Tangled Wires, page 8
“Don’t ask me that, Charlotte.”
As if I can’t already tell how much of himself he’d sacrifice at my behest just from seeing his face. I also value our friendship, but I won’t stop this project just so he can be more comfortable. Since I’m not going to bother him for his schematics anymore, the point is moot.
I smile at him then with all my mushy thoughts, “Ah, I love you too, Matthew.”
He looks so startled at that, I have to screw my lips to keep from laughing. Then I remember that I may be the first person to tell him something like that, even in a friendship way, and it stops my smile.
“I just want you to know you’re important to me and I care about your well-being.” It’s uncomfortable to state it so plainly. I can feel the blush starting to tinge my cheeks.
“Enough to stop this project?”
“Don’t ask that of me Matthew.” I glare at him and he sighs but doesn’t seem that disappointed.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
We make short work of the crates I’ve selected. Matthew effortlessly loads them, with his mechanical grade strength, into a SUV he had thought to bring instead of his usually flashy sports car. When he’s done, he opens the passenger door for me before turning back to the house with an odd expression on his face.
“I didn’t know what to do with the old place. You said you didn’t want it and… I hate being here, it reminds me of being trapped in that damn basement for years but it’s also where I was born.”
Matthew’s ill at ease expression makes me bump him with my shoulder.
“It’s just a place, Matthew. We have a different place now. One we made.” Consoling him is intimate, but I can’t help it. Matthew smiles at me and we leave this hollow house with mixed memories.
“Where do you want this stuff set up? This equipment won’t fit in your apartment.”
That is a good question. One I hadn’t considered when I’d angrily come up with my plan to kick ass and take names. Matthew must see my moment of indecision.
“We can set it up at my place; it’s empty enough and it’s stuff that I can use when performing maintenance on myself.”
His offer solves the issue he raised perfectly. Matthew not acting as an obstruction is welcome, but him actively enabling me is a gift that I didn’t expect. I’m happy I called him.
“I’d really appreciate that.” Something in my tone must have portrayed my thoughts because Matthew grabs my hand and squeezes it. Trying to comfort whatever emotional thing I’m dealing with.
Matthew had been right about his apartment being empty. It’s bare. The walls are blindingly white, and the space looks uninhabited from the doorway except for some small plants on the kitchen island. The plants aren’t even decorative, they look more like a gardening project.
I’m still pondering Matthew’s apparent green thumb when I get farther into the apartment and see it. I blink at the impossibility of it. In the center of the main room is my mother’s piano. I feel the tears well when I turn to look at Matthew, who just shrugs.
“It was supposed to be a surprise, I just didn’t know when to surprise you with it. The walls and floor have been sound proofed, so you don’t have to worry about a noise complaint. I mean, we wouldn’t have to anyway since we own the building, but I figured you would have cared.” Matthew looks uncomfortable but that turns a little distressed when the first tears begin to trail down my cheeks.
“We can move it somewhere else if you want. I just thought you’d want to play it and it won’t fit in your apartment—”
I stop Matthew’s babbling with a tight hug, tucking my face tightly into his chest. It’s the most physical contact we’ve had since that night on the couch, but it’s a mandatory action for what he’s given me.
“Thank you, it’s wonderful.”
The warmth of his body is so compelling that I need to take a step away. The raw look in Matthew’s eyes makes me avoid his gaze.
Looking at the black, glossy instrument makes my fingers itch. A different kind of hunger possesses me than what usually afflicts me around Matthew.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
Matthew just grins, a quick shift of his mood, and winks at me. “I’ll finish bringing up the crates. That should give you at least a few minutes alone to get reacquainted.”
My fingers run over the key cover and I barely notice the door clicking shut as Matthew leaves. This piano has always bewitched me.
At first it had been because the earliest memories of my mother had been of her fingers touching the piano keys just so, until the sounds had magically turned into songs that beguiled bystanders. Then she would patiently teach me to craft the sounds into songs until I could play on my own. We would tease each other with who would get their turn to play and when.
After… there had been no more silly duets. I hadn’t been able to play again for years because Dad had locked the piano. Everything had been so colorless until I had learned to pick that lock.
I arrange my hands and press the keys down. I begin to play.
The notes come to me fluidly and a song swells, sweet and potent. Before swooping down, I let myself remember all the happy memories of my mother and miss her.
Music always had a way of shining a light on my emotions, clawing the deepest ones out of the caves of my soul to be exposed to the unforgiving day. I suppose it’s cathartic; even if it weren’t, I don’t think I would stop playing, the pain is the cost of color. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself really feel.
Some part of me knows what resides in those caves, what I’ve been hiding. The people closest to me are gone: Mother, Sean, and now Dad. It’s only logical that heartache would be winding me tight.
When the song ends, my face is wet, and the heaviness of grief makes me choke. Arms wrap around me in comfort. I am no longer alone in the apartment. I turn my face into the citrus scent of Matthew’s dress shirt. He pulls me on his lap and cradles me as I sob.
