Getting Over Matt

10 - "I wanted an excuse to take you out."

Chapter 10 - "I wanted an excuse to take you out."

On Saturday, I was walking down the high street when I noticed Nathan sitting in a coffee shop. Being tall and broad, he was hard to miss. Even though I knew I shouldn't go over to him—I was supposed to be mad at his interfering—I couldn't help but offer to hear him out. 

Crossing the street, I headed towards the café and pushed open the transparent glass door, immediately being hit by the strong aroma of coffee and baking. As I approached Nathan's table, I noticed he was reading a newspaper in Italian.  

"Aren't you supposed to be pissed at me?" Nathan asked, without looking up.  

I jumped, surprised that he'd noticed me when he seemingly hadn't even lifted his eyes from the paper.  

"Well, yes," I said. "But I wanted you to at least explain." 

He eventually looked up at me, fixing those twinkling eyes onto mine, and gestured to the seat opposite him. 

"Can I buy you a drink?" he offered.  

"That line still won't work on me." 

"Suit yourself." 

I eyed his own drink. "Is that an espresso?" I tipped my chin towards at the tiny mug sitting upon an equally tiny saucer. 

"Yes. I grew accustomed to them in Italy." 

"I don't get the point. Aren't they like a shot? How are you supposed to enjoy your coffee if you just down it in one go?" 

His lips twitched as he glanced up at me. "You don't down it in one. It still gives you a kick, though. A caffeine rush." 

I wasn't convinced but sat down opposite him anyway, scanning the headline of his newspaper to see if my knowledge of Spanish could help me to translate the Italian.

"I didn't realise you knew Italian," I told him.  

"I lived there for a year," he reminded me, turning his eyes back to his paper. "I picked some up. I'm by no means fluent. But I can understand it and read it. Not so good at speaking it though." 

This was a conversation that I could have for hours, but I remembered why I'd come in here to begin with.  

"What's going on with you and Kat?" I asked directly, deciding not to beat around the bush.  

"Why?" he asked in a casual tone, while his eyes continued flickering across the page as he scanned the article he was reading. "Are you jealous?" 

I tried to keep my calm, not appreciating the teasing when I was trying to have a serious conversation.

"No. I am not jealous. I'm curious." 

He finally looked up to meet my eyes. "There's nothing 'going on'," he said, using air quotations to emphasise his point. "I don't even like her that much, if I'm perfectly honest. Thought I made that clear during our picnic." 

"Yes. The picnic that she told you to go on."

"That's not exactly how it went, but why does it matter? We clearly have very different recollections of that picnic."

"Because I trusted you," I said, "and that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever since you've got trouble written all over you, but I trusted you. Then it turns out that the only reason you were hanging around was because she'd told you to." 

Several tense seconds passed as we stared at each other. Just when I was beginning to feel self-conscious under his intense gaze, he started talking.