That morning, Hannah had caught me writing in my journal from Mike. Matt’s Black Book, as I had started to think of it.
The entry was rambling, lust-fueled.
I wrote about pain. Her pain, my pleasure. Restraints. A riding crop.
Violent desire …
Sometimes, I could almost convince myself that Hannah might like my “aberrant desires.” She’d let me spank her in the past, after all, with my hand and a belt, and I’d used clamps and other toys with her.
Then, when I was sneaking between the mountains and our condo, we’d indulged in a weekend of rough sex. Struggle and force. Pleading, overpowering. A dark role-play. But I never really knew if Hannah liked those pleasures on the fringes of normalcy, and that fierce sex seemed localized in a riskier time.
Too anxious to rest, too tired to write, I sank into the armchair with my laptop and browsed the Net: Twitter … Facebook … Gmail.
I had one new e-mail from an unfamiliar sender, krazybaby88. I opened it.
Subject: (no subject)
Sender: krazybaby88
Date: Friday, June 20, 2014
Time: 9:20 AM
I know something you don’t know. Your girlfriend knows, too. I wonder why she hasn’t told you. Christine Catalano is pregnant. Who’s the proud daddy?
It’s Seth Sky!
Chapter 11
HANNAH
Matt’s aunt and uncle lived in a townhouse in Moore Estate, a bucolic luxury community minutes from our hotel.
I woke up alone that morning, which didn’t surprise me. Matt was in one of his moods.
We’d spent the rest of yesterday in the hotel, skirting each other. I watched HBO and ordered room service. He hit the exercise machines, showered, and left for half a dozen smokes. I couldn’t get a word out of him.
What the hell was that about? I was the injured party here. He’d called me “a simple girl.” Yeah, a regular country bumpkin compared to the great Matthew Sky.
Unrefined. Uncultured. Untraveled.
Good to know how you really see me, Matt.
And today, I would meet more of the snobby Sky clan. Hooray.
I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the sitting area. A note lay on the couch.
Having coffee downstairs. Meet me in the lobby. Bought these for today. M.
Even his use of the letter—not Matt, my fiancé, but M., the great author—irritated me.
What he’d bought added insult to injury.
It was an outfit. Not just a necklace or shoes, but a complete outfit—suitable, I presumed, for wearing around the elite Aunt Ella and Uncle Rick.
I opened a Neiman Marcus box to find a cream-colored Herve Leger bandage dress—beautiful, of course—with eyelet trim, short sleeves, and a ruffled hem. A pearl necklace pooled in a crease of fabric. There were matching earrings, small, tasteful.
In a shoebox: powder-pink Fendi flats, the leather smooth as satin.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Sky. I’m a cupcake.
I dressed in a huff, pissed at Matt’s elegant taste, pissed at his effort to control my appearance, and finally pissed at how stunning I looked in the mirror. A rosy blush completed the look. I fingered the pearls resting on my collarbone.
Matt had easily dropped three grand on this ensemble … not to make himself more comfortable, I guessed, but to make sure I felt comfortable.
I spent a few minutes unwinding, applying makeup and styling my hair, and I was smiling by the time I stepped into the elevator.
So what if he’d called me a simple girl? He’d obviously meant something else, or said it by accident. I was ready to bury the hatchet.
And Matt … was not.
Somehow, his mood had worsened overnight.
He took one dark look at me in the lobby. I knew that look, and I shrank from it: distrust.
“Very nice,” he said icily. His eyes flickered over me inventory-style: shoes, dress, jewelry, check, check, check.
“Th-thank you. You too…”
He had dressed to match me in cream-colored slacks and a blazer.
We drove to Moore Estate—tense, silent. In the driveway, he said, “Nate agreed to join us today. When he arrives, I’ll have to abandon you for a while.”
“Abandon me?”
“I have some business in the city.”
I shot a pleading look at Matt—he couldn’t leave me here!—and met his dispassionate, chilly profile. Oh yes, he could, and he would.
Ella and Rick greeted us at the door. They looked exactly as I remembered them from the memorial: Ella, a petite, crepe-paper-skinned woman with a thick black wave of hair; Rick, a barrel-chested man who stood as tall as Matt. A signet ring winked on his pinky finger. Ella’s bracelets jingled endlessly, a fine chime of wealth.
“Your hair!” she gasped, clutching Matt’s face.
He smiled at her with real warmth. I shivered.
