Page 141 of The Sound of Him

I want to tell him that just being near the food was probably the problem - not that I’m judging, I also conjure the same sort of cooking issues - but Nolan beats me to it with a nicer, though very exasperated, explanation. “It was two hundred for five hours, not five hundred for two hours!”

I glance over at the oven and wince when I see that the oven is in fact at five hundred. Also, the broiler is on.Been there before, buddy.

Any possibility for other comments is struck from the situation by the sound of a sharp burst of laughter. It stops asquickly as it starts, but I’m already turning toward the sound. TowardMatt.

He’s in the middle of taking a deep breath, but when our eyes meet and I arch an eyebrow, he breaks. He cracks right down the middle and bubbling laughter pours right out. It’s a full-on belly laugh, which he proves by doubling over to hold his stomach as it continues.

I can’t stop staring.

I can’t stoplistening.

It’s not what I thought it’d sound like - Matt’s laughter. It’s not soft, not quiet. It’s loud and giddy and a little throaty -and who the hell would bother listening to music if they could just listen to this instead?Listen to this for the rest of their life.

It’s infectious, too. The others are laughing.I’mlaughing. The whole room is filled with the sound of our collective happiness. My whole body buzzes with it. Warms with it.

Matt’s eyes meet mine again, his laughter dying down, his chest heaving as he sucks in precious lung-fulls of air, but he’s still grinning. He’s grinning so wide. Beautiful and bright, no more clouds to hide behind, just sunshine.

Endless, beautiful sunshine.

Despite the laughter and Nolan scrambling to come up with something else for us to eat, Matt isn’t at dinner. Bryce gives me a look, something a little sad, a little closer to camaraderie than I’d expect from him, before he brings a plate up to the bedroom.

A few hours later, when Maison and Nolan are sitting by the fireplace, Travis and Jake are both hiding away, and Bryce is beating the shit out of the heavy bag in the gym, Matt leaves the room with the plate in his hands.

The food hasn’t been touched.

He sneaks into the kitchen, glancing in the direction of the living room, and slides the food off his plate and into the trash. It takes him nearly a minute to make it to the sink and carefully - so, so carefully - place down the plate on the counter beside it. He slowly backs away like it’s a bomb. Or maybe like he’s worried someone may find him there before he can escape.

The moment he reaches the threshold between the kitchen and the hall, he turns and hurries off.

He doesn’t head to his room.

He doesn’t come my way.

He just turns a corner into the hall full of empty bedrooms and sort of folds in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chest, pressing his face against the doorframe of the second room on the right.

I wonder if he was trying to make it to the room, or any open room, and just couldn’t keep going long enough to get inside. I wonder what happened between all of that laughter and dinner. I wonder if he even got a chance to bask in the good feeling for a while before whatever ruined it came along.

Then his shoulders are shaking and all I’m wondering is if I should go to him.

He shouldn’t have to break down alone.

The last thing I want is for him to have to break down alone.

I hesitate, not sure if it’s my place.

Then I put on the blues, volume a little louder than where it usually sits when I’m alone, and head out.

He’s exactly where I saw him on the camera feed, his crying so quiet you’d think he can’t make any noise at all, like the laughter was just a thing I made up. Except I definitely didn’t make it up. No sound like that could be anything but real.

He flinches when he notices someone is near him, but his shoulders relax when his big eyes settle on me. I crouch down and offer him a half-smile. “Crying is always so much better when you’re listening to the blues, don’t you think?”

Matt sniffles and wipes his eyes with his sweatshirt sleeve. The tears seem to have slowed down, just lazily dripping out of his eyes and down his cheeks one at a time. They haven’t stopped, though. I’d give him anything he wanted if it’d make them stop.

“Come listen?” I ask, putting my hand out to him. I get the sudden thought that this might not be okay. We haven’t touched since he cried in my arms the night Mica died. I’ve never even asked him so blatantly to do something, especially not to come to my office.

I keep my hand out, not wanting to take the offer away from him, but I add, “No pressure,” as a reminder that he doesn’t have to do this.

I don’t ever want him to think he has to do something with me he doesn’t want to do, whether it’s taking my hand or spending time in my office or anything else in between.