Page 190 of Matteo

Everything feels different when I walk into the tech lab the next morning.

It’s still the same place, the same people, the same routine, but something subtle has changed. For me, at least.

People clatter away on their keyboards. Sonny swears under his breath. Joel argues with his screen. They glance at me before quickly looking away. They know something has shifted, but they don’t know what, and they know better than to ask.

My gaze drifts to Alex’s empty desk, and something inside me pains. I’ve been thinking about him and what he did all night. I understand it. It’s not so different from what Vlad and I used to do. We used to fight and try to take down the establishment and the corporations. What Alex did here was his way—as twisted as it was—to express his pain, anger and frustration.

I can relate to that, and I can relate to him.

I slowly sit down and stare at my screen, not even bothering to turn it on, not sure that I even want to be here anymore. At least there will be no irregularities now. No ghost activity lurking. No invisible hand trying to twist things and point the finger of blame at me. I should feel relieved about that but I don’t, because the thing that has been niggling away at me ever since I left last night is Matteo’s reaction.

That, tied in with everything else that has gone wrong between us, makes me wish I wasn't here. I didn’t expect music, lightness and joy when I gave him the proof he so desperately craved, but I expected him to be relieved that it wasn’t me.

He wasn't.

He looked shellshocked, as if hearing that Alex was behind this was bigger than the relief that it wasn’t me.

“You could have come in later.”

Matteo's voice cuts through the noise in my head. I don’t look up straight away, because I don’t trust what will show on my face if I do. I fist my hands when he stands by my side.

“I didn’t need to,” I reply, after a lengthy pause. My tone is cold and unforgiving. He texted me early this morning and suggested I come in an hour later, given the mental exhaustion from yesterday but I don't need any favors or niceties from him.

I take out a half-eaten bag of nuts and a small bar of dark chocolate from my bag and set it on the desk, then pull out a red apple but it slips from my hand, falling onto the floor.

Clumsy.

Or nervous.

I bend down wearily to grab it.

“You okay?” He seems overly concerned, but I’m not buying it. And if he feels guilt? Good.

“Yes.” I sit back up, putting my apple on the desk, before turning my monitor on, acting calm, pretending to be okay, when it's obvious that I'm neither of those things. The hurt and the disappointment still fester inside, simmering beneath the surface. For his doubts and opinion of me. For how little he knew me. For how little I knew him.

I don't know how to be around him anymore.

I still haven't forced myself to look at him, and I wish he’d go away because I so badly need my space.

“Could I have a moment, in private?” he asks.

“What for?” I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want a moment with him in private. I have nothing to say to him.

“Please. It’s important.”

“Did you find something else to pin on me?” I stare at him, hating myself for sounding so petulant just now. That's the problem. I don't know how to be around him, and I'll end up saying or doing something foolish.

“Please, Elizabeth.”

Obviously, I have no choice, so I follow him into his office, but I don’t sit down. I’ve done enough sitting in that chair while he decides whether to believe me or not. He closes the door behind me, then walks to his side of the desk. A long, sulky silence stretches between us. I glance at him again. He looks bad. He’s shaved and looks his usual gorgeous self on the outside, but I see the sadness in his eyes, on his face. Misery is written all over it.

“You were right,” he says, sitting down. “About Alex.”

“I was.”

He winces. “Won’t you sit down?”

“I’d rather not. Can we make this quick? I’ve got lots to do.”