Page 41 of The Golden Scoop

“When I was in my last year of high school, some shit went down with my aunt and cousin. My mom hasn’t spoken to her sister since then, and it sort of rewired my brain on the whole ‘truth above anything’ idea.”

“Not vague at all,” he teases.

I groan. I’ve not spoken about this in years, and I’m already regretting bringing this up.

“My cousin, in university at the time, started dating this older man. She brought him to our annual family lunch. He gave me strange vibes right away. Too charming, borderline inappropriate. But I kept my thoughts to myself,” I say, sticking to the facts. “Later in the day, when everyone was doing their own thing, he came up to me and… crossed a line. I told my cousin. She said I was looking for attention. That I was too much. My mom took my side; her mom took hers.”

“You’d think that would scare you away from speaking your mind,” Matt comments.

He’s not wrong, I guess. Anyone else would’ve taken that as a hint to never speak the truth again. Except he doesn’t know how the story ends, the part that actually stuck.

“Well, it didn’t.”

I shrug. Reliving that day was not on my to-do list. I know it hurts my mom to not talk to her sister, and I’ve reassured her many times she doesn’t have to worry about me, but she’s more stubborn than I am.

“What happened after?”

“Nothing good.”

“What about the epilogue?

A smirk crosses my face.

“I’ll tell you…” I say, “next time we’re up here.”

He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Not fair. There’s no way this is happening again.”

I shrug. Not my problem.

“Secrets are terrible for the soul. They’ll eat you alive until there’s nothing left,” he scolds.

“Matthew, you’re literally a living secret yourself.”

“Not with you.”

I turn on the bench and sit cross-legged facing him. He stretches his arm on the back of it, right behind me. I’m staring at him, a frown on my face.

“You’re telling me there’s not a single thing you’re keeping to yourself?” I ask, calling bullshit. “Try that again and look me in the eyes.”

He exhales, a too-content smirk on his face.

“Only one.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you…” he says, just like I did a second ago, “next time we’re up here.”

I badger him for the first half of the way down with absolutely no shame nor journalistic integrity. This is personal. He can’t tell me he’s got one big secret no one knows about and expect me to not lose my mind over finding out what it is.

He knows this about me. He did it on purpose.

And he won’t even give me a clue.

Which is why I find myself giving him the silent treatment as I stomp my way down.

“You have now survived going a full ten minutes without complaining,” he teases, as if that was his goal all along.