Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

// don't you know that people write songs about girls like you //

I had ordered a small cake from room service, and it was waiting for him, as was I, on the counter at the bar of the hotel. There was one tiny candle lit atop of it, and it was burned about halfway down when I heard the key-card ding slightly. My heart rate quickened and I posed, my arms bent back, bust extended out, legs crossed.

His step was quieter than usual, a lithe and careful gait as opposed to a loud and reckless stomp. As the steps grew closer to me I realized all too late that that careful way of stepping was familiar, and definitely not George.

He looked good. So good. And not at all surprised, but very amused.

Matty was wearing a pair of graciously-tailored slacks, a cozy black turtleneck, and his signature leather jacket. My eyes closed in shock, embarrassment, frustration. How many more times was Matty going to shock the hell out of me in a fancy hotel room?

Or just in general.

"Expecting someone, love?" Matty asked me.

His tone was less angry than I had anticipated; less maniacal too. He brought his hand to his mouth and thumbed his bottom lip.

"Matty," I growled, crossing my arms over my chest. "How did you know I was here?"

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Oh, well, when the hotel manager informs you that your drummer has had a special vistor request his presence, I assumed there was only one person who would hold that title."

Why was Matty doing this?

Why was I here?

Where was George?

Why had I not coverd myself up yet?

"Matty, why are you doing this?" I asked him quietly, knowing I was going to cry soon and trying desperately to hide it from him.

I slid off the counter and walked to the bathroom, Matty following me silently as I wrapped myself in the standard, but quite cozy hotel robe. It was the only thing that felt soft now, my heart hardening and tightening in my chest, my nails digging into my palms, the material of the lingerie now feeling scratchy and irritating.

"I have to Claire," he said, taking my hand.

I didn't let it go.

Matty looked good, relatively speaking. He looked like he'd had some sleep and hadn't spent the last 24 hours awake on a cocaine-induced spin. His hair was longer now, so bouncy and thick with plush little curls, resting in all the right places.

"Why are you here?" he asked me.

I rested my head on the back of the bathroom door, closing my eyes and clenching his hand.

I was mad at him, but the mere presence of his touch made me feel safe.

"To see George," I said, seeing as lying to him was useless.

Matty's touch was so calmingly familiar. His hands were just big enough to take in mine comfortably, his calloused fingers lacing in with mine. He wasn't tugging me or gripping me tightly, merely holding onto me, guiding me, letting me know he was there.

"Hmm," he said, taking his other hand and putting a wave of my hair behind my ear, his fingertips tracing my cheek.

"George is late," he said, matter-of-factly. "Will you sit with me? Will you talk with me?"

The room lit by a romantic kind of glow, a perfect harmony of the moonlight and the candles I had lit, for George.

He stepped a little closer to me, hand still in mine carefully, and I nodded at him. I did not have the strength, nor the will, to say no to a face like that.