Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(75)

I’m leaning over the bathroom sink at Jeffery’s with a wet paper towel pressed to the back of my neck and a pit in my stomach as big as Aunt Carol’s fourth engagement ring. I’ve managed to keep my dinner down, but that could change at any moment. I remind myself that this is the exact way Dad felt before his first date with Mom. It makes me think that it’s not such a bad thing, to have something worth getting so worked up over.

I throw the wet paper towel into the trash can and give myself a painfully forced double thumbs-up of encouragement in the mirror before pushing open the door and walking over to the bar.

Jerry welcomes me with a smile. “Where’s the rest of the crew?” he asks.

“Just me tonight, Jer,” I tell him. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?” He smirks, and before he has the chance to ask any more questions, I order two waters with extra ice.

I pick up the glasses, one in each hand, and thank Jerry before turning to find a table.

“Hey, before you go,” Jerry says, stopping me. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s Alex’s deal?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, squinting at him in confusion. I wonder if maybe he’s referring to his proclivity for cosmos.

“Like, is he seeing anyone?”

Oh!

“No!” I blurt, and then decide to rein it in so I don’t seem overeager. “I mean, not right now.”

“Cool.” Jerry nods, and I try to keep my grin casual before I turn and walk back to the booth.

My heart sputters when I see Matthew standing by the doorway. His black hair is slightly damp, with a few strands falling down over his forehead, and I can make out the soft blue shade of his eyes from across the room. He’s wearing an oversized NYU hoodie with athletic shorts and sneakers, and I’m overcome with a fierce desire to crawl inside his sweatshirt and curl into a ball. When my eyes travel back to his face, he’s looking at me with a soft smile on his face that causes my grip around the waters to tighten.

Walking toward him, I can feel my pulse hammering in the base of my throat. Before I know it, I’m close enough to reach out and touch him. I angle my neck upward so that I’m looking directly into his eyes. The nauseous pit in my stomach morphs into something hot and not entirely unpleasant.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The slight upward curve of his lips singes my skin, and I wrap my arms around him in a hug so he doesn’t see the blush creeping up my neck. The glasses of water in my hands clink together loudly when they touch behind his back, sending drops of liquid to the floor that form a small puddle around our feet. I bury my face deep in his sweatshirt out of embarrassment, comforted by the soapy smell of his detergent. He hugs me back tightly, and my ears fill with the sound of a rapidly thumping heartbeat. “Sorry.” The apology comes out muffled. I don’t realize that it was actually his heartbeat pounding in my ears until I pull away.

“Here,” he says, taking the glasses from my hands. “I got it.”

I nod in thanks. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you some water.”

“Water’s great.”

“I hope you like ice.”

“I love ice.”

“Cool.” I usher him toward a table. “Come sit with me.”

We slide into opposite sides of the booth, and I try not to keep count of how many times our feet tap together accidentally. Four.

I narrow my gaze on him, preparing to ask the question that’s been nagging at me from the moment he answered the phone earlier. “Why aren’t you more mad at me?”

His eyebrows knit together over the frames of his glasses. “For not answering my texts?”

“Yes!” I blurt, burying my face in my hands. “And the wedding.”

“I had fun at the wedding.” There’s a playful gleam in his eyes.

“I accosted you in a janitor’s closet.”

He laughs. “I liked getting to know you.”

“That wasn’t me.” I shake my head. “The girl in the closet was an impostor. One of my cousins. On my dad’s side. They’re all a little off. You met Aunt Carol.”

“Okay, but before that,” he says, chuckling. “When we were talking on the windowsill. You started to make sense to me, then.”

“When I confessed that I’m insane?”

“You’re not insane.”

“Well, I’m definitely not sane.”

He takes a sip of his water. “No one worth getting to know is completely sane.”

“You are,” I say. “There is literally nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect.”

He’s quick to shake his head in disagreement. “I am not perfect.”

“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you, then?”

He adjusts his posture, leaning forward with his hands clasped together on the table. I lean closer to him on instinct. “Well,” he begins. “For starters, I can’t have anything touching my eyes. I’m almost thirty-one years old and I can’t use eye drops or contacts.”

“Seriously?” I tease. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Seriously,” he insists. “I live in constant fear that something’s going to fly into my eye. It can be crippling.”