And I wanted to know those things.
I wanted to forgive him and be his little bird, but I’d alienated him completely with my lie about Seth. Then, to make matters worse, I went ahead and hooked up with Seth.
God, what had I done?
With a whimper, I wrenched open the mailbox.
A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that tampering with mail is a federal crime. I almost laughed. It would serve me right, ending up in court for this.
I flipped through Matt’s mail without removing it from the box. Okay, he still lived here. He had two bills, a book of coupons, the latest issue of Poetry magazine, and a padded manila envelope. I pinched the corner of the package and slid it out enough to read the return address.
My eyes didn’t get past the sender name: Melanie vanden Dries.
A chill rippled through me.
What in the actual fuck?
My propriety—and any concern for legality—vanished. I yanked the envelope from the mailbox and tore it open. Bubble padding snapped in the silence.
The package contained a marble composition book and a letter.
They’re keeping in touch. Matt and Melanie. Lovers. Of course. Of course!
I shook open the letter with unsteady hands.
Dear Mr. Sky,
Thank you so much for the opportunity to review LAST LIGHT. Unfortunately, after carefully reviewing your material, I’ve determined that this particular project isn’t the right fit for me. I wish you all the best in your publishing endeavors.
Sincerely,
Melanie vanden Dries (:
P.S. I bet you haven’t gotten a letter like this in a while. Keeping you humble, Mr. Sky.
My brow furrowed.
Again, I thought, What the fuck? Is this some kind of inside joke?
I slumped onto the ground, clutching the notebook. I felt sure that what I was about to read would break my heart—and I was right, as it turns out.
I flipped open the cover.
On the first page, I recognized Matt’s unambiguous handwriting. Black ink. Slanting letters crammed together. The words pressed hard into the paper: December is the cruelest month to die in …
Chapter 40
MATT
I ran right up to the complex, holding on to that heart-stopping sensation until the last moment. I unlocked the lobby door and jogged in. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.
I almost missed her.
She made no sound, only sat crumpled below the mailboxes.
A torn yellow envelope lay across her lap, and on top of that, my notebook.
I breathed deep and fast. Acid burned in my legs and sweat poured down my face. I barely heard my voice above my heart.
“Hannah…”
Red puffiness rimmed her eyes.
As I got closer, I saw tear tracks on her cheeks.
“For … the talk show,” she mumbled. She thrust a bundle of index cards up at me.
“Ah.” I wiped my hand on my shirt, which was plastered to my torso. My basketball shorts were sweat soaked, too. “These must be … my talking points?”
I scanned the scene, starting to understand. Hannah brought the notecards to my mailbox. She still had a key. Maybe she meant to return the key.
She opened the box, saw Melanie’s envelope, and …
“You read it,” I said. “My new book.”
“Some of it. I skimmed the whole thing.”
I watched her fight a wave of emotion—she was beautiful, strong and proud—and she lifted her head in a simple gesture of defiance.
“Take the cards,” she whispered.
I shook my head.
“You bring them up. I’m covered in sweat.” I turned and headed to the stairs, listening for Hannah behind me. I can’t say what I felt—I don’t know. Was it anger, anticipation, gladness? Tonight, my little bird flew home.
When I opened our door, she stood behind me.
I flicked on a light in the kitchen.
I’d put away Hannah’s good-bye note—thank God—and kept the place clean. I’d changed nothing in her absence, though the pantry contained chips and ramen instead of real food.
I brushed my finger splint from the counter into a drawer. No point explaining about that.