Page 236 of Coach
The moment I’d stopped talking, silence fell. It wasn’t an awkward silence—not exactly—but it was thicker than syrup on flapjacks. Heavy, like the air had gone dense with everything I’d just said.
What the hell did I just do?I asked myself.
I could still hear myself talking about Minnesota and my mom and how she unraveled under the weight of a life she never got to choose. How I’d left because I couldn’t bear to watch her disappear.
God.
I hadn’t planned to say any of it.
Mateo had asked a simple question, and I’d given him a field guide to every emotional pothole I’d spent a lifetime paving over.
I glanced at him.
He was still staring at the TV, still quiet. I was fairly certain he was staring at me in his peripheral vision but wasn’t sure whether or not he should turn and look at me.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse, which would’ve offered more scrutiny. My own mental musings were harsh enough for both of us.
Was he rethinking everything?
Trying to map the nearest escape route?
Calculating whether forehead-kissing a man with abandonment issues counted as emotional liability?
Did any of this even count as abandonment? I was the one who’d done the abandoning, after all. Maybe this was worse.
I ran a hand through my hair, my elbow braced on the arm of the couch.
He hadn’t let go, still squeezed my hand occasionally, still lent me his warmth.
“I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you,” I muttered. “Sorry.”
He didn’t look at me right away, just gave a small shake of his head and said, “Don’t apologize.”
But nothing could stop the churn in my gut, the part of me that assumed opening up meant pushing people away. That little voice nagged and screamed and accused. That little voice was an echo of the past, and I hoped—with everything in me—it wasn’t a foreshadowing of things to come.
I turned and watched Mateo. His eyes remained fixed on the TV, leaving me to ponder his olive skin, the curve of his chin, the curl of his midnight hair. He was stunning, more beautiful than any man had a right to be. He was kind and generous—and he listened. Hereallylistened.
And he hadn’t run.
But he hadn’t said anything else either.
Card Sharksbuzzed and beeped. Someone clapped. None of it could drown out the wail of the tightening knot in my chest.
I wasn’t built for this.
Not for the dinner or the smiles—and not for his hand covering mine, feeling like heaven made flesh, soothing and comforting—andwantingto be with me.
I wasn’t built for any of it.
But sitting next to Mateo—close enough to feel the heat of him, his quiet steadiness—made mewant to be.
He turned so suddenly I nearly jerked back. His eyes were pools of chocolate flecked with gold. He sucked in his bottom lip, then set it free to glisten in the lamp light.
I wanted to reach up and smooth the curls off his forehead, but something held me in place. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.
Mateo leaned into me, into my world.
I could feel his breath, hot against my skin.
