The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Twenty-Three

The flight back home was horrid. I knew he was pissed. Every time I managed to get anywhere near him he found a way to move. Locked away in his room at the hotel; riding separate from us and arriving late to the airport; taking call after call from the gate. After nearly 24 hours of anxiety, my stomach was in knots. My lack of sleep made my urge to cry harder and harder to ignore.

If we could talk, I could tell him that I knew Sebastian's words hurt him and that they hurt me too. I planned to confront him at some point, but I wasn't completely sure when or how to do so.

When we finally made it to JFK, there was only room for Augustine and the little ones in the Rolls, so Matthew volunteered to ride with me in the black car. It was late, the sun bleeding its last bit of color onto the clouds behind the city's skyline. The street lights were on. The mass of people on the sidewalks looking more casual than the workday's business attire.

That was the time I enjoyed most in the city—the way it came alive at night. The time I got to stop being who everyone wanted me to be and start being who I was. That freedom, the anonymity and lack of responsibility . . . I hadn't felt that in a while. Since I started working with this family, I hadn't wanted to be anywhere but with them. And, on occasion, with him. 

They, as odd as it sounded, were my freedom, my liberation from a lifetime of displacement. Only when I feared I would lose them did I realize how much I wanted to stay. 

Matthew pulled me from my thoughts when he nudged my arm with his. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You look upset." I thought I had was doing well at hiding my apprehension from him, but when I appraised my current position—slumped down with the feet against the back of the seat in front of me, my arms wrapped tight around me like a hug—I realized my body language was saying exactly how I felt. "Are you gonna talk to my dad when we get back?"

"That was the plan."

"He was mad after what Sebastian did. Like, real mad."

"I figured." I watched him as he avoided looking me in the eyes. "How did you feel about it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't want to tell me?" I waited for him to answer but he didn't. "Did it hurt your feelings to hear him call me that?"

His mouth twisted and he looked away. "Yeah. Kind of."

"I think that's what your dad is feeling, too. Hurt. He just doesn't know that it's okay to express his emotions in any way other than anger."

Matthew snorted. "That's a nice way of saying he's a dick."

I knew I should scold him but I didn't have the energy. "It was a nice way to say he's a toxically masculine dick." He laughed and I smiled with pride.

I went back to staring out the window at a life I no longer had until Matthew's head leaned onto my shoulder. When I looked over, I found him asleep.

. . .

When we walked off the elevator into the loft, it was dark and quiet. I turned to tell Matthew we should go to sleep when a light caught my eye. Augustine's face was illuminated by his phone's screen as he leaned his hip against the bar. Matthew and I exchanged a look. He left me for the safety of his bedroom, giving us space.

As I approached the widower, he leaned up as if expecting the conversation. "Augustine, could we—" I stopped short when I saw he was standing next to a pile of my things. My skin went cold. "What is this?"