True Art

Chapter Thirty-four

REMINGTON'S POV

I spent much of the following week thinking about Matthew leaving. Time was flying by, and the longer he was here, the more the cottage felt alive. He’d gotten bored one afternoon and asked me if I’d mind if he added some things to the large oak bookcase in the living room. I’d watched with amusement as he returned with a small collection of books and some peculiar items, adding his trinkets to my shelves.

Then another morning, he’d woken before me and reorganized my kitchen counter. It seemed more cluttered somehow, but sweeter. And I smiled at his beaming face, those dimples dancing. Matthew was magic -- pure, unfiltered magic. Awakening my life from a long, foggy sleep and reminding me why life was worth living.

It was now, as I watched him feeding the hens and carrying the little chick inside, that I realized I couldn’t let him go.

“You’ve made friends with your enemies, then?” I said as he appeared in the doorway.

“Yep. They’re not so bad once they’re not chasing you and stuff. And I had to go out anyway to collect this little guy. Today is a special day.”

“Oh, yeah? How come?”

Matthew set the tiny chick down on the kitchen floor and went off to the sink to wash his hands. “It’s his naming day. Are you excited to hear it?”

I chuckled at his cute grin, and I wanted to carry him back upstairs right then. “You are crazy, Matthew. Go on then, tell me what you’ve named the chicken.”

He dried off his hands and limped over to the kitchen table. He’d been without his crutches for nearly a week now, and he was doing so much better. Maybe that was what had added to my worry about him leaving.

It was evident how fast he was healing, and that meant he didn’t need me as much anymore.

“Okay. I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers by picking something too obvious, so we’ve been hatching some plans, and there’s been several good options, all of them egg-cellent...”

“Oh dear Lord, Matthew. Enough! No more chicken puns. You’re not a comedian.” I groaned and rolled my eyes.

He giggled. “Don’t you mean comedi-hen?”

I threw my hands into the air and chuckled. “There are no words for how aw-fowl that was.”

He glanced up, eyes wide in surprise, and he burst out laughing. “That was so good! Aw-fowl. Haha. You’re so cute, Remi. No wonder I love you.” There was a strange tension in the kitchen as his words settled around us, and his face fell, panic painting his features white. “Shit. I didn’t mean that. What I meant was--"

“It’s alright, Matthew. Don’t worry. I know what you meant.” I said it to comfort him, but it wasn’t the truth. I didn’t know what he meant at all. What could he have meant other than what he’d said. That he loved me? Did he?

I swallowed hard, trying to hide my own rising panic. We’d known each other for six weeks, four of those living together in this strange arrangement. Surely it was too soon to say those words? To feel them? But I knew it wasn’t. Because I’d been feeling them myself. I loved him, and now, my beloved Matthew might just have revealed that he loved me.

A wave of nausea hit me, followed by a shiver of excitement. “So, uh... the name. You were telling me the name.”

He blinked and nodded, avoiding making eye contact. “Oh, yeah. So you know how chickens are kinda like dinosaurs? Well, let me introduce you to the one and only, chicken of all chickens, Tyrannosaurus Pecks. Get it?”