Chapter Text
WHAT A PLOT TWIST YOU WERE
"in a world full of temporary things, you are a perpetual feeling."
Sanober Khan
chapter one
bite chunks out of me,
you're a shark and i'm swimming
The rain pours heavily over the car’s roof, its pitter-patter sound, the clicking of the turn signal and the rancorous honking from other vehicles all just further irritates Veronica’s headache. The overhead clouds looms low, the gloomy forecast mirroring her foul mood.
How befitting, she privately grouses, starting to despise the concept of irony.
Glancing at the Cartier watch wrapped around her wrist, Veronica catches the time and bites back a groan. She should be in the office, impressing Richard with what her and her team had been working on for months. Instead, she’s haphazardly ringing up Smithers and hurriedly making her way to Dalton to pick up an irate eight-year-old before lunchtime.
“I’m afraid you have to come and fetch Matteo again. There was another altercation and Headmaster Charleston would like to have a word with you.”
The words continued to reverberate across her pounding head like clanging alarm bells, making Veronica anxiously grip the leather handles of her tote.
Matteo had always been a happy child; the easiest baby to have ever been born. And yet, these last few months, he’s has yet to grace her with one of his toothy grins more than a handful. He’s angry and confused and hurt. She’s certain of the cause for his change in demeanour. She knows because she’s half to blame.
You did this, a bitter voice in her mind chastises. You did this to him.
Smithers pulls her out of her deprecating thoughts by announcing their arrival. Veronica ascends up the stone steps quickly to escape the pouring rain, the academy’s ivy-covered bricks foreboding against the dreary backdrop. She shakes off the fallen drops as she walks down the long corridor with its polished floors and history-plastered walls.
Flashbacks of days spent wreaking havoc in Spence’s courtyard, Jorge and Katy by her side as they mark their territory around their high school’s hallowed halls occupy her thoughts. How close those days feel when in actuality it’s been a mere decade.
Veronica enters the headmaster’s office, making a beeline towards the secretary’s desk. “I’m here for Matteo,” she informs the grey-haired woman despite not needing too. This is the third time she’s been called since the start of the school year two weeks ago.
The mix of pity and condescension staring at her though cheap, black-rimmed, pointy glasses makes Veronica’s dig her manicured nails deeper into her palm.
“He’s in there with the headmaster.”
She gives the secretary a terse nod before heading towards the mahogany double doors. She pushes one open and is immediately greeted with Headmaster Charleston seated on his armchair, hands clasps on top of his wooden desk, a frown painted on his greying features. Veronica also spots Matteo, his pressed uniform from earlier now in disarray with his head bent down, chin tucked towards his chest. Despite the distance, she can see his wet cheeks clearly.
The sight urges her to step forward hastily, prompting Principal Charleston to stand up and offer her a hand.
“Mrs. St. Clair,” he greets.
Veronica tampers the urge to correct the man. Instead, she shakes his hand and focuses on making sure the tight-lipped smile she sends his way seems genuine enough. She takes the second chair nexts to Matteo, wanting to reach out, take his tiny fists into her hands and offer some sort of comfort. But, he wouldn’t meet her eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched down tightly away from her squashes the urge entirely.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy woman so I won’t waste any more of your time,” Headmaster Charleston says, settling back down on his leather armchair, the seat squeaking under his portly weight. “Matteo, here, was caught by a teacher punching another student during recess.”
Veronica’s stomach drops. The last two incidents involved Matteo in a screaming match with another kid, angry words flowing out of him. She was never called in because he was in a physical fight before.
She manages to keep her outward appearance as pristine as always despite her inner turmoils. She asks, “He was caught? May I ask by who?”
A clearing of a throat draws her attention towards the back of the room. She was very much focused on Matteo that she didn’t even catch a glimpse of the man leaning against the wall-to-ceiling bookcase.
“That would be me,” he declares, even going as far as raising his right hand as if they all were in a classroom and he’s waiting to be called by the teacher. He makes his way around the mahogany furniture to stand next to Charleston, Veronica tracking him with narrowed eyes.
Something about him seem vaguely familiar, yet in the three years Matteo had been attending Dalton Prep, she’s has never seen him before. She takes note of his rumpled attire: from his ill-fitting blazer and un-ironed sweater to his faded jeans and substandard specs. Veronica arches an eyebrow. Had the academy’s standards lowered since Nicholas attended?
