Not the Marrying Kind Page 10

  Being let down wasn’t my fucking deal.

  Letting out a big sigh, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, slightly confused. And also… excited. Los Angeles. I could see myself riding down Rodeo Drive beneath a cloudless blue sky and flirting outrageously with every bikini-clad aspiring model on the beach.

  Except, and this was weird, but every time I tried to picture those women, I only saw a certain smart-mouthed spitfire.

  I was so fucking distracted I almost walked right past the building I was looking for. It was bright white brick with garage style roll-up doors. Across the top, in neon lighting, read The Mateo Rivera Gallery.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered, grin stretching across my face. I slipped inside the doors, taking in the white walls and the lighting and the paintings of New York done in Mateo’s style. The style he’d started developing when we were in middle school, a style that was part graffiti art, part comic book illustration.

  “Holy shit,” came the voice I’d grown up with. I turned around, brows raised in greeting, as Mateo Rivera walked toward me looking like a hipster city artist. Black shirt, black pants, long black hair tied back into a bun. He had light brown skin covered in as many tattoos as I had and a short beard, which was new.

  As was the look on his face, which wasn’t the constantly amused expression I remembered. Mateo looked pissed.

  I held out the coffee and lifted a shoulder. “The prodigal son returns. How the hell are ya?” I was loose, expecting us to hug immediately.

  But Mateo crossed his arms, keeping his distance. Ignoring the coffee—which was his favorite.

  “Max?” he said like he didn’t recognize me.

  “Hell yeah.” I grinned. “Surprise. I’m back in the city for a bit and thought I’d come see your new space. Pop told me all about it.” I held out the coffee, assuming I was misreading his face.

  But he only narrowed his eyes at me. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  14

  Max

  Where the fuck have you been?

  I laughed, but it sounded more nervous than amused. Mateo took the coffee from me, thank god, but was still glaring.

  “Uh… I’ve been gone. Around. Working at different shops.” My stomach was twisting into complicated knots. Until I saw him in person, I hadn’t realized how much I’d fucking missed my best friend. The person who’d known me since I was ten years old, who understood me more than anyone else.

  I didn’t really have friends like that currently.

  “Max.” Mateo was shaking his head, but that pissed look was slightly less glare-y. Still frustrated though. “It’s like seeing a fucking ghost, hermano. Come on back to my office so I can be mad at you in private.”

  I followed obediently, secretly pleased that he’d at least called me hermano. The second we stepped into his office—just as brightly lit as his gallery space—he sat back on the edge of a large wooden desk and nodded at a chair. I sank back into it, hooking my ankle over my knee.

  “Guess I expected a warmer welcome,” I said, still trying to make a joke.

  “Guess I expected my best friend to stay in touch for the last seven years and not ignore my calls.”

  I sat up straight, leaned forward, pain burning in my chest. Fuck. He was really mad at me.

  “I’m not saying I’m not happy to see you. Because I am. But you gotta realize that you left and never called me again. Even though I called you all the time. Texted you and emailed those first couple years, thinking you’d reach back out. We’re practically family, and I didn’t even know where you fucking lived.”

  I clenched my jaw, flexed my fingers on the arm rests. A hot rush of guilt came over me because, yeah, I remembered not picking up those calls. Not answering those messages. I was living a new life. Traveling constantly. Meeting new people.

  I told myself I’d call my best friend back eventually.

  My gut twisted on the word eventually. Goddammit. I was always on this honesty kick, making sure people understood what I did and didn’t do. That was what my mom had done. Even though she was a pretty unpopular person on the block after she divorced Pop. But that, to me, took even more courage. This wasn’t the life for her, and she’d made the hard choice to be honest. I’d done that my entire life and found it usually made things easier.

  This wasn’t easy, that was for damn sure.

  “Mateo. Shit. I’m really sorry. I didn’t even… I didn’t think…” I blew out a breath since he wasn’t jumping in to help. “I figured I’d see you when I see you. You know how I felt about this city, about wanting not to be tied down. I thought I’d been honest about that.”

