I shake my head and take a sip of my wine; it’s cool and tart in my mouth.
“Everything just feels a bit confusing right now, you know?”
“Your divorce?” he asks simply.
I’m so surprised by the straightforwardness that I laugh. But using the divorce as an excuse for being distracted is not something I have a problem with.
“I don’t know—in a way, I guess. The world just feels like a very odd place right now. A cold place. Do you feel that?” I ask, after a moment.
I instantly regret saying that. I sound mad. Am I mad?
My eyes flick up to his face, expecting to see a man sighing internally, but instead he is agreeing.
“God, yeah,” he agrees, tipping back his glass.
“Really?” I ask, still expecting him to pop his napkin back on the table and leave, with a work-emergency excuse, before the starters arrive.
“Totally, I’m there, too,” he continues. “Boy, am I feeling it. Everyone I know is married, with kids. I swear I hardly see anyone. Everything is on a screen, meetings, family calls, friends, and when it’s not on a screen it’s everyone on their best behavior, no one’s honest anymore. All too scared, I guess. We don’t reallyknowanybody anymore, do we? Not like uni, or your twenties; everything siloed at some point, and I didn’t get the memo. So, yeah, I get it. It’s frosty out there. And if you even try to break through the shell of surface interactions, then people get this look in their eyes, this fear, like ‘Why are you talking to me?’ Like we’ve all forgotten that ishowyou make friends.”
“This isexactlyit,” I respond, with sudden joy. “You try to be friendly, say hi, help someone, normal things that in the past would have been nice, and you’re suddenly suspicious.”
“Yes! Like being friendly is definitely a long con. Hang on—maybe it is?” he says facetiously.
“I don’t know. I suppose I just had this idea of the city, and it wasn’t that everyone was super friendly—but I thought people would be morecivicI guess.”
I catch the irony in my words, as no one I’ve met since arriving has been half as suspicious as I have.
Matt sobers. “Yeah. I heard about Greg’s little outburst today.”
“How?”
“Lucy Kiefler texted me,” he says between sips, as if this needs no further explanation, him being in constant contact with a notably attractive woman post–mental breakdown.
“Oh. Are you and Lucy good friend—”
He puts a hand on my hand, and I stop short, the intensity of his warm skin on mine sensorially overwhelming. “I water her plants when she’s away and she gives me any extra veg she grows.”
His eyes are locked with mine, a mildly amused crease in the corners.
“I don’t know what happened with your marriage, but my ex cheated on me,” he says. “I’m not that guy.”
The way he says it, its implication is so intense and honest that I’m aware my cheeks have flushed and my breath is quickening, a warmth growing inside me.
“Okay,” I manage, then clear my throat. “Sorry, so, Lucy texted you.” I don’t know why but this new level of intimacy makes me brave. “Can I ask you, do you think Greg could be capable of something?”
Matt’s eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?” he asks, then quickly masks his surprise at the question with a joke. “Like killing an estate agent with his own sign?”
“No, like, do you think he might have a secret?” I push.
Matt’s eyes flicker over my features, and I instantly regret asking this.
But when Matt finally speaks, his answer is slow and considered, not at all what I expect.
“I think everyone on our street has a secret, has made mistakes. Maybe on every street, but definitely on ours. I guess you’ve just got to hope they don’t make more or repeat the past.” His words hang in the air between us for a moment until a boyish smile breaks over his face. “Too much?”
The tension breaks with laughter, his hand on mine again, and in that moment, his electric touch seems to pull every fiber of my being toward him with a sudden and fierce need. Suddenly I see snapshots of Matt in my mind: him at the end of a rugby match, wet with sweat, hair in his eyes; in a suit, almost surprised by his award; now, in front of me, warm-skinned, the crisp collar of his shirt against his neck, the soft cashmere of his sweater brushing my arm, the tenor of his voice vibrating right through me.
I bite my lip as a waitress appears with two plates. Matt takes back his hand, and I gulp my wine.