“Yes, the altercation occurred when the two were lining up in the yard for Mr. Jones’ class,” Principal Charleston supplements.
The name catches Veronica’s attention. She vaguely recalls seeing it on the school’s commencement catalogue, stating Jones as the new third grade teacher.
“Mr. Jones here witnessed Matteo and Carter arguing before Matteo threw a punch across Carter’s cheeks.”
She casts the other man another glance before it drifts to the eight-year-old crumpled on top of a chair. Matteo’s darting gaze, the tear tracks visible on his face, and the protective way he’s wrapping his arms around his torso tells Veronica he’s culpable of what they’re stating.
Closing her eyes briefly, she takes a nanosecond to process the information. She needs to talk to Matteo about it but right now, it’s her duty to be her kid’s advocate.
Veronica abruptly stands up, crosses her arms and regards the two men with a vexed scowl. “How are you sure Carter didn’t instigate the argument?” she challenges. “If I recall correctly, this is the third incident in which he’s been involved in an argument with Matteo. Has it ever occurred to you that, maybe it’s my son getting the unjust treatment here?” She scoff derisively, “Has it ever crossed your minds that Carter could be the Devil’s incarnate and not the other way around?”
Her voice raises in volume as she goes on, losing a little control. Her spine is rigidly straight, her blood fully boiling underneath her skin. This is downright uncharacteristic, to behave in such tawdry manner but today is just one of those days, she presumes.
“Mrs. St. Clair—”
“It’s Ms. Lodge,” she snaps, pointedly cutting Charleston off. There’s no logical reason as to why he’s not addressing her with a proper title. The divorce was plastered all over Manhattan months ago and was the topic of choice amongst the parents and faculty members who roam these halls for weeks.
The headmaster gruffly responds, “I advise you to take a breath and collect yourself, Ms. Lodge.”
Veronica puts on a show of breathing deeply, an immature move for a 28-year-old, she’s aware. The older man holds her glare with an embittered one for a few tense seconds before he considerably softens his gaze as he turns towards the eight-year-old who’s sunk deeper in his spot if possible.
“Matteo, would you please step out for a few moments as I continue this conversation with your mother,” Charleston orders. “Tell Mrs. Powolski outside to wait for my call to let you in again, alright?” He turns to the other adult in the room, “Mr. Jones, I will converse with you later.”
He waits until the doors closes heavily behind Matteo’s small stature, followed by Mr. Jones’ retreating back and levels Veronica with an unimpressed stare.
“Now, getting back to the matter at hand,” Headmaster Charleston huffs, gesturing for her to take a seat once again. Veronica inwardly rails against the order but sits down nevertheless. No need to piss the man off even more. “As you’ve said yourself, this is the third time you’ve been called in here regarding Matteo’s behaviour. Now, I am aware of your situation. But, that doesn’t excuse Matteo’s violent tendencies.”
“Violent tendencies?” Veronica incredulously retorts, both irked and slightly amused at this man’s exaggerations. “With all due respect, he’s in the third grade. I mean, surely he isn’t the first kid to throw a tantrum every now and then.”
“No, he is not,” Charleston fired back quickly, his voice taking a condescending tone. “However, with the number of times he’s been summoned to this office alone, in addition to being only fourteen days into of the school year? It’s a cause for concern.”
Veronica grinds her teeth, the vein in her neck pulsing in frustration. “Carter Ford has been involved in just as much incidents as Matteo has. How come I don’t see him getting reprimanded?”
“He was already brought in earlier and earned a warning as well,” answers Charleston, hands clasping atop the mahogany surface. “His mother came within ten minutes of being called and is already informed.”
Oh yes, Veronica internally intones. Because Caroline Ford’s urgency to respond quickly has definitely got to do with her stellar maternal instincts, sure. She feels needles digging into her skin at being compared (and losing, mind you) to a woman who spends her entire day sipping martinis by the lounge and scaring their newest help.
Veronica might spend her days locked up in her office at Vanity Fair, impressing editors and scaring interns but she makes sure she’s off early enough to accompany Smithers to pick Matteo up or share dinner with him. On the days that she’s unable to, she makes it a priority to be at least there for bedtime and tuck him in.
