Unloved: A Novel (The Undone)

It doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of November; I’m sweating as I head back across campus toward the dorms, a longer trek than normal.

I spent the day studying in the vet school library, holed up in a private room since the building opened at 6 a.m.

Being a team player is bullshit—I practice the phrase over and over as if that will be my response to anything Dr. Tinley says to me next week. I don’t want to play on their team anymore.

I showed up at Tyler’s off-campus townhouse apartment last night with my backpack in tow, ready for hours of work with the others in our cohort. Instead, I’d been greeted by the sight of Tyler, alone, and a spaghetti dinner—complete with expensive wine—spread across his dining table.

Excusing myself to the bathroom, I’d nearly dialed Matt in my panic—only to stop when an incoming call with his goofy contact photo scrolled across my screen: the Hello Kitty tattoo selfie.

It made me smile before his panic melted my own anxiety.

“I don’t know why I called you. I’m fine. You’re busy—everyone’s busy right now with finals and no one has time for this kind of shit. Sorry, I should go.”

“Matt, please—just tell me where—”

The dial tone cuts me off. And then the knocking, which I’m sure had never stopped but I’d blocked it out.

Standing with a growl from my huddled position against the bathroom door, I rip open the door.

“What do you want from me, Tyler?”

It’s clear my sudden change in demeanor has shocked him, mouth gaping like a fish.

I roll my eyes and stalk past him, grabbing my backpack and heading toward the door.

“Wait! Ro, listen—”

“No!” I round on him. “You need to listen. We are broken up. We are done, for good.”

“Because you’re sleeping with Fredderic?” He laughs. “Truly, RoRo. That’s pathetic, even for you.”

“Matt is a better person than you have a chance of ever being,” I snap. “But, for the record, this”—I gesture between us—“has nothing to do with him. Freddy is my friend. That’s something you never were to me. I should have done this a long time ago.”

I take a settling breath, trying to press a calm I don’t feel into every limb.

“This was inappropriate at the least, and an abuse of power at the most. I’ve let too much slide, and maybe that was naive of me, but I am reporting this to Tinley.”

“Tinley won’t take your side on this. I’m her cohort lead.”

It’s upsettingly true—something I’ve tried not to be annoyed or hurt with in the past. Trying to convince myself that she wasn’t favoring the boys of our group over me—trying not to take it personally.

“Maybe Tinley won’t,” I say. “But I’m betting the dean will. Especially if I accompany that with proof that you’ve ignored a student’s accommodations form.”

His nostrils flare at the threat. “Fredderic tell you that?” He laughs, and a chill works down my spine. “He’s a fucking liar and an idiot. Try it, Ro. I guarantee I’ve got more support in our entire department than you can wrangle together.”

I want to argue more, but I can feel the threat, the way he’s breaking pieces of me down to sink his claws back into me.

But I won’t let that happen. He won’t get the reaction out of me that he so desperately wants.noveldrama

“Leave me alone. Leave Matt alone—just stop. Or I am going to get our department involved. I don’t care anymore, Tyler.”

Leaving his house had been the easiest thing I’d done concerning Tyler. I wanted to go to Freddy immediately, but he’d been unreachable.

And I was still so raw from the energy that standing up to Tyler took, still am, nearly twenty-four hours later, after spending the night studying and perfecting my research proposal—my original one, before Tyler tried to redirect me.

It’d been years since I pulled an all-nighter, but after the situation with Tyler and the inability to calm my mind of what-ifs concerning Matt, I decided being productive was my best outcome. My phone died somewhere in the middle of the day, and I hadn’t had the energy to leave yet, so I just… disconnected.

I used the hours after finishing the proposal to journal, like I’d done when I was in high school. After my dad’s stroke, our family therapist had suggested it, and it helped. But I stopped when I moved to Waterfell and got busy, stopped taking care of myself or putting myself first.

And then I read the books Freddy got for me—on the bookstore trip that felt like a core memory, melded into what makes me, me.

To be loved is to be seen.

An old adage, but also a quote from the shy wallflower character of my favorite romance, when she gains her strength and becomes the heroine of her own story.

Isn’t that what Matt was doing? Seeing me?

