The Broken Hearts' Society of Suite 17C

by LeighAnn Kopans

  “Your Dad called? You said you guys never talk.”

  “Exactly. I…I wouldn’t apologize. I refused to.” She pulled back, making Matt’s hand slide from the back of her head to her shoulder. Maybe looking at him would keep the tears back. “He said he’d pray for me.”

  Matt’s eyes went wide. He understood. “Oh, man.”

  That was enough to start the big tears rolling out again, and to make Matt tug her head gently back to his shoulder. “If it’s that big of a deal, I can take you back home. You could make it in time for your church. I could go with you.”

  A laugh bubbled up through the tears. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Amy said. “I think half of what was making him angry was…well…you.”

  Matt pulled back again. “I don’t get it. Why does a nice sophomore guy from Northern bringing you home to his pastor mom for Christmas piss him off? I mean, any more than the obvious blatant disobedience of his wishes?” Then his eyes went wide again. “Is it the pastor mom thing? Or the gay moms thing?”

  Amy grinned. “You would think that would be it, wouldn’t you? But no, he doesn’t know anything about them. Or you. That’s what bothered him, I think. He thinks I’m dating a guy he’s never met—never approved —which is apparently against the rules.”

  “But you told him we’re not dating, right?”

  “No.” Then Amy’s gaze connected with Matt’s, and confused, jittery realization slammed her in the chest. “No, I didn’t.”

  Matt’s eyebrows tented up, but he didn’t break eye contact for a second. “Oh. Okay.”

  Amy could have jumped in, and clarified a million different ways—the conversation was going too fast, she’d needed an excuse for not seeing Adam, she had wanted to piss Dad off. But some deep voice inside told her none of those things were true. Not only that, but she couldn’t even think of a good reason to make excuses at all.

  “Whatever. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  “You are so far from fine.” The soft smile in his eyes drifted to the bedside table, and he walked a few steps to retrieve the tissue box that sat there, offering her one.

  Amy smiled. “Thanks. I guess I should clean myself up before services.”

  Matt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you look like. Might be better to go all tear-streaked. Jesus came for the brokenhearted.”

  Amy knew that psalm like the back of her hand. But she could play that game.

  “We’re supposed to praise Him with a joyful heart, and nobody could be happy sitting next to these mascara streaks.”

  Matt laughed. “Whatever you say.”

  Amy thought she knew what the peace of Christmas felt like, with the solemn ritual of the Tripp City Baptist Church Christmas Eve candlelight service. Maybe if things had gone differently, she wouldn’t have ever thought anything was better than that.

  But St. George’s Episcopal Church felt like exactly the place she needed to be that Christmas. Matt’s mom spoke about challenging oneself to pour more love into the world, because if God trusted humanity with His only son, the rest of them could certainly trust more people and things with the devotion of their hearts. When the lights dimmed and Matt passed her a candle, the silence was thick and rich. If someone had told Amy it would last forever, she might have believed them, and even been okay with it.

  But Tamara’s deep alto rang out, pure and clear, seconds later, singing the first notes of “Silent Night.” The first candle was lit and the first flame was passed, and as each person received a flame, she joined in the song.

  Matt’s voice was just like him—calming in its familiarity, soothing and steady. Amy never had been a great singer, and when the words “redeeming grace” passed her lips, a lump rose in her throat that blocked much sound from coming out at all. Tears fell again, but these were slow, cleansing, and welcome.

  This was the kind of feeling she wanted to belong to. This felt like home.

  The song wound down, and the lights slowly went up enough for the worshipers to find their way out.

  Matt saw the tracks the tears had made. Of course he did. He saw everything. “Are you okay?” he asked, considering her with a tilt of the head before reaching up to wipe one tear away with his thumb.

  “I’m wonderful,” Amy said, simply.

  Matt nodded, because he understood.

