After Dark (2 page)

I stormed to the bedroom and threw myself on the quilt. Like a child.

I lay in the dark, listening for Matt.

Rain spattered against the window. I heard the low
thump-thump
of his feet pacing the floor. Lightning shimmered on the wall and thunder reverberated over the Denver skyline.

At last, I heard him coming down the hall.

The mattress shifted.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t propose,” he said. “You did.”

I rolled over. Matt sat on the edge of the bed, hands on knees, elbows locked. I crawled to him and slipped my arms around his shoulders. He relaxed in my hold.

“I guess … I did, yeah.” I laid my ear against his back. Relief relaxed me, too. It felt good, and right, finally to be talking about this. “But you went along with it.”

“Of course I did.” He chuckled. “Why would I pass up such a perfect play?”

“Huh?”

“Love, I knew you weren’t serious. Not completely.” He twisted around and cupped my face. His eyes glimmered with amusement. “I knew it was for the show. I mean, we’ve known each other for a year. Not even. And think about that year…”

Matt trailed off and I thought about
that year.

It was a year next month, in fact, if we counted our meeting online. Less than a year if we didn’t count the Internet. Much less than a year if we didn’t count Matt’s meltdown in New York and our separation after his faked death.

So … we’d known one another for much less than a year.

A tight, painful feeling expanded in my chest.

“So w-why were you”—I cleared my throat—“looking at houses?”

“Because we need a bigger place.”

I shook my head out of his grasp. “Do we? I don’t see why we need a house if we’re not—” My voice cracked.
If we’re not getting married.
No, I wouldn’t be the idiot who said that. The idiot who’d spent the past month hoping and dreaming.

“What is this?” A flash of lightning whitened Matt’s eyes, which were somber now. “Hey, look at me.” Again, he took my face between his hands. “Little bird, you barely know me. We barely know one another, if you think about it.”

His words put a hairline crack in my heart. We did know one another. We’d been through so much. What was he saying?

“And marriage is about more than me,” he continued. “More than us. It’s about family. There’s a lot to consider, starting all that.”

I pinched my tongue between my teeth.
Holy shit.
Matt wanted kids? We’d never had this discussion, and my desire to carry a child could be described as less than zero.

His voice gained confidence as he spoke.

“Of course we’ll talk about marriage … someday. When we’re ready, you know? When we’re sure this is what we want. Marriage is very finalizing, or it ought to be.” He released my face and stripped off his T-shirt, and for a second his gorgeous body distracted me. Those toned arms, that golden trail below his navel …

“I know,” I snapped. “I know marriage is finalizing. I’m not an idiot.”

“Come here. Don’t be upset; we’re talking.” He tried to kiss my neck. I ducked.

“It was real for me,” I said. “I was ready.”

“What? Hannah…”

Matt wanted closeness—probably to confirm that we weren’t having a serious fight. I knew how he worked. He drew comfort from intimacy.
See, Matt? I do know you.
He pulled on my shoulder. I stiffened and fought my instinct to melt against him.

“Stop.” I pressed both hands to his chest. This wasn’t play and he knew it. He frowned and stilled.

“What’s the matter?” His voice grated with frustration.

“I
was
ready,” I repeated. Tears rimmed my eyelids. “I was fucking ready, Matt. I was serious when I said, “marry me.” The perfect play? Is everything a game for you?” I scrambled back on the sheets. “I can’t believe you just said, ‘when we’re sure this is what we want.’” I sniffled and a tear fell. My cheeks burned. “I am … was sure. I’d been sure.”

Matt watched me impassively. Oh, he could go so cold, even in the face of my emotion.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Of course it was a game. It was a
story
, a simple narrative for simple people. Something they’d understand. Do you think I would seriously parade my engagement out for the public like that? God, it’s like I said. You don’t know me at all.”

“No, I do know you.” My fingers dug into the sheets. Nothing makes me indignant like humiliation. “You’re manipulative, just like Seth said. Your own fucking brother said you’re a master manipulator, and that’s what you are, letting me and all those people think we were seriously getting married. I feel like such an idiot.”

