Night Owl (20 page)

I listened. I took notes. I did my job.

I went home, skipped dinner, and crashed.

I woke and repeated my hollow routine.

I won't say the pain inside of me dulled. Rather, I came to expect it. I even came to expect the fierce spikes of hurt I felt at random—when I saw my brother's Frisbee, when I saw a Lexus, when I heard a pop like fireworks.

Anything could bring it on. The smell of pine. A warm breeze. A certain sort of smile on a stranger's face.

Sometimes I thought I saw Matt in the city crowds.

I would look and find a tall stranger heading to work.

Chrissy tried to coerce me into vandalizing Matt's car.

"You know what they look like, Hannah. You know where he parks them! Take a baseball bat to that motherfucker's windshield. He wouldn't do anything about it, the pussy."

I winced and walked away.

In spite of my anger and misery, and in spite of how idiotic and used I felt, the thought of hurting Matt galled me. I couldn't stop myself from watching the news and reading the articles about his life. I couldn't stop the surge of sorrow I felt when I learned about his parents and his botched suicide, his stay in the psych ward and his descent into addiction.

Matt. My Matt. I loved him, and I hated him.

My family watched helplessly as my appetite dwindled. I lost fifteen pounds. On the weekends, I went to bed at ten and slept in until two.

I couldn't stand to hear my own name. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.

Matt used to say it constantly.

He growled it, he moaned it, he whispered it. He said it like a curse—like a plea.

Hannah, oh fuck, Hannah.

Hannah, never deny me.

Hannah, I can't be apart from you.

Promise. Hannah, Promise. Promise you'll be here no matter what.

I couldn't stand to see myself. I avoided mirrors. I dressed plainly. I got a severe A-line haircut and began to straighten my hair.

When my family's vigilant concern became too suffocating, I got the condo in Denver and holed up. I had no friends to see and no desire to go out anyway. That bastard had been my life every day since I returned to Colorado.

And that bastard was still my life, even when August rolled around and I hadn't seen him in four weeks.

He was there because he wasn't there.

How could I make anyone understand?

He was still with me. He was the negative space.

CHAPTER 21

Matt

_____

MY LIFE IMPLODED
on Monday.

Hannah emailed me on Wednesday.

To this day, I don't know what I did on Tuesday. It was the first of my lost days.

I reread Hannah's email until I could recite it.

Subject:  (no subject)

Sender:  Hannah Catalano

Date:  Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Time:  7:20 PM

Matthew,

I'll try to keep this brief.

You know I didn't come over on Monday, and you know why. By now you also know I won't answer your calls, texts, or emails.

Please stop trying to contact me. Please don't try to see me. I want to tell you "it's over," but it never started, did it?

Against my better judgment, I am keeping my job at the agency. The purpose of this email is to ask you not to attempt to see me there. I love and need the job.

If you have any respect for me (do you?), show me by leaving me alone. If you harass me at work, I'll have no choice but to quit. Please don't make me do that.

Hannah Catalano

She signed the email so formally. Hannah Catalano. I felt the cold anger stretching between us.

She was no longer my Hannah, my little bird, my slut.

She never had been.

I spent the rest of the week in my apartment. I made lists. I made a list of ways to get Hannah back. I made a list of ways to apologize. I even made a list of specious claims to catch her attention: I have cancer, I left something at your house, I lost Laurence.

Admittedly, these lies were petty and pathetic, but the key was to brainstorm. If I brainstormed enough, I would find the solution.

I emailed and called Hannah multiple times a day, despite her request for no contact. I had to fight. I knew she wanted me to fight. I would have wanted her to fight for me.

I also knew that the right combination of words, or the right call on the right day, would bring her back to me. I just needed to keep trying.

A deluge of calls and emails came my way—from Pam, my brothers, my uncle, my psychiatrist—but nothing more from Hannah. I ignored them.

I ventured out after a week.

