Shelbourne & Mattingly: Part 7

Part 7: The Bed 2

Mar 01, 2025

Part 7 of Shelbourne & Mattingly finally answers the question that’s been hanging between Erie and Seth for what feels like forever: “Why have we never kissed?” Their conversation pulls us back to that rain-soaked afternoon in an abandoned tobacco barn, where lightning illuminated more than just weathered rafters as they sat with dangling legs, counting Mississippi seconds between thunder claps. In Seth’s bedroom, where childhood memories press against adult realities, time becomes both enemy and gift as they navigate the delicate space between confession and comfort.

Pour yourself a finger of Trestle Ridge bourbon and settle in beside Granny Ray’s stair-step quilt, where cold feet and warm hearts reveal that sometimes our most treasured shelters aren’t built from barn wood and tin roofs, but from the quiet courage of two people finally brave enough to close the distance between almost and always...

PART 7: THE BED 2

December 21, 1992

Seth’s question left me burning alive in my own skin, every cell suddenly, uncomfortably awake. My mind flashed back to just a few of the many moments I’d wanted to kiss him. When he won the Bluegrass all-state high school art competition, his hands stained with paint and trembling with joy. When he turned to look back at me after dropping me off in Chicago for college, trying and failing to make it seem like just another goodbye. That summer day in the barn when the rain made him look like something out of a dream. But I’d built a stone wall between us, convinced that crossing that line would risk everything. Better to want than to lose him completely.

“You were too busy kissing Kelly Whitaker behind the baseball dugout,” I finally said.

“While you were making out with Troy Vincent at the Homecoming bonfire. We were both idiots.”

“Complete idiots,” I agreed, stealing glances at his bare feet shifting against Granny Ray’s quilt—the elegant bones of his ankles, the precise arch of his instep, the faint blue veins beneath his skin. All these familiar pieces of Seth suddenly new and precious.

“You want to know what I’ve figured out lately?” His fingers followed the quilt’s stair-step pattern. “I spent half my life trying not to be Gabe. What a waste of energy. Like there was ever room for another golden boy in this family.” He shook his head. “The perfect Mattingly heir who could do everything right—valedictorian, basketball star, bourbon savant.”

The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. But twenty-two years of friendship had taught me when Seth needed lightness more than sympathy. “Some people are born for bourbon excellence.” I grinned. “Others are born to wear it.”

His face softened as he turned to me. “Erie Shelbourne. So kind of you to bring up that particular day of infamy.”

“How could I forget? You smelled like Trestle Ridge even after three showers.”

His mouth curved into a wry smile. “Barely fifteen, lost control of the filling hose. Soaked in gallons of irreplaceable bourbon almost as old as I was. All I could think was: I can’t do this. I don’t want to be the guy responsible for keeping precious things safe.” He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers like he could still feel that hose slipping away. “At least I got some down my throat before Dad saw me and lost his shit.”

“But Gabe saved you, like always. Swooped in with that perfect big brother timing: ‘Dad, this is on me. I should have shown him the proper technique.’”

“Yeah, no one can pacify Mace Mattingly like my big brother.” His fingers resumed their pattern on the quilt. “Just like Jess saved you when you dropped the Chicago bomb on Harriet and Granger.”

I smiled, remembering how my sister convinced Mom and Dad that the big city wouldn’t swallow me whole. “Dad was ready to be my college roommate. He had already researched Chicago apartments with father-daughter floor plans.”

“All hail Gabe and Jess Mattingly,” Seth said with that familiar mischief, “official saviors of troubled bourbon heirs since 1970.”

“And now they have two little boys—to keep their skills sharp.”

“The universe’s idea of a practical joke.” His smile softened. “Training for the next generation of Shelbourne and Mattingly disasters.”

“I still think Jess’s greatest achievement was my eighth-grade makeover.” I slipped into my best Jess impression. “‘For Christ’s sake, Erie. We’re going to the mall. Right now. No boy wants to see you in Dad’s gigantic flannel shirts.’ She dragged me kicking and screaming into contact lenses and clothes that actually fit.”

“Ah yes.” Something shifted in his expression—that same intensity I’d seen when he painted. “When you finally let those hazel eyes show. But then other guys could see what I already knew by heart.”

The silence stretched between us, our years of deliberate distance now paper thin.

Why have we never kissed?

“God, we were stupid.” He met my eyes, and for once, neither of us looked away. “All that running just to end up here anyway. Different story, same characters.”

