Everything Fragile✔

Chapter Seveenteen - All These Shattered Pieces

   It's dad's job to fix the house. Whatever's left of it. I have no desire to touch the million dollars in my back account any time soon. Plus, he doesn't deserve my help. As if I'm one to talk. My mother is dead because of me and despite that truth, Mateo still helps me. Despite how selfish I am, he's still here. I guess some part of him takes full responsibility for dragging me into his mess of a life. He's trying to make it up to a person who isn't deserving of any of his kindness.

   "We're almost there!" His voice snaps me out of my thoughts. Just up ahead, Mateo drags my oversized suitcase down a freshly polished floor. Three men in black tailored suits follow after him. They've been trying to pry my luggage out of his grip for a while now, but Cruz is very much persistent.

   When we arrive at the grand doors of the luxury penthouse, Mateo finally hands my luggage over to the men and waits for me to catch up to him before we enter. The first thing I notice is the space. The ceiling feels miles high from down here, covered in paintings of naked babies with wings. They hold golden harps in their chubby little fingers as they gaze solemnly down on us. The painting makes me uncomfortable so I divert my attention to the living room. A white couch rests in the middle of the room, matched with a short table that has three different remotes on it. A shelf hugs the nude colored wall, filled with an organized mix of books and movies. There's a rug near the sofa that looks so comfortable I just want to drop everything and lie right on top of it. I think Mateo notices my fatigue because he motions for me to go take a seat. When I do, I sink into the soft cushions and almost pass out, but somehow I'm managing to keep my eyes open.

   I watch him as he circles around the couch and goes towards the kitchen. There's nothing that divides the two rooms off. It's just open space except for the bar table that stretches the length of the kitchen with four tall wooden chairs at its sides.

   "I had them bring some groceries before we got here." Mateo says as he opens the door of the fridge that I originally thought was a pantry until now. "I can whip something up. What are you craving?"

   Penne Alla Vodka. I used to eat it all the time during my shift at Marina's. Chef Grayson made it the best out of anyone else at the restaurant and he'd always leave me a little extra to bring home. I can practically taste it now, but I don't tell Mateo this because he's already doing so much for me right now. Too much.

   "I'll just have a sandwich."

   "Are you sure? You haven't eaten anything all day. How about some steak? There's asparagus and—oh! I can make Cesar Salad as a side."

   Before I can answer, the three men from earlier come out from a hallway I didn't notice until now. "Your belongings have been stored in the guest bedroom down the hall." One of them says. I notice a slight accent when he speaks that I can't name.

   "Thank you."

   "Mr. Dela Cruz, please don't bother." Another one says—a blonde with a cleanly trimmed goatee. "Chef Jean-Paul can make dinner for the both of you. Let me go call him—"

   "No worries." Mateo waves them off, attention mostly focused on peeling garlic. "Quince is my guest tonight and I'd like to cook for her."

   My face heats up at his words and for some reason my heart hitches as if it stopped beating for a second. I don't feel as tired all of a sudden. Just flustered and I don't know why. Maybe it's the way that he glances at me that has me forgetting how to breathe. Or maybe it was the way that he said my name. Yes, it's a word he's said a dozen times before, but it sounds different here under the warm glow of the hanging lamps above. Or maybe it's because I'm absolutely losing my shit.

   After everything that went down today, the last thing I need to do is make up a scenario in my head where Mateo is infatuated with me to fill some hole that has grown inside of my chest. Him saying my name differently or looking at me differently won't make my life any better. My dad will still be inadequate. My home will still be broken. My future will still be at the mercy of his uncle.