“No. I took advantage of him.” Hannah’s voice hardened. “And I did it because I was trying to get over you, okay? And I never will, and I know that now.”
“Oh?” I laughed. “Now you know, is that right?” I rounded on her. I wanted to look her in the eye, let her see my hurt and anger. “All it took to clarify your feelings for me … was giving my brother a hand job?” I smiled venomously. “How convenient. Tell me, did you also have to blow Nate, or was handling Seth enough to—”
The flat of her hand struck my cheek, hard. My head whipped aside with the force of the slap. Fuck. I was asking for that.
The sting came belatedly, pain sizzling to the surface of my skin.
“Hey, fuck you,” Hannah growled. “At least I wasn’t buying drinks for some ditzy little girl, letting her feel me up by the side of the road—”
“Oh, get off it. Don’t you fucking start in on my writing.”
“Ha! Your writing. Is that even writing, or is that just transcribing your fucked-up life?”
“You wouldn’t know the difference, Hannah. You’re not a fucking writer—and you don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”
“God, you’re so conceited! You don’t have the fucking patent on pain, Matt.” She shoved my chest. “You don’t get to play the tortured genius card every time you fuck up.”
Part of me—a small, remote part—admired Hannah even as we squared off. Dear fucking God, she was beautiful. She was alive in her anger, her eyes illuminated, her body electric. She gave no ground, took no excuses. She saw straight through me.
Magnificent.
We ran out of angry words, and Hannah left spontaneously. The emptiness of the condo echoed around me. Nate made his nightly call; I lied and told him I was fine. The living room smelled of sex and Hannah’s perfume.
I killed the lights, smoked on the balcony, and thought about her.
Afterward, I sent her an e-mail.
My thoughts crystallized instantly into words—no brooding and backspacing.
Subject: (no subject)
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Monday, April 28, 2014
Time: 10:15 PM
Hannah,
Do you know the story of the Garden of Eden?
God banishes Adam and Eve from the garden, and he blocks the gates forever with angels and a sword of fire.
You’re that sword—I swear.
Tonight I said things I didn’t mean. You did, too.
But you know the truth. You’ll never be happy without me. Come home.
Matt
I sat in the office waiting for her reply, which came within minutes.
Subject: Re: (no subject)
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Monday, April 28, 2014
Time: 10:21 PM
Matt—
You’re so poetic when you want to be. Are you manipulating me, or are you a hopeless romantic? I can never tell. This is what I get for falling in love with an artist. You don’t see the difference between fiction and reality. Everything is your story.
I need a few days to think.
Hannah
“A few days to think” turned into a week, which passed in a colorless procession.
May arrived with warm, blustery mornings and the sort of cool spring evenings that would have been heaven with Hannah—and that were hollow without her.
I wrote and read and ran.
I seemed to fantasize nonstop.
When I slept, I dreamed I was still in the mountains—surrounded by silence and thin air—and the search parties called for me in the dark. Matthew Sky! M. Pierce!
Unfamiliar voices ringing through the woods.
I ran, of course, and they never found me.
Chapter 43
HANNAH
On May 7, I turned twenty-eight.
I drove to my parents’ house, where Mom, Dad, Chrissy, and Jay threw a party for me. I felt like a kid. A kid with no friends.
Still, I could see that it made Mom happy, so I went through the motions. They all pitched in on an Amazon gift card, and we ate sushi and drank Red Stripe.
After the cake, Chrissy and I sat on the deck. I stargazed and she smoked a cigarette.
“So,” I said. “You and Wiley.”
“Me and Wiley.” She sighed dreamily.