After Dark (15 page)
It would shine a spotlight on all our scheming and deceit. Matt’s aunt and uncle would know I’d lied to their faces. My parents would know.
Everyone
would know. And whatever public support we’d rallied with our “epic love story” would vanish into the ether.
Matt, did you consider this?
“Hannah?” said Pam.
I gazed up at Matt’s agent, another person we’d deceived. She’d comforted me during Matt’s memorial, and she’d arranged all the interviews and appearances through which we disseminated our lie.
Now she knew the truth—obviously—and I saw hurt under her stony exterior.
“It’s … fiction,” I managed.
Pam laughed, her lips curling. “I’m sure. Whatever it is, it will be a sensation.”
We stared at one another in a deadlock.
Oh, Pam.
This woman had been so good to me, so loyal to Matt. She deserved the truth.
My eyes watered and I looked away.
“I’ll leave it with you, Hannah. You might as well read it, unless you already have.”
“Th-thank you.” I touched the stack of papers. I
did
want to read it. I’d only skimmed the book in April, and it wasn’t complete at the time. Now I could read every grisly detail.
Pam moved toward the doorway. I listened as her heels clicked to a stop. She spoke with her back to me, her voice softer.
“For six years I guarded his identity. I handled his privacy with the utmost discretion, and kept his secrets, when it would have behooved me and his career to reveal him.” She shook her head slowly and turned her face so that I could see her profile. “But he’s not right in the head. What I don’t understand is how he brought you in on it.”
I stayed quiet, knowing I’d break into tears if I spoke.
Pam clicked her tongue. “Well, he’s very persuasive. An occupational hazard, I’m sure.” She shut the door behind her and my vision quivered with tears.
I had no right to be as happy as I’d been in the past few weeks. My engagement to Matt and the love story we were telling the world stood on a platform of lies. And he … my tears dropped onto the manuscript, raising rumpled spots on the paper.
He was fucking smart enough to know that
everyone
would read
Last Light
as truth. No-fucking-body would mistake it for fiction. He’d made a fool of me in front of Pam.
What the hell?
I jabbed out a text message. I didn’t feel like blubbering my way through a call.
Pam showed me finished LL ms. I am so ANGRY at u. Thanks for the heads up. She knows everything now. U cannot publish LL.
Matt’s reply came promptly.
We’ll talk when you get home.
Talk when I get home?
A new surge of tears started, ugly and hot. I hiccuped and blew my nose noisily. I knew Pam could hear me from her office and I didn’t care.
Some of us actually know how to show our feelings, unlike Matt-fucking-Sky writing as M.—fucking-Pierce
.
I spent the rest of the workday reading
Last Light
. Why, I don’t know, except that I couldn’t focus on anything else. My mood vacillated among rage and sorrow and fear. And arousal. Fucking Matt. His books affected me, always.
By five, I’d cooled off enough to drive home safely.
I found him smoking on the balcony.
I carried the tear-dotted manuscript under my arm.
When Matt said nothing, I began to read from a dog-eared page: “‘Seth pulled my hand to his dick. My fingertips brushed the overheated skin and he sighed.’” No reaction. I skipped a few lines. “‘I wrapped my fingers around his shaft. He hardened fully in my hold. I began to stroke him, my gaze moving between his arousal and his face.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder.
“That’s what happened, no?”
“Matt…” My voice shriveled.
“Mm.” He turned back toward the city. “You gave me a full and free account of the incident. You knew it was for my book. It’s cruel of you to read it to me.”
“C … cruel?
I’m
the cruel one?”
“When would I touch your sister, Hannah? Not in a million years. What combination of drugs and drink could induce me to fool around with her? None. And not because she isn’t attractive”—he spun and loomed over me, his face thunderous—“but because she’s your goddamn sister. It would be
wrong
. Revolting. I would never—”
“Shut up!” I shrieked. My arms trembled. “Shut up or I’ll hit you, and I don’t want to fucking hit you.”
“Do it. It would be preferable to your reading from that—”
I shoved him. He didn’t move.
“Try harder,” he snapped.