“Don’t.” Matt leaned in swiftly. He didn’t touch me, but his breath touched my face and I froze. “Don’t bring him into this. Do you think I’m lying when I say I love you?” He sneered. “Do you think I’m lying when I say you don’t really know me? Hannah, I want things that…” He lowered his head so that he could look directly at me. I shrank beneath his frigid stare.

He wanted things that …
what?

As suddenly as he’d leaned in, he withdrew. He stalked out of the room and left me shivering on our bed.

Chapter 2

MATT

Mike kept a framed picture of his family on his desk. Blonde, wife, two cherubic-looking children, and a goddamn golden retriever.

I pointed at the picture with my unlit cigarette.

No smoking allowed in my psychiatrist’s office, of course.

“The dog,” I said. “The dog is what makes this too much.”

I sat in an overstuffed armchair and Mike sat on a couch beside me, his body angled toward mine. Everything about his posture said:
I am attentive to you.

Mike’s golden retriever grinned at me.

“It’s like you’re mocking me,” I said. “Mocking the poor messed-up people who must sit in this chair. With your dog. With your golden family. Do you get that?”

“You’re avoiding,” Mike said.

“Right.” I chewed my cigarette’s filter. “God, I gotta quit smoking again.”

“I could prescribe something to help with that.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m down to one or two a day anyway.” I rose and walked to the broad window of Mike’s high-rise office and I looked out at a sunny Denver morning. It was Monday. Hannah was at work and I was meeting with my psychiatrist for the first time in months because Hannah demanded it.

If I didn’t get regular therapy, she wouldn’t live with me.

That stipulation seemed fair enough, considering the last year.

“Let’s talk about your relationship,” Mike said. “Are congratulations in order?”

“God, not you, too,” I muttered.

My mind tracked back to Friday night, when Hannah and I had finally discussed “the proposal.” Yes, “the proposal,” which I viewed as a ploy to manipulate public opinion. It had worked, too. Thousands of previously angry readers (
how dare that author fake his death and make us grieve?
) took to social media in support (
oh, their story is so romantic!
).

“No, no fucking congratulations. It wasn’t real. That should be obvious.”

“Another hoax?” said Mike. “People will get tired of your games.”

“And I am tired of people!” I flung myself back into the armchair and resumed glaring at Mike’s perfect family. “I am
tired
of explaining myself,
tired
of having to be one thing or another,
tired
of making up stories to justify my life.” My head sank. I drove my fingers through my hair, short nails raking over my scalp. “Of course, Hannah thought it was real. She says she was ready. She says she believed it, that we were getting engaged.”

“Ah. So she’s tiring of your games, too.”

“I love her,” I snarled, “and that’s no fucking game.”

“But you aren’t ready to put a ring on her finger?”

“I would do it in a heartbeat, if I thought she really knew me.”

“What doesn’t she know? As far as I can tell, she’s seen you at your worst.”

“Ha! My worst…” I rolled my eyes elaborately. What did Hannah know about my worst? What did I even know? I only understood, vaguely, that my desires ran deeper than blindfolds and handcuffs, rougher than role play and spankings, stranger—

“Matthew?”

I glanced at the clock. “Hour’s up.”

“Ever vigilant. In that case”—Mike withdrew a spiral notebook from his desk drawer—“I’m giving you some homework.”

“This is more than I signed up for.”

He ignored me.

“I want you to think about your former relationships and your current relationship with Hannah. Think about your actions during those times, the books you wrote—your career—and your stability levels and sexual satisfaction. Compare and contrast.”

“I see what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not ‘getting at’ anything.” He smiled and handed the notebook to me. “You’re trying to analyze and manipulate my motives.”

“And you’re shrinking me. Stop.” I gestured with the notebook. “So what, you want me to make a Venn diagram? Be prepared for a quiz next week?”

“Actually, no. In that, I want you to write about your worst.”

“My worst,” I deadpanned.

“That’s right. Whatever it is that you feel Hannah doesn’t know about you, write it down. You need to have dialogue, if only with yourself. And I won’t ask you to share the notebook if you don’t want. That’s your personal space. No self-critique.”

