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.
Beneath a bag of Hannah’s winter clothes I found a large, flat box tied with black ribbon. A little tag on the box read, Matt.
I carried it out of the closet.
“What’s this?” I shook the box.
Hannah darted off the bed and snatched the box. I tightened my hold on the corner, mostly to keep her close. We played tug-of-war for a moment, me grinning and Hannah exasperated, yanking at the box with all her might.
“You’re feisty tonight.” I chuckled.
I twisted the box out of her grip and lifted it, my arm stretched toward the ceiling. I raised a brow. She didn’t even try to reach for it. Too bad … would have been cute.
“It’s a gift. But I don’t want you to have it yet. Give it to me.”
“Pout prettily and I will.” I smiled.
“Matt…” Her voice hardened with warning.
“Let me hold you, then, and I won’t ask about it. And I’ll give it back.”
She glared up at me, but she nodded. I tossed the box onto our bed. Something inside shifted. I dropped my sleeping bag and pulled her into my arms.
She’d changed into tiny, soft shorts and a cami. A burst of honeysuckle scent rose from her hair. I nuzzled my nose into her curls and sighed, my hands roaming.
“Don’t make me sleep in the TV room. I’m lonely for you…” I wedged her shorts between her legs and cupped her ass. She trembled and held my hip with one hand.
If only we could talk, I could fix things. Hannah didn’t want my children. That was a problem. I could fix it. And she was pissed about Last Light. I could fix that, too.
“Hannah—”
“Go,” she said.
* * *
I woke to the sound of the condo door closing.
“Bird,” I mumbled. I tried to sit up and flopped over, stuck in my mummy bag. “Ah, for fuck’s sake.”
My shoulders ached. My back was stiff.
I wriggled out of the sleeping bag and prowled into the kitchen.
Somehow, Hannah had slipped off to work without waking me. She must have skipped breakfast. I frowned and contemplated the door.
Were we having a serious fight?
She’d upset me last night; I’d upset her. Then I’d barged into the bedroom for makeup sex (or conversation, at least) and she shut me down … again.
When did we last fuck, anyway?
I wrote a text—I need sex—and deleted it. Stupid. “Grow the fuck up,” I grumbled. Still, some fearful little voice piped up in my brain, warning me that marriage was more of this—a creeping siege, a war of attrition. Never before had Hannah locked me out of our bedroom. Now, with a ring on her finger, she’d ordered me out of our bed twice. And I’d rolled over like a well-trained dog. What next?
Tomorrow I could wake up and be that guy who only gets a blow job on his birthday.
I shuddered.
My morning coffee tasted bland. I skipped my run and searched the condo for a note from Hannah, but I found nothing. She’d re-hid the present and made our bed.
I retreated to the office and checked my e-mail.
My mood lifted when I saw a new e-mail from Hannah.
Subject: Camping in the TV room
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Time: 6:50 AM
Sweet Matt,
I’m sorry I sent you out of the bedroom last night. I needed alone time … to think. Exhibitionism? I have so many questions. I want to know more. I’m not scared; I’m curious. Do you really have a journal?
I’m also sorry I flew off the handle about Last Light. You need to understand that you put me in a terrible position by sending the novel to Pam without warning me. (Yes, I would be amenable to a meeting with her. I’ll set it up.)
Chapter 3 is attached. I’d accuse you of hijacking my story, but it’s always been our story, hasn’t it? Let’s make it good. You’re It, Matt.
Love,
The Bossy Bird
P.S. Ready to start house-shopping when you are.
P.P.S. Snuck out of the bedroom to kiss you good night. You were sound asleep.
Attachments (2): UNTITLED.doc
TIGER.JPG
I opened the attached image.
It was a picture of me asleep on the floor of the TV room, my body halfway outside the sleeping bag. My bare arms and back sprawled over the area rug. Tiger? I replied to the e-mail before reading her chapter.
Subject: Roar
Sender: Matthew R. Sky, Jr.
Date: Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Time: 8:39 AM
Tiger, huh?
Happy July, baby. You mind if we reenact last year’s Fourth? Fond memories … and I don’t mean the fireworks.
Can’t wait to read your chapter. I’ve missed writing with you.
Matt
P.S. I’ll look into a realtor.
P.P.S. I need sex.
I typed out a third postscript: Btw no kids isn’t a deal breaker but are you sure? The cursor blinked steadily, ambivalently. I sneered.
Btw? Deal breaker?
Who the hell was I kidding?
The thought that Hannah didn’t want a family with me cut me to the bone.
I backspaced the last postscript and sent my reply, and then I opened Hannah’s Word document. Chapter 3. Where would she take this? I craved her impressions.
The chapter began with … Hannah’s lunch break?
She’d met a stranger that day … shared her table at the Mediterranean deli.
My jaw clenched.
Hannah described the stranger as a pretty, petite woman with fawn brown hair … straight, fine hair to her shoulders … a small, fit body.
I didn’t need to read the rest, but I did, anyway. The woman claimed to have a friend who once dated me. She dropped an ominous hint. Is he really into all that weird stuff?
I finished reading and let the feelings pass over me—anger, paranoia, shades of amusement and admiration. And other feelings. Darker feelings. How many secrets were Hannah and I keeping from each other?
I carried my cell to the balcony and smoked half a cigarette.
Then I dialed a number I knew by heart.
She answered with a breathless little gasp. “Matt!”
“Bethany,” I said.
Chapter 19
HANNAH
My goal for the day: not to gnaw off all my nails while waiting to hear from Matt.
Also: Be sort of remotely productive at work.
It was one in the afternoon—Matt could have read my chapter ten times over—and still no word. Shit.
I’d set my alarm for five that morning, specifically to hammer out Chapter 3. Matt dropped a bomb in Chapter 2: exhibitionism, and the existence of some therapeutic journal in which he was writing all the stuff I didn’t know about him. So, I’d followed his lead and dropped a bomb of my own: Katie, the strange woman with confusing claims about Matt.
Claims that were starting to seem more plausible …
I scrubbed my face. Was he freaking out? Did he know Katie? Was he angry with me? And what about my Chapter 1 revelation, that I never wanted to do the pregnancy thing? Matt hadn’t responded to that. His e-mails were breezy and funny. Did he miss it?
I sent him a text.
Are you okay? I’m worried. What did you think of the chapter?