After Dark (20 page)

“You’re preaching to the choir. I want him gone. We’re all the help she needs.”

“I’m not talking about her.” Hannah clunked her mug onto the coffee table. “I’m talking about your brother. The help your brother needs.”

“He is not my fucking concern.”

“You wouldn’t be alive if Nate decided that you weren’t his ‘fucking concern.’”

“What is this, exactly?” I drew away from her. “Your sister is testing my patience to the limit. I don’t understand what you’re getting at right now. Are you suggesting that I should be doing something for Seth? Handouts for the two of them?”

“God.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, please, illuminate me. I must have a goodwill sign stamped across my face. Tell me just
how
I should help my brother, who assaulted my girlfriend and knocked up her sister.”

“He didn’t assault me. For the millionth time. You hurt him—terrified him—by faking your death. When are you going to own that? How would you feel if Nate did that to you? Seth lost his parents, too.” Hannah stood, visibly mustering her courage. “I saw Seth grieving at your memorial. That shit messed him up. I’m sure he shares all your hang-ups about loss and—”

“Hang-ups.” I rose, wanting more distance from her. I moved away and regarded Hannah coolly. “
Hang-ups,
” I repeated.

“Okay, wrong word. Chill. You know what I mean.”

“
Chill
?”

She threw up her hands. “Forget it. You’re impossible when you get like this.”

I leaned against the wall, wishing I had a cigarette. I’d trashed my pack earlier in the day. I needed to quit for Hannah, who summoned my dead parents against me … in defense of Seth.

“Go to bed,” I said.

“I am going, but not because you say so. I’m not a child.”

“No? You’re happy to act like one when you need taking care of.”

She turned scarlet and scowled at her feet.

“There’s no shame in that, little bird.” I strolled toward her and took her jaw in my hand. I forced her to look at me. Defiance shone in her eyes, and a little alarm. “Just remember who loves you. Remember who takes care of you.” I brushed my thumb over her lips. “Sleep.”

*   *   *

I ran that night the way I had run when Hannah broke up with me in April: past the boundary of my stamina, into pain and then numbness.

Anything can become self-harm. Not just sharp objects and drugs and alcohol, but exercise and creativity, ambition, desire. Love. What else is love, if not the power to destroy?

In a moment of carelessness, Hannah could ruin me.

But she is gentle
, I wrote, having returned from my run and gone straight to my desk. Sweat dripped down my face. The desire to put Hannah into words, and to understand her, seared me. She spoke about my parents and Seth. I saw their faces in a constellation, meaning nothing.
She is like the little bird I call her. Strong and delicate. I’m out of my depth.

Chapter 23

HANNAH

On Friday morning, Matt and I acted as if we’d never argued.

I could almost believe we hadn’t.

Last night, I’d set foot in that no-man’s-land topic—his parents—and he locked up like Fort Knox. End of discussion. End of the evening.

“Happy Friday,” he said as we toweled off after our shower.

“Same to you.” I hugged him tight. Matt communicated through physicality, something I’d learned, and a hug meant more than a dozen apologies.

His semihard cock pressed at my belly.
Oh Lord.

If I dress in a hurry … maybe we could quickly …

I tugged off his towel and he laughed reluctantly.

“Hi,” I whispered, wrapping my fingers around his dick.

“Ah, fuck.” He locked his hands behind his skull. I tugged at him gently. Would I ever get tired of the way he responded to this? Like a gun to his head.

I shook off my towel and pressed my sex against the cold marble corner of the sink.

“Go on,” he said, fixated on the V of my thighs. “Get wet on that.”

He liked a little show, and despite my sometimes crippling shyness, I liked putting it on for him. I jerked him off and rolled my body against the blunt corner, soaking it. Soon he was bucking into my grip, pulling me away from the sink and taking over with his expert hands. Hands I loved, long and veined. Fingers that thrummed my clit at perfect pitch. Fingers that entered me boldly, possessively, and almost carelessly. As if this part of me were his.

I watched us handling one another in the mirror, and coming; Matt first, in a thick pale jet against my belly, and me a moment later, my pleasure dripping over his hands.

