Page 87 of Anything But Lonely

These are the moments that remind me how easy it is to fit into this life. How natural it feels to be here with them. To exist in this small, chaotic bubble where Crew’s laughter fills the space and Mateo and I fall into an unspoken rhythm of passing snacks, sharing glances, and taking care of whatever needs to be done.

Except something has shifted.

No matter how normal everything looks, I still feel the distance between Mateo and me.

It’s subtle—the way our conversations don’t linger as long, the way his eyes meet mine for only a second before looking away, the way I’m suddenly aware of every inch of space between us.

Nothing is wrong, exactly. He’s still kind. Still attentive. Still Mateo.

But ever since that night I heard him in his bedroom—when I accused him of masturbating before going to bed and waking up like I didn’t make a complete ass of myself—there’s been something hanging between us. Something neither of us has acknowledged, something that changed the way I see him and the way I feel him watching me.

And now, even sitting across from him in the comfort of our usual routine, I can’t stop noticing the space he’s keeping.

I shouldn’t question it.

It’s exactly what we both agreed on.

Yet I can’t stop wondering what caused it.

What I did to cause it?

“Do you have any laundry to send out?” Mateo asks me, setting his phone down in his lap as he takes a sip of his coffee.

I shake my head, still caught off-guard by the few and far between moments of Mateo reminding me how rich and famous he is—with a laundry service. The tour has people for everything, including someone who comes by to collect our bags of dirty clothes, sorts everything by person, washes and folds it, and returns it to us wherever we’re parked or staying next. “I’m good.”

Mateo nods in acknowledgment before going back to his phone.

But the question reminds me. “Has the laundry service ever lost any of your laundry?”

“Maybe the occasional sock or something. Why? Are you missing something?”

I wave my hand. “Just a pair of underwear. I’m sure it got lost in⁠—”

Mateo freezes, his fingers still wrapped around his coffee cup as his eyes flick up to mine. The sudden shift in his expression catches me off guard, and the rest of my sentence dies on my tongue.

“Why do you look like that?”

“I–I don’t look like anything,” he stumbles out.

“Yes, you do,” I argue, and then everything clicks into place.

Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen one of my black thongs in weeks.

Since that night in Chicago, when the bus broke down.

When Mateo and I had sex.

My eyes widen, my jaw unhinging with how hard it drops open. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Mateo says, setting his coffee cup a little too hard, causing it to splash over the rim.

He had something behind his back that night in the hotel room.

After he⁠—

I wouldn’t have made the connection if it weren’t for the way he was reacting right now. Just like that night, his entire face is so red it almost looks purple.

“Daddy didn’t do what?” Crew asks absentmindedly, his eyes still on his tablet.