I guess that was when I "assaulted" the reporter. The story was a gross exaggeration.

To be fair, I don't remember exactly what happened, but I find it hard to believe that I beat the man "within an inch of his life."

Fucking papers.

I know it happened around noon. I remember the dreamlike heat. I was starved, dizzy, headed to the corner store to buy a bag of litter for Laurence.

I remember a man calling out to me.

"Matthew Sky! Over here! M. Pierce!"

I tried to jog away.

"Matthew, hey, Matthew Sky, right here!"

He was chasing me, shouting at me.

I remember thinking that tenacious asshole could be the same reporter Hannah ran into at the agency.

He could be the reason she didn't come to me. The reason I didn't get to explain. I had things to explain. I needed that chance.

I needed to cry with her.

I needed to hold her.

That reporter, he got to her. He stopped her. He ruined it.

Then I remember sprinting along the sidewalk. My fists hurt and they were hot and wet.

I ran home and locked my door, washed my hands and sat in the bathtub.

My uncle's lawyer handled the assault charges. Then, without any encouragement from me, he launched the libel suit that would ultimately shut down
Fit to Print
.

After that, I only went out at night. I wore a hoodie with the hood up, sunglasses, and sneakers. I could outrun anything. I ran everywhere I went.

I jogged to payphones and tried Hannah's cell. I drove past her house.

I took cold showers and only ate when the hunger hurt. I did jumping jacks in the living room. I was fixing things with Hannah. I needed to keep up my energy.

Another week passed and I called Pam.

"Matthew! My god, check your email. I've only sent about twenty."

I jogged through my apartment with my cell to my ear. I was always ready to run. When Hannah called, I would be ready to go to her, no matter what.

"Hey," I puffed. "I got your emails. I haven't had time to reply."

"Drowning in damage control?"

"I guess." I circled the kitchen island. "I'm calling to ask about Hannah."

"Hannah? What about her?"

"How is she?"

"How are you might be a better question." A hard edge came into Pam's voice. I stopped jogging. I braced myself against the counter. God, I was winded.

"Why won't you tell me about Hannah? What's going on?"

"Hannah is fine. She's a first-rate secretary. Are you writing? Not that I could blame—"

"Why are you lying?" I sat on the kitchen floor. Fuck, I had to get some water into my system. "How is she? Is she there?"

"Matthew. Whatever this is, I am not doing it. Hannah is your friend. If you need to talk to her, you talk to her. I'm your agent. I'm concerned for you. We have things to discuss, and—"

"Are you talking to the reporter?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you talking to him? The reporter. Is Hannah?"

"Look, I need you to—"

I ended the call.

Fuck.

I guzzled a bottle of water and started to laugh. I was thinking about how Hannah would laugh at me now if we were together. We laughed a lot. We had a good thing going. We laughed about Laurence. And that night when I got on the webcam and she asked if I was naked, we laughed pretty hard.

"You're a funny little bird," I said, smiling and shaking my head.

I started to read the news online.

The
Fit to Print
people still had a huge boner for me. Or rather, it was bigger than ever. They printed everything they could get their hands on.

I wrote long, meticulous emails to Hannah clarifying the facts.

Speaking of boners, I was blessedly free of them. I don't think I could have gotten it up if I tried. I didn't try. Arousal would only distract me.

I printed the emails I wrote to Hannah and filed them in a manila envelope. I was beginning to think she had blocked my emails. If she were reading them, she would have called.

I typed and printed letters for her. I kept a daily diary addressed to Hannah. Sometimes I rambled for pages, describing the way she looked and laughed. I apologized. I revoked my apologies, saying I would do it again. I told her about Laurence. I described the reporter and warned her to steer clear.

I also one-sidedly continued the story of Cal and Lana. Nothing was over. Everything went into the manila envelope.

Three weeks had passed, and I felt a growing sense of urgency about getting the material to Hannah. I needed to see her.