She takes pride in being a woman with a full career whilst being a good mother. She doesn’t like to be reminded that she isn’t as naturally gifted in balancing these two aspects of her life as she hoped she was.
The corners of her mouth slants up forcefully, the manner almost painful. Principal Charleston must have read something in her expression since his next words take on a softer tone, “Ms. Lodge, it’s clear, you’re trying to do your best,” he states and for a moment, Veronica felt seen. Enough to mollify her frustration with the head of the academy only for him to follow the statement with, “But, unfortunately, sometimes even that isn’t enough.”
Veronica leaves the headmaster’s office feeling angry and ashamed and with a last warning for Matteo. If he’s involved in one more incident, it’ll result in suspension.
She tells him as much on their way back to the Dakota. His only response is a grunt before turning his attention back outside the windows and Veronica feels her eyes sting.
You did this to him, that same traitorous voice whispers again. You’re ruining your own son.
____
She had always wanted to marry Nick.
Before she can fully grasp the meaning of the words like ‘wedding’ and ‘marriage’, Veronica had planned for Nicholas St. Clair to fill in the role of groom.
They grew up together, their families good friends and business partners. And when Veronica was only thirteen, she made a vow to have that boy’s (with the tousled hair and a TAG Heuer watch) attention for life; for his pretty green eyes to never divert off her direction.
And she succeeded.
Nick’s focus from Veronica never faltered. Not through high school when they were playing games with each other, using other people to see who can outlast their desire more. Not even when he was sleeping with Constance Lee, the poor girl only serving as a mere prop to dangle in front of Veronica.
Looking back now, she didn’t fully realize it wasn’t healthy. To be caught up in this toxic pattern, being the mouse to Nick’s cat and the gratifying satisfaction when the roles reversed. Love shouldn’t feel like torture, it shouldn’t be subtle manipulations and dirty schemes despite her memories of Hiram and Hermione Lodge doing the same to each other for decades.
Their college years were spent much the same; in a whirlwind of poorly-hidden affairs, followed by passionate apologies and grand declarations of love. He’ll cheat on her, demean her degree and Veronica will sleep with his friend and then they would call it even. She would be back in Manhattan to celebrate his newest success in Columbia and he’ll fly out to Paris in between her semesters at La Sorbonne.
Nick couldn’t let their toxic sludge of a relationship go because of his pride; he won’t admit to himself and to Veronica that she was right when she said they were destined to either burn bright or burn into ashes. She didn’t leave because she convinced herself, through her warped logic, that she really was in love with him. If the thought of facing the world alone, especially when wound from Hiram’s death was still bleeding; if the simple thought of facing everyone back in New York without Nick next to her is enough to push bile from her gut, then surely, it must be love.
A melodious giggle roused Veronica out of her thoughts. Matteo’s perched beside her, his attention is engrossed on the film she put on, Sabrina (because it’s good to start them early), mouth curled up and eyes shining.
When the stick turned blue the night before her graduation, Veronica was petrified.
A large part of her reckoned she’s incapable of raising a child, that she spent twenty years on the planet with less maternal instinct than Hermione had and she’ll only do this kid an injustice by being their mother.
Nick was around that night— he arrived at France three weeks prior, promising a romantic time in Paris before she gets her diploma and they’re due to return to Manhattan. He, predictably, spent a day with her before disappearing to Dublin to meet up with a potential investor. He just got back that afternoon.
She could wake him up and he could be ecstatic about the news. Perhaps, he could finally take the Tiffany’s sitting idle around her neck and place it on her finger, finally putting an end through all the juvenile power-plays. Because, even with the all the crap they put each other through, in their own fucked up minds, they did love each other.
And in those first five years of Matteo’s life, they were actually happy.
Nick was steadily proving his worth as the newly appointed chairman of St. Clair’s Group of Companies. She was making headway into Conde Nast with an editorial position at Vogue and ultimately landing at Vanity Fair as one of their creative directors. They had a place down Park Avenue, the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. They would partake in family trips all over Europe, bring Matteo as to kid-friendly galas at the Upper East Side and spend Sunday brunches at The Garden.
Matteo was always smiling, loves his father with all his little heart is capable of. Her husband was adoring and Veronica was living the life she’s always dreamed of having.