The rain tapped against the windows, marking time like a heartbeat. Our bodies were close enough that I could feel his warmth, but we still weren’t touching.

“Is it obvious I have no idea what to do here?” He threw his hands into the air, falling back on humor like always when things got too real. “Should I dim the lights? Put on music to drown out the obscene noises?”

My laughter broke the tension. I turned to him, and he slid his arms around me. His bare foot touched my calf, and I jumped.

“Holy shit, your feet are cold!”

“Just maintaining my reputation as your most high-maintenance makeout partner.”

“You are an absolute dork.” Then his lips found mine, soft and careful, like he was afraid I might break. Or maybe he was afraid he would. His hands rose to frame my face, and mine his, and we kissed like we had all the time in the world. I savored the roughness of his cheek against my palm, the way he smiled against my mouth, the scent of paint and rain and Seth that I’d known all my life but never like this.

Then I felt him struggling for air. My heart stuttered as I recognized that familiar hitch in his breathing, the way his lungs worked too hard for something that should be natural.

“Wait,” he whispered, pulling back. His chest rose and fell too fast. But his fingers stayed tangled in my hair, like he couldn’t quite let go.

“Are you okay?” My voice came out steady even as fear climbed up my throat.

“Erie.” His breath came in short gasps. “Small break.”

He drew me down beside him, his left hand still gently twisting strands of my hair through his fingers. Within minutes, his breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. It happened like this at chemo too—one moment telling me about his latest painting ideas, the next gone so completely, like someone had flipped a switch.

I studied his sleeping face, memorizing him in this moment of peace. In the dim light, my fingers found the small scar between his eyebrows—evidence of another dare turned disaster. Suddenly I was back in second grade, watching him bounce on this bed, arms stretching toward the ceiling, Snoopy pajamas flashing red with each jump. “Almost there!” Then the sickening crack as his head hit the headboard.

As I helped Maggie hold a towel to his forehead, Seth grinned up at me through the blood. “How close did I get?”

“So close. Two more inches, tops.”

That night in the ER, Maggie squeezed my hand. “You’re good in a crisis, Erie Shelbourne. Iron stomach and iron will.” It was true. Always had been. Through broken bones and split lips, through every Seth Mattingly adventure.

I traced my thumb across the scar, then along his cheekbone. His face had changed—gone from that goofy kid to something different, something both more and less. But even with the deeper shadows beneath his eyes, he was still beautiful.

“Hey.” He yawned, grinning. “Who let you in here?”

“Your security is terrible.”

He pressed a sleepy kiss to my temple. His bare foot, warmer now, settled on my leg. His fingers traced my features—the slope of my nose, the rise of my cheeks, the line of my jaw. “I could draw your face with my eyes closed.”

My heart did that thing it had been doing since we’d shared a playpen, like it was trying to escape my chest and find its way to him.

He brushed his lips across mine, soft and wondering. “Since I’m clearly in my unfiltered phase, I should tell you that kissing you is exactly what I imagined when I was pretending not to imagine it.”

My stomach did a slow flip. “And there wasn’t even a dare involved.”

“Nor did I split my lip open. But the day’s still young.” He kissed me again, then ran his hand through his hair. A good-sized chestnut lock came away in his fingers. “Oh shit.” He stared at it, tried for a laugh that didn’t quite work. “Looks like you get to fulfill your barbering destiny sooner than we thought.”

“Always ready to master a new skill. Even if it means defacing Sacred Heart’s ‘Best Hair’ winner” in ’88.”

“Just not today, okay? Today, I’m happy. There’s a good chance that becoming bald might turn me into an unpleasant human being.” He stage-whispered: “Possibly even an asshole.”

“Don’t worry. I have lists to handle your moods. One: Don’t take anything personally. Two: Pretend not to notice while you color entire pages of your sketchbook black. Three: Force you to watch Monty Python until you finally crack.”

“You have Seth lists, huh?”

“Yep. For years. Best places to hide from our parents. Ways to make him laugh. How to tell him I’ve had a crush on him since we wore matching swim diapers in the baby pool.”

“Wait. What? Rewind.”

“Nope. Should have paid attention the first time.”

He smiled and shook his head, interlacing his fingers with mine. But then his expression clouded, the humor fading. He stared at our joined hands on the quilt.

“When I got the diagnosis, I made a list too.” His voice was quiet. “‘Ways to make Erie hate me so she won’t have to watch this.’”

“Seth.”