I carried that memory with me to work.

Matt forwarded an e-mail to me at noon.

Subject: Fwd: Listings

Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.

Date: Friday, July 4, 2014

Time: 12:08 PM

Who the hell works on the Fourth of July? Only my workaholic wife-to-be.

Thanks for the helping hand this morning.

Okay, that was pretty bad …

Marion sent the listings just now. I like the look of a few. She can start showing us around as early as Monday. Thoughts?

Also, please find attached Chapter 4, for your reading pleasure.

Matt

Attachment: UNTITLED.doc

I started to read Matt’s chapter before I even glanced at the listings. Priorities.

He began with a transcript of that racy journal entry,
EXHIBITIONISM
, which made me feel fluttery and aroused and alarmed. And he wrote about … I frowned and reread. Hm, something he felt when we drove past my parents’ house? It was the night he proposed to me. Something between the lines.

I closed the Word document with the definite sense that I was missing something.

Or worse, choosing to ignore something.

The homes listed in Marion’s e-mail ranged from suburban to country, two-bedroom to ten-, and affordable to impossibly expensive.

But impossibly expensive
was
affordable for us.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice more seven-figure listings than not. In fact, Marion included only three houses that looked reasonable for a two-person family.

Matt’s chapter loitered in my mind for the rest of the day. As I read queries and responded to e-mails, I thought about that word—“exhibitionism”—and how we might go about attempting such a thing.

Why am I considering this?
I tried to ignore the thought, but it kept creeping back.

The logistics of it.

Who watches other people having sex? Voyeurs, that’s who. But they watch in secret.

My mind drifted to the Dynamite Club, where a year ago, Matt had watched a stripper give me a lap dance. I shivered. That was hot.

A bulb winked on in my brain.

The club. The strippers! Surely one of those dancers, at least, was into exhibitionism. I knew some stripped because they’d hit rock bottom, but others seemed to revel in the work—the exposition of the body, the tease and play of it.

I was muddling over how my request might go—“So, heh, me and my fianc
é
”—when I snapped out of it.
The hell?
Was I planning this for real?

I stared at my lap and questioned my sanity. I could no longer tell where Matt’s desires ended and mine began, or what I wanted and what I just wanted to give him.

I put in eight hours that day, making up for lost time in April.

Matt sent a volley of filthy texts:
I know you’re alone at the agency. You
are
alone, right? Remember, it’s the Fourth. My hands have plans related to your—

Oh my God. Matt!

The building was eerily quiet as I left. My sneaker squeaked in the lobby and I jumped.

On my way home
, I texted Matt.

Outside, wind tore along the sidewalk and ripped at the manuscripts wedged under my arm. A slate of blue-black cloud hung over the city. The smell of ozone filled the air.

I jogged the half block to my car, but a few yards from it, I stopped sharply.

What … the fuck?

White spray paint spelled the word SLUT clear across the windshield of my Civic.

Bethany
.

I knew her handiwork immediately, but embarrassment blotted out my anger. I glanced around. Thank God for the holiday and the gathering storm. The street was empty.

I edged toward the car and slicked my thumb over the paint. It was dry, but recent, judging by the lingering chemical odor.

My heart squeezed. I touched the door and hesitated. What if she’d done something more? Cut the brake line, or worse?

A drop of rain hit my forehead.

I pulled out my phone and forced myself to relax. If I called Matt, we would spend the rest of our night at the police station, Matt on the phone with Shapiro, me filling out endless paperwork while strangers took pictures of my car.

The SLUT-mobile.

No … fucking … way.

I found Chrissy in my contacts and hit her number.

*   *   *

Seth’s rental car, a silver Lincoln, slid up to the curb.

He leapt out.

I didn’t see Chrissy in the passenger seat, which, strangely, was a relief.

“Just me,” Seth said, his voice breathless. Fifteen minutes had passed since I’d called Chrissy and she’d promised to catch a cab over. She didn’t mention last night. Her voice was papery and faint:
Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.

“Where’s Chrissy?”