My brothers and uncle called and emailed relentlessly. What the fuck did they want? I couldn't deal with them yet, and their barrage of attention was making me anxious.

I couldn't lose focus.

I hadn't seen Hannah, but I knew I was close to getting her back. If I could just get the envelope to her. The letters explained everything.

Bethany texted me on the 29th.

I'm in the city staying with a friend. I'll be over on Friday to get my stuff. Stay away from the apartment this weekend.

Under different circumstances Bethany's tone would have pissed me off, but I wanted to see her about as much as she wanted to see me. Besides, I was on a mission. August was two days away and I'd be damned if I started a new month without Hannah.

I gathered Bethany's stuff from the trunk of my car and piled it in the living room.

I never considered taking Bethany to court, though I could have. She was the source, I knew it, and we had a non-disclosure agreement—but the damage was already done, and the lawsuit would bring more publicity.

I packed a light bag and installed myself in a corner king room at the Brown Palace Hotel. I brought my manila envelope.

At the last minute, I slid my sketch of Hannah into the envelope.

I knew what I was going to do. I couldn't trust Pam and I didn't dare go to Hannah's house, where her father might greet me with a sawed-off shotgun.

If I mailed the envelope, Hannah might throw it away. Plus, I needed to talk to someone who could tell me the truth about how Hannah was doing.

On Friday night, I dressed casually in jeans, a t-shirt, and of course my sneakers. I jogged around the hotel room psyching myself up. I had a good plan. Finally, a good plan.

My phone rang.

For fuck's sake, it was my brother. Again.

"Nate," I grumbled. "Look, could you not call anymore ton—"

"Hey buddy, there you are."

I paused.

I could picture Nate's face as he spoke. Warm, open, patient. Nate was my oldest brother, Seth was in the middle, and I was the youngest. Nate had always been the best of us. He had a family, a brilliant career, and a natural charisma that drew people to him.

When I had my breakdown in grad school—and all through my rough tumble down the rabbit hole—it was Nate who came alongside me, his presence so gentle and non-judgmental. Seth and my uncle just wanted to smack some sense into me. (They tried.) It was Nate's kindness, though, that finally nudged me onto the path to sobriety—and sanity.

"Hey." I sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm kind of—"

"I know, you're kind of busy," Nate cut in smoothly. He laughed. His laughter was slow and easygoing. Listening to it, I realized how manic I sounded by comparison.

"Yeah, I kind of am. I've got something to do." I tapped the envelope on my knee.

"Well, I've got an idea for you buddy."

"Have you talked to any reporters?"

"Nah. Now listen Matt."

I rose and began to pace.

"They're telling everything about me. Have you seen it? On the internet."

"Nah, I don't read that bullshit. I've got a great idea for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, we miss you buddy. Me and Seth, the kids. Uncle. What do you think about getting out of Denver for a while?"

I tightened my grip on the envelope. Getting out of Denver? I started to jog, going from the desk to the door and back.

"Can't. I've got things to do here."

"Like what?"

"Loose ends," I said. A fine sweat broke out on my brow. "Gotta do some things."

"Loose ends? Slow down there buddy, I can't understand you."

"I've got stuff going on out here. I can't leave; I need to make some things happen."

"Matt? Listen, I really want you to come out here. Take a real break, take it easy."

"I can't leave!" I snapped.

"Hey, sure you can. You take your time and then come on out here. Uncle's cabin's been empty all spring, and all summer so far. You can—"

"Stop it!" I shouted, my voice rising hysterically. Nate had to know about Hannah. He was trying to pull me away from her. Fuck, he'd spoken to the reporter. Maybe he spoke to Pam.

"Buddy, where are you? Are you in your apartment?"

I rushed to the hotel windows and snapped the curtains shut.

"Why do you want to know?" I whispered.

"Matt? I can't understand you, hang on. Let me—"

I ended the call and flung my phone onto the bed. Fuck, was Nate in Denver? Was he coming to stop me?