions: those in favor of staying home with Martin and those who wanted to go back to my old stomping grounds and have a blast. The only thought on Martin's side with any real merit was a sense of guilt. Ironic, since he was all but forcing me to go.

“I really want to meet Meghan,” I said, knowing how much I sounded like I was making excuses. “Matt says I'm going to like her, but he has the worst taste in women.”

“Not the worst.” Martin tilted his head to one side and gave me the once-over. “Not by a long shot.” In a moment of wine-induced honesty, I'd told him about my strange arrangement with Matt. He found the whole thing amusing.

“Thank you.” I flushed. “I like to think I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him.” Nothing like a little false bravado to deflect a compliment.

“I'm pretty sure you are.” He stopped sudsing for a moment to kiss my forehead. “And I think we need to talk.”

We need to talk. Four words that are as informative as any of the words that follow them. I knew I had to stop him, save him the trouble. But, there's always that flicker of curiosity: What would his reason be? What would the real, unspoken reason be? In Martin's rare case, those would the same—the age gap. We were at completely different stages of our lives, blah, blah, blah,
et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam
.

“I know.” I curled my hands into his shirt and forced him to look at me. “You don't have to say it.”

He smiled sadly. “If it was even five years …”

I shook my head. “Please don't.”

“I'm sorry, sweetie.” He kissed me. “It was never going to work.”