“Valid point,” Matt agreed. “Should we retire to our usual corner then? I guess we’ll be the only ones. Everyone else seems already paired up, or busy, or too young.” He hadn’t felt old this morning but he was starting to feel it now. Cousin Richie was twenty-eight and engaged already.
None of that was any excuse for allowing himself to sayour usual cornerandalready paired up. As if inviting Santi to sit alone with him was something Matt did. He was hotter than a few sips should have made him. “If you won’t be bored,” he added.
Santi visibly stilled. He flicked a look up to Matt’s face, gazing at him with dark, lush eyes that always saw too much.
But like always, he didn’t press the point, or tease, or agree that an evening with Matt couldn’t compare to an evening with his friends in the city.
He nodded and said, “I think I’ll manage, Matty,” and walked off in the direction of the foyer.
Matt glanced around the room, then down at his drink. He took a slug, then followed after him, blaming his rapid heartbeat and overheated skin on the rum.
“At what point does it become sad that we sit here like this?” Santi wondered sort of idly, half-lying on the bench seat of the alcove in the foyer with his back to the wall and one foot on the floor. His sprawl was going to wrinkle his shirt and possibly his pants, which were already stretched over his thighs and other places.
Matt stared at the painting on the opposite wall, which was of a vineyard, unsurprisingly. He had resolved to keep his eyes on that painting, which was more difficult with every sip he took from his glass.
He still didn’t understand why this little alcove even existed. As if someone would come in the door and immediately need to rest on a bench. Well, thatwasthe reason, actually, to remove coats and hats or to put on rain boots, and probably to use the telephone back in the twenties or thirties, or to have whispered conversations that wouldn’t travel across the empty foyer and up the staircase.
Matt had kissed a bridesmaid once in this alcove. It was surprisingly private and intimate for a space not all that far from dozens of relatives.
He took another sip and wondered what he’d do when his glass was empty.
“In all honesty?” he finally answered. “Probably now. I have a twelve-year-old niece, for fuck’s sake. It’s only a matter of time before there will be a flock of awkward teens to do this.”
He risked a glance over.
Santi dropped his gaze to his ginger ale. “There is, of course, the alternative. Join them.”
“You mean talk business?” Matt asked, audible horror in his voice. “Get married?”
He caught a glimpse of a funny, twisty little smile through Santi’s curls. “The life of a confirmed bachelor for you, then?”
Matt forgot all about the painting. “Do you realize how rarely I am alone now?” he demanded. “If I was married, someone would be around me all the time. Someone that my mother would approve of would be around meall the time. No one—no one in this town would look at me seriously as I am. That’s—” His tongue felt thick. “Whoever married me would be after the name or the trust. Not me.”
Santi slowly raised his head. “Out of all the reasons, I didn’t think of that.” He licked his lips. “But without that. If, somehow, you traveled and found someone. Would you object to the institution, monogamous or otherwise? Do you think it’s just not for you, dating someone, settling down in some way?”
Santihadbeen wistfully considering the fate of the happy couple earlier.
Matt finished his glass and regretted it.
He spoke in a whisper, just in case. “I love them. But they want me to be like them. Like they are. Not how I am or how I want. So it’s better this way.” He was dramatic and either buzzed or not buzzed enough. “Anyway, you’re one to talk.”
Santi sat up straighter, offended. “It hasn’t even been five years since it was legal for me to get married.”
“Excuses, that’s all I’m hearing,” Matt told him mercilessly, his gut churning. “Find some clever art boy and make him yours. Think of the wedding our mothers would plan.”
“Are youtryingto make me want a real drink?” Santi pointed to his ginger ale. The ice had melted. He had a sip anyway, then scoffed. “Clever art boy. If I wanted to be around people who feel they have to be clever andonall the time, I’d still live in the city.”
Matt closed his mouth. “I suppose that’s fair,” he said at last. “Some of your friends are a bit…” Santi lifted his eyebrows expectantly “…into proving how smart they are,” Matt finished, a bit cheekily. “They were nice enough, though, once you get past that. And the rest of them were lovely. I didn’t even mind when they groped me.”
“You idiot.” Santi was soft and teasing and possibly relieved.
Matt had to clear his throat. “So,” he began, too loudly, “find a not-clever, not-art boy. Settle down someplace nice. Get him to support you—or help support you.”
“The dream,” Santi said, still in his soft voice, and dropped his gaze back to his glass.
“So this is where you are!” Camille broke into Matt’s thoughts before he could gather them and think of what else to say to make Santi happy again. He jerked his head up to stare at his heavily pregnant sister where she stood in the doorway.
Santi had a smile for her, though, so Matt did too. Camille was rosy and glowing. It wasn’t difficult to smile at her.