  The morning after Christmas at Matt’s house was exactly as he had described it—cinnamon rolls, board games, more lazy reading. Just as they had the day before, Amy and Matt moved in a steady, quiet orbit around one another. The difference now was that Amy watched him with a sense of hope that was stronger than ever—hope for what, she still didn’t exactly know. But he seemed to sense that, as well.

  They’d eaten deli sandwiches for Christmas dinner, a throwback to when Tamara was exhausted from leading hours of Church activities and Harriet was overwhelmed with taking care of Matt. The practice had stuck, and now it was a tradition. The idea that one day she would be an adult making traditions of her own sent a shiver down Amy’s spine. She looked over at Matt and smiled, and the same peace she’d felt in Church the night before washed over her again.

  After the dishes had been cleared, Amy settled on the couch in front of a fire Tamara built in the old wood-burning stove that served as a fireplace and pulled out a book. She thanked God for an e-reader, so it wouldn’t be quite so obvious that she was reading a fluffy romance novel. She’d read two paragraphs and already started to become lost in the story, so Matt plopping down next to her on the couch startled her.

  “Sorry!” He laughed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your digestion of dinner and War and Peace.”

  Amy smacked him playfully with the back of her hand. “You’re not sorry at all.”

  “Probably true. Anyway,” Matt said, tugging his phone out of his pocket, “I came to see if you were up for meeting my friends from high school. I just got a text. Tonight, when everyone is coming down from Christmas family stuff. I know I promised you movies and pie, and this is not your kind of scene anyway…not even mine, to be honest…”

  “What does that mean?” Amy asked, shutting her reader and tucking it between her leg and the arm of the couch. “Not my kind of scene?”

  Matt looked at her as if it was obvious. “You know, they’ll be drinking. No drugs, but that doesn’t prevent them from acting like idiots when they get together. And I know you don’t drink, so…”

  “It’s not like some irrefutable truth. Is there some law that says I can’t have a beer or something? Isn’t that what normal college kids do?”

  “Yes,” Matt said, “but you are not normal college kids. And neither am I. Remember? That’s why we hang out so much?”

  “Well, maybe for the next few days, I am. Or at least want to see what it’s like.”

  Matt just pushed his eyebrows up again, showing her exactly how ridiculous this all sounded. “So maybe I won’t drink. It doesn’t matter. I want to do whatever you would do if I hadn’t crashed your Christmas.”

  “I don’t think—”

  But Amy cut him off before he could say anymore. “You should get to do the things you’d be doing if I hadn’t butted in on your holiday. Let me clean up my face a little and we’ll go.” And before he could say anything to protest or she could think much more about it, she’d ducked into the bathroom, splashed some water on her face, brushed on some more mascara over the fading layer of waterproof she’d swiped on that morning, swiped some bronzer over her cheekbones, and smoothed some colored balm on her lips. She could only think two things: Matt was right, what she was doing was completely out of character. But if being away from home for Christmas had felt not only okay, but amazing, maybe she should try changing a couple other things, too.

  What could go wrong? She was with Matt.

  She took a deep breath and one more look in the mirror with that thought—changing herself on purpose. It was a crazy thought, but it felt good. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe she did need to be pray
ed for. What she needed even more than prayers was to figure out who in the world she really was when she wasn’t living under someone else’s guilt-filled expectations.

  Amy let the bathroom door swing open and found Matt, standing in the exact same place he had been when she went in there, looking at her doubtfully. And he still didn’t have his shoes on.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? With going tonight?”

  “Are you okay? You still don’t have your shoes on. They probably won’t wait forever.” Not that Amy had any idea who these friends were or what their plans involved outside of a few beers. She felt like a train barreling down a track. If anything tried to stop her, she could just run off the rails.

  “I don’t care. I just…I mean, it’s totally fine if you want to stay in. I can see them next time I come home.”

  “But I can’t. What, are you embarrassed of me? Don’t want them to know who you’re hanging out with at Northern?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Amy.”

  “So what’s the problem?” She forced a grin, and from the way he still stood there, leaning against the banister, he knew how fake it was.