I try not to think about it too much, because if there’s anything tutoring Freddy has showed me, it’s his extreme emotional intelligence.

That, tied with his desperation to please and keep everyone around him happy.

The sun set at four and the winds are getting brutal as I climb the steps to Millay and swipe my card, pulling the door hard against the breeze. Climbing the stairs instead of using the elevator that is definitely not up to code leaves a damp sweat on the back of my neck and an embarrassing heave of my breath before I get to—

“Freddy?”

Matt Fredderic is at my dorm room door, head tilted back with his eyes closed.

He’s too big for this ridiculously ancient, small hallway—all six foot three of him stretched out lazily across the floor, making me wonder if anyone’s accidentally kicked him while hopping over his long legs. His hoodie is scrunched up around his shoulders, almost like he’s turned it into a makeshift pillow; his golden hair is messy, backpack held like a teddy bear in his lap.

“Matt?” I say.

He jerks, eyelashes fluttering. He’s so beautiful he looks like a Disney prince in some gender-bent version of Sleeping Beauty.

“Ro,” he breathes with a smile. “You’re here.”

You’re here, in that gentle, happy tone that makes me feel wanted and needed.

“What are you doing here?” I want to laugh and hug him, enough that my fist tightens on the strap of my backpack.

“I went to the library first, to your office, everywhere. I started here, so I just…” He trails off with a light shrug. “Came back here after my class. I figured you’d have to show up sometime.”

His class—meaning he’s been sitting here since 2 p.m.?

“It’s nine o’clock at night.”

“Shit, is it?”

He struggles to stand up for a moment before I reach my hand out to help him. He doesn’t use the leverage, but reaches for the skin contact anyway, not bothering to let go once he has my hand gripped in his.

“You sat here for seven hours waiting for me?”

“I’m really shocked they didn’t call campus security.” He furrows his brow, as if really considering it. “Actually, that’s concerning. Maybe you shouldn’t live here anymore. You can stay at the Hockey House.”

His suggestion is so quick and mildly absurd I can’t help but laugh. Until it dissolves into a hiccuped sob.

“Hey, Ro…”

He pulls me into a hug, arms over my shoulders so I shove my face into his neck.

“You scared me.” I shake my head, nose rubbing against his hoodie and his throat. “I thought you… I was worried about you all night, dummy.”

I pull away and shove his chest lightly.

“I know.” He scratches the back of his neck, face still a little pale as he chews on his bottom lip. “Can I come in? I mean, unless you’re busy. Which…” He smacks a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that. I know you’ve been really busy and I’m sorry I take up so much of your time, but I am doing better.”

He’s barely pausing for a breath, even as I unlock the door and walk in, Matt trailing behind me.

Letting himself in while continuing to discuss whether he can ask me to come in.

“The math class substitution thing? It’s great—I feel really good about it. And.” He bites down on his pinkened lip. “I wanted to say thank you again.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, dropping my backpack next to our shoes by the front door. “Seriously, it’s what they should’ve been offering you from the beginning. Did you not test for your math credit?”

“I, um… no, actually. They let me put it off, for—um, because of my mom being sick. And then I think I got lost in the shuffle.” He shrugs again, eyes stuck to the sticker tile of our kitchen flooring.

Matt pulls on the string of his hoodie, looping it around and around his finger, unwinding and winding it over and over. “Anyway.” He huffs a breath and blushes as he looks around the dorm. “I don’t remember where I was going with that.”

“You were asking if I was too busy for you to come in and talk,” I say before grabbing two juice boxes—all we currently have that’s not from the tap—and handing him one.

“Right.” He shakes his head, embarrassment coloring his cheeks further. “And I invited myself in anyway. I can leave—”

“Sit down, Matty,” I say softly, passing him with a squeeze on his arm before settling into one of the mismatched wooden chairs.

“I don’t have to, really,” he smirks. “But I like when you boss me around.”

The flirting would be fun, but it’s not real. He slips it on like a mask, the same one he’s used before—but it’s chipped and damaged enough that I can see him through it. The insecurity. The shame.

“I want you here.”

The words strike him, and the insincerity melts away to a shaky trust. “Yeah?”

