Unloved: A Novel (The Undone)

There’s a Ninja Turtle dancing his way to me—so perfectly timed to the eerie beat of The Weeknd’s “Gasoline” that it feels like a fever dream version of my first time seeing him freshman year.

I’ve never asked Matt if he remembers that we met once before. That I waited for him for hours and then days and then weeks three years ago. I don’t think I could handle it if he says he does remember, or that he doesn’t—there’s no good answer.

I shake my head with a simpering smile at the painted-green shirtless body of Matt Fredderic as he shimmies playfully around me.

“Hey, Rosalie,” he breathes in my ear when he’s close enough.

“Hey, Matty.”

He grabs me in a tight hug that makes me squeal and jerk back to check that his green body paint hasn’t transferred to me.

“C’mon, princess,” he says, playing with the end of my pigtail. “You know I’d never mess up your cute outfit. You worked so hard on it.”

A smile pulls at my mouth as I examine him.

The green and yellow paint across his face, neck, torso, and arms looks messy, like whoever did it had to battle a constantly fidgeting and distracted Freddy. I imagine even-keeled Bennett giving up midway through, which explains why most of his arms are patchy, barely painted. A purple mask with roughly cut eyeholes is tied tightly around his head, fluffing his golden locks around it in a handsomely disheveled way—as is usual for Freddy.noveldrama

“Which Ninja Turtle are you supposed to be?”

He smacks a hand to his chest. “I’m insulted that you don’t know this.”

“Only child who didn’t watch the show or movies,” I say with a shrug.

“Yeah? Too busy with Beethoven for Babies? Or movies to improve your child’s IQ, my little brainiac?”

My face is on fire. I giggle and nod, feeling warm from the two drinks I’ve had. Not even tipsy, but completely drunk on his presence. It’s almost too easy to bask in the warmth that is Matt.

It would be so easy to love him, I think.

I barely manage to bite back the comment, grabbing his hand and jerking him closer to me.

“Dance with me?” I ask.

He smiles and touches his nose to mine. “Always.”

He pulls back and gulps down his full beer in a way that has my eyes tracking his Adam’s apple, mouthwatering as he swallows.

Matt takes my hand and spins me. I drag him a little closer, very aware that I’m playing with fire. But I don’t care.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers into my ear before darting back to give me a light, dopey smile that’s all softness and zero flirt.

My chest aches as I circle my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He smells like whiskey and body paint, and he feels dangerously like mine.

Matt Fredderic is a dopey drunk.

Eyes glazed from the shots we took—especially the ones he took in my stead when I wanted to stop drinking for the night, while the group wanted to keep playing whatever game we were on.

He laughed and joked with his teammates, but always made sure I felt included in it all. Freddy never makes anyone feel like an outsider, I’m realizing. He’s kind with everyone. He’s attractive, physically, yes, but he’s truly attractive because of how he treats those around him.

Bennett drove us to the Hockey House, offering me a ride to the dorms from there, which sparked a very quick argument from sleepy Matt in the back, who tucked his arms around me over the seat. The goalie shook his head but offered to help us inside. He looked antsy, so I assured him I’d be fine getting Freddy in on my own.

Which is proving harder than I thought.

Slowly climbing the steps with the added weight of a six-three muscled hockey boy is difficult, but I manage guiding us into his bedroom—even with the distraction of his puffs of breath on my neck, where he’s leaned his head.

He rests heavily on me, his body glowing under the soft lamplight in his messy room. It’s organized chaos; I can recognize it now. As soon as I turn to close the door behind us, he slides onto his back on the bed.

“Good night.” He smiles. It’s so boyish and sleepy I can’t help the starry-eyed look that comes over my face.

“Not so fast, Matty,” I chide, shaking his arms as I pull at his hand until he props back up.

“I want to sleep. Don’t you wanna sleep with me, Dorothy?” The huff beneath my breath must come out a little louder, because his mouth quirks and he squeezes my hand in his lightly. “Or do you like princess more?”

“C’mon.” I pull at him again. “You’re not sleeping in this green body paint. We need to get you into the shower.”

“And you’ll wash me?”

“If it gets you in there? Sure.”

His smile is breathtaking, and suddenly every ounce of energy that had seemingly left him is back in full force. He’s up and nearly sprinting to his en suite bathroom.

The shower is small, a tight square that we both definitely won’t fit into. So I get him to sit on the lid of the toilet as I turn on the water to a soothing warm spray.

Hunting through his drawers and cabinets, I find a container of baby wipes, hidden behind a messy jumble of unused products and a tower of multicolored towels.

I grab the thickest one, setting the plush material atop the limited counter space. Taking two of the wipes and quietly instructing Matt to close his eyes, I remove his mask and wipe away the paint on his handsome face. His skin reddens slightly with the motions, but he relaxes, breaths growing heavy and deep.

Reaching for a washcloth to soak under the warm spray, I hum a Cigarettes After Sex song lightly under my breath.

Continuing to his neck, I rub off the fading green body paint, careful to move his chain and make sure it’s clean, even the intricate pendant—a small, delicate carving of two winged figures embracing. I inspect it further now, able to see it more closely than I ever have. It’s a carving of something I recognize, a famous depiction of Psyche and Cupid. I want to ask him about it, but his eyes are nearly closed. Is he already sleeping?

Despite the warmth of the cloth, gooseflesh ripples across his exposed skin. I raise the towel to gently wipe his face.

“Do you like him ’cause he’s smarter than me?”

His voice is so small that for a moment I’m convinced he didn’t speak. That it was some whisper of my imagination.

My hand pauses, hovering over his cheek as I flick my eyes to meet his gaze—but his eyes are downcast, fingers playing with the hem of my too-short skirt.

“Who?” I ask after clearing my throat.

“Donaldson. You dated him so long. Is it because he’s smart?”

Both of his hands are distracting me, one palm warm against the back of my thigh like he’s trying to keep me here between his spread legs. The fingers of his other hand twirl patterns from the high cut of my stockings, playing with the fabric and my bare skin between the lace and my skirt.

But his voice isn’t the flirty or humorous Matt Fredderic. He isn’t hiding the insecurity in a joke.

“Matt,” I say, but my voice sticks. “We are broken up. For good. And he’s not that smart, I promise. In fact, I think you’re smarter in a lot of ways.”

He peeks up at me, a few speckles of green looking like freckles under his eyes, and a beautiful smile spreads across his full lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “I wish I was smart like you. You’re amazing.”

My heart squeezes tightly before thumping hard like it’s aching to reach for him as much as my arms are.

“You’re amazing, Matt,” I whisper, wiping away the lingering green at his hairline. His face is clean now, but I keep sweeping in gentle, soothing motions over his skin. “You’re so smart and creative and funny. You’re amazing.”

He sighs, and as his breath flutters against my fingers, I realize I might as well be tracing his lips.

“I want to kiss you again so bad,” he huffs, but shakes his head. “But I promised ‘just friends.’ ”

I want to kiss you, too.

Desperately so.

But my friendship with Matt is too important to me, so I swallow back the dry mouth that accompanies my desperate want for him.

“I love being your friend, Matt,” I say, because it’s true. But also because I can’t think of anything else besides, Yes, please kiss me, or, Maybe being just friends is overrated.

He’s smiling so I smile back.

Easy as breathing.

“This is way harder than a test.” He groans a little, rocking his head into my stomach.

“What is?”

“Not touching you,” he whispers before gently extracting himself from my arms, swaying slowly into the shower, and fiddling clumsily with the knobs. “I need it cold before I do something you’ll regret.”