Then, one wrong investment had gone awry, followed by a sexual harassment charge that appeared on national news and a few partners pulling out left Nick scrambling to save his company, his credibility and his ego.
This in turn left no time to play with his son or converse with his wife. Nick was always in a foul mood, always ready to snarl at the help or snap at the way Matteo cried. He took her growing career as a personal attack and made her feel insignificant for her achievements. For months and years, her and Matteo walked on eggshells, slowly suffocating under Nick’s glass tower. It was as if every ounce of paternal instinct he had or his capability to love had run out. Seeped out of his every pore, running him completely dry.
So, Veronica stubborn as she was, tried harder. She tried to love Nick harder, tried to be more understanding, more patient. She molded herself into something her husband needed her to be; something that by the end of eight years of marriage, she didn’t even recognize.
But Nick only grew meaner, more spiteful. Accusations of her lack of support snarled at his tongue, hatred and resentment present in those pretty green eyes that once shone with ardour. His hands that had once caress her gently now are wrapped around expensive vases, tossing them across the room.
He never laid a hand on her. Nick’s damage comes from his words; dripping in vile poison, curling around her ear, whispering untrue but believable things like her lack of real value.
What are you without my possessions? Without my influence or prestige? What are you without me, Ronnie?
It took her three more years to summon enough strength to leave.
“Mommy?” Matteo’s voice quips up. His unruly, mop of sable hair scratches her chin when he looks up from his position laying on her chest. He must have moved while she was floating in reverie. “The movie’s done.”
“Oh,” she mused, eyes drifting towards the plasma screen showing the credits. She exhales noisily and scratches his back. “Alright, go on and brush your teeth. We’ll finish Little Women tonight, what do you say?”
Matteo nods, jumping to his feet and running up the stairs to do what he was asked. His mood is considerable lighter after a pint of Rocky Road and a movie.
After dinner earlier, she finally sat him down and asked him to explain what happened with Carter Ford two days ago. Apparently, Carter called him “broken because you’re mommy and daddy don’t live together anymore,” so naturally, Matteo punched him.
Veronica tried her best to reprimand him. “Violence is never the answer, cariño,” she had said despite the fact that she would’ve secretly loved to wrangle that eight-year-old brat herself.
Nick’s harsh words enter mind once again. What are you without me, Ronnie?
As she watches Matteo scramble up his starry-night sheets, holding up a book for her to read, Veronica thinks, her son is who she is without Nick.
He will always have me even if we don’t have you anymore.
____
“The agency had sent the newer models you requested. They’re already waiting for you in one of the studios,” Inez informs her, walking alongside Veronica as they exit the conference room.
She just finished a meeting with the other department heads, Richard using an hour to complain about their recent sales. It was only once Veronica reassured him they’ll bring those numbers back up by securing an exclusive interview with an up-and-coming designer based in London— Genevieve Gershon, that they were dismissed.
“I also have a message from your ex-husband asking when he should send the car for Matteo this evening.”
Veronica rolls her eyes as her secretary continues to relay information. She knows damn well Nick is aware of the scheduled time; he’s been sending Andre to pick Matteo up every other Friday at five o’clock on the dot. He definitely gave her office a ring to see if she was around just to get under her skin.
“Call his secretary to tell Nicholas it’s the same time as always,” she orders dryly.
Inez scribbles it down, nodding. Veronica enters her office and takes a seat on her plush chair. Her eyes immediately land on the unfinished email she was composing for the aforementioned Genevieve Gershon before Richard called for the impromptu meeting.
“Your mother also called.”
Veronica looks up from laptop and raised her eyebrow, “My mother?”
“Yes,” nods Inez. “She wants you to return her calls.”
She groans at that. Hermione had been pestering her about spending Thanksgiving in France this year. “It’s the first one after the divorce,” her mother had said. “A change in scenery will be good for my grandson.”
It’s not that she doesn’t agree. But, Thanksgiving has always been their holiday. More than Christmas or Easter. She doesn’t think she can spend it outside of New York.
“Anything else, Inez?” probes Veronica, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose. Jesus, this week needs to end soon. She doesn’t give her assistant any instructions on what to reply. Inez has been with her since Veronica started at Vanity Fair four years ago; the girl knows most, if not all, of Veronica’s business by association. She knows Veronica will deal with Hermione on her own time.