“Matt,” I say. “I called you, like, twelve times.”

“Sixteen, actually,” he blurts out, shaking his phone in his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was—it was a bad night for me.”

“We all have bad nights,” I reply. “But you’ve helped me with mine. It hurt not to be able to help you with yours. You hurt my feelings, but you really scared me.”

“I have a lot I want to say,” he says. “But I don’t know where to start.”

The confession is genuine, as is the layer of anxiety dripping over him. So I stand up and reach for his hands with a soft smile.

“How good are you in the kitchen?”

He blanches. “Where’s your fire extinguisher?”

“About yesterday. Do you want to talk about it?”

Turns out Matt Fredderic isn’t as bad as he thought in the kitchen. Granted, he’s mostly boiling pasta and using the pesto sauce I made from the fridge, while I’ve already cooked and diced the chicken.

We did most of the prep in silence, letting the movements and instructions keep him concentrated and calmer, while Phoebe Bridgers croons “Smoke Signals” over the Bluetooth speaker sitting on the counter dangerously close to the sink.

He pauses, shoulder hiking up while he stands stirring over the stove. I wait for him to laugh and make a quick Freddy-like excuse. But instead, he takes a deep breath.

“My, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, refusing to turn and look at me. “My dad showed up at practice.”

His dad. A subject we’ve never truly broached. At first, I’d assumed that Archer was his father—because of the way he speaks about him so reverently—but I didn’t understand why Matt called him by his first name.

“You and your dad don’t get along?” I try the question, continuing to focus on the last chicken strip, cutting a little slower as I wait for him to respond.

He huffs a laugh that makes my chest hurt, an ache only worsened as he peers over his shoulder at me.

There’s a deep hurt etched almost permanently into his eyes, the effect of a buildup of rejection.

“My dad would rather I didn’t exist,” he says frankly. It’s like he’s accepted it but still feels it like a fresh wound. “But I do.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, demanding myself to be strong, for him. So he can share this piece of himself without having to comfort me.

“He… he played hockey?” I think he mentioned it once, or maybe I saw it in an article.

“Yeah. I think he wishes I never picked up a stick.”

“Hates the sport now?”

He shakes his head, hanging it slightly as he crosses his arms and leans against the creaky countertop of my little dorm kitchenette.

“I think he doesn’t want me to ever be better than he was.”

I slide the cutting board to the side and meet his gaze.

“He pushes me to be better, to work harder, constantly there to remind me of every mistake I make along the way. But he doesn’t want me to succeed—not if it means I’ll be seen by anyone as the better Fredderic.”

“Was this how he always was?”

“Not as bad, but…” He shrugs and nods. “Yeah.”

Matt turns to the cabinet and grabs us bowls, telling me to sit at the table, but I decide to make us comfortable on the floor pillows in the living room, like usual.

It isn’t until we are sitting in the glow of the golden lamplight on jewel-tone pillows with warm bowls of my favorite comfort meal that he opens up even further.

“My mom used to make this,” he says, mouth still half full. He smiles a little cheekily and swallows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods.

“How old were you when your mom got sick?”

It’s the most direct I’ve ever been about this topic, trying to handle it with care. We’ve both danced around the other’s hurt, both of us desperate only to make the other feel happy—even if that meant ignoring the bad.

But this is important. I want him to see me as a soft place to land.

His bowl is noisy as he sets it on the coffee table and runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“Um, I think sixteen? Originally. But that time she got better fast—she did chemo and it worked for a while. And then it came back around, but it was in her heart. An angiosarcoma, super rare and really aggressive. They gave her six months after the diagnosis.”

My heart squeezes, but I stay still and silent, letting him speak without interruption.

“It was only four, though.”

“Matt,” I say, but stop because—what can I say? There’s nothing I can say that would make this better, make it hurt less. How many times after my dad’s stroke had someone said, “I’m so sorry,” or God forbid, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Four months.

A ten-year estimation would be hard to swallow—my dad’s not-so-confident “he’ll probably be like this for the rest of his life” was a living form of grief for my mother and me. But at least he is here, still breathing; he can still smile at me in his favorite leather recliner.

“Tell me about her.”