He looks up at the sky. “Then Emily married Rhys. It changed Beau. Hardened him. He got into the party scene. Sex. Drugs. The whole thing.”
“Until Paige. He doesn’t do that now.” I suppose he still has sex, if you count what we did in his study. Which Mateo probably does. I’m not going to mention that part, though.
“I wasn’t trying to protect him from you,” Mateo says, sounding grim. “I was trying to protect you from him. You seem nice. And innocent. You don’t know what kind of man he is, what kinds of secrets he has. You should walk away.”
Part of me wants to ask about the secrets.
That would prove his point, though.
“I hope I’m nice, but I’m not as innocent as you think. I’ve seen bad things in the world.”
Bad things happened when my mother died of an overdose when I was five. I found her on the floor in the kitchen and waited for hours for my dad to come home.
My dad had his heart attack at work.
He kissed me on the forehead one day before school and never came back.
Bad things happened in foster homes for years.
Some I got pulled out of. Some I didn’t.
Mateo studies me. He has these eyes that are light brown, almost as if I can see deep inside his soul. I don’t know whether it’s part of his beauty or whether he really carries some old wisdom. Either way it feels like he understands what I’m saying. And what I’m not saying.
“I believe you,” he says, his voice gentle. I can imagine him just like this on a cliff somewhere with a green screen behind him instead of a gorgeous hazy day. He would be playing the part of a concerned friend. Except this is real. Or is it? “He’s not the obvious kind of bad. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind you don’t see in the fog until it’s too late.”
“Is that right?” comes Mr. Rochester’s voice. It carries across the wind. I jump and turn. He’s standing a few yards back, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I was wondering what Mateo Garza and Jane Mendoza would have to chat about out here. Now I know.”
Mateo steps in front of me, as if protecting me from his anger. “Don’t blame her.”
“I don’t,” Mr. Rochester says, biting off the words. “It’s crystal clear what’s happening here. I turn my back for one second, and now you’re trying to get into her pants.”
“That’s not what happened,” I say, my voice soothing, unable to keep silent.
Dark eyes flash at me. “Now you’re on his side?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side! I just don’t want you walking around. Is that honestly too much to ask? Can you follow the doctor’s orders for like a full twenty-four hours?”
“You are fooling yourself if you think he doesn’t want a night with you.”
I gesture broadly. “This is Mateo Garza. Maybe you’ve been friends with him forever, so you missed the memo where he can have anyone. Why would he want me?”
“Don’t undersell yourself,” Mr. Rochester says, but it doesn’t sound flattering. “He’s had his fill of actresses and models. Now he wants the real deal.”
“I think it’s the pain meds,” I mutter to Mateo. “He refuses to take them.”
“He’s not entirely wrong.” Mateo has this perfect expression of handsome sheepishness. Did he perfect the look in order to get parts? Or did he get parts because he was born with that look? “I did think about asking you for coffee, but that doesn’t mean what I’m saying isn’t true.”
I rub both hands over my face. The chill is getting to me. “You,” I tell Mr. Rochester. “Should be inside, with your leg up, taking pain medicine. And you,” I tell Mateo. “Thank you for the visit, but honestly, I’m fine. You’re more than fine, but I would have to pass on coffee.”
Grass crunches under my feet as I stalk away. Am I crazy for just turning down a potential coffee date with Mateo Garza? I still can’t quite believe he was interested in me. No, it seemed like they had some kind of testosterone war going on.
Mr. Rochester got jealous about Oliver and Lucas, too. It’s kind of a thing with him. It makes me wonder if he got cheated on at some point.
Still fuming, and confused, I bang open the front door and take off my boots. I bypass the kitchen and head into one of the sitting rooms. The one where Mr. Rochester and I spent an evening together. Where I spread my legs and he licked me until I came.
I avoid the sofa but instead sit on the large armchair.
After a minute small feet pad behind me.
A mop of dirty blonde hair appears by my side. Along with an impish grin. She doesn’t say anything as she climbs onto the chair with me, using my arm, my shoulder, my legs, as her personal jungle gym. Some of my frustration fades. Children have that magic.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I make a funny face to distract her. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
“What did that man want from you?” The distraction failed.
“Oh, he came to the dinner party last night. Do you remember him? He just wanted to talk to me about something real quick. Grown-up things.”
That earns me a massive eye roll. Honestly, the attitude on this six-year-old. I don’t even know what’s going to happen when she becomes a teenager. Will she create more attitude? Or is that impossible? I shouldn’t find it so endearing. My heart sinks. I won’t know her then. “Grown-up things. Mommy was always talking about grown-up things. I couldn’t be in the room.”
Caution invades me, but I focus on looking casual. She doesn’t bring up her mother very often. And she brings up her father even less. I have to tread carefully. I googled some articles on how to deal with children with grief. It said to let them open up when they were ready. Don’t push but don’t shut down the conversation if they want to talk, either.
“What is so interesting about grown-up stuff?” she asks. “I saw Mommy’s diary one time and it was all about B says this and R says that. So much talking.”
I’m torn by emotion—amusement that she found her mother’s diary so boring, grief that she’ll never get to see her mother again. I wonder if I’m supposed to chastise her for reading something she clearly shouldn’t. “Maybe that’s what makes it grown-up stuff,” I say lightly. “Only grown-ups like it. And only kids like kid stuff.”
She considers this. “But you’re a grown-up, and you like my stuff. Don’t you?”
I didn’t like it when Beau Rochester called me young and naive. I didn’t particularly like it when Mateo Garza called me innocent, either. Maybe every nineteen-year-old woman wants to seem older. We can vote and have sex. We can enlist in the military. In so many ways we are grown, but in other ways we aren’t. “Maybe I’m in between,” I say, which is a big concession. I have all the responsibilities of being a grown-up, but I have the desire to play. “And I do love our games. Painting and taking walks in the woods. I think I’m even getting better at Monopoly.”
She giggles. “I can still beat you though.”
“That’s probably true,” I concede. “What should we do for the rest of the day?”