  Mateo sipped his coffee and kept me waiting. “Sure. I know you, Max. I know what you’re like. But even if you’re honest with people, it can still fucking hurt. Were you never going to talk to me again?”

  “That was never the plan,” I said swiftly. “I’m being for real here. That thought never, ever crossed my mind. On the road I still referred to you as my best friend, to anyone who asked.”

  “Friends have to talk though, right? Friends have to care about each other, even if they’re a thousand miles away. Rafael and I finally assumed that you weren’t interested anymore. We’d see Pop at The Red Room. He’d tell us you were doing okay, and that was all we had.” A bit of lightness came over his face. “You know my mother is going to straight-up kill you, right?”

  I huffed out a relieved breath that turned into a chuckle. Rubbed my forehead, where a permanent line was forming.

  Coming home. Fuck me, this must be why Mom stayed away so much. The way Mateo sounded?

  That was the way people sounded when the topic of my mom came up.

  “These seven years,” I started. “They flew by for me. I don’t mean that as an excuse. I fucked up. I hear you totally. I think, in my mind, I wasn’t focused too much on the future. Figured we’d always, always have our friendship. Even if I wasn’t…”

  Mateo raised his eyebrows. Waited.

  “Even if I didn’t maintain it or put any work into it,” I finished. Those words hurt like hell coming out, but they were the honest truth in the face of what Mateo was saying about me.

  “Seven years is a really, really long time,” he said softly. “I’m mostly mad because I fucking missed you.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. Was it a long time? “Yeah I fucking missed you too. I miss Rafael. I miss your parents. The longer I’ve been gone, the easier it’s been to ignore some things that are hard to feel.” I reached forward and tapped his knee. “And ignore the people I care about the most. I’m a total piece of shit. I must have looked like the world’s biggest asshole swaggering in here just now.”

  “You really did,” he said, but he was smiling. Not his full one, but it was on the right track. The fist in my chest loosened a little. “And you don’t just look it. You are an asshole.”

  I nodded, let out a big sigh. “What can I do? I’m home for two weeks.”

  “Not for good?” he asked with something like hope in his voice.

  “I haven’t changed that much.” I cracked a smile. “But I promise this time that when I leave, I won’t be that guy again.”

  I could make that promise—right?

  “Don’t fuck with me, okay?” he said softly. “I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious too,” I said. “Can we please, like, can I hug you?”

  He rolled his eyes but stood and wrapped me in a bear hug even though he was six inches shorter than me. I clapped him on the back, swamped with the memory of saying goodbye to him and Rafael the day that I left. How worried they’d looked, how happy I felt. I’ll call you when I get there, I’d said.

  And I hadn’t.

  I sank back into the chair, rocking back on the back leg. Packed away that guilty memory to scrutinize later. I hadn’t meant to not stay in touch. It was just one of those relationships I assumed would always be there, would always be good.

  “I know I won’t make this up overnight
, but honestly tell me what I can do while I’m home,” I said. “And please tell me all about this beautiful fucking gallery that makes me want to legit cry.”

  Another smile tugged at his mouth. “Pop tell you that me and Rafael are engaged?”

  “Yes,” I said, beaming. “Yes, he fucking did. The words I’m so happy for you both don’t even come close.”

  “Thank you,” he said, voice softer. “And I need someone to plan our bachelor parties for us.”

  “Sounds like a job for me, huh?” I said, waiting on tenterhooks.

  He rubbed his chin. Finally said, “Yeah. Yeah, you can do it. I’d like that.”

  I took out my phone and started typing. “And I’ll start by sending your mother flowers from that shop she likes.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What else?”

  He jiggled his knee. Clapped his hands together. “Fix up my old bike?”

  I leaned forward. “You’re talking about the old Harley Sportster? The one from senior year?”

  “Yeah. It’s still in my parent’s garage but needs some serious work. Like a top-notch mechanic kind of work.”