“We were at the house.” Seth coughed into cupped hands. His black T-shirt and dark jeans emphasized the ashen tone of his skin. “She wanted to tell your parents. You know, about…”

“Did she?” I frowned. No wonder Chrissy sounded off.

“We did. That’s why she stayed. She wants to have it. The baby.”

“Are my parents okay?”

The rain began to pelt, frizzing my curls. The wind sucked our voices up the street.

“I think so,” Seth shouted. “Don’t worry about it now.” He glanced at my car, then dashed to the Lincoln and lifted a plastic jug and a sponge off the seat. He sloshed soapy solution over my windshield and began to scrub.

Nothing happened.

He grimaced and ground the sponge in circles. The white curve of the
S
flaked away.

“Thank God,” I said. “Can I help? Let me help.”

“Just get in the car. You’re getting soaked.”

“So are you.”

“Get in the fucking car, Hannah.” He coughed into his shoulder.

Get help, Seth.

He looked strung-out and edgy, a shadow of the man I’d met five months earlier.

And I remembered that man. I remembered him sneering at me in Nate’s house, charging across the graveyard to deck Aaron Snow, playing the piano onstage, singing with a rough, beautiful voice. I remembered the goodness and fierceness in him, which reminded me of Matt.

Good and fierce, both of them, like avenging angels.

The rain fell at a sharp angle, chilly drops stinging my face.

“I’m scared to get in,” I stammered.

Seth had cleared the
S
and half of the
L
from my windshield. His expression softened. He set down the jug and sponge and guided me away from the car. We stood close for a moment, his fingers around my arm.

“You okay?” he said.

I nodded.

He jerked his head toward the car. “One of Matt’s psycho fans?”

My chin fell to my chest. “Something like that.”

“Well, that ain’t you. That word. Not in a million fucking years.”

He opened the door. Nothing exploded, and my silly fear dissolved. He lifted the hood and scanned the engine. He knelt and stared under the car.

“Get in already,” he called. “Everything looks fine.”

I hovered uselessly for another minute and then I climbed behind the wheel. Thunder bowled across the sky. The rain reached a frantic tempo. I huddled in the shell of my car while Seth Sky strained over the windshield, furiously scrubbing off the letters
UT.

Once the glass was clean, he splashed the remaining solution around my wipers, sluicing away white paint. The rain stripped the soapy film from my car. Seth gestured, turning an invisible key, and I started the car. It revved on smoothly. I let out a breath.

He gave me a thumbs-up. I grinned and gave him two. God, he was soaked to the skin.

My phone chimed and I fumbled for it. Shit, a text from Matt.

Where are you? You okay?

I tapped out a reply.

Sorry, tried to wait out the rain. Just gonna brave it. See you soon. Love you.

I looked up in time to see the Lincoln’s taillights glowing.

Seth pulled away, no wave, no good-bye.

I drove slowly to the condo, my wheels spinning up water and rain streaming down the road. In the parking lot, I took a few personal minutes—to think about Bethany, to let myself forgive her, and to worry for Seth. Against my better judgment, I texted Nate.

I’m worried about Seth. He’s here helping my sister. Doesn’t look good. Thin, pale, etc. Do you know what’s going on? Please don’t mention to Matt.

Nate’s reply came within minutes.

Haven’t seen Seth for a while, probably worn out from touring and always was lean. Great that he’s stepping up re: your sister. You look to Matt. I’ll check on Seth when possible. Together we’ll keep these boys in order. Aunt Ella favorably mentioned you to me. Quote, she’s quiet but has a great sense of style. See, she comes around.

I smiled at my phone.

Okay, Aunt Ella was actually complimenting Matt’s style, since he bought every piece of the outfit I wore in New Jersey, but no one needed to know that. And more important, Nate’s confident tone, which transmitted even through text, set me at ease.

Look to Matt
, he said.

Yes, Matt was my troubled boy.

Seth was … Chrissy’s troubled boy, or Nate’s, or Ella and Rick’s. Definitely not mine.

The rain gave no sign of letting up, so I darted from the Civic to the condo, my work papers clutched to my chest.
Bethany
, I thought,
you are petty and cruel, but you are also hurt and cornered by pain. We wronged you. We require your forgiveness
.