Young Lies (Young Series Book 1) (11 page)

The minute we enter the house, Tom and Tyler head out into the backyard to play. I stand at the door and watch, blinking several times as I set eyes on a large, probably obscenely expensive jungle gym that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there this morning. I roll my eyes fondly at Matthew’s extravagance, knowing he bought this specifically for Tyler’s use, though I wonder whether it was purchased before or after my offer to let Tyler fly out to spend time with his father. Watching Tom push Tyler on the swing, I think a thought I’ve had a hundred times over the years: Tom really is a great dad. The fact that he so easily accepted a little boy into his life that he hadn’t even known existed, regardless of his feelings towards that little boy’s father still amazes me. He could have turned us away after how I hurt him. Instead we were instantly his family. I know he wants children of his own, and for the first time in five years, I actually consider giving my son a couple siblings.

Turning away from the door and trying to push away my thoughts, I head down to the basement with the intention of finding a book to occupy my mind for an hour to two. That intention changes, however, when I hear the muffled but unmistakable sound of Guns N Roses coming from behind a door I know to be the home gym. Matthew’s home. I’m not sure why this surprises me; he tends to make his own work hours. Perhaps I just believed that with this threat he’d be pulling at least twelve-hour days until it was all over.

Forgetting all about my desire to read, I consider whether I should flee or confront him about what happened between us last night. I spend several minutes alternately chiding myself for being a chicken shit too afraid to face my ex-husband and for considering interrupting his time alone. It had been his request that we put distance between us and I decided this morning, and last night, to honor that. This situation has to have started to take its toll on him—seeing his son, his ex-wife, and his ex-wife’s boyfriend playing happy family together, though I’m sure he’s seen through my façade, can’t be easy. Not to mention this threat against us and whatever project he’s been working on that has drawn such negative attention. He deserves time alone to get his thoughts in order and it’s not fair for me to interrupt that time.

Just as I’m coming to the decision to go outside with Tom and Tyler, the music abruptly cuts off and the door is being pulled open, leaving me with a view of a shirtless, sweaty Matthew Young who seems just as stunned to see me as I am to see him.

My eyes widen and I can’t stop them roaming his body, taking in every inch of his body that I can see in very great detail. He’s always been fit; whenever he’s feeling particularly stressed out, he spends time working out. And from what I’m seeing, he’s been
incredibly
stressed out recently... There’s a towel over one shoulder and he’s wearing a pair of thin, black track pants that hang off his hips in a way that has me inwardly groaning. At least, I hope it’s inwardly...

His eyes are wide and he’s still breathing heavily from his workout. “Sam,” he says, panting. “What’re you doing here?”

Blinking rapidly, I try to formulate a response. I hate that I can’t think of anything when he’s not wearing a shirt. I really, really do. Though, admittedly, I’m not doing anything to divert my attention from his chest and abs.

“I thought you were in town,” he says helpfully. I think I can hear a little smirk in his voice, I’ve managed to focus my gaze over his shoulder so that I’m not looking directly at him. “Did you enjoy seeing Bonnie?”

This snaps me out of my Matthew-induced daze. “How do you know I saw Bonnie?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Small town, Sammy,” he reminds me. “People talk. People call me. People tell me you’re wandering around and ask what you’re doing back and how long you’re staying.”

“Oh,” I say dumbly. “And what did you say?”

“Nothing,” he tells me. “There wasn’t really anything
to
say.”

The bitterness in his tone snaps me out of my dumbness. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t our intention to make everyone in town bother you. We just wanted to get out of the house for a while.”

“Don’t apologize,” he tells me. “I’m glad you got out. Gladder that you saw Bonnie—every time I run into her, she asks about you and Ty. Did she invite you to the shop for pie?”

I smile. “Yes,” I confirm. “Am I to take it I’m not as special as I believed and that she’s extended this invitation to you as well?”

