Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(77)

“Where are you going?” I frown.

“To get us some drinks,” he says, reaching his hand out for mine.

“I don’t think I’ll ever drink again after the wedding,” I tell him, hesitating.

He shakes his head disapprovingly, reaching for my hand and pulling me out of the booth. “You need to stop punishing yourself.” He smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. I’m anxious to get rid of it.

“All right,” I agree. “Let’s get champagne.”

“Let’s.”

Jerry pours us two wineglasses full, both of them practically overflowing. I have to be extra careful not to spill as I slide back into the booth.

“So, what does taking it slow look like?” I ask, sipping my drink.

“Whatever you want it to,” he answers.

“Okay.” I let that sink in. “Well, then I’m going to come sit over there.” I point across the table to the empty spot next to him.

He scooches over hastily.

I slide in, cozying up against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. My leg tingles in the spots where it’s pressed against his. When I look at him, I have to actively fight the urge to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, adjust his glasses, run my thumb over the crease of his bottom lip. I notice him staring at my mouth and wonder if he feels the same way.

We both reach for our champagne and take a big gulp.

He casts his eyes down toward his lap, and I watch as his glasses fall forward onto the bridge of his nose. When he looks back up, I can’t help myself. I reach out and fix them.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, letting out a small laugh to break the tension. “I’m not going to try and kiss you again.”

“Phoebe.” His voice is a little scratchy, and he looks at me with an intensity I haven’t seen from him before. “You have to know how hard it was for me not to kiss you back in that closet.”

“Oh,” I croak. It’s all that I can muster. “Okay.”

I catch Matthew looking at my lips again when the booth begins to shake. I peer down and find the source: he’s tapping his foot against the floor repeatedly.

I place my hand on his knee to steady him. “You’re not anxious, are you?” I tease as his eyes dart across my face.

He furrows his brow. “Are you not?

“I feel eerily calm on this side of the booth.” It’s true. The only thing I’m feeling in my stomach is a pleasant tingling sensation. Matthew gives me butterflies.

“Now you’re just bragging.” He rolls his eyes playfully.

I laugh as his leg continues to bounce up and down beneath my hand.

“I have one more thing that’s wrong with me,” he confesses. “And it’s bad, Phoebe. It involves you.”

My stomach sinks. “What is it?”

He looks down at his lap again. “You have to know that I had only the best intentions.”

I knew this was too good to be true. “You’re scaring me.” I brace myself for the absolute worst.

“It’s Bev,” he blurts. “The octopus.”

“What about her?” I instinctively look at the small tattoo on the inside of my forearm. He does the same. “Is she hurt?” Matthew looks like he’s going to be sick. “Did she die?” I whisper.

“No!” He shakes his head. “She’s fine.” He nods. “I think.”

“Then what is it?”

He sighs shakily. “It’s not real.”

“Bev’s not real?”

“No, Bev is real,” he clarifies. “But she never solved a Rubik’s Cube.”

“But…I saw the video.”

He breathes in deeply. “I was thinking about you a lot after the wedding. And I kept picturing your tattoo.” He reaches out and rubs his thumb across it, just like he did when we were sitting on the windowsill. It sends the same rush of heat down my arm now as it did then. “You know how much I love it. So I went back to watch the video of Bev, just because it reminds me of you.” Another shaky sigh. “I didn’t realize when I sent it to you that it was posted on April first. It was an April Fool’s joke, and I fell for it. It was AI, and now you have a tattoo of it on your arm.” He takes another sip of his champagne. “I’m gullible, Phoebe. And you’re the one paying the price for it.”

I let his confession sink in. “Are there any octopi that can solve a Rubik’s Cube?”

“No,” he whispers, looking at me apologetically. “I checked.”

We stare at each other silently for a few seconds before I burst into laughter. “You think you’re gullible? I’m the one who got a tattoo of it!”

“You’re not gullible!” he retorts. “You had no reason to believe I wasn’t a credible source. But I saw a random video of an octopus on a meme account on Twitter and didn’t think twice before sending it to you because I was that desperate to talk to you.” He lowers his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry, Phoebe.”

“Hey.” I squeeze his knee. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I love my tattoo. And if anything, this just makes for a better story when people ask about it.”

He glances at me sideways. “You’re sure you’re not mad?”