Back and forth. More homes, nothing suitable. My Monday-morning sessions with Mike became one-hour rants about the state of housing in Colorado. Hannah left for work early and stayed late. I imagined her savoring the solitude of her office—a room of her own, which I couldn’t seem to give her.
Our story continued. Untitled, a novel by Hannah Catalano and Matt Sky. We threw ourselves into it, making progress with words where we couldn’t with homes. Four, sometimes five chapters a week, fired back and forth in frustrated volleys.
One evening over dinner, Hannah announced that Chrissy was twelve weeks pregnant.
“Wait…” She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen.”
“Mm.” I plowed my rice into a pile.
“She really wants to keep the baby. She quit smoking and everything.”
“Ah.” I rolled an olive around the rice.
“I guess pretty soon they’ll be able to find out the gender.”
“Yeah.” I speared the olive on my fork.
I’d also quit smoking, though no one seemed to notice, and I was acutely aware of Chrissy’s thirteen weeks to the day. I found myself Googleing strange things throughout the month. When does pregnancy start to show? How long does morning sickness last? When can ultrasound determine gender?
“If you don’t want to talk about this, you can say so.”
“Have you seen her?” I continued playing with my dinner, prolonging the meal. Dinner and sex were our last bastions of togetherness. And sleep. Just the necessities. Otherwise I was writing out my frustrations or searching the Internet for our nonexistent dream home, and Hannah was doing the same.
“No. We’ve talked a few times. Um…” She cleared her throat. “They did that prenatal DNA test thing. So that was confirmed.”
“Ah … good to know.”
“Yup. Not that she wasn’t sure, but, double sure now. And he’s back—”
“You can say his name.” I frowned.
“Sorry. Seth is back east. Now that everything’s confirmed, and Mom and Dad know, he’s moving her into a place of her own. One of the Beauvallon condos, apparently.”
“Oh. Those are … incredibly nice.” My shoulders fell. I felt a plummeting sense of inadequacy. Nate had a family and a home. Seth had a pregnant girlfriend and he was providing for her. I lived in a hovel and wanted a family and couldn’t bring myself to talk about it.
I flattened my rice tower.
Cue the self-pity.
“I was thinking of helping her move in, since we’ll be close.”
“Yeah.” My mind spun unhappily, churning up bitterness. Maybe it was time for a new car. That Mercedes I’d been wanting …
“That was sort of a question.”
“What?” I glanced at Hannah.
“I mean, I want you to be okay with the ways I help Chrissy, like we discussed.”
“Oh.” I waved a hand and began to clear the table. Cooking was Hannah’s department; cleanup was mine. “Sure, help her move. Whatever you want.”
I stood at the sink, static.
She slipped up and hugged me from behind.
“Thank you.” She kissed my shoulder blade. “Her mood’s been getting more stable. Our talks have been nice.”
“Mm.”
Another invisible strike against me. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, repair my relationship with Seth. Meanwhile, my fiancée was a model of mercy and love.
Her fingers grazed my abdomen. I moved a plate to the dishwasher.
“Baby, I made some plans for us this weekend.”
“Oh?” I tried to sound upbeat. Hannah’s last weekend plan had been a Godfather movie marathon. She knew I loved those movies. All I remembered, though, was Marlon Brando drawling that “a man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.” And I wouldn’t talk about starting a family because fear locked me up every time I tried to think about it. And if I couldn’t think about it, much less talk about it, I wasn’t a real man. Clearly.
“The house-hunting is wearing us down. I’m not myself. Neither are you. And I know we’re both growing out of this place.” She rubbed my back. “So, I booked us a room at Four Seasons for tomorrow and Sunday. I thought we could—”
“Four Seasons?” I tensed. “Why there?”
“Because.” She kissed my cheek. “I want to make some good memories there. Memories with you. We’ll pack overnight bags, eat out, see a movie, whatever you want. Say yes…”
“Well…” I turned over the idea and found nothing wrong with it. We were worn down. Maybe a night out would help. “Yeah, all right.”
“Awesome. I’m gonna pack.” She hugged me and scampered out of the kitchen.
