Page 14 of Deep In Love
Mateoalwaysarrives before I do, greeting me every morning with a cocky smile and a “Hi, bruja.” It’s become routine, which I thrive on, and now that I’m aware it’s been broken, it’s not settling well.
Ignoring my many tasks, I search for him so we can perform our song and dance, and I can move on with my life and stop thinking about where he could be or why he hasn’t shown up this morning.
He’s not in the lab, though I scare a poor undergrad. I search the common areas on the first floor, but there’s no sign of his perfect, wavy hair. Midway through typing a panicked text message, I pause when his distinct humming filters from the kitchenette down the hall from our office.
I round the corner with the speed of a racecar at the Indy 500, and there he is, leaning against the counter, his strong fingers wrapped around his diatom coffee mug as he lifts it to his lips.
“Hi, bruja,” Mateo says, and relief washes over me like a cool ocean wave, the odd riot in my stomach settling.
He’s exactly how he always is. Loose linen button-down, rolled up to display the strong, sinewy flesh of his forearms. Perfectly pressed chinos, tight on his thighs. Rainforest-green eyes that glitter beneath the fluorescent light, and wavy, deep-brown hair, not a strand out of place.
I stand like an idiot in the small kitchen’s entryway, staring at him. Why am I relieved to see him? That’s not right. The unsettled feeling returns, but for a different reason.
“You’re not at your desk.”
Mateo’s brow arches high on his forehead.
“Astute observation.” He takes a languid sip of coffee. “Why have you been stomping around the building?”
I bite my lip so forcefully the metallic tang of blood hits my tongue. How could he have possibly known I was running around the building? I didn’t see him anywhere, so how the hell did he see me?
“I don’t stomp,” I deflect. Let’s hope this turns into an argument and he forgets about why I was stomping in the first place.
I’m not explaining to Mateo that I was looking for him because a small, irrational voice in my mind was worried that he was hurt or sick, and the thought unsettled me, so I had to search for him. I’m not unpacking that. Not with him, and especially not with myself. We’ll consider it a reaction to my own trauma.
“You do.”
That smug grin appears, and annoyance—a more familiar emotion—washes away my concern.
He assesses me as I linger in the doorway with no logical explanation for being in the kitchenette, so I feign nonchalance and stroll over to the fridge.
A thief has been stealing people’s lunches, and if they took my—
“How are you feeling about your meeting with Cheryl?” Mateo asks, his voice holding an edge of excitement.
I slam the door shut. “What do you know?”
His lip quirks upward on the right side, which is his tell that he knows something. Anxiety churns in my gut.
Normally, I would write off Mateo’s bizarre behavior and go about my business, but one thought has haunted me since her email Monday: I’ve disappointed her by not doing enough, or worse, doing everything poorly.
Did I fuck up and everyone knows but me? Did Cheryl mention my inadequacy to Dan, and now Mateo knows, too?
“Nothing.” He says it with neutrality, but his lip twitches again. “Dan mentioned your meeting with her this morning, that’s all.”
I’m ready to hurl something at his perfectly symmetrical face. I’ve hit my threshold of overstimulation, and this might be the tipping point.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
The response is petulant, and so is my stomping as I exit the kitchenette, but I’m overwhelmed by the wave of self-doubt, the uncertainty of my meeting with Cheryl, and my unwanted concern for Mateo’s well-being.
I’m halfway to my office when thick fingers curl around my bicep, halting my getaway.
“Charlie, are you all right?”
I stare down at his brown leather boots, weathered and wrinkled from continual wear.
What a loaded question.
