If Only She'd Loved Him

Chapter 9

"You have had a bad day," he muttered.  "Yeah, how about a vodka?" he asked, pulling out a bottle.

Returning from the kitchen, Matt handed Jean a shot glass, then flipped open the beer he'd brought for himself.  Without saying a word, she downed first one shot then another. Cheeks burning, she balanced the glass on her palm as if she were weighing what the effects of another would do to her. Matt watched her, frowning.  Whatever she had to tell him, did she really need a drink to do it?  His opinion of her slipped another notch, but he didn't let it show on his face. 

"So, Jean-Genie, what can I do for you?"

Now it was Jean's turn to frown.  She hated that stupid nickname.  Matt had pinned it on her during a lousy double date with Megan and Paul.  He had seemed to get great pleasure out of using it the entire night, even though she'd let him how know much it annoyed her. 

"My name is Jean," she'd told him flatly, "and for the record I hate David Bowie and that miserable song!"

Matt said nothing, but his eyes had widened about the fuss she'd made over one little joke. Their talk had deteriorated into weather and school sports.  Since Edgewood was a small liberal arts college, and it had just rained for five days straight, the conversation died a fast death.  Jean hadn't cared.  She'd folded her napkin into tiny bits and just hoped the whole miserable evening would end soon.  Seated directly across from her, Matt had been thinking exactly the same thing. 

Now Jean put down her glass and studied Matt.  Was he just being annoying or had he legitimately forgotten that she hated that nickname?  Vodka, warm and liquid, working its way through her system, Jean decided to be generous. He must have forgotten. After all, she'd forgotten how cute he was.

His blond, almost white hair was falling into his face, lapping over his wire-framed glasses in a soft C.  His mouth still had that half-grin on its face, but his eyes looked serious.  She inched closer.  Grey eyes framed in steel.  Jean found herself wanting to pull away those glasses, get a closer look past his Clark Kent persona.  The tension was easing out of her body, slipping, sliding away. She sank back deeper on the couch. Continuing to study Matt, she remembered why she had kept thinking about him even though their double date had been a fiasco.  What girl doesn't want Superman? she thought to herself, giggling. Then swallowing back the giggle, she got serious.

"Tell me the truth..  Were you and Paul out drinking two nights ago?"

"Yeah, at the Slate," he responded, not real pleased at being interrogated in his own living room.  "We were there till about 2:00," he replied. "Why?  Is Megan mad at Haverson or something cause he wasn't with her?"

"No, nothing like that," she shook her head. "It's just that—"

"Just what?" he asked, wishing very hard that she would get to the point.  He hated dancing around situations.  Jean didn't notice his impatience.  She was too busy trying to stifle an urge to brush his hair off his forehead, it looked so soft and inviting.  She locked her fingers together.

"Just nothing."  Straightening her back, Jean stood.  "Look, thanks for the drink, but I really should get going." 

"Jean," Matt put his hand on her arm.  "You look like hell, and you just tossed two shots. Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't." Jean shook his hand off her arm. "It's too weird."

"What's too weird?  Talk to me."  His voice was insistent, firm and in control.  Jean began to regret she'd had anything to drink.  Her mind felt fuzzy like it was full of gelatin.  His hands felt so good. Bleary eyed, she looked at him.

"Why are you and Paul roommates anyway?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"You're so nice and he's such a, such a—" Her mouth twisted as she rolled her eyes.

"Your roommate doesn't have a problem with him," Matt replied, "and neither do I.  Now are you going to tell me why you were crying your eyes out waiting for Paul?"  A light seemed to click on in his head.  "Wait a minute, you don't have a thing for him, do you?"

"No, I do not have a thing for him.  It's Megan!" Jean retorted, then regretted speaking at all. Her first opinion had been correct.  Matt was a jerk, just like Paul, and as for that soft touchable hair, well it was falling too perfectly on his face.  He probably had a secret cache of hairspray in his bathroom.  She folded her arms across her chest. 

"What?  Is she pregnant?"

"No," Jean snapped back.  "She's missing.  Why do men always think if a girl is in trouble that she's pregnant?"

Matt ignored her outburst.  "It's a guy thing," he said dryly.  Leaning back on the other end of the sofa, he thought over what Jean had just said.  Mysteries intrigued him and this was about as 40s hard boiled detective as you could get: hot honey sobbing on his steps, crying about a lost friend.  Of course, he had always pictured Lauren Bacall, not Little Orphan Annie.  But little Orphan Annie didn't have knockers like Jean.  He took a closer look at her face.  The Little Orphan Annie crack was way out of line.  Jean's curls were soft, her hair more auburn than carrot.  There were no freckles on her pale white skin, not even across the bridge of her nose.  Matt reassessed his previous opinion.  OK, Jean wasn't his type, but she was cute.  There was something about the way her eyes were flashing at him, something about those naked lips.  Matt had never liked lipstick.  He liked to watch the way a girl's mouth changed color, deepened, stretched, opened.  Suddenly uncomfortable with his thoughts, Matt shifted on the sofa, but Jean didn't notice. Regaining control, he turned back to her.

"Missing," he asked.  "What do you mean by missing?"

"I mean," Jean enunciated her words as clearly as she could, but the vodka made it difficult. "She's gone."  She knew she was slurring as she spoke, but it didn't stop her.  She had to tell someone.  "Someone was waiting for Megan at our apartment last night, someone whom she thought was Paul, and she hasn't been back since then, and I found blood on the sidewalk, and the police won't do anything and I—" she stopped, collapsing back onto the sofa.  Matt leaned towards her. 

"Hell of a story, Jean-Genie," he commented dryly.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe something's got you all upset, but this is a bit much.  You make it sound like Megan was kidnapped."  The light popped on in his head again.  "Hold on, you don't think Haverson had anything to do with this?  Is that why you came here?"

The stubborn look on Jean's face said it all.

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed.  "What time did you say all this happened?"

"About 1:00 am," Jean replied.

Matt raised his shoulders, dismissing her story in one quick shrug.  "Then that proves it right there.  We were still drinking down at the Slate.  We didn't leave till it shut down, 'round 2:00."

"You're his roommate, wanna bet you'd lie," Jean fired at Matt.

"I don't lie," he said with such finality that Jean blanched.  He got up, tossing her sweater at her.  She didn't duck as it struck her in the face, messing up her hair.  Somehow, the fact that she hadn't moved when he threw the sweater got to Matt.  It was almost as if she felt she deserved it.

He sighed.  "Look Jean-Genie, I know you're upset, and maybe you've got a right to be, but whoever was at your apartment last night wasn't Paul, and that's the truth."

"But then," Jean whispered in horror, "that means Megan really was kidnapped!"