“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.”
“We got you something,” Pam put in.
They laughed together.
A small turquoise box with a white ribbon sat on the desk. I lifted it and read the lid: TIFFANY & CO. “Oh … thank you,” I managed. My stomach gurgled and my hands shook as I untied the ribbon. Stupid fucking nerves.
Inside the box was a long felt pouch, and inside of that a classic Tiffany T-clip pen, all sterling silver except for a thin blue accent.
The pen lay cool and heavy across my palm.
I stared at it, dumbfounded.
Then I stared at Pam as she said, “Hannah, Laura and I would like to bring you on as an associate agent here. What do you say?”
I looked between Pam and Laura, back and forth, blinking owlishly. I wasn’t getting canned. I was getting the promotion I’d coveted for months.
“Do you think I’m ready?” My fingers closed around the pen.
“I’ve been very impressed,” Pam said. “You’ve been with us for almost a year. You learn fast and your dedication is obvious. Excepting your recent absence—” Pam sniffed. Oof, my absence. She meant the three weeks in April when I broke up with Matt and hid at an Econo Lodge and drank way too much gin. “You’ve shown great aptitude for this work.”
“This is what I want,” I said.
“Then congratulations, Hannah.” Laura shook my hand.
I stood and shook Pam’s hand. I hoped my expression looked halfway professional, because inside I was screaming and lighting fireworks.
We talked about my contract, expectations, and even “building my client list,” a phrase that thrilled me. By the time I returned to my office, I had forgotten entirely about the woman outside the deli and her “weird stuff” comment.
My God … I was an associate agent at the Granite Wing Agency.
The workday sailed by in a rose-colored haze.
I left at six and rushed home, but my energy fizzled as I climbed the stairs to the condo. Matt and I hadn’t had sex, much less kissed, since his cryptic announcement five days ago.
You don’t really know me. Hannah, I want things that …
Things that he wasn’t willing to discuss, apparently.
I let myself into the condo and found Matt looming in the pantry, a cup of noodles in hand. Freshly showered and shaved, wearing only loose gray sweats, he looked like sex itself. Seriously—my boyfriend, Matthew Sex Sky Jr. Or was it Matthew Asshole Sky Jr., who viewed everything from death to marriage as a game?
“There you are,” he said, smiling tentatively.
I pried my eyes off his naked torso.
“Ramen for dinner?”
“I was considering it. I could find something else to eat.” He moved into my personal space. I breathed in the scent of his clean skin and aftershave. “Little bird…”
“Hi.” I stared at his chest. Something else to eat. His suggestion wasn’t lost on me.
“How was work?” He tucked my hair behind one ear, then the other, the pads of his fingers brushing my cheeks. I resisted the urge to nuzzle his palms. I knew how persuasive those hands could be, and I wasn’t in the mood.
“Fine. Good.”
“Yeah?” He stroked my neck and I shivered.
“Uh, yeah. Look at this.” I shifted my purse between us and displayed the Tiffany pen. Of course I’d Googled the pen in the privacy of my office. It cost nearly two hundred dollars and sold as a “writing instrument.” An instrument! How luxurious. But the high price and fancy name meant nothing to me. To me, the pen was priceless. It seemed to embody the elegance and professionalism I associated with Pam and Laura, and when I slid it across a page for the first time, writing my name in smooth blue script, I felt the beginnings of a story inside me.