“Easier said than done.” I let myself out of the office.

As I rode the elevator down to the first floor, I flipped through the notebook. Page after page of emptiness and pale blue lines provoked me. It has always been that way.

I drove back to the condo and went directly to my desk.
Last Light
, my work in progress, lay open before me. I frowned as I considered it, remembering Mike’s words.

Think about your actions during those times, the books you wrote—your career.

Since I’d met Hannah, I wrote only about Hannah. That beautiful woman … my sweet little bird. Love is hysteria, and summer makes it worse. Heat spreads the fever. Madness.

I pushed aside
Last Light
and opened my new notebook from Mike.

At the top of the page, in cramped, slanting caps, I wrote:

EXHIBITIONISM

Chapter 3

HANNAH

Pam wanted to see me after lunch.

I worried a nail as I carried my salad out of the Mediterranean deli.

If Pam wanted to see me, I’d probably done something wrong.
Shit.
What could it be?

I sat at the last empty table outside and started stuffing forkfuls of lettuce into my mouth. I ate mindlessly, concentrating instead on how I might have pissed off my boss. Hm. No contract negotiations were under way. We had no new authors. Was I reading too slowly? Did I discard a promising manuscript?

A shadow fell across my table.

I looked up at a pretty, petite woman with fawn brown hair.

“Oh!” she said. “You’re Hannah Catalano.”

I nodded. Since our TV appearance, Matt and I were pseudo-celebs in Denver. Now everyone who recognized Matt also recognized me. He was “that crazy author who faked his death” and I was “the adorable girl he loves.”
It could be worse,
we joked.

“Do you mind?” The woman glanced at the chair across from mine.

“Go for it,” I said, and she set down her tray. “It’s so busy today.”

“Must be the nice weather.” As the stranger sipped her drink, I noticed a delicate gold band around her ring finger, encrusted with three diamonds. My chest tightened.

The woman caught me staring and she blushed.

“I just got engaged. And so did you, right? You and that author?”

“Uh … yeah.” I pushed an olive around my plate.

“This is the craziest coincidence.” The woman squinted and glanced over her shoulder, then leaned toward me. “My friend used to date him. Can you believe that?”

“Huh?” A gust of wind rocked the umbrella above our table. It shifted and a shaft of sunlight pierced my eyes.
Friend … dated Matt?

“I know, right?” The woman laughed. Her earrings flashed like fishing lures. “The stories I have heard. You are so
brave
to be marrying him. Is he really into all that weird stuff?”

“I—” I shielded my eyes. Jesus, I needed to see this woman. Was her friend Bethany Meres, Matt’s evil ex? And what did she mean by “weird stuff”?

“God, I probably shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” She lifted her tray. “A table just freed up over there, so I’ll give you some peace. Nice meeting you.”

The woman hurried off and I sat there staring after her.

I wanted to march over to her table and demand more information, but my lunch break was up. I pictured Pam waiting in her office with an executioner’s ax.
Fuck …

I got one last good look at the woman—straight, fine hair to her shoulders, a small, fit body, and a brightly printed Coach purse—and carried my tray back into the deli.

*   *   *

Pamela Wing and her partner, Laura Granite, awaited me in the office. I rarely saw Laura around the agency and the sight of her stopped me in the doorway.

These women looked severe.

Laura beckoned, her perfect eyebrows arching. Pam nodded at me.

Okay … I knew this scene. They would feed me some lines about a gap in my skill set, or disappointment with my progress, their hope for more growth.
This isn’t working out, Hannah.

“Great to see you, Hannah,” said Laura. Laura was a leggy brunette, in her fifties at least and alarmingly attractive.

My boss, Pam, looked stern as usual.

I perched on the edge of the offered chair.

“Nice to see you as well,” I said.
Be brave. Go out with dignity.
I tried to smile at Laura, though I think I grimaced. “How was New York?”

“Same old,” she drawled, her city accent thick. Though the Granite Wing Agency was Denver-based, Laura spent weeks on end in New York City. “I got you something.”