How charming. Was I supposed to feel threatened? The poor girl had no leverage.
She’d written only one chapter of her supposed story. It recounted our appearance on the Denver Buzz, her anxiety about the proposal, and our argument when she caught me house-shopping. I skimmed the text, remembering, until her words stopped me.
The smile died on my lips.
My desire to carry a child, Hannah had written, could be described as less than zero.
“The hell?” I mumbled. I tracked back and reread.
Holy shit. Matt wanted kids?
Again, I reread the chapter. And again. I needed more, but there wasn’t more.
I clicked on her Word document and forced a page break. I stared at the new page, my mind tossing and turning. Then I centered the words “Chapter 2, Matt” and began to write.
Mike kept a framed picture of his family on his desk …
Three hours later, I finished my chapter. I proofed it and replied to Hannah’s e-mail.
Subject: Stipulations, ultimatums, lions, tigers, bears … oh my?
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Monday, June 30, 2014
Time: 9:10 PM
Baby Bird,
“Keep writing with me.” Wasn’t that one of your stipulations? Yes, I think it was, along with “marry me” and “no more lies” and “see your shrink.”
I mean to do all those things and more. I’ll add “quit smoking” to the list. I’m trying, you know …
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.