  The thing that absolutely killed her was how right he was. She did want to stay in, cuddle up under a blanket, watch a movie, fall asleep too early, maybe after eating another slice of pie. But that was the pathetic Amy, the one who had been trained to want to stay at home, fly under the radar, do what everyone expected her to do. Just once, she wanted to try something new.

  The fact that Matt would be with her meant she’d be safe. The fact that she was in a brand new town with people who’d never met her was irrelevant.

  “Nothing. I’ll get your coat,” Matt said, finally letting a small smile creep onto his face and turning to go downstairs.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, following him.

  “Friends over church, huh?” Harriet called after them.

  “You mean hanging out with the kids I haven’t seen for two months over sitting with half the geriatric population of University City for a second service in two days?”

  “I mean supporting your mom while she leads services,” Harriet said in a quieter voice, tenting her eyebrows up in exactly the same way as Matt did.

  Amy’s stomach twisted. “I mean, if we should be there for—”

  “It’s not Matt’s fault that the members asked for a service tonight. Ironically, it’s because most of their kids are in college and wanted to go back before Sunday’s services. I guess they have friends and their own lives on campus or something.” There was a twinkle in her eye that made Amy smile.

  “I guess that means I’m staying for Sunday services,” Matt said wryly as Tamara stood on tiptoes to kiss his head.

  “Guess so,” she said, smiling. “You driving tonight?”

  “Yep. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay. Call us if you need to,” Harriet said, slipping her arm around Tamara’s waist and watching as Matt handed Amy her coat. Matt smiled, slipped into his shoes, and tugged Amy after him to the garage door.

  After she clicked her seatbelt on, Amy stared at Matt, shaking her head.

  “What?” he asked, opening the garage door and pulling his clanking car out of the driveway.

  “Did they really just tell their nineteen-year-old—”

  “Almost twenty,” Matt interrupted.

  “Whatever. In four months is not ‘almost.’ But did they really just tell you they knew we’d be drinking?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. They’ve been saying the exact same thing since I was sixteen. Annoying, really, when you consider that I have never once driven drunk. Never even came home drunk, come to think of it.” He snuck a glance at Amy. “Maybe they think I’ll do something stupid because you’re here.”

  “I don’t’ think you could do something stupid if you tried,” Amy said, only realizing how worshipful her voice sounded once the words hung in the air between them.

  “I really, really hope not,” he said, giving her one final look before they pulled out of the subdivision and onto a main road studded with strip malls and chain restaurants. In just a few minutes, they were pulling into the driveway of another, much larger house with a manicured lawn and a dozen beater cars lining the street in front of it.

  “Anything I need to know before I go in?”

  “Nah. These are all school and church friends. Mostly guys, a few girls. Half of those girls are trying to get together with at least one of the guys. None of those guys are interested in them, even though all but one is single.”

  “So…?”

  “So I recommend you stick with me. I trust my friends…I guess. But you are the hot girl from Northern they’ve never met, and they’ve been drinking at least a little…”

  “The hot girl,” Amy scoffed. “Okay.”

  “Stop that. You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

  “Sure. From my orange hair and spotted face all the way down to my size 8 butt.” As soon as she said it, she was embarrassed by her honesty. But Matt didn’t seem too embarrassed by his compliment, and she’d been trained to be embarrassed about anything she ever said. She looked at him, willing fearlessness to take hold. Willing herself

  “Sure. My gorgeous curvy redheaded best friend from Northern.”

  Friend. There was that word again. That was the word she’d wanted to be one hundred percent clear between them. So why did it feel like a slap in the face tonight?

  “Hey,” he said, patting her knee, sending a jolt she couldn’t explain through her body. “Come on. The sooner I introduce you the sooner I can get you back home. You’ve had a long couple of days.”

  “I’m fine,” Amy said, feeling an edge creep into her words. “Seriously. Fine.” She didn’t need Dad telling her what she needed, how she felt, how she should be acting, what she should want. She silently begged Matt to understand that she didn’t need those things from him, either.

