Unloved: Chapter 59

“You really didn’t have to do all of this.”

“

,” my mom says. She squeezes my biceps and peers around my shoulders to inspect the dough I’m molding. “I wanted to. I think manti is good for dinner, right? How much do you think we should make?”

My mother’s eyes dart around the massive piles of lamb-filled dumplings on which she’s just sprinkled more flour. Her hands are still powdered as she sets them on her hips.

“I think this is more than enough, actually.”

“Matt is a growing boy—”

“He’s not a giant,” I laugh, shaking my head as I finish off the last of the dumplings. My mom gives me a look that screams . “You’ve made plenty of food, okay? Let’s get these into the water before it boils over.”

I start on the sauce, pulling the ingredients out of the fridge as my mom sings low. The nostalgia of it all—her voice, the smell of her food—soothes me. My muscles relax even further—more than they have in years.

She watches me work, but not in a way that makes it feel like she’s looking for errors—it’s like she’s taking in the sight of me, committing this once-familiar sight to memory.

“What?” I smile at her, blowing a curl out of my eyes. We look the most alike—my father’s fairer complexion and blue eyes didn’t stand a chance against her brown skin, hazel eyes, and mass of black curls. My own strands might be a little lighter, a brunette hue more like my dad’s, but I am my mother’s daughter.

. I heard the sentiment from both my overly loving parents. Where my father has a gruff exterior, my mother is as soft as they come. Fragile, yes, but strong in her fragility and vulnerability. In a way I’ve always aspired to be.

I just got a little lost along the way.

“Mom.” I find my voice, shaky as I concentrate on stirring the red sauce in front of me. “I’m really, really happy that you’re getting to meet Matt. He—he helped me a lot this semester, and… it’s just special to have him here with you and Dad.”

My boyfriend is currently watching the prep games for World Juniors—which one player from Waterfell is playing in—and from what I overheard, he’s spending most of the time explaining hockey to my dad, answering all his questions.

Matt is patient, and to see him be so comfortable with my dad, never annoyed with the slowness of his speech or responses, makes my heart thunder even harder with that one truth.

“We didn’t meet your other boyfriend.”

I refocus my attention, moving the pot from the heat as I stir. I look at my mother’s intense, love-filled gaze. It says “It’s hard to put into words,” I say. My mother is patient, reaching to take the sauce from my hands and setting it to the side, walking us farther into the kitchen, away from the open walkway to the living room. “Tyler was… very mean to me.”

I talk. She listens, never cuts me off, just nodding even as her eyes well up with tears.

At the end, we both cry.

“I didn’t want to tell you because—I just wanted things to be easy. For you. For Dad—and I know—”

“Rosalie Defne Shariff,” she whisper-shouts, reaching to grab my shoulders and shake me a little. “You are to your father and me. You have been the greatest blessing of our lifetime. I would not trade a second, only wishing you felt like you could tell me this sooner.” She pauses and looks around for a moment, clearing her throat before adding, “And maybe, wanting you to bring this Tyler boy here so I can slap him myself.”

“Mom,” I laugh.

“You think I’m kidding.”

We hug, laughs subsiding into more tears. She builds me up with every whispered, “

” It warms my heart, healing even more of my soft, sad pieces.

“I’m making simit in the morning,” she says, pulling away resolutely.

“Mom,” I say, but don’t want to tell her no. It’s my favorite—especially with jam—but she only makes it on special occasions. The bread dish is time-consuming, so it’s a treat for her to cook.

“I’m making it,” she snaps back, elbowing me as she takes the pot of cooked manti off the stove and starts to plate them. “You deserve it, .”

I wait to take Matt downtown until the day after Christmas, our last day before flying home.

Solvang is packed, but so beautiful that you forget about the crowds underneath the twinkling lights.

We’ve spent the last four days with my parents—exchanging gifts quietly. My parents say they don’t celebrate Christmas, but we always give one gift to each other and watch my mom’s favorite holiday movie, . It’s a favorite tradition of mine, one I was thrilled to include Matt in. With the four of us, it somehow felt even more like home.

We grab Danish treats from one of the multiple bakeries downtown, ordering anything and everything seasonal. Matt dons a Santa hat, tucking red and green reindeer antlers with bells on them into my loose, long curls.

Playing tourists in a town I’ve been to a thousand times is entirely different. Because it’s with him, it feels like the first time—bursting with excitement and endless laughing fits. We take pictures at every stop, until I run out of storage on my phone and we switch to his.

By nightfall, we down the last of the hot chocolate we’ve been sipping, trading it for hot mulled wine from a darkened tiki bar on the corner.

Matt pays for the jukebox—which is really a requestable streaming service—to play the song from our ice skating adventure over the crackling speakers.

“Time to check off another one, Rosalie,” he says, smacking my backside gently as he hoists me to stand and climb up on top of the bar—

—but only for a moment, before we’re getting kicked out, my long legs tossed over his shoulder as he carries me out, both of us laughing as we sing “I Don’t Wanna Wait Til Christmas,” fumbling most of the words.