He pushed himself up from the bed, crossed to the window. “Remember the summer after sophomore year? When we got lost hiking Medill’s Creek and it started storming?”

“We had to hide in that abandoned barn. You kept insisting you knew exactly where we were.”

“I did know.” He turned back to me, his whole face lighting up. “We were in a barn.”

I remember it like yesterday. The rain drumming on the tin roof. The weathered boards silver-black. Your hair wet, that ratty INXS shirt plastered to your chest, cut-off sweats dripping onto your white Blazers with the blue swoosh. We found a mountain of tobacco sticks and you grabbed two like swords, tossed one to me. “En garde, Shelbourne!” Our laughter echoed off the rafters, mixing with the thunder. My heart raced, and I wasn’t sure if it was from our mock duel or being in this secret place together.

“Think you can beat me to the loft?” I challenged, nodding toward the rickety ladder.

“Probably,” you shrugged. “But I’d rather watch you climb. You know, for safety reasons.”

We sat up there with our legs dangling, watching sheets of rain transform the valley into a river. The whole world smelled like wet earth, ancient tobacco, and you. Your shoulder brushed mine. I wanted to lean into you, but instead, I held my breath.

Lightning flashed, making us jump.

“Holy shit!” Your laugh was nervous, breathless. “How far away was that?”

I started counting. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

The thunder rolled over us before I reached three.

“Getting closer,” you said.

You turned to look at me, rain-soaked and beautiful. Another flash lit up your face, and I saw something new—a vulnerability, a question.

“We’ll remember this forever,” you said.

“We will.”

With sudden energy, he launched himself back onto the bed, landing half on top of me. The weight of him, warm and real and alive, made my breath catch. “Want to know a secret? I really wanted to kiss you in that barn. Like this.” His eyes met mine, full of that impossible mix of mischief and tenderness that was purely Seth, and then his lips found mine—once, twice, three times, each kiss its own confession. “Just think. If I’d have been brave, we’d be on our way to three years of kissing proficiency.”

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” I said, my voice low and teasing.

“Starting right now,” he said between kisses. “Though I can’t help thinking about that barn…it was pure Kentucky romance. Making out in my room is like desecrating a museum of Gothic teenage angst.”

“Good thing I’m trained in caring for historically significant artifacts.”

He laughed, pulled me close. “I love you.”

The words stopped us both. For several heartbeats, there was just his breathing in time with mine, his pain forgotten, both of us suspended in something that felt like grace. In the quiet that followed, he buried his face in my neck, his words warm against my skin.

“This is going to sound insane,” he whispered. “But when I’m with you, everything stops. The pain, the fear, the constant fucking countdown in my head.” His fingers tensed against my skin, holding on like I might disappear. “It’s like my whole body is made of light, like I’m living inside that pretentious sunset we just saw, all violet and amber and alive.” He pulled back, face flushing. “God, that was too much—”

I pressed my fingers to his lips. “That’s not too much. That’s exactly enough.”

The vulnerability in his expression shifted to something lighter, more practiced. “Erie Shelbourne. You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Now that…might be too much.”

“I’m sorry.” He touched his forehead to mine. “But you’ve always known I’m an acquired taste.”

I kissed him with my eyes wide open, again and again, until everything melted away except his arms around me and his heart beating against mine. For now, that heartbeat was enough.

“Erie,” he whispered against my mouth. “Remember the information I shared with you this morning? About chemo?”

“Got it covered.” I pulled the small packet from my pocket.

“You’ve been carrying that around all day? Pretty presumptuous, Shelbourne.”

“I take my Seth lists seriously.”

His smile turned boyish. I pulled the sweater over his head. The chemo port was an alien thing against his chest, marking the bargain he’d made for more time. But beneath the medical hardware, I could still see the boy who’d grown up racing me through rickhouses, who’d learned early how to roll barrels and swing an ax.

“This is…” He gestured at his chest. “I don’t look…”

“You look like Seth. With the swim diaper. Just taller.”

“Who apparently decided to speed-run through life. Most people wait until much later to get frail and elderly.”

“You’re not frail and elderly. You’re just… you with the volume turned down a bit.”

“Volume turned down. I like that.”

“We can turn it back up.” I reached toward him with what I hoped was alluring confidence, but he caught my wrist.

“I can’t promise a year. It could be six months. It could be next week.”

“Then don’t promise.”

He pulled me closer, and I felt the tremor in his arms. “I love you,” he said again, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to say it.

“Show me.”

And he did.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 8: THE MORNING