“Every other day,” he tells me with a smile that I can’t stop myself from returning. “Unfortunately I haven’t had much time to take her up on the offer.”

“I saw the jungle gym.”

Matthew’s eyes light up and his smile widens. “Yeah? Did Ty?”

“He did,” I confirm. “And you can be the one who tears him away from it when it’s time for dinner.”

Chuckling, Matthew leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “Gladly,” he tells me. I watch as his amusement fades away, leaving the now trademark sadness in his eyes. “Sam, I’m sorry about last night in my office. I got caught up in a moment and as much as I wanted to continue, I didn’t think it was fair to anyone—you, me, Tom... I want to make this as easy as possible for everyone, but whenever you’re around, all I want is you.” My eyes widen and my body flushes at his words. “Having spent all of last night and after breakfast thinking about what I should do next, I want to suggest a truce, starting tonight over dinner. One between you and me, and one between me and Tom. I don’t want everyone to be miserable for however much longer this lasts. If you and Tom are going to go the distance, I think it’s only fair that I get to know the man that might, at some point, become my son’s stepfather. Don’t you?”

Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. For the first time in memory, Matthew has used Tom’s first name rather than his last and has proposed a truce between them. Not to mention the acknowledgment that there might someday be more between Tom and me. “What’s the catch?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow, a slightly hurt expression crossing his face. “Why does there have to be a catch?” he says quietly. “Can’t I just innocently offer dinner so we can all become better acquainted?”

Duly chastised, I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” I tell him. “So where will you be taking us for dinner?”

“Nowhere,” he says simply. “Well, my kitchen and dining room.”

“Takeout?”

“Home cooked.”

Now I really am shocked. “And who will be cooking?”

He only grins at me.

“You can’t cook,” I tell him with a laugh. Immediately I recall the one time he attempted to cook dinner for me when we were together. It resulted in us sitting in the yard with a pizza box between us in the dark while we let the house air out from the near fire he caused.

“Says you,” he responds, grinning more. “It’s been five years, Sammy. There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I’m starting to see that.”

“Besides,” he says, removing the towel from his shoulder, “if I screw it up, I’ll have you to bail me out, won’t I?”

I can’t respond. Not because of the implication of his words, but because with the towel gone, I’m looking directly at his mutilated shoulder, the souvenir from the attack those years back. The years haven’t improved the look of it; if anything it’s made it worse. While the rest of him is evenly tanned, his shoulder has jagged white lines that, even though I know better, lo
ok like they would be incredibly painful if they were to be touched. I can’t help the tears that fill my eyes at the sight of his horrible scar or the memories that come flying back at me.

“Shit,” Matthew mutters, glancing at where my eyes are locked. “I’m so sorry, Sam.” He turns away his shoulder and reaches behind the door for his t-shirt, hastily pulling it over his torso. “I tend to forget it’s there these days. I didn’t even think...”

“It’s fine,” I say, choking out the words as I meet his eyes and force myself to smile. “I forgot about it too. Didn’t mean to stare.”

I turn away from him, but unfortunately don’t miss the look of torture on his face, knowing it’s because I’m reacting to his scar.

“So... Dinner?” he asks tentatively.

I nod. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “If I can talk Tom into it, of course.”

“I’ll talk to Tom,” he tells me. “It’ll be fine.”

Unable to think of anything else to say or do, I agree and turn away to head upstairs, ignoring his calls for me to come back. If I’m to act normal around him, I need distance. And now I understand what he meant last night. There is so much history between the two of us—good and bad—and it’s impossible to forget any of it completely. Still I know there’s no way to avoid him, especially in his own home.

The problem right now is that I can’t get the vision of that fucking scar out of my head. He had been so perfect and unmarked before the attack, and now he’s lost that.
‘I tend to forget it’s there these days.’
Well, he’s had five years to get used to it. When I left, it was still healing, it was fresh, and while ugly, I had believed it would look better with time. That is clearly not the case. I hate to think of what he went through after I left, with everyone knowing how badly he’d been hurt, then thinking, rightly so, that I abandoned him when he most needed me.