I planted my palm against his chest and pushed.
Mmph! This selfish son of a bitch.
He barely wavered. I pummeled his chest with my fist, big tears rushing to my eyes.
“Sometimes I hate you!” I puffed.
He caught my jaw. Fingers like iron drew me up short, wrenching my face toward his. I froze, my eyes going round.
Matt brought his mouth to mine.
His smoky breath touched my lips.
“And sometimes I hate you,” he hissed, “for doing it with him.
To
him…”
His glare scoured my face—I held my breath—and then he let me go. I staggered back, flattening myself against the deck door.
Holy shit
.
“I thought we were past that,” I whispered. A tear dropped from my chin.
“So did I. And now you come to me, reading it to me.” He glared hell at the manuscript.
“Because you plan to publish it. How can you be so dense?”
“You knew I planned to publish it all along. What the hell is your problem? You realize
Night Owl
is for sale online, yeah? That the paperback will be in every bookstore in America come September? What the fuck, Hannah?”
“This is different
.
Matt, the truth.” I slapped the chunk of papers. “The … the fucking truth about me helping you fake your death, about Nate, about—”
“It doesn’t matter that it’s
the truth
. It will be sold as
fiction
. As far as I know, unless a book is libel, no court of law can come after you for—”
“What if they can? I lied to the police for you! I gave actual … false reports.”
“Shall I phone Shapiro and have him confirm that your fears are unfounded?”
Matt gaped at me. I gaped at him. I did not seriously want Shapiro, the Sky family lawyer, embroiled in yet another fiasco with me and one of Matt’s books. The
Night Owl
situation had been hairy enough.
“Fine, the … legal stuff … even if that weren’t an issue. What about the rest?”
“Let me just—” He rubbed his mouth. “Let me get this straight. You expect me … to refrain from publishing
Last Light
… because it’s true?”
“Uh … yes?”
“Ha…” He cocked his head and half-smiled. “Ah—I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. The…” He shook another cigarette from his pack.
Ugh,
I really wanted him to quit. My angry text at work probably sent him on a smoking tear, and just when he was tapering down. “The answer is no.” His expression grew calm and almost haughty. He turned away again.
I stood there, staring at his back in a daze.
The answer … is no?
I wasn’t
asking
him not to publish the book; I was
telling
him not to. It couldn’t happen. Fucking wouldn’t happen. All day at work I’d tormented myself with the possible ramifications of
Last Light
seeing the light of day. Legal … social … familial ramifications. Was Matt suffering some sort of disconnect from reality?
Not to mention the awkward-as-hell situation he’d put me in with Pam.
I threw the manuscript at him.
As I twisted away, I saw a page lick into the air and go sailing out over Denver.
“Hannah,” he growled. He snatched at the stray papers.
I stalked inside and locked myself in our bedroom.
That douche-canoe could sleep on the couch. Again.
Fuck
, we needed a bigger place.
I booted up my laptop and sat on the bed, simmering. I expected Matt to come storming down the hall, banging at the door, but I heard nothing.
God, he could be so infuriating! And this wasn’t a joke—wasn’t up for discussion.
I listened to angry music (Eminem), hopped off the bed and paced, and finally opened Gmail and sent a message to Matt.
Deep breaths …
Subject: Ultimatum
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Monday, June 30, 2014
Time: 5:11 PM
Matt,
I don’t know how to reason with you right now. You’re being crazy. You absolutely CANNOT publish
Last Light
. Your aunt already seems to hate me. How much more do you think she (and the public) will hate me when they know I helped plan and execute your fake death?
Do you want people to hate me?
And don’t tell me people will think the book is fiction, because they won’t. Also, don’t you DARE compare
Night Owl
to
Last Light
. This is so different. My reputation is at stake here. So is Nate’s. The book portrays me doing drugs, hooking up with your brother, and basically letting you risk your life.
You would have to be seriously unfeeling to even THINK of publishing it.
That said, I know full well that I can’t stop you from doing what you want. You always do what you want. You’re a spoiled brat, do you know that? Golden boy with green eyes. It’s really hard to love you sometimes.
