Fin & Matt by Charlie Winters Page B

fingertips. 
    “I can’t answer this for you, honey.  What I can tell you is that I love you and if he’s worth fighting for, fight for him.  Tell Gallo if you think it’s best.  I just want to prepare you for the possibility that things may not turn out the way you want them to.  But the question should be does it matter?  At the end, will you still love him?”
    “Yeah… yes, of course.”
    My father reached across the desk and squeezed my hand.  “Then perhaps you have your answer.”
     
    ♂♂
     
    The doorbell rang just after eight.  I quickly checked my hair in the mirror and (not so casually) walked to the door.  “Hi,” I whispered.
    Matt was freshly showered, his normally wild hair damp and pushed back off of his face.  A snug red flannel shirt stretched across his chest, the hem barely skimming the zipper of his fitted jeans.
    “Wow,” he said.  “You look amazing.”
    I closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt.  Looking down at my plain white t-shirt and back up at him, I responded, “You have low standards.”
    He pulled me close, wrapping one large hand around my waist.  “You are, one hundred percent, my exact type.  Everything about you.  Never doubt that.”  He dropped his duffle to the ground with a thump and pressed his mouth to mine, nearly scorching me with his active tongue.
    I returned the kiss, wrapping both arms around his neck and grinding my hips against his.  When we pulled away, my pants were nearly bursting at the seams, dying to be released from their constraints.  Instead of acting on my instincts, I headed toward the kitchen.  “I was just going to make some food.  Are you hungry?  I don’t have much… I didn’t have time to shop, but there’s a little market downstairs.  I could—”
    “Let’s go somewhere.  We’ll sit down… have a proper date.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I want to show you off,” he said softly.
    Not five minutes later, we were nuzzled in the corner of a small, dark tapas restaurant, studying the menu by faint candlelight.
    “Albondigas, you think?” Matt asked.  “Or maybe empanadillas?”
    I smiled, suddenly feeling shy.  “I don’t know.  You pick.”
    He sat assuredly, leaning against the back of the booth, both hands linked behind his head.  “Let’s get both.  And maybe some of those boquerones.  I love those, don’t you?”
    “I don’t know what they are,” I admitted.
    “Come on… you’re a man of means.  You should know all of this stuff.”
    I gave him a hard stare and lowered my eyes back to the menu.  “I wish you would stop saying things like that.  It doesn’t feel good.”
    “What?  That you have money?”
    “Yes.”  I cleared my throat.  “I don’t want to be reminded of that.  I don’t want you to see me that way.”
    “I don’t,” he said.  “I was merely surprised that you hadn’t had a certain food.  I figured you’d been to a lot of dinners over the years.”
    I looked around the small space.  “I’ve never been here.”
    “But you have had Spanish food at some point, have you not?”
    “In Spain,” I returned.
    He smiled softly.  “I’m sorry.  I promise to try to be more sensitive when it comes to your bank account.”
    I stuck my tongue out at him playfully.
    “How long were you there?” he asked.
    “In Spain?”
    He nodded, taking a sip of his sangria.
    “Um… two weeks, I think.  I was in high school.  My mom wanted to see the Magic Fountain of Montjuic.  She was convinced that if we sat next to it long enough, we would have good luck.”
    “ Did you?”
    I smiled.  “I don’t know.  I guess.  My dad was sort of there on business at the time.  He got the contract he was vying for.  Of course, she was assured that it was the fountain.  Honestly, I didn’t think it was much different than the Bellagio.”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “Same concept.  Music and a light show for tourists.”
    The server approached, brandishing a