  She felt nothing but relief when he nodded and smiled, genuinely and openly. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  That was right. Whatever she wanted. Tonight, at least, she needed to prove that she could want things, and that she could do them, and it would be her decision alone.

  Within the first twenty minutes, Amy had decided she wanted a drink, and Jason, a friend of Matt’s with big, wide shoulders and a neck almost as thick as his head brought her something he called sangria. “It’s just fruit punch with a little kick,” he explained, handing her a red plastic cup. Some type of giddiness bubbled up in her as she took a sip, and found he was right—it was a sticky-sweet red concoction with only the slightest burn going down her throat.

  “Perfect,” she said, then proceeded to watch Matt greet his friends, taking a bigger gulp when she met one, two, three, four absolutely stunning girls, more than one of whom touched Matt’s arm with a lingering familiarity that made her wonder about exactly how close they were. By the sixth time she listened to Matt explain that they were ‘just friends,’ the red drink was gone, and she was nodding at Jason for a refill.

  Matt introduced her to another guy, explaining that he was an architecture major at Purdue, and she managed some questions about what his classes were like before the fuzziness transferred to her head and Matt asked if she wanted to sit down. She forced out a normal “sure!” before saying a silent prayer of thanks for an empty seat on the couch and slumping into it. Matt wasn’t far behind, and despite the fact that she was more relaxed than she remembered being in, well, ever, she was hyper aware of every place his body touched hers. Hip, thigh, almost-knee. She’d only sat beside him a handful of times—on that bench the night he’d rescued her, in the car, in church just last night. But instead of feeling wrong, the closeness prompted one word flashing like a neon sign in her brain—more.

  Someone handed Matt a guitar. He’d never told her he played, and watching him handle it so easily, cradling the instrument with such care, was like looking at entirely new person. Amy enjoyed the warm, fuzzy feeling that crept
over her shoulders and buzzed at the edges of her lips as his long fingers picked over the strings. She stayed close to him as she waited for him to hand it back to the girl with the long blond bob who watched him play with puppydog eyes. The neck of the guitar stretched over her lap, the vibrations of his voice as he sang some song by the Weeping Marys about pure beauty and faith transferring to every inch of her skin.

  Amy shivered, but not from cold. In fact, the sensation made her feel warmer, more at peace with everything. Like she was finally part of something all her own, not handed down to her by anyone, but extended to her for the taking. For a second, when Jason wordlessly asked if she needed another refill from across the room, she thought about what her parents, even her sister, would think. But, no. That was the good girl auto-pilot, the one that had made her feel so worthless when one piece of it fell away and left a wreckage of everything else. When Jason brought the refill, she thanked him with a big smile, and was only slightly confused when he chuckled and shook his head as he walked away.

  Matt’s fingers were so beautiful as they moved over the strings, so precise and smooth at the same time. Amy closed her eyes and remembered the last time they’d held hands, how comforting the touch of his skin against hers had been, how natural it had felt to be close to him in that way.

  How much she wanted to be close to him in other ways. Suddenly, the memories of his hands in hers, his arms around her, his lips pressed to her head, combined into one absolutely certain, overwhelming thought.

  Amy wanted to be with Matt. She wanted his breath to mingle with hers, she wanted to feel his hand strong on her waist. Something about coming home with him for Christmas, or her Dad yelling at her, or that indescribable feeling at his church, or the sweet pink drink in the red cup, had removed any complications and barriers and worries, any things she’d ever felt she needed to prove. Now she saw the only thing that really mattered—Matt, and how beautiful he was, inside and out. How very rarely anyone had ever taken care of her the way he did, with no conditions, no pretenses, no demands on how she would act, look, or what she would want. She wanted him so much, and she realized it so strong and clearly, that any other goals she’d had for tonight faded away. Nothing mattered but telling him what she wanted, and finding out, once and for all, whether he still wanted it too.