If you continue the publication process with
Last Light
, if you’re so hell-bent on blowing the lid off everything, I’ll finish and publish MY story. Fair’s fair.
Hannah
P.S. Enjoy the couch tonight. We obviously need a bigger place, because you need a proper doghouse.
P.P.S. Quit smoking. That’s a new stipulation.
Attachment: UNTITLED.doc
MATT
I sat in my office, reading the first chapter of Hannah’s story.
MY story
, she’d called it. I smiled and shook my head.
Mm, my little bird with her very own version of events …
How charming. Was I supposed to feel threatened? The poor girl had no leverage.
She’d written only one chapter of her supposed story. It recounted our appearance on the
Denver Buzz
, her anxiety about the proposal, and our argument when she caught me house-shopping. I skimmed the text, remembering, until her words stopped me.
The smile died on my lips.
My desire to carry a child
, Hannah had written,
could be described as less than zero.
“The hell?” I mumbled. I tracked back and reread.
Holy shit. Matt wanted kids?
Again, I reread the chapter. And again. I needed more, but there wasn’t more.
I clicked on her Word document and forced a page break. I stared at the new page, my mind tossing and turning. Then I centered the words “Chapter 2,
Matt
” and began to write.
Mike kept a framed picture of his family on his desk …
Three hours later, I finished my chapter. I proofed it and replied to Hannah’s e-mail.
Subject: Stipulations, ultimatums, lions, tigers, bears … oh my?
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Monday, June 30, 2014
Time: 9:10 PM
Baby Bird,
“Keep writing with me.” Wasn’t that one of your stipulations? Yes, I think it was, along with “marry me” and “no more lies” and “see your shrink.”
I mean to do all those things and more. I’ll add “quit smoking” to the list. I’m trying, you know …
When you finish your story (when we finish it?) you will understand the pains of bringing a book into the world. You will understand how I feel about
Last Light
. I’m not publishing it to hurt you. In fact, I don’t get where all this apprehension is coming from. You’ve known for a while that I planned to publish it. Did the possible consequences just dawn on you?
Whatever the case, I’ll set up a meeting with Pam and we three will discuss it. Do you like the sound of that?
Love,
Your Night Owl, Certified Spoiled Brat & Resident Golden Boy
P.S. Of course we need a bigger place. I told you so …
Attachment: UNTITLED.doc
My cursor hovered over the Send button.
In Chapter 2, my unsolicited addition to Hannah’s story, I had described a session with Mike: the day he gave me my
Black Book of Aberrant Desires.
The chapter ended with the word EXHIBITIONISM.
Maybe this—this story—would be the easiest way to tell Hannah everything.
I glanced at the clock. Nine-ish. She might still be awake.
“Ah, fuck it.” I hit Send, then pushed away from my desk and glared at
A Street in Venice.
The painting gave me no peace. I picked the small darts from my drawer and threw them at the board on the far wall.
Thunk
. One hit the double ring.
Thunk
. Outside the triple ring.
Usually I had better aim.
Now I couldn’t focus.
No children with Hannah. No family.
I simply wasn’t ready to discuss that issue, much less accept it, and so I ignored it.
I waited in my office for ten minutes, expecting a knock. None came.
I emerged into the hallway, paused outside our bedroom, and listened. There was no light beneath the door and no sound from within.
Impatience seized me. I forced a credit card between the door and the frame, and the lock released. The door swung inward.
Hannah sat on our bed in the dark, her MacBook open in front of her. The screen’s soft glow lit her face.
She didn’t jump, but she regarded me cautiously.
I struggled to read her expression.
Silence.
A stalemate.
“I came for my sleeping bag,” I lied. “I don’t really fit on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“And quit locking the door.” I walked to the closet and flicked on the light. Maybe she hadn’t read my e-mail yet. Maybe she had and was planning her escape. I grabbed my Marmot stuff sack and lingered, compressing the down like a stress ball. How to prolong my time in the bedroom? I moved a few shoeboxes, searching for … whatever. A flashlight. A peace offering.