“It is,” he says. I don’t think either of us mean to step closer to each other. It’s more like gravity has us leaning in. “I’ve been waiting to ask you the same thing.” His voice lowers. “I wanted to make sure we weren’t moving too quickly.”
“I know. I’ve appreciated that.” I’m whispering, too. He’s biting his lip, maybe too afraid to ask for what I’m pretty sure we both want. He’d always been the one to ask for consent for every little touch. I can do the same, too. “Is it all right if I kiss you?”
A small smile—he nods.
We meet in the middle. It’s been years since I kissed Matt. The kiss feels so familiar, so nostalgic, so much like home that I might start to cry. The kiss feels like all the comfort he’d shown me, the love when I needed it most, the joy I’d allowed myself to feel with him, the peace I learned I deserve. And it reminds me, too, of how much I fucked up and lost it all.
I pull back. I would’ve hated that I’m crying, once. Matt touches my hand with a finger. “You okay?” he asks, but when I look up, I see his eyes are wet, too.
I nod. “Yeah.” I take his hand, and we both slide our arms around each other, holding our bodies close. We hug like that for maybe a minute, maybe ten. Just holding each other and breathing.
He pulls away first, kissing my cheek. “I don’t know how slow or fast you want to go with—with the physical…”
I’m not sure either. This would be my first time having sex in a few years. I’d had random hookups at the facility, at first, before Amy convinced me that sex with strangers was a part of my trauma response. The break from sex was necessary for me to heal. I’m nervous, ending my celibacy. I don’t know how I’ll react. This is uncharted territory. But maybe it’s okay, to figure it out together.
“Do you want to come over?” I ask him.
His eyes are hooded. “Are you sure?”
I squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”
*
We hold hands and sit quietly on the subway. We have a couple of double glances—people who might recognize Mattie, people who might remember me—and I worry that a photo will be snapped, Matt pulled into a firestorm again. But he doesn’t seem to care. He rubs a thumb over my knuckles. That would’ve scared the shit out of me once, but I intertwine our fingers now.
When we get to my apartment, Matt hovers uncomfortably by the bedroom door as I pick up clumps of dirty clothes and toss them into the hamper. I’ve never returned to the states of mess I had when I was trapped in my depression—but I’ve also discovered that I’m just a messy guy, and that’s fine.
I turn to Mattie and take a deep breath. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what might trigger a trauma response. But I trust I know how to help myself when I am triggered. That if I say I need to pause and breathe, Matt will listen to me. He’s safe. I can trust that.
“What would you like to do?” he asks uncertainly.
My voice shakes. “Maybe—maybe just kiss a little?”
He steps forward, gaze on my face. This is familiar, too. This take-charge attitude that I always loved. He’s waiting for me, I realize, so I lean down to kiss him. It starts as slow and tender as we’d kissed in the park, before the energy shifts. Longing, maybe? Desperation. We’re pressing against each other. I guide Mattie to the bed and we tip over, Mattie on top. Our hands roam and grab, tugging at each other’s clothes. It’s always been easy to let go, let my body take over, just focus on making the other person I’m with feel good— We could have sex. I could keep going, the way things are, without thinking about it. Mattie could ask for consent, and I could nod and insist that this is what I want, and after we have sex we could cuddle, and I could say that I’m all right even when I feel anxiety stringing through me.
“Hey,” he whispers, staring down at me. “You okay?”
I don’t know. I take a shuddering breath. I’ve had more time to practice being in my body—figuring out what feels good. Feels safe. But now, I’m realizing I’m not in my body. I don’t know if this feels good. I don’t know, honestly, if this is consent.
Mattie sits back, watching me closely. “Do you want to stop?”
I would’ve asked to keep going, once. “Yeah. I do.”
He’s nodding. “Okay.” He hesitates. “Should I leave?”
I take a deep breath. Having sex with Mattie right now wouldn’t feel good. But lying here with him—kissing him, touching him, holding him. That’s what I want, more than anything.
“No,” I tell him. “Please. Stay. If that’s what you want also, anyway.”
His smile is hopeful. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
We lie down together, quiet, Mattie resting against my chest, listening to my heart beat.
Happily Ever After: A Memoir
by Matthew Cole
Maybe one reason I’d always struggled with the idea of a happily ever after is the suggestion that one person can make you happy for the rest of your life. I’ve realized, as I’ve grown older, that this isn’t true. There is no guarantee that one person will make us happy for the rest of our lives. Instead, there’s something else more powerful, even deeper: the realization of love we have for ourselves—and the joy in sharing this love with someone else, and experiencing the love they have for themselves, too. Instead of depending on each other for happiness, we find our happiness individually, and then share that happiness with each other.
This is what I’ve experienced with Logan, for these past several decades. I’ve experienced growing to know myself and love myself to levels deeper than I ever have, and so has he; and as we have both grown, we have also celebrated life with each other. It’s true that my life could possibly take me on a path different from where Logan is now, and Logan’s life could possibly take him on a path different from where I am now, and we would not be together anymore, and we would, technically, not have had a happily ever after. It’s also true that I would still carry Logan with me, wherever I go and whatever I experience next, because I have changed so much, and learned so much, and grown so much alongside him, and because of him.
We moved to Georgia to start our family. Logan writes for film full-time now, while I’ve gladly retired from acting. Every year, on our anniversary, we go to the cabin in the mountains—not his father’s, no; though that cabin had been so important in our relationship, we could never return together, even after Jameson Gray passed away. The cabin symbolized too much pain for Logan, so we started our new tradition instead.
This is where I can say that I found my happily ever after. Logan is beside me now, as I write the ending pages of this memoir. He’s reading over my shoulder, laughing—a sound that feels freer the longer I’ve known him. I’m glad, now, that we had time away from each other, to grow on our own. I’m grateful that, when we sat down to discuss our relationship and our futures, we agreed to share our happiness together.
Acknowledgments
Stars in Your Eyes took a lot of risks as my first adult romance novel, and I’m so grateful to everyone who championed the story from beginning to end: Thank you to Beth Phelan, Marietta Zacker, Nancy Gallt, Erin Casey Westin, and the rest of the Gallt & Zacker team who continue to support my writing career, wherever it’ll take me next!