“What do you think?” he said.
“Well, I—” Ella laughed, a quaver of sadness in the sound. “I heard you dyed it black. Black hair on my golden boy. We should have had you committed.”
Matt hugged his frail aunt gingerly. “My fiancée, Hannah.” He touched my shoulder.
Ella’s eyes dusted over me.
Rick pumped my hand and grinned. “Great to meet you, Hannah. Great. You gotta keep this boy in line.”
And that’s how the visit went. Ella ignored me as much as civilly possible. Rick pretended we were meeting for the first time and that the phony memorial service never happened. He tossed out words like “gotta” and “hafta” as a stand-in, I think, for a down-to-earth attitude, and he traipsed through the house in golf shoes.
We settled in the living room, which was small but opulent. Hanging tapestries, ambient light, and oil paintings with antique gilded frames filled the house.
Ella directed all her attention at Matt.
Rick, who must have long ago given up trying to control his wife, periodically threw me a bone. How d’ya like New Jersey, Hannah? How d’ya like Colorado? Ski much? No?
I wanted Matt to rescue me from this stuffy situation, or at least to acknowledge my existence, but he was oblivious—and blameless, laughing, charming. He chatted with Ella about cousins I didn’t know. With Rick, he spoke about stocks, soccer, and cars.
Who was this guy, and where was my fiancé?
Around one, I heard a knock at the door.
Nate let himself in and I sprang from the couch and launched myself at him, with Matt, Ella, and Rick all looking slightly appalled.
Nate, thank God for him, laughed and opened his arms. “Hey, stranger.”
I hugged him hard. He hugged me back just as hard. Whatever lingering grudge I held against Nate—last year, he’d known Matt’s death was faked, and he and Matt had kept me in the dark—dissipated on a wave of gratitude.
“Get me out of here,” I whispered.
Nate’s expression never faltered. He greeted Ella first—she clung to him and kissed his cheeks—then Rick and Matt. Two quick man-hugs.
“Hey, this looks better.” He ruffled Matt’s hair. “Golden boy again.”
Ugh. Fucking golden boy …
I could think of more appropriate nicknames.
“Yeah.” Matt shrugged. “Got rid of the black. Was Hannah’s idea.”
“Oh? She’s a keeper.”
“Sit with us,” said Ella, patting the couch.
“I’d actually like to take Matt and Hannah out for ice cream. You want to join us?” Nate glanced between Ella and Rick. He must have known they would say no.
Ella’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t think we will.” She gripped her husband’s knee.
“Just the kids, then. We’ll be back soon.”
“You and Hannah go on,” Matt said. “I’ll stay. I have some things to discuss with Rick.”
Again, a round of appalled looks—this time from Nate, Ella, and Rick.
I edged toward Matt. He smiled and kissed my cheek (a frosty smile and a chaste kiss).
Outside, I slid into Nate’s familiar Cadillac sedan. Secure, I thought. Being around Matt made me feel wild. Being around Nate made me feel safe. I filed away that information for my … book? My short story?
My project.
Nate pulled out of Moore Estate and drove slowly toward Friendly’s. Mottled sunlight scrolled over the windshield. I studied his face—handsome, black-haired, without a trace of fatigue or resentment. Matt’s tireless dark angel. Maybe mine, too.
“Thank you,” I said.
“My pleasure, Hannah. I know Ella and Rick can be a little…” He gestured.
“Yeah…”
“They’ll come around. She’ll come around. Matt’s her baby. She worries.”
“Matt is everyone’s baby, apparently.” I clenched my teeth, then let out a hissing sigh. Is this what marriage to Matt would be like—him descending into fickle moods, me biting my tongue or sniping at him behind his back?
No. I wouldn’t let us become that couple.
I expected Nate to ask what was the matter, but he only said, “Yours, too, I hope,” and then, with an absent glance at my ring, “Congratulations, by the way. I should have said that to both of you back at the house. Thoughtless.”
“I wish you had. No one’s talking about it, the engagement. Like it’s not happening.”
“Oh, but it is happening. Did you know he called me about it? He’s excited. Nervous.”
“Nervous?”
Nate nodded. “Who do you think ordered him out here? He’s just as nervous as you are, if not more.”
I blinked three times, rapidly, and tried to imagine Nate coaxing Matt to visit his aunt and uncle. The story made sense, actually. Matt would have avoided this situation. Too formal, too social. Nate had more tact than both of us put together.