  I pointed at my chest. “I’m a top-notch fucking mechanic.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved off my bragging, wiped the smile off his face. “I’m still pissed at you. You can’t come in here and do your Max Devlin thing and make me forget.”

  “What’s my Max Devlin thing?”

  “Get in trouble. Charm the hell out of everyone until they forget. Stroll on out, whistling. Don’t even fucking pretend to not know.”

  Now I rolled my eyes, although he had a point. It’d never been hard for me to flirt my way into—but also out of—trouble. And consequences. But this was my best friend, not a parking ticket. So I held up my palms and injected as much sincerity into my voice as I could. “You’re right,” I said. “And I’m really, really sorry. There’s no excuse.”

  “Trial basis, you and me,” he said, pointing between us. “You better fix that bike. And we better have the best bachelor parties the world has ever seen. And then you better call me once a week once you ride out of this city. I’m serious.”

  “It’s more than I deserve,” I said—and meant it. Mateo’s tenuous mercy had me feeling grateful, but blood still roared in my ears. A whole swarm of bees had lodged in my throat, and I was sweaty and nervous.

  I’d made Mateo feel like shit.

  These were the kind of complications my mom warned me would happen—the more I put down roots, the more I would stay in one place.

  “Do you want to see the space?” he asked, nodding behind me.

  “Hell yes,” I said. We walked back out, and I got an even better view of the way it was set up, the floor-to-ceiling windows making it feel like the busy urban street was inside the gallery. I strolled over to one of the pieces that had a red dot next to the hefty price tag. Let out a low whistle and flashed a half-smile at my friend.

  “You really did it,” I said.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Of course. I said I was going to do it, didn’t I?”

  “Graduation day,” I said, remembering. “Me, you, and Rafael spent the night on the fire escape at The Red Room, drinking those beers we had your cousin buy for us. You and Rafael wanted to get married, raise a family, and you wanted to be a famous artist with your own gallery.”

  There was this quiet peace about Mateo—especially now that he wasn’t so pissed at me. Like a contentment. “Dreams aren’t just for dreaming about. I’ve never worked harder than I have for this, for my art, for the ability to have people come and see it and buy it. They were big goals, but I knew I could achieve them.”

  We were staring at a painting of Central Park so full of vibrant color and texture it reminded me of a lightning strike.

  “It’s incredible,” I said. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

  Mateo was quiet for a moment. “Thank you. I’m proud of myself too. And I’ll be honest—I wish you’d been here for it. Or at least had been aware of it.”

  Those damn bees attacked my throat with a vengeance. “Yeah.” I cleared my throat again. “That would have been really special.” I cast him a sideways glance. “How much did your mom cry?”

  “Whole-ass buckets of tears.”

  I grinned. “And your dad?”

  “He shed a few. Brought his phone and had my grandparents and cousins in San Juan on video cheering when I gave my speech. And then Rafael planned a surprise party for after. Pop was there.”

  “Oh yeah?” He hadn’t told me.

  “It was a big deal,” Mateo said. “The whole gang was back together. Some of the old timers from The Red Room. Friends from school. A few of my classmates from Pratt. We made it till dawn.”

  “Of course.” I nodded, jealous again. Jealous. And it had nothing to do with women or sex. “When was your opening date?”

  “Last October.”

  “I was in Nashville. I think. Stayed there for a bit working this funky old bike shop downtown. Did a lot of long rides through the Smokies.”

  He watched me closely. “So how’s your big adventure going?”

  “Amazing,” I said, almost automatically. “I’m basically a full-time nomad. Stay in one city or town until I make enough money to move on to the next job.”

  “Like your mom.”

  I turned my head at the edge of annoyance in his voice. Mateo and Rafael had mixed feelings about my mom and had never hid them. “I like it. It’s definitely the lifestyle for me.”

  “Is there anyone special in your life?” he asked.

  For one terrifyingly confusing second, Fiona flashed in my mind, laughing as she twirled around to David Bowie. The feel of her waist beneath my fingers, the urge to protect her from falling.