* * *
On Saturday, Hannah insisted we take a cab to the hotel.
“I don’t want you to have to do anything,” she said. “Not even drive.”
I shrugged and called a cab. I liked driving, but she sounded adamant, and something told me tonight was personally important to Hannah. She’d talked about making “good memories” at Four Seasons. In other words, she wanted to replace the bad memories of Seth.
I was more than happy to oblige.
Hell, I would fuck her so thoroughly that she forgot my damn brother existed. It might be cathartic for both of us.
We checked in at four.
In the elevator, Hannah fiddled with her purse and fluffed her hair. She was quiet—wouldn’t look at me. I smirked and brushed her cheek. Mm, so she wanted it like that? Shy little bird … I’d hold her down, make her watch.
She wore a short, tight dress with a galaxy print, the lovelock necklace I gave her last year, and combat boots. She looked young and playful. Tempting. I squeezed her ass in the hallway and she jumped.
“I’m looking forward to you,” I said quietly.
She stared at the carpet and my heart rate rose. God, she did everything right.
Her hands shook as she slid in the key card. I pressed against her, heedless of anyone else in the hall. Let them see us. Let them know we were about to fuck like animals.
We stumbled into the room.
The door dropped shut.
I breezed past her, tabling my lust for a moment.
She’d booked us a one-bedroom suite with a sweeping view of the city. A cream-colored sofa, chairs, and glass tables filled the adjoining living room. I flicked on a light in the bathroom: full marble with a deep tub.
Hannah hovered.
“It’s perfect.” I tucked a curl behind her ear. “Hungry?”
“Not … really. You?”
“No. I’ll get you a drink. Calm your nerves a little.” I nuzzled her neck. “But not too much. I like you this way.”
I ordered up a bottle of Moscato and poured her a glass. We sat in the living room and I watched her drink, and I wondered what she was wearing under that tight little dress.
Hannah drained her glass with a rapid gulp.
“Look”—she grabbed her handbag—“I did something. I…”
With trembling hands, she pulled several folded papers from her purse and thrust them at me. Frowning, I smoothed the pages on the table.
DATE … July 26, 2014 … PARTIES …
Of course I would recognize a document such as this.
I had many on file, though they were obsolete now.
“Nondisclosure agreement,” I muttered. I noted Shapiro’s letterhead. I flipped through the pages and then returned to the top sheet. “Who the hell is Rachel Mox?”
“A … a stripper. There are two NDAs there. Don’t get angry.” Hannah poured herself another glass of wine and guzzled from it.
“A stripper? Baby…” I half-smiled, my head tilted. “What did you have in mind?”
“Not what you think. Not, like, a threesome or anything. Um, more like”—she withdrew my black notebook from her bag and opened to the first entry—“this.”
Chapter 25
HANNAH
Matt stared at his own handwriting with a mixture of shock and bewilderment.
EXHIBITIONISM
Even upside down, the heading was legible. As for the entry itself, I knew most of it by heart: I want to fuck her with an audience. I want to see her embarrassment. I want to make our most private act a spectacle.
I took another gulp from my wineglass. My arm shook.
“You called Shapiro?” Matt paled. “For these?”
“Y-yes. But look.” I separated the NDAs, one signed by Rachel Mox, the other signed by Nicole Williams. “None of the initial language was specific to—”
“So you didn’t tell him anything about this?” He pointed at the journal.
“No. Not even a hint, I swear. I called him and said that I was planning a surprise for you, and could he draw up two NDAs preventing the participating parties from spoiling the surprise. That’s it. I kind of said it was like … a big wedding gift.” I cringed.
Matt almost smiled—a twitch of his lips—and then his expression darkened.
“Okay. Ah, I need…” He stood and began to pace between the table and the flat-screen, gesturing. “I need more, Hannah. Give me more.”
If not for my massive anxiety and Matt’s almost about to be rage, I would have admired him. Serious Matt was a thing to behold. His every motion was measured and tense; his gaze sharpened fearfully, as if he could see into the soul of a problem … and tear it out.