He rose, yanking out his cell, and strode toward the car. Soon he was jogging.
All at once, my day clicked into clarity.
Matt’s bad mood last night and this morning. His “smoke breaks.” Avoiding me. Ignoring me. And that look he gave me in the lobby this morning, a look of pure mistrust …
I sprinted after Nate, yanking at his sleeve when I caught up. He held the phone to his ear. His gaze flashed across my face.
“Seth got my sister pregnant,” I stammered. “And I think … Matt might have found out somehow. He’s been acting weird all day. Bad weird.”
Nate’s jaw didn’t drop. It tightened almost spasmodically. He lowered the phone and thumbed the screen.
“Well, fuck,” he said.
Chapter 12
MATT
The train from Convent Station takes about an hour to reach New York City.
I chose a seat on the top level of an empty car. I wanted to be alone.
I closed my eyes and listened as a garbled voice announced each stop. I knew this route well. Growing up, I used to ride the train from Chatham into the city. I had like-minded “friends” there. We drank and went crazy together.
And nothing has changed, I realized as I emerged into the crowds of Penn Station. For me, the city still rumbled with madness. A sea of tourists. The end of the line.
My phone rang for the seventh time—Hannah and Nate were alternating calls—and I shut it off. They knew what I was up to, clearly. Hannah must have mentioned my “business in the city,” Nate must have remembered my desire to “smooth things over” with Seth, and together they must have realized …
I caught a cab to the Plaza Hotel, where Nate had told me Goldengrove was staying.
As the cab inched through traffic, I stoked my anger. Seth got Chrissy pregnant. Seth fucked Chrissy. Seth pursued Hannah. Seth fucked Hannah’s hand.
Seth came in her hand.
Seth tried to sleep with her.
Last month, when Hannah and I got back together, I’d made her explain what happened with Seth—in great detail. Then I wrote the scene into Last Light. Then I asked her to tell me again and again, until she lost her temper. You’re obsessing, she’d said. You’re scaring me.
She was right—and no matter how many times she painted that scene in the Four Seasons suite, describing her agency and guilt, I saw her as a victim. She was my sweet little bird, addled by our breakup, drunk, drugged, falling into Seth’s clutches.
A victim of circumstance.
Just like Chrissy.
“Happy summer,” said the cabbie as I climbed out of his car, and I registered vaguely that it was the first day of summer. I shrugged off my thin blazer and slung it over my shoulder. Hannah and I should have been celebrating summer together. Good wine for her, a nice meal for both of us, outdoor sex. I wasn’t upset with Hannah for keeping the truth from me. Not very upset, at least. She must have been worried about my reaction.
She was right to be worried.
My brother seemed to be waiting for me, standing by the Pulitzer Fountain. His hair looked lank, disheveled. He wore torn jeans and a T-shirt. I drew closer.
Tourists shuffled around, taking pictures and heading toward the park.
I watched sunlight shimmer in the fountain.
I watched Seth.
He scanned the crowd, missed me, and checked his phone. He was perspiring lightly.
“You’re high,” I said.
His eyes jerked to mine. Cocaine, I guessed, because New York is a blow town, and because Seth had the jagged, jittery look of one-too-many mornings spent getting high before coming down. He pocketed his phone and shrugged.
“Mm, you can’t really hide that from me.” I stood close to him so that no one else could hear us. I took him by the shoulder—gently, kindly—and turned him toward the fountain, buying us time. How long before someone recognized M. Pierce, the author, or Seth Sky, the lead singer of Goldengrove?