  “No one permanent,” I said, loosening the clench in my jaw. “I have certainly enjoyed myself in every place I’ve lived.”

  Mateo snorted. “A true heartbreaker until the end of time.”

  We wandered to the very back of the gallery, Mateo showing me different pieces that were so amazing I was speechless. Watched him with pride as he showed me painting after painting, his face lighting up with each description. I knew people like Mateo and Fiona had these ambitious goals for themselves that they thought they needed to work for. It had been successful for them both. They were happy. They had degrees and dream jobs and owned popular art galleries.

  But what about all the times it didn’t work out? It seemed like a recipe for instant depression to me.

  In the center of a standalone wall, surrounded by spotlights, was a painting of Rafael. He was done up in a superhero style, little pixelated dots coloring his outfit, and the skyline of the city was jagged and edgy. The love Mateo had for his fiancé was obvious.

  “I’m sure you already know this,” I said. “But you’re going to make a great husband for Rafael.”

  Mateo bit his lip, rocking back on his heels. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “To get married?”

  He lifted his shoulder. “I’m nervous that I’ll fuck up and Rafael will realize he could do so much better.”

  His tone was joking—he expected me to make a joke—but I only nudged him with my arm. “You won’t fuck up. And I’ve been witness to Rafael’s unending love for you since we were teenagers. The man is obsessed with you. You’re going to do great.”

  “Thank you, hermano.”

  “De nada,” I said, nudging him again. “I’m so glad I could see all that you’ve done here.”

  Mateo gave me a serious look. “Why are you really home? Is Pop okay?”

  I let out a long exhale. “Pop’s underwater. Money problems. He’s being sued for back rent, and he owes $50,000 in two weeks or he’ll get evicted. He called and asked if I’d come home to help.”

  “Goddammit,” Mateo swore quietly. “Not The Red Room. That’s my… that’s like my…”

  “Second home,” I said, knowing exactly what he meant.

 
“So what are we doing about it?”

  I turned, surprised. “We are… well, you remember Fiona Quinn?”

  “She’s the younger of the shit-starters, right?”

  I laughed. “That’s her all right. She’s a lawyer, so she’s going to talk to some lawyer friends, see if there’s legal action we can take. But last night we came up with the idea to have a benefit show, twelve days from now. Save The Red Room kind of thing.”

  “Brilliant. People will rally for it.”

  “You think?”

  “Hell yeah.” He nodded toward the street. “The way this neighborhood came together to support the gallery was epic. I can see it happening for you and Pop. Maybe I could design the concert poster?”

  I turned to him. “Fuck yes, that would be perfect.”

  His smile was tiny, but it felt like a victory.

  “You can count on me and Rafael. We’ll be there for you,” he said softly.

  “Even though I’ve been a terrible friend?”

  Mateo clapped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You being an asshole isn’t the issue here. Saving your dad’s livelihood, saving a place that means so much to the history of punk music in this city, that is the issue. This neighborhood is full of a bunch of fancy, corporate Goliaths, but luckily we know how to fight back, right?”

  “We really do.”

  We were standing in front of a large piece depicting a scene of kids playing on the street right near here. It could have been a scene from our childhood. It could have been me and him. I knew I’d need to earn back his total trust and friendship, knew I deserved to work for it, but the shitty impact of what I’d done sank like a heavy stone in my stomach.

  “The last time I saw Fiona Quinn, she’d really changed since our teenage years at The Red Room.”

  I bobbed my head, leaned in close to examine another painting. “Yeah? How so?”

  “It’s already worse than I thought.”

  I scowled over my shoulder. “The fuck are you talking about?”

  He gave me a lazy shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. That last time I saw her, she and her sister were there for a weekly Hand Grenades set. This was probably two, maybe three, years ago? She was out there on the floor, kicking ass. And she happened to be drop-dead gorgeous. And now you’re tellin’ me she’s a fancy lawyer.”