Night Owl

CHAPTER 16

Hannah

MATT STARTED TO cry after we had sex in my room.

This was a day of firsts.

A guy giving my mother flowers. A guy crying after sex with me.

I always thought if a guy cried after sex, I would forever see him as a milk toast. I'm not heartless; the idea just seems sappy.

That was before I met Matt. Matt crying, and trying to hide his tears, was the saddest sweetest thing I had seen in a long time. And it was deeply affecting. I felt my own eyes watering as he shuffled away and swiped his forearm across his face.

"Sorry, f*ck." He fumbled with his shorts.

"Hey, come here."

Another first: not feeling hella awkward comforting someone. I had never been good at this kind of thing. With Matt, it came naturally. I went to him and pulled him into a warm hug. I stroked my fingers through his hair and rubbed his back.

"It was just a really intense orgasm," he mumbled.

Just a really intense orgasm? Matt wasn't sobbing, but I had seen the tears rolling down his cheeks. They weren't happy tears. He was sad, and he looked shaken.

Where did this grief come from?

"Matt, let me in," I said. "Let me into your life a little bit."

When we pulled apart, there was no trace of his tears except for the faintest redness to his eyes. He smiled and ruffled my hair.

"I am," he said. "I will."

I sent Matt upstairs before me so that we wouldn't stumble into the kitchen together, suspiciously flushed. Matt's hair looked a little wild but I let that go. Only Chrissy might notice and know what it meant, and the thought made me wickedly gleeful.

I pulled on my bikini top and shorts, throwing a long t-shirt overtop.

We strolled through the yard as night came on. Matt took my hand.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was troubling him, though other times he looked so content that my worries seemed silly.

Whatever the case, we gave up trying to avoid public displays of affection. In plain view of dad on the deck and mom in the kitchen (and Chrissy potentially spying from her room), Matt pressed me against an old cottonwood and kissed me longingly.

We lay together in the hammock, cackling and nearly pitching out of it until we got settled. I told him how much his library impressed me. We chatted about the authors we both liked—Frost, Chandler, Kerouac—and Matt quoted a poem to me, "The Fire of Drift-wood."

"That's one of my favorites," he said.

He'd recited the lines with feeling and then flashed a small, self-deprecating smirk, as if I might mock him.

"It's beautiful," I said, "and sad. Do you like sad things?"

I ran my fingers along the neckline of his shirt. I had finally relaxed enough to stop worrying that I was crushing the breath out of him. The only hammock arrangement that didn't end with us in the dirt was me stretched out on top of Matt.

He feathered his fingers through my hair and gazed up into the sky.

"I guess so. At least, sad things seem truest to me."

"Truest? Happiness isn't true?"

"It's true." He smiled. "But sadness is truer. Whatever else life contains, it's sad because it has to end."

"But life would be hell if it went on forever."

"Or heaven," he murmured.

I traced my fingers down Matt's side. I could feel a few ribs. God, he was all muscle and taut skin. I'd watched him pick at his lunch earlier while leering at me like I was the most appetizing thing at the table.

I wanted to feed him. I wanted to comfort and take care of him.

And I never wanted to let him go, which would be unavoidable tonight. He probably had work tomorrow and I absolutely had to start pulling my weight at home—unpacking, making a more serious effort to help with mom's work, and brushing up my resume for Pamela Wing. Which reminded me.

"Matt, do you know the fax number at Pamela Wing's office?"

"Actually, I do," he said. "I'll give it to you before I go."

Before I go. My chest tightened.

I heard a distant pop.

"The fireworks are starting," I said. Thank god. I couldn't lie there thinking about Matt driving off tonight. "We better get up on the deck."

"Yeah." He sounded as subdued as I felt.

It was a hot night, but mom lit a fire in the chiminea and we all sat on the deck watching three distant displays. Matt shoved his chair laughably close to mine and still looked unhappy about the arrangement. I think he would have preferred me on his lap.

He checked his phone neurotically. I had to nudge him a few times to show him the prettiest fireworks, the ones that fell like gold dust and lingered in the sky.

When the last finale went off, Matt helped put away the folding chairs and clear the citronella candles. Daisy whined and followed him. I wanted to whine and follow him, too.

He shook hands with dad. He hugged mom. Jay and Chrissy were already downstairs on the PS3, where they'd be until two in the morning.

I trailed Matt to his car.

I could get in and go home with him. Would he want that? Tonight had been magical for me, but maybe Matt was putting on a show. Maybe he couldn't wait to be alone. He was a puzzle, and the more I opened up to him, the more closed he seemed to me.

"I know I can't steal you away tonight," he said. "Would you come?"

"In a heartbeat, Matt. But—"

"I know. Life."

"Yeah." I held his hips. "Tomorrow's Friday though."

"Can I see you?"

"Of course! There's no one I'd rather see, and it's not like I have any other friends."

"What about the high school friend?"

"Evan?" I laughed. "Doesn't count. He's trying to get in my pants."

For a moment, Matt looked frankly homicidal. I swallowed and tried to hug him. His body was unyielding.

"Hey, hey," I said. "You're my only friend here. You're my only lover."

Lover. F*ck, that word sounded strange. What were Matt and I, anyway? Were we dating, or just f*ck buddies?

"Lover," Matt murmured. He must have been pondering similar questions.

