Kit Castille didn't want to be one of the girls who worshiped Matthew Rondillo in college. She doesn't want to be one of the girls in his little black book now. But she gave her heart to Matthew all those years ago. Driven by revenge, she's on a mis...
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I had almost forgotten what it was like to be him. How it feels to be the one beside Matthew and have all the other girls feel a lot less.
Men like him are a rarity. At least in my current circles and in my own twisted point of view. The kind who whisks you away to depths you've never gone to before. The kind who sends you spiraling around, like a top spinning, trying to keep its balance. The kind who makes you feel very much out of control but this time, the helplessness feels welcome, wanted.
And so we manage to reach Eastwood City on a Friday night. I am happy to know that he did make reservations at this Greek restaurant that he reviewed for a magazine once.
"So tell me again about this breast enhancement cream they told you to write about," he teases while we wait for our food. He pours me white wine.
I giggle. I never giggle. But with him it feels more like an awkward fusion of a laugh and snicker that I end up regretting it. "It's stupid," I say. "It's not as interesting as your job. Tell me about your new magazine."
Matthew sighs and raises his hands in the air. "Stressful. Imagine, our original cover girl, one of those sexy up-and-coming, 18-year-old noontime show hosts, backed out the day before our photo shoot. I had to call in favors and pull off a miracle in 24 hours because we can't re-book this obnoxious photographer."
"So who did you get?" I ask.
"I cashed in a favor from Solenn. Good thing she's not out of the country or else I'm toast."
"You know all the right people," I smile.
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Photo by David Joyce | Pixabay
"Some, not all," he continues. "Apparently, I don't have a good graphic designer." He opens his smart phone and shows me few pages of the magazine's initial layouts. At such a young age, Matthew is rallying behind a newcomer in the men's magazine lineup. He talks me through the entire editorial plan for their maiden issue. I sit there, with my mouth slightly ajar, trying to contain all the optimism and passion attempting to escape my mouth.
As the reluctant COO (child of owner) of my parents' small printing empire, I know the technical side of production better than he does. Soon, I begin shooting down the wrong assumptions he has. Without prompting, we begin talking in a language only the two of us understands.
