Fucking Matt, look what you’ve gotten me into now.
The shop was full of pipes and incense, blown glass, rolling papers, and Rasta clothes. I tried to hold my breath. A gray-haired man with a spindly beard—Smokey, I presumed—sat at the checkout counter.
Nate hovered as I asked for a pack of Marb Reds and picked out a lighter. I didn’t protest when he intervened to pay. My face was on fire.
I waited in the shop while Nate brought the car around. The rain had turned to slush.
He dashed out and got the door.
As I buckled my seat belt, I remembered the last time—the first time—I was in Nate’s car. It wasn’t so long ago. Then, we were going to rescue Matt.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Nate.
I glanced at him. God, he was nearly Matt. Matt’s dark-haired brother, at home in his car the way Matt only ever looked in his Lexus: A prince in his purring, expensive machine.
Nate tipped his head against the headrest.
“But there’s no Matt now, is there? No drive to Geneva. No boy to save.” A wistful smile played on his lips. He rolled his head toward me. I stared at the cigarettes and lighter in my hand. “Go ahead, Hannah.”
“What?” I swallowed.
“I don’t mind if you smoke one in the car.”
“Oh … no, it’s okay, I—”
“Please,” he said. “And you should have offered me one by now.”
Nate plucked the cigarettes from my hand and neatly peeled off the plastic. He rapped the box against the heel of his hand.
“I didn’t think,” I mumbled. “You’re … a doctor.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’ll have one for my brother.”
We lit our cigarettes and lowered our windows a sliver.
I took thin drags and exhaled fast. Soon I was dizzy. The smoke made my eyes water. Perfect—false tears.
When I looked at Nate, though, I saw very real tears standing in his eyes.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s okay. I don’t know—it makes no sense. Is my brother dead? I can’t say it.” He reached for me, found my hand, and held it tight.
Nate didn’t cry, but I began to think I might. I couldn’t stand to see his grief.
We finished our cigarettes and Nate pulled me over for a hug. His long fingers curled at the back of my neck. I pressed my face against his coat and breathed in the scent of cologne and smoke. I let myself imagine he was Matt.
“It’s all right,” Nate said again, and I knew he said it for himself.
*
We pulled up to Nate’s house at noon. We had an hour to kill before the service.
Mounds of graying snow lined the drive and a half-melted snowman stood by the front steps. Still, the home was magnificent. Yellow light shone in the windows. A large winter wreath hung on the door.
A few cars were parked along the street, and I recognized a catering van.
“Home sweet home,” said Nate. “I really wish you’d agreed to stay with us, Hannah. That motel…” His nose wrinkled. Classic Sky disdain, barely disguised.
“I wanted to, Nate. It’s just, this house…” I stumbled over my excuse.
“Too many memories?”
“Yeah.” I climbed out of the car before Nate could get my door.
He rounded on me, blocking the sidewalk.
“Hannah,” he said. He sounded cautious. “A few items, nothing major. Val—she’s quite upset.” He gestured to the house. “Owen, we haven’t explained it to him. He’s too young, you see? But Madison knows, and she understands.”
“Okay, got it.” I felt a Pam-esque urge to say: Will you be coming to your point in 2014? Something more was on Nate’s mind, clearly.
“Good, good.” He tugged off his gloves. “No one gives a damn about the book, of course. Don’t worry about that.”
My stomach dropped.
The book.
Night Owl.