He hugged me at last and kissed me, telling me with his body that he didn't want to say goodbye. He deepened the kiss. He moaned softly into my mouth and began to pull my body against his. God, he wanted me again. And I wanted him again. I wanted him until we were both too exhausted to move.

I hooked a leg around him and squeezed his ass.

He tugged at my earlobe.

"If you get me hard," he growled, "you have to deal with it."

"Yes sir." I began to tug on his shorts.

We laughed and broke away from one another.

"Tomorrow," he said. He texted me Pamela Wing's fax number as we stood together by his car, and then he got in and drove away slower than I thought he was capable of driving. I watched his tail lights disappear around the corner.


I was starting to understand his aversion to goodbyes.

I revised my resume and faxed it to Pamela Wing's office that night, along with a cover letter reintroducing myself, apologizing for my ill-prepared state at our first meeting, and expressing my enthusiasm about working under her.

Writing the letter and retooling my resume took my mind off Matt for an hour. As soon as the fax machine spit out the pages, I felt his absence. It expanded inside my chest until it hurt. Why was this happening?

Maybe I was seeing too much of Matt.

Maybe I wasn't seeing enough of him.

I drifted around the house. He'd been everywhere, and he made everything beautiful. He made my kitchen beautiful. He made my backyard radiant. He even made our hideous gaming room funny. Now the same rooms were dark and lonely.

I checked my email as I lay in bed. I was surprised to see a story installment from Matt, sent about five minutes earlier. I checked the time. 12:50 a.m. My night owl. I smiled and snuggled down to read his paragraphs.

In the whirlwind of the last two days, I had forgotten about our story. Suddenly I couldn't wait to see Cal's response to Lana bathing. My eyes skimmed over the text.

Oh, this was good.

A familiar heat spread through me as I read.

Cal stared at Lana's naked body, making no effort to conceal his interest. "He was no gentleman," Matt wrote, "and enjoyed the luxury of knowing it."

Matt wrote without reference to the setting, which worked. Cal was oblivious to his surroundings. There was only the human bathing with her back to him. I knew things were going to get good when Cal glimpsed the rounded sides of her breasts.

Cal wasn't without complexity, though. As he undressed and approached the dark river, he considered what it would mean for himself and Lana to be together. He was a demon, after all, and she was mortal. Matt made his plight sincere—and aching.

Cal walked the world in the skin of another.

He could have Lana, but he couldn't keep her. He couldn't love her.

I projected myself shamelessly onto Lana as that dangerous creature prowled toward her and slipped into the river like a snake. He extracted the soap from her hands. He began to wash her body. The roiling undercurrent bumped them together.

Hot damn.

I texted Matt.

Nice post. Thanks.

He replied instantly.

Yw. Writing it beat lying here missing you, which I'm doing now. Goodnight little bird.

Matt was lying in bed missing me. And I was lying in bed missing Matt. Okay, we were in the same boat. Now where was this boat going?

My cell woke me at 7:15 a.m.

I groped for my glasses and took the call, though I didn't recognize the number.

"H—" I coughed. Crap, morning voice. "Excuse me. Hello?"

"Hi Hannah, Pam Wing. Impressive resume. Matt neglected to mention your US-UK Fulbright. Very nice. I need you in here today."

I threw off my sheets. Pamela freaking Wing needed me today. I was not about to go starry eyed and speechless for the second time.

"That sounds great," I said. "I'm excited to get started. I'll be there within the hour."

"Perfect."

Click.

Within the hour. Within forty-five minutes. Maybe I should have given myself a little latitude, but I had to make up ground with Pamela Wing.

I showered and shaved in fifteen minutes and took more time with my outfit. I wanted to look professional, and I wanted to be comfortable. I wore nude nylons, a gray pencil skirt, a white blouse, and black pumps.

I forced my mind to stay on track. That meant no thinking about Matt, because thinking about Matt meant drooly daydreaming.

I flew through the doors of the Granite Wing Agency at 7:55. Score.

The building was empty. After some cautious wandering, I found my way to Pamela Wing's office. Her door was open and she was seated at her desk, flipping through a sheaf of papers and frowning. She didn't look up when I knocked.

"Not quite within the hour, Hannah, but close enough."

Not quite within the hour? I glanced at my watch, my cheeks burning. Okay, so ten minutes of searching the building put me in Pam's doorway at 8:05, but seriously?

I remembered Matt's words. There is no margin of error. He wasn't kidding. And f*ck, now was not the time to start thinking of Matt with his sly smile and hard torso and huge—

"You're in there." Pam pointed with her pen to a door off her office, still not looking up from her paperwork. "I've laid out some documents for you to go over. You won't find any errors; these are finalized documents pertaining to electronic rights for one of our authors. I need you to get familiar with them today. I also need to get a feel for your ability as a reader. You'll find five partial manuscripts on your desk; read them and write up your impressions. Email those to me by the end of the day. I've already been over the samples. If we're on the same page, you'll be helping me cull the slush pile. Finally, I need you to..."

Pam went on for about five minutes, piling on tasks.

I refused to feel intimidated. (Or rather, I refused to let how intimidated I felt show on my face.) She was probably trying to see if I scared easily, and I don't. I listened to her instructions, made mental notes, thanked her, and got started.

Well, first I texted Matt.

Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?

Then I got started.