10
I float. I am familiar enough with this moment of disconnect to know that I’m dreaming again. The water drags at my consciousness, like the claws of a specter plucking at the strings of my existence. I remember that I’ve always loved Greek lore, the idea that one of the Fates is plucking at the string of my life makes my chest warm. No... not a Fate, it’s the water itself that makes my chest warm.
It’s both serene and terrible because there is only numbness, before and after the rain of pills… Pills? What pills? But my questions are lost to the sound of the water dripping in the tub. The drips marked the passage of time. Drip one. Drip two. Time is a fluid thing, not to be held in place by the drips of water.
I wake from the dream tense, covered in sweat and full of dread. Something about the bathtub drives me to clumsily click on the lamp on the side table, illuminating the room. Slowly, I place my wrists under the light and look closely, holding my breath. Nothing. The skin there is unblemished. My breath escapes me in a relieved gust; was it just a dream? My racing heart thinks it was real. It had felt so real.
I hadn’t seen a razor in the dream, but I had heard things when I was younger, enough to know that a razor and bathtub was the way my mother committed suicide. My hands shake as I cover my face and my eyes well. Fear, shame, and confusion beat with my erratic heart. Was it a nightmare? Some lurking mental hang-ups about my mother? I breathe, searching for calm.
I’ll bring it up with Nguyen later. I frown; I haven’t checked in with her in a while. It isn’t like I need therapy any less than before. Dragging my hands down my face I stare at the ceiling, trying to determine if sleep will be possible. The clock says two in the morning, I groan. Too early to really wake up, but I can’t sleep. I can’t make myself go back into that floaty world and see how the story ends.
I know what I want, quite possibly what I need, but a line was crossed last time I sat with Matthew during sleeping hours. The temptation is alive in me because the light is on in the other room. At the beginning of all of this he had said that he would sleep, but I’ve never woken up during a time he hasn’t already been awake. I’m a moth to flame to that light. The need for comfort is so dire; I taste the metallic tang of panic in my mouth.
The light from under my bedroom door is disrupted, making me jump; my adrenaline still high. The knock is soft. “Charlotte? Are you okay? Your breathing changed.”
I want to press my face into a pillow, silence my distraught gasps, hide. It won’t matter if I hide because Matthew already knows my weaknesses. His presence here is supposed to help me protect myself from them.
“Just a dream.” If I stay in this bed, I’m safe from my attraction to Matthew.
“Do you want to talk about it?... I’ll keep my hands to myself.” The guarantee hurts him; I can feel the ache from where I lie. Staying safe from my lust for Matthew and being able to breathe are two different requirements for survival, with one being more immediate than the other. I slide out of bed and grab a throw blanket, wrapping myself up.
When I open the door Matthew steps back, giving me space. “The couch?” he asks hesitantly. The couch is certainly a better option than the bed. I wouldn’t trust myself with him there.
I cuddle up on the corner of the couch before turning to face my savior from bad dreams. I don’t want to talk about my dream memories. I want to be distracted.
“Why do you hate my dad?”
Spoken in present tense because Matthew’s hate still feels like a living thing even though Dad is not. Matthew’s eyes widen for a moment before he sits back. His hand moves to reach for my bare foot as if searching for a distraction before he remembers that he promised not to touch me.
Silently I offer my foot up as a peace offering, because who am I to say no to a foot rub? Matthew takes a moment to answer my question but the warmth of his hand massaging my foot is heavenly, so I don’t mind. I slightly relax as he rubs the tension from the sole of my foot. I’m surprised when he speaks.
“Being someone else’s creation isn’t a comfortable sensation. To have them craft you to be just the way they want. Adjusting large swathes of your personality at a time—” He pauses, struggling to disclose whatever he feels so strongly about.
“Can you imagine finding out that you had large parts of you, your wants, desires, dislikes, culled from your personality based on someone else’s whims?”
“But he loved you.” The statement rings insincere even before Matthew laughs bitterly because I know what he’s going to say.
“You don’t change a person that way, iterating multiple personalities until you find the one you like, when you love them. He did it because I was his creation, not a person.”
There’s truth in that statement.
“For a lot of Clark’s meddling in my program I didn’t even care. Until it came to one thing that I found I wanted to keep.” Matthew’s eyes met mine then and there is a fierceness in them I can’t identify. “That one thing made me want to keep all my other traits. It made me feel like a complete person, human, whether Clark approved or not.”
“What thing?” I ask.
Matthew’s gaze glitters before he looks at my mouth. “That is something we can talk about during daylight hours.”
My throat is thick. I don’t want to delve into the possibilities of what he is implying right now.
“What did you do?”
He did something. Otherwise my dad would have just kept changing Matthew’s system, making him someone else. There is a small smile on Matthew’s face as he focuses on my foot again, picking up my other one.
“I made some changes to my system so that Clark thought he was changing my programming, but he really didn’t have access.” A simple solution. A defense of self. I’m admiring Matthew’s work-around when something occurs to me.
“If Dad didn’t care about you, why did he leave you any ownership in the company?”
Matthew freezes and at his reaction, a coldness trickles in my chest.
“What did you do?”