“Just a reminder that you have a meeting with the other parents at Dalton this afternoon.” Her assistant looks somewhat chagrined at having to continue, “Something regarding the academy’s annual Fall Harvest.”
Veronica, despite her workload, is involved with Matteo’s school. She’s been a member of the parent’s committee at Dalton since Matteo started three years ago. And whilst Veronica happily partakes in various fundraisers, she finds herself biting back another groan at the mention of this one.
The academy is always coming up with frivolous reasons to hold some sort of event; almost always it’s for a good cause at least. The yearly Fall Harvest is a prime example. Dalton rents out a large portion of Central Park, creates a mini carnival complete with hay rides, apple-bobbing contests and face painting, with all proceeds going towards paediatric wings throughout Manhattan hospitals. The reason? To welcome the autumn season, of course. (Please note her sarcasm.)
Still, Matteo loves every thing about the festival.
Correction: he loved every thing about it.
It’s something they used to do as a family; Nick capable of joining them after weekly reminders from Veronica. Something in her gut tells her Matteo won’t be as excited at the prospect without his father’s attendance.
“Oh, V!” a chirpy voice calls out, dragging Veronica’s gaze from her assistant and towards her office doors where Katy soon bursts through, “I’ve come with splendid news!”
For the umpteenth time that day, Veronica finds herself rolling her eyes. Although this time, it’s with amusement as she watches one of her best friends settle across the one of the white love-seats placed in the middle of her office.
She smiles at Inez, dismissing the redhead with a quick nod before getting up on her feet and dragging her heels where Katy is sat.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Keene?”
Katy only smiled wider in response, her chopped, bleached waves bouncing along as she giddily shifts in her seat. Before Veronica can ask the reasoning for her friend’s ebullience, Katy thrusts her left hand forward. There, nestled on her fourth finger, is a large rock glinting against the chandelier.
“Oh my god, Katy!” Veronica jumps to her seat, pulling her friend in a tight embrace. “This is fantastic news!”
“I know!” Katy squeals, squeezing her in equal fervour. “Isn’t it just perfect?”
She grins, nodding her head. “K.O. finally managed to ask, huh?” Veronica teases while inspecting the princess-cut diamond. She looks up and sees Katy’s confused eyes. “What? You didn’t think he would walked into Tiffany’s without my helpful hand now, did you?”
“Of course, he came to you for help,” Katy giggles, tucking her ring under chin.
Veronica playfully scoffs. “As your best friend since childhood, I would’ve been personally offended if he didn’t.”
Katy let’s out another chuckle. She calls for Inez to bring three glasses and a bottle of Moët and Chandon she knows is chilling in one of the fridges in the kitchen. She pops the bottle of bubbly, filling Katy and Inez’s glasses with fizzing champagne and toasting her best friend’s love life.
She left after another half an hour, promising to see Veronica next week and get started in the wedding planning, her maid of honour position secured as well as Matteo being a ring bearer.
Veronica is ecstatic for her friends, finally after a few twists and turns, they’ve reached that highly-sought after happy ending. But it does make her ponder, whether she is set to have hers soon or if she already lost her chance at one when she signed over the dotted line.
____
Katy’s news from this morning somewhat boosted Veronica’s mood, briefly providing respite for her shitty week.
It lasts till she steps foot inside Dalton Prep and immediately gets doused with a warm substance.
“Do you not look at where you’re going?!” she snaps at the person to blame, her white dress now covered in coffee.
“Crap,” the man utters reaching for her chest before he gets ahold of himself and realizes he probably shouldn’t put his hand on her. Unless of course, he wants to lose a hand. “Shit, sorry, uh…” he trails off and Veronica’s forced to meet the perpetrator’s eyes.
Recognition fills his ocean irises simultaneously as it does hers. “You,” she seethes, pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re that teacher. The one who got my son in trouble!”
“Woah,” Jones raises his hands as if in surrender, frowning. “I didn’t get Matteo in trouble. I explained to Headmaster Charleston what I saw and he acted on his own without any input from me.”
Veronica looked him up and down as he continues to explain, her lips curling in disgust as she takes in his dark jeans, the threadbare maroon sweater vest atop his cheap, striped button-down. Not much of an improvement from the last time, she bitterly thinks. How someone like him ended up teaching at a prestigious private school like Dalton, she can’t comprehend.