Matt gifted me a crafting service subscription, which lets me try all kind of artsy things I’ve always wanted to. My gift to him was this mini getaway before our flight home. Just us tonight.

He puts me down before stumbling forward with a laugh, turning back to me with his arms stretched out as he keeps singing. My voice trails off, just watching him. Completely sick in love with him.

Matt eyes me, too, realizing I’ve frozen on the sidewalk under the glittering lights, making me feel like we’re in some romantic snow globe. He’s smiling, lines carving his cheeks, dancing side to side.

“What?”

I laugh, a bright, bubbling feeling shooting through me like stars in a night sky.

“I love you,” I say.

He freezes, a tender smile tentatively spreading—nervous, worried I’ll take the words back.

“Yeah?” he asks, disbelieving and wanting in a way that pulls at my chest.

“Yeah,” I say to reassure him, voice strong. “And I’m not scared, because it’s . I was terrified that it would be hard to trust someone again, to be this vulnerable, but…” I bite my lip before the words spill like tipped-over wine. “I think falling in love with you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

It’s his turn to laugh, but his eyes shine, glimmering with tears. A thread of worry worms through my stomach.

“What?”

He shakes his head, stepping toward me. “Nothing. You just… you said something really similar once.”

My brows furrow. “I did?”

“Yeah.” Matt reaches out and takes my waist in his hands. “At the party, back in August?”

“Oh God,” I moan, trying to cover my face with my hands. He nudges them away with his nose. “The one where I sang karaoke in your car like a drunk crazy person.”

He grins broadly. “The one where you called me your celebrity crush—”

“I didn’t—”

“And jumped off the shed into the pool to ‘feel something.’ ”

“I—” The words don’t make it out this time. I shake my head as my cheeks heat. “God, that’s so horribly embarrassing—”

“No.” He cuts me off with a quick press of his lips to mine. Then another, much slower and softer. Keeping our foreheads pressed together, he continues. “I jumped with you, and when we were in the water together, you told me that you thought I’d be really easy to love.”

My eyes pull from their locked spot between his pecs, meeting the spring green of his intense gaze. “I did?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I thought about that a lot. Like, every day. It’s the first time anyone has said anything about me being easily loveable.” He tries to joke, but I can see how deeply this affected him and I want to hug my drunken self for being honest.

“Oh,” is all I manage to say, intoxicated by him in this moment.

We kiss, gentle, almost tentative, and it still leaves us both breathless.

“And, if it wasn’t clear, I love you, too,” he says. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time.”

When we get to the hotel room, he presses me into the mattress, and I preen under his ministrations. We undress each other in slow, languid movements.

Every time we’re together now, intimate, it’s comfortable. Matt so completely commands all of my attention he banishes the threat of self-destructive, painful thoughts of before.

He kneels on the hardwood floor, pulling my knees over his broad shoulders as he kisses my thighs, teasing me and avoiding the place that aches for him until I plead breathlessly. I can barely get the words from my lips before his tongue is firm and insistent over my clit.

My orgasms are so heady I barely notice how loud or intense I become vocally, but it pleases Matt—pulling throaty moans and, “

,” from his mouth over and over as I turn to liquid in his hands.

He moves over me languidly, mouth shining with my release as he grins and lowers to his forearms. The comforting press of cool metal to my overheated skin ignites me further, hands reaching, twining in his hair.

Beneath the intensity this time, there’s an inherent softness. It’s always been there, in the corner of the room as we explored each other’s bodies. But now, with the weight of shared s, it seeps into every movement. Every touch.

Matt is so much more than his body, more than sex. But he has always shown love physically—and I can feel it with every press of his skin to mine. Every lingering kiss. The catch in his breath as he slides into me. Our mouths nearly touch, but we don’t kiss, sharing breath—the scent of warm mulled wine heavy in the air as we pant and he pulls another orgasm from me.

His pace is slow, the feel of him dripping like syrup over my skin. I want to feel this way forever, keep him clutched between my thighs, holding still as I chase my own release, riding every wave.

“You feel so good,” I moan, watching as the praise ignites him. “God, Matt—please, baby.

,” I slur, head tossing back.

Matt’s hips pick up the pace, the slow intimacy melting into a light frantic energy as he gets closer.

“Come for me.” I say it this time.

He comes, moaning my name. I press kisses into his neck and jaw. He returns them, his lips meeting the sweat-damp skin of my hairline before he meets my eyes.

We gaze wonderstruck at each other, silently asking one another ?

“I love you, Rosalie,” he breathes, grinning broadly, smile lines cutting his cheeks sharply. “God, it feels so good to say that.”

“I love you, Matty,” I whisper, tucking my fingers into the gold chain and looping it around. He curls down to me, nose to nose, both of us smiling still, even as we kiss, teeth nearly clacking. Joy bubbles under my skin like champagne.

This, with him, forever. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. And it’s love. And it’s real.