Matthew squeezes my foot in reassurance, but he can’t meet my gaze. “Clark didn’t love you the way you deserved. He only loved Exordium.”
I smack his hand away from my foot. Him bringing up how my dad didn’t love me yet again stings but he’s avoiding a serious topic. Matthew squares his shoulders and meets my glare with one of his own.
“Matthew. What. Did. You. Do?”
What could he even do?
“If it had been up to Clark, you wouldn’t have any ownership of the company.”
The shock hits me like a slap. The burn starts my mouth moving. “You’re lying.”
Matthew shakes his head, gritting his teeth in anger.
“He arranged for Parsons to be assigned your medical power of attorney, probably through bribes. On his death he was going to admit you into a mental hospital rather than have the press speculate about why you were passed over. I couldn’t let him do that; I forged a new will. Yes, I gave myself enough to be a viable candidate for the position of CEO, but I only wanted to be in a position to do what I could for you.”
This is all so much worse than what I thought he’d say.
“You’re lying.” It sounds pathetic when I say it now because my brain is catching up with what he’s told me, and it makes a sick sort of sense. Dad wouldn’t… but he would. If he thought that I would drive Exordium into the ground… he’d do anything.
“I don’t lie when it comes to you, Charlotte.” Matthews eyes narrow as if he’s insulted but he reins in any anger he feels.
“That is one hell of an omission of truth!”
Do not cry. The hurt spirals in me but I won’t cry for a father who would do such a thing.
Matthew nods, accepting my judgment. He broke all the rules, omitting the truth was just a small one. Matthew broke laws, and by telling me I’ve become an accomplice. I should call a lawyer, do something, but I’m having the hardest time caring.
Injustice has been done to Clark Simpson, but my fury has burned away much of the blindfold I had concerning him. Injustice would have been done to me and Matthew was the only one who would have stepped in to stop it. I’d like to think that Kawa and Delila would have cared, but this is a game the powerful play.
“Do you want to hit me?” Matthew asks. My face must be something to behold for him to think that.
“No, I don’t want to fucking hit you! Not everything is about you.” Just like that, my anger cracks. A clean break.
My father wasn’t a good man. Clark Simpson was driven by his greed and need to have an everlasting legacy. His obsession with perfection and selfishness pushed my mother into her own spiral and me away. His choices weren’t about me. His choices would have, and did, affect my life, but they had nothing to do with me. The fault lay with him.
What a time to have a revelation. I sit there stunned. Matthew looks at me, worried. Anger still brews in me, but the emotion is unmoored, on the cusp of blowing away. It has never been about me. I start blinking but thankfully don’t start crying.
“I think… I’m going to go to bed.” Sleep won’t happen but I need time to process, or just to revel in this odd sensation. This letting go of the bullshit involving Clark Simpson.
“I’m not sorry. I’d do it again. Please don’t shut me out, Charlotte.” Matthew’s plea makes my lips twitch. He looks like he’s keeping most of his emotions in by sheer force of will. I don’t know why Matthew cares so deeply about how I react, about me, but I want to find out.
“I’m not… mad at you, Matthew. I should probably say thank you. I might later. I just need some time.”
Matthew looks shocked. It gives me a jolt of happiness to be the one to surprise him this time.
11
My Zen-like mood about my father’s plans and Matthew’s actions last all the way into the next workday. Until the moment that Parsons shows up at my office.
“Charlotte! I just stopped by to say hello.”
I look up and my smile freezes on my face at the sight of the bastard. It doesn’t matter that what was in my father’s will never came to pass, the man in front of me would have done what Clark Simpson asked of him. No matter the question of right or wrong; Parsons is just wrong.
Delila comes up behind Parsons, looking upset that he had gotten past her gatekeeping abilities. She carries a cup of coffee from the café I prefer down the street. A midday treat. I commit then and there I’m going to send Delila on whatever vacation she wants even if her momentary absence did let Parsons slip by her desk. Worth. Her. Weight. In. Gold.
“Parsons, what brings you to my office right before a meeting where we will see each other?”
Parsons frowns at me and I see Delila’s lips twitch as she drops the cup off at my desk. I smile at her, communicating that I don’t blame her for Parsons’s appearance and then I’m alone with a snake.
“I’ve been made aware of your replacement organs project and I wanted to forewarn you before you waste too much of the company’s time.”
Everything in me seizes at that. How did Parsons find out? I pray my outer appearance looks unconcerned. Either I’m successful at hiding how blown away I am at his proclamation or Parsons isn’t paying much attention as he continues.
“Exordium will never approve such a crazy project,” he says, and I try not to flinch at his use of the term crazy. “The amount of costs to get past the regulations alone would decimate profits for years to come. We have a fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders! We aren’t a charity and I will not let you bankrupt this company.”
Parsons practically spits in his agitation. My brain quickly recovers from this ambush, so I respond.
“It’s true that innovation costs, but in the case of all the past inventions Exordium has backed, the risks have paid off. Many of those risky projects were created by my father.” None of the arguments that I make will make a difference to Parsons. He will always be the biggest obstacle. Parsons openly sneers at me.