“Well, clearly those tacky, second-rate glasses didn’t help you see enough,” she responds hotly, not caring they’re in the middle of the hallway. “We’re you even aware the reason Matteo decked that kid in the face is because Carter was rude and deserving?”
He hadn’t respond but Veronica’s focus is mainly on her ruined attire. The dark liquid spilled all over the school’s crest on the floor matching her glare. She pinches the fabric, dragging away the sordid material sticking on her skin. Her eyes snap up fiercely when she hears a low laugh. “Is this somehow amusing to you?”
“No, no,” Jones dismisses despite still chuckling and Veronica’s blood curdles. “I just never thought a woman of your calibre, not to mention a parent, would say words like ‘decked out’,” he continues in a teasing tone despite her glower, scratching his chin. “Let alone say that a kid would deserve it.”
Her cheeks flare. “Are you just about done?” she grits out, impatience colouring her already frigid tone. “I think you’ve sufficiently ruined my day.”
Veronica didn’t wait for his response, already stalking off towards the women’s bathroom, fury making her heels clicks harder against the floors.
She can’t do anything about the huge, ink-blot spill staining her clothes, resembling a shitty Rorschach test that screams failure. She’s not bothered by public scrutiny; Veronica has long learned to become formidable after being raised by her parents, after spending half of her life in a tumultuous relationship with Nick St. Clair. Media coverages of her worst moments and tabloids spreading rumours concerning her private life have forced Veronica to develop quite a thick skin.
But, her showing up in ruined clothes will somehow be twisted by bored housewives as a testament of her bad parenting. And whilst she’d rather head home than attend the PTA meeting looking like this, her absence will also be used against her.
Veronica resists the urge to scream.
She steps out of the Dior dress and shoves the garment inside her purse. It lacks the usual carefulness she treats her clothes with but she can’t be bothered now. Veronica shrugs back her cropped jacket before buttoning it up over her satin slip, hoping to God it’s somewhat appropriate enough for a school-related function.
Spoiler alert, it’s not.
Jones studiously avoids her glare as he slinks to the opposite side of the room and Veronica silently curses his existence.
____
When she relays the disastrous story to Jorge later on that night, expecting some sort of commiseration, her friend surprises her by simply cackling.
“It’s not funny!” Veronica huffs, swatting his chest. “I had to sit there with Charleston’s condescending glares and all the soccer moms thinking I had some hidden agenda in seducing their husbands.”
She grievously harks back on Caroline Ford eyeing her cream slip with a condemning scowl before gripping her husband’s slack-jawed face and turning it away from Veronica as they passed her on their way to the front.
Safe to say, Veronica spent all of that meeting hunched in the back, counting down the seconds till she can make her escape.
“It’s a little funny,” Jorge giggles, a teasing grin wrapped around his wine glass, “Especially knowing your reputation when it comes to clothes. I mean, didn’t you send the very same Caroline Ford home crying because she wore leggings to school once?”
“In my defence, she wore it was as pants,” Veronica retorts after swallowing the bitter Pinot Noir. “There’s no suitable excuse to wear tights as such.”
Jorge throws his head back and laughs, “And you wonder why she takes immense pleasure in seeing you rumpled up.”
“Shut up,” Veronica chides despite her own lips quirking in the corners. “If you’re looking for the definition of rumpled, you should’ve seen the teacher who caused all of this.”
After the humiliating ordeal from this afternoon, she arrived home at the Dakota with enough time to wave Matteo off before Andre picks him up and her son spends the weekend with his father. Veronica, although acquiring sole custody settled with visitation rights for Nick, allowing him to take Matteo to his own place on the Upper East Side every other weekend. She may loathe him but Matteo doesn’t. And her kid deserves to have a relationship with his father, even if it’s not a very good one.
Expecting to eat dinner alone, she was definitely surprised to get a call from Smithers that Jorge is waiting for her in the foyer. He’s been busy touring, his drag shows headlining venues all over the country. Imagine her glee when she was informed that he’s back in Manhattan until the summer before another one starts next June.
