Lucie & Matteo | WRU series | Book 2
I have loved and I have lost
Pain touched my skin like a shadow
Wrapped itself around my chest
And slowly nestled itself inside my heart
It's the shadow that knows best
Because I have loved and I have lost
You b...
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I catch a glimpse of the twitching of the corner of Matteo's mouth before it's molded back into his natural indifferent expression.
"You can blame my nanna for Nala's presence. She gives me bad ideas."
I doubt his grandmother is the true perpetrator. He seems perfectly capable of making bad decisions on his own. The true question, however, isn't who is to blame for this bad idea—obviously him and him alone—but rather the why behind his sneaking-dogs-into-a-nursing-home behavior.
Perhaps my guess about what type of lover he is isn't far from the truth because here he is, breaking rules for his nanna. He doesn't gain anything from bringing Nala along. The only one who benefits from him breaking the rules is Dannie, who'll no doubt be ecstatic to see Nala.
"I assume Dannie is your nanna?" Daniela Rodriguez, also known as Dannie, is one of the newer residents in the nursing home I volunteer at. She arrived a couple of weeks ago after suffering a stroke that weakened the left side of her body, leaving her unable to responsibly live alone. According to the head nurse, Dannie has, apart from her grandson—apparently Matteo—, no family left except for the ones living in Spain.
"You've assumed right. Do you know where she is?" He saunters to the other side of the room and Nala wriggles in my arms to follow him. I immediately put her on the ground, and brush her light brown strands of hair off my uniform. Matteo drops down on the fauteuil standing in the corner and rests his feet on the ottoman.
"She's with the physiotherapist but she'll probably be back any minute." I'm counting on it. Even better, I'm hoping she'll be here any second. Not because I want this interaction to end, but rather because I'm kind of curious about how he is around family. Especially a family member like Dannie, someone who'll unapologetically share the most unfiltered version of every embarrassing story you ever lived through with strangers.
"Why are you smiling like that." His deep frown is accompanied by a hint of suspicion.
"Nothing."
"What did she tell you?"
"Nothing," I say again, shaking my head, and trying my best to hide the fact that I can now put a face to the various stories Dannie has been telling me about her beloved grandson.
"Spill it." He spits the words, leaving no room for arguing.
"She might have shown me a couple of pictures." I shrug it off, downplaying the fact I've seen his baby butt in full glory.
His jaws clench as he rubs his forehead, clearly distressed.
"She really has to stop doing that," he mutters.
"If I may," I start, trying to soften the blow of embarrassment, "you were a cute toddler. Especially with all the mud on your face. You were adorable."
In the first week of arriving, Dannie showed me one of her many photo albums. With joy in her eyes, she told me the stories she captured with her camera. One of those stories revolved around a four-year-old boy with jet-black hair playing in a mud puddle and begging his grandmother to join him in taking a mud bath.