I make it to the bedroom before the tears begin to fall and collapse to the bed.

-------------o-------------

Sometime later, I feel someone gently rubbing circles on my back and for a moment I smile at Matthew’s touch. It’s comforting, soothing, arousing. A hundred other things all rolled up into one little movement.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” whispers a voice near my ear.

My eyes shoot open as I realize it’s not Matthew’s hand I’m feeling, but Tom’s. Trying to push away the guilt, I force a smile on my face and turn my head to face him. “Hi,” I say quietly.

“Hi,” he smiles back. “Sleep well?”

I shrug dismissively, fighting to block out the dreams I had during my nap. “Where’s Tyler?”

“Downstairs with Young. Apparently he’s cooking us dinner.” The look on Tom’s face suggests he doubts Matthew’s cooking skills as much as I, even though he’s never actually attempted to
eat
Matthew’s cooking. “We talked earlier, Young and I. He apologized for a few things, called a truce between us, and now he’s making dinner.”

I want to ask what Matthew apologize
d for, but I’m not sure I want to know. “Well, this should be interesting,” I mutter. I roll out of bed and freshen up before I join the boys downstairs. Much to my surprise, whatever Matthew is cooking smells absolutely delicious and not the least bit burnt. Matthew is the first one to realize I’ve arrived and looks at me in concern—he knows I’ve been crying, knows the signs Tom doesn’t.

You okay?
he mouths.

I nod jerkily, forcing a tight-lipped smile, then realize how incredibly tired I’m getting of forcing smiles. While we wait for dinner to be completed, Tyler shows me a videogame Matthew hooked up to the television for him, the purpose of which seems nothing more complicated than driving cartoon cars around a track repeatedly. He’s loving it, though, especially when he beats Tom in a race.

Matthew calls for us to join him in the informal dining room, which is the kitchen, but apparently it sounds fancier the other way. I’m impressed when I enter, not seeing a single takeout container during my furtive glance at the trashcan. Matthew narrows his eyes at me and I smirk as I sit down. He’s made us chicken parmesan and it is without a doubt the best I’ve ever tasted. For the second time in a day, I’m having a foodgasm. Conversation around the table is light and happy, and I start to wonder if we can somehow make this mixed family thing work out. Whatever Matthew and Tom discussed while I was napping seemed to be the key in them burying the hatchet, and I’m suddenly very curious as to what that might have been.

As we’re finishing, Tom leans back in his chair after third helpings of chicken to Matthew’s fourth. It seemed to be a contest between them who could eat the most. Even Tyler participated, though after one and a half pieces declared he was done and ran off to continue playing his videogame.

“That was excellent, Young,” Tom says sincerely.

I nod my agreement. “It really was, Matt. Where on earth did you learn to cook?”

A very brief expression of panic flashes across Matthew’s face, but is gone just as quickly as he stands to start clearing the table. “A couple years ago, Leo and I got sick of takeout, frozen pizzas, and TV dinners, so I learned to cook to keep us from starving to death. It was slow going, but I eventually got the hang of it.”

There’s something strange in his tone, but I ignore it and offer to help him with the dishes. Tom wants to help, much to my surprise; we send him to keep Tyler occupied, since it looks as though if he moves too much he’s going to lose everything he’s eaten today. We work silently together, falling into old habits almost too easily: Matthew rinses the dishes, I put them into the dishwasher. I take the opportunity of privacy to broach a subject.

“What did you and Tom talk about?”

Matthew’s eyes dart over to me and away quickly. He shrugs. “Guy stuff,” he mutters evasively.

“Cut the shit, Young,” I snap, keeping my volume low enough only he can hear me. He looks at me in surprise. “What did you say to him? Two hours ago, you hated everything about one another. Now you’re BFFs. I want answers.”