“He’s new, you said?” Jorge asks, reaching for the fork and taking a large chunk of the blueberry cheesecake Elsie baked earlier this week. “What’s his name?”
Veronica shrugs, reaching for her own silverware, “I don’t know, Jones, something.”
“Is he cute?”
“Uh,” she mulls it over, the sweet tang of cream cheese dancing around her tastebuds. “He’s okay-looking,” she relays, recalling Jones’ sea-foam irises and onyx hair, a swoop of fringe falling on one side of his face. She remembered he was tall, towering over her despite her five-inch Blahniks. “I guess, some might find him attractive.”
“Hmm,” Jorge hums, features growing into an elfin grin. Something about that sight makes Veronica think of memories from childhood; sneaking in school corridors after dark and hiding a flask under expensive suits.
“What?” she groans, aware that whatever words will come out of her friend’s mouth, she won’t like it at all.
“Nothing!” Jorge immediately raises his hands. “It just made me think of Katy & K.O.’s upcoming wedding.”
Veronica didn’t see that coming. She lifts an eyebrow, “My son’s teacher made you think of our friends’ upcoming union?”
“Yeah,” Jorge shrugs, taking a small sip of red. “Like how we’ll need dates and stuff.”
“Why would we need dates?” she’s frowning now, genuinely perplexed.
Jorge sighs exasperatedly, “Because it’s a wedding? Because it’s a romantic setting and we should be able to enjoy it with someone we like.”
Veronica, amused by his growing frustration just giggles. “I’m pretty sure you’re my date, being the best man to my maid of honour and all.”
“Ronnie,” whines Jorge, resembling her eight-year-old when he doesn’t get his way. “Do I really have to spell it out?
“Spell what out?”
Jorge places his wine glass down and turns to her. “Veronica, ma chérie, I say this with love,” he says grabbing both of her hands and cradling it between his own. His smile is gentle and his almond eyes are sympathetic, “But, we’re worried about you.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Veronica bristles at the pity she can read from Jorge’s amber eyes. And while she understood they all mean well, a part of her is starting to get a little miffed. “Have you all talked about this behind my back or?”
Jorge, noticing the storm swirling in her voice, tried to insert humour back into the conversation, “We’re just worried that after everything that happened with He who Shall Not be Named, you’ve closed yourself off from other people.”
“I went on that date with K.O.’s colleague just last month!” Veronica protests.
The wine is definitely getting to her, making her cheeks flush and voice louder than necessary. She can only thank the heavens Matteo isn’t around.
“And did you ever return one of Chad’s many, many calls?” Jorge probes condescendingly prompting her to clamp her mouth shut. “What about that dinner with Alex in July?” When she held her silence for a few more beats, Jorge sighs. “V, we love you. We just don’t want you to miss out on things because you’re afraid to put yourself out there.”
Veronica exhales. This is not how she thought their conversation would take a turn. “The divorce was less than a year ago, Lopez,” she wryly reminds him, shrugging off his hands. She grabs the bottle and top off her drink. “I think I’m entitled to a little more recuperating time after eight years of marriage, let alone close to two decades of a relationship.”
“I know and you are,” Jorge insists, waiting for her to settle the glass back down before grabbing her fingers and tugging on them to grab her eyes. “God knows, you of all people deserved time to heal. But, just. Don’t hold yourself back incase you find someone who might just be exactly what you and Matteo truly deserves.”
Jorge gives her hand a reassuring squeeze to which she returns with a taunt smile. Veronica knows her friends are only concerned; it doesn’t make sense to waste time being angry with them when they only wished her and her son the best.
The divorce was only made official eight months ago and Veronica had a few dinners with men her friends are keen on setting her up with. But none of those dates ever amounted more, finding reasons to not grant them a second one. Reasons that are entirely hers and no fault of their own.
She doesn’t think she’s ready to put a part of herself out there, just yet. She just got herself back, got her heart free from Nick’s iron fist. Though it’s beaten black-blue, she’s not rushing to give it away again.
“I won’t,” she promises.
A part of her feels like she’s lying, terrified she’ll never actually get to that point of readiness.
____
Matteo mumbles something, the words lost within the construction happening outside the windows and the general din of plates and utensils clattering.
“What was that, sweets?” Veronica asks, eyes drifting away from the Times.
