Page 36 of My Undead Heart

The week goes by in a blur of work, one more late night training session with Matt, and more work. By the time Saturday hits I’m tempted to blow off this Walking Dead-A-Thon party with Jared and Rae in exchange for a day of cheap takeout, sweats, and video games on my couch. Of course, there’s no way that’s actually possible. We’ve had our tickets for months and it’ll be fun once we get there. Nothing quite like being in the company of fellow TWD addicts to re-energize the soul.

When my friends show up at my apartment before eight in the morning, Rae with her deluxe makeup bags and Jared with two bottles of wine, I’m swept up in their positive energy. The day proves to be entertaining and laid back, exactly what I need. The bar and grill shuts down once a year in conjunction with the comic book store next door to create a movie theater experience solely for our group. The food is amazing and our drinks stay full. We laugh, we yell, we scream, and we cry at the re-runs played on the temporary screen covering one entire wall. And regardless of the fact Rae’s already seen every single episode, she still jumps out of her seat each time a walker pops onto the screen. We tease her relentlessly and take turns hiding and scaring her each time she returns from using the restroom.

At the end of the event, we hug and part ways, Jared off to a first date, Rae meeting her friends from work for drinks, and me to find my couch and favorite worn sweats. I should be calm and rested after the day I’ve had, but my mind won’t shut down. I’m amped up with an energy that comes from good people and good food, but without enough physical activity to make me tired. Instead of zoning out with a video game, I fill the hours until bed pacing around my apartment, putting away laundry, washing a few dishes, and cleaning the bathroom.

My phone interrupts my toilet bowl scrubbing with a chime from atop the kitchen counter. A text alert, most likely Jared updating me on his date with the paralegal who works on the top floor of our building. I prepare myself for the play by play. If it’s a good date, he’ll be over the top with excitement—hyphenating their names and sending selfies of them kissing and hugging. If it’s not, I’ll hear how bad his date’s breath smells or if he caught the cheater checking out the waiter’s ass, only to be followed by another text begging me to rescue him with a made up emergency.

Flushing the toilet and putting away the supplies, I’m proud of my clean bathroom. I wash my hands before grabbing my phone and plopping on the couch. Only it’s not Jared. The screen shows a message from none other than Matt Haywood.

Matt: You up?

My body buzzes at the sight of his name. Before I can answer or even unlock my screen, another text comes through and I almost drop the damn phone. I shake off my reaction because—what the hell?—it’s only a message and sure, he hasn’t sent one before, but we did exchange phone numbers. Upon closer inspection his second message warms my insides with that stupid kind of gooey feeling.

Matt: Just checking to make sure you got home safe and that you didn’t have to kick any ass tonight.

He remembered. When we were training Thursday night he asked about my goals and what I wanted to accomplish. I confided in him about the anxiety I’d been feeling about going to the event today. He didn’t make me feel stupid either. He was attentive and drew out my insecurities with a listening ear. Instead of trying to fix it, or change my mind, he reassured me I was already ten times more equipped to deal with another drunken asshole if that should happen again. And then we practiced escape holds for the next hour, just to be certain.

He’s nice. Something I would have never pegged him for after our first encounter, or even the second. Funny how it’s only been a week and already he’s become a different person. That, or my impression of him has evolved with each hour spent under his training.

Mia: I survived. No bloodshed or grabby hands. I call that a win!

Before I can set down the phone, a bubble appears on screen signaling he’s typing a reply. I wait a few minutes, watching as they come and go when finally, another text comes through.

Matt: Good. Def a win. Can I ask you something?

Can he ask me something?I stare at the screen because I’m not sure exactly what that means. In my experience, when a person asks for permission they’re about to drop some kind of bomb. Otherwise, they wouldn’t ask. They’d just say it. But I don’t know Matt, not really, so what would he want to ask me? Clicking on the screen to reply, the display flashes with my caller ID of an incoming call.Matt.I press to accept and bring the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mia. Sorry it’s late, I know, but since you’re up it’s just easier that I call.”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

The clatter of dishes, food orders being shouted, and the thump of a bass drum collide with our short pause in conversation. “I’ve only got a quick break here, but I’ve been thinking about the website and how it could help generate more money. I don’t know, but someone at Zig’s tonight mentioned something about affiliate links and advertising. Would that even be possible? How does that work? What do you think?”

I have no clue why, but I’m almost disappointed he called to discuss business—or maybe I’m surprised. Either way, it throws off my focus for a moment and I hope he doesn’t interpret my delayed response for anything like lack of interest or knowledge. “Oh, yeah. That’s a great idea. I can get more info if you want. I actually had some ideas of my own. Do you have time tomorrow? We can go over everything in person.”

“That’d be perfect, actually. But only if you have time.”

“How’s five o’clock? We can meet somewhere.” As much as I feel comfortable around Matt and trust him to be safe, I don’t really know him well enough to invite him inside my apartment. At least not yet.

“You like sushi?”

“Um, yeah. I do.”

“Cool. Let’s meet at Yuzu’s in West Town.” He pauses and the rumble from his amusement seeps with his next words. “Unless you want me to pick you up on my bike?”The bike.The death trap that literally abolishes the feminist inside me every time my legs straddle the seat. My reaction is frickin’ stereotypical but I cannot deny the spark of sexuality that scrap of metal ignites. The vibration between my legs thrums through my body so I’m fully turned on, but not directly enough at my apex to get me off, and thank God because how embarrassing would that be! Twice now he’s given me a ride home after training so I wouldn’t have to ride the bus, and both times were foreplay before masturbating in the privacy of my own apartment.

“No. I’m good. I’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks, Mia. I really appreciate it. It means more than—” A muffled shout interrupts his words and when he comes back on the line, he’s curt. “Gotta go. Duty calls. See you tomorrow.”

“See you then,” I say, but when I pull the phone away from my ear the screen is back to our text thread. He already hung up. Probably breaking up another fight. I wonder what he was about to say. Oh well, I’m sure he’ll tell me tomorrow. Glancing at the time, I now know exactly what to do to fill my overactive brain for the remainder of the night. I gather my laptop, a pop from the fridge, and settle on a binge of streaming Buffy episodes while I pour my creativity into making the best damn website I can. Something to really knock his socks off. Not that I want to knock any clothing articles off of Matt. Nope. That wouldn’t be professional. Besides, if I had to pick one, it definitely wouldn’t be the socks.Shit.Focus, Mia. Back to work.

The only reason I want to impress Matt is because I’m thankful for what he’s teaching me. I want to give back and prove I’m good at what I do for a living. Just like he is. Yeah, that’s it. As I design and snack and work well into the early morning hours, I almost believe it’s the truth.

Taking a bus and then walking the rest of the way, I spot the restaurant as soon as I turn the corner onto Chicago Avenue. It’s a popular place, not only for the quality of the food, but also for the prices. Every other time I’ve been to Yuzu’s there’s at least an hour wait for a table, but when I open the large glass door Matt’s already sitting at a table in the back corner.

He lifts his gaze from the menu and waves with a smile.

I wave back and skirt the hostess stand on my way over. “Hey, Matt.”

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