Page 32 of Deep In Love
Mateo laughs, shifting on the bed and destroying the fortress I worked hard to build. The space between us shrinks, and the air crackles with an energy I can’t identify. It sets me on edge.
“Why were you crying?”
Instead of trying to explain that watching the dog morph from distrustful to a happy-go-lucky canine pulled at my heartstrings, I pull out my earbuds and hold my phone up for him to watch.
The small dog sits in a kennel, cowering as someone offers him a treat. A melancholy tune plays in the background, before the song and video switches to the dog running through a park, its tongue out as it chases a ball.
Its tail wags aggressively, and like the first time, I completely lose it, tears trailing down my cheeks. There’s only so much one girl can handle, and I draw the line at receiving comments on my manuscript and videos about dogs. If either happens, I’m a mess.
The video ends, and sniffling fills the room, only it’s not my own.
“Areyoucrying?”
“Yes. That was very sad.” He scoots closer, the light from my phone illuminating his features. “Do you have more of these videos?”
His head leans closer on the pillow, and if I shifted my position, our mouths would be inches apart. My attention falls to his lipsand the soft, supple shape of them. The perfect slope of the upper one and the thickness of the bottom.
Objectively speaking, his features are very kissable.
His brow furrows, so I explain, “It’s TikTok.”Neptune, why is my voice like gravel?“Amy sent me these videos.”
“I don’t have one of those.”
Of course he doesn’t. Mateo is an old man at heart. He wears an analog watch and prefers paper and pen to record his lab work instead of the electronic software other PhD students use.
I watched from my desk as he cursed the “cloud” for deleting his downloaded papers and witnessed him googling “how to post a story on Instagram.”
He is anoldtwenty-six.
We watch the videos Amy sent in silence, and after about ten, my favorite true-crime page pops up, and the woman jumps into explaining a murder, leaving no gory stone left unturned.
She’s midway through a detailed breakdown of a beheading when a large finger flies in front of the screen, swiping the video away.
“Nunca más,” Mateo declares, his shoulders twisting as a shiver slithers down his spine. “I’ll never sleep.”
“Not a fan of true crime?”
I laugh at the horrified look on his face but switch it to my For You page, and we lie, side by side, watching videos.
Periodically, he laughs or huffs, and right now, in the comfortable darkness of the small cabin, there’s something different between us. Here, I’m just Charlie and he’s just Mateo—two overworked, underpaid, chronically tired PhD students.
Mateo readjusts, and I steal the opportunity to catalog his features. Stray pieces of thick brown hair fall in front of his viridescent irises before he drags his fingers through the strands, pushing them away.
I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at him for no reason other than to admire him, but right now, beneath the glow of my phone, I find myself wanting to map every freckle on his face.
I don’t know what to do with the urge, so instead, I flick to another video and pour my focus into the ten-minute date recap.
Mateo and I are seven minutes in when Amy’s name pops onto the top of my screen, followed by:
Amy: How’s it going on the ship? See anything cool yet?
I release a shuddered breath. She could have said anything, and she isn’t known for her filter. I let my guard down, but then she messages again.
Amy: Perhaps discovered what hides inside Mateo’s pants?
I choke, the air in my lungs seizing as her words register. Mateo makes an odd sound, and I stare up at the ceiling.
Telling Amy we have to share a room was a colossal mistake. The world pauses on its axis and the tides cease their push and pull when another message appears, this one far worse than the last.