It’s Tuesday, a week after the Carter Ford issue, and Matteo is eating breakfast while she nurses her morning espresso. Veronica sends a grateful smile at Eloise when she sets the last batch of waffles she whipped up in the kitchen.
“Mr. Jones wants to talk to you,” he grumbles around a strawberry.
Veronica places the newspaper down. “Hmm. Does this have anything to do with what came home with you yesterday?”
Eloise handed her Matteo’s progress report the second she gets home from work, stating along how he came home angry, throwing his backpack on the foyer’s floor and proceeding to lock himself in his room until Veronica had knocked and asked if he wanted to talked about it. He hadn’t. He turned away the minute the lock clicked and didn’t speak a single word.
Matteo huffs noisily but nods nevertheless. He stabs a honeydew slice with a little more force than necessary. Right at this moment, with his barely-manageable curly hair and a frown etched between his eyebrows— he bares quite a resemblance to his father.
“Alright,” Veronica says after a pregnant pause. “I’ll stop by later during lunch.”
She withstands the compulsion to ask him for more, too afraid he’ll lash out if forced to confront how he ended up with a B-minus for his mark.
“Speaking of school,” she quips up after a few minutes spent in silence, Matteo busy with munching on waffles whilst her, contemplating on how to start. “It’s the first week of October,” she threads lightly. “Which means the academy’s Fall Harvest is coming up soon.”
Matteo briefly perks up at the mention of the event only to sink in his seat, nervously murmuring, “Is Daddy gonna make it?”
Veronica’s heart cracks deep. How easier would it be if Matteo hated his father? If instead of waiting for Nick’s love and adoration, he’d be content with the cheques that arrives at the end of each month.
But, alas, that is not the case.
Matteo lived for his dad’s approval; waited every night to show Nick his projects at preschool, looked for his father in each baseball game and at every piano recital, bouncing on his feet every other Friday while he waits for Nick’s driver.
Her silences stretches longer than intended, dousing the small fire of hope present at her son’s eyes; once burning brightly at the prospect his dad might be able to spend time with him only for his mother to hesitate and shake her head, extinguishing the embers.
“Uncle Jorge is back, by the way,” she tries to placate, the sight of Matteo’s downturned lips deepening the fissures in her chest, right down the fault line. “He’ll be around more and I’m sure he would love to join us.” She grabs one of his hands and gives it a tiny squeeze, smiling, “If you want, of course. Totally up to you, honey. We don’t even have to go this year.”
Matteo spends a few minutes chewing, thinking it over. Once he finishes, he asks hopeful, “Will Aunt Katy and Uncle K.O. come?”
“I’ll be sure to ask them but you know they always loved to see you,” Veronica smiles when Matteo considerable brightens up.
“Okay.” Matteo bobs his head, going back to take another sip of his orange juice. “Maybe, Uncle Jorge can sleepover and we can build forts like last time,” he suggests.
Veronica nods. “Yeah, of course,” she agrees, feeling like she can breather upon seeing the light slowly return in her son’s eyes.
Children’s short attention spans— the eighth wonder of the world.
Whilst waiting for Matteo to finish putting on his Pentagonia puffer jacket, she sends Jorge and Katy texts messages, alerting the two that they, along with K.O., are all required to make an appearance at Dalton’s Fall Harvest festival this coming weekend.
She receives both their subsequent replies, all agreeing on the way to the academy.
When she relays the good news to Matteo, he gives her one of his rare toothy grins and a quick hug before jumping out the towncar.
She feels the cracks from earlier close up, remedied by his cherub cheeks.
Set to slam the door close, Veronica fleetingly catches Jones’ eyes. She holds it for a second, realizing she’ll have go converse with him later.
Ugh, she inwardly laments. Give me the painkillers now.
Smithers checks if she’s all good to go, awaiting her nod before pulling away from the curb. Veronica sends her thanks towards her friends, grateful for their fast assent on the way to work.
Then again, it shouldn’t be really a surprised. Veronica has known these people since they were children themselves; they’ve been with her through the pregnancy, the divorce.
With their blood-relatives being less than stellar people, it pleases her to know that Matteo has Jorge, Katy and K.O to look up to.
With their combined presence, family feels less like a fictional concept, aiding in providing Matteo a semblance of a stability.
Even if, really, it’s just the two of them.