I gazed around the living room, and everywhere my eyes landed I saw something Matt had purchased … for us. A steady static buzz filled my mind.
Right now, I knew, he was calling and calling and calling. Or making lists. Or drinking. Or maybe driving off into the sunset with Melanie.
Or hell, maybe he was already conspiring with Nate to bribe me into forgiving him—which wasn’t happening. Not this time.
I scrubbed my face and hugged my legs to my chest, forehead on knees. There. Somehow, that tight, defensive posture would protect me.
My mind skipped over the last nine months, a stone touching memory. I thought of Matt at his best: watching me compulsively, smiling when I caught him staring, or looming over me in bed, moving with his trademark hunger and intensity. Hair wild. Skin gleaming.
His handsome face. His complicated heart.
And then I thought of Matt at his worst: drunk in New York, unable to meet my eyes, or hiding in our condo, disgusted by the world’s curiosity. Paranoid. Angry. Duplicitous. And now … shamelessly admitting that he put Night Owl online in a twisted effort to manipulate me.
Memory stopped, and I sank.
Tears threatened, hot with anger, and fear tightened around my heart. Matt … my Matt. No! Not my Matt. A liar. Always lying. Always hurting me to get what he wanted, even when I was the thing he wanted.
Despite my balled-up barricade of limbs, I began to tremble. Blindly, I felt for the nearest pillow and buried my face in it. Ribs of corduroy pressed back. I swear, that pillow smelled like Matt. A dry sob escaped me, and I screamed—the sound ugly and hoarse. It was over. We were over. I gave myself up to the rending panic of separation, the heart clinging to what it knows—Matt—and then I dropped the pillow and shuffled into the kitchen.
Painful hiccups constricted my throat.
But at least I wasn’t a crying, snotty mess. Sadness could wait until later. Right now, I needed anger.
After a few false starts, I wrote a note on our magnetic memo pad.
Matt,
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I tried to get close to you. I tried to know you. But you never let me in. You’re the lord of lies.
Don’t try to find me. Like I said—we’re over.
Hannah
I reread the note, then tore it from the pad and left it on the kitchen counter.
Like I said—we’re over.
The words became a rhythm, driving me forward.
If Matt wasn’t losing his mind right now, he was on his way here. I had two hours tops.
We’re over. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. It’s over. I began to pack, grabbing clothes and toiletries. We’re over. My laptop, my purse, work-related papers. It’s over.
I took nothing Matt had given me. I took only what I needed.
A wide-eyed Laurence watched me dash through the condo.
When my suitcase was full, I plunked it down by the door, my car keys jangling in my hand. Ready to go. My heart thudded crazily. A sweat-soaked curl stuck to my temple. In my head, the voice of reason said: Get out! Get away from this unhealthy situation. Get away from this unhealthy man. Matthew Sky.
“Matt,” I whispered, and his name summoned the memory of him, tall and moody, demanding, passionate, green eyed. My own personal monster of jealousy. I winced. Another girl might have found Matt’s devotion compelling—he was willing to do anything to have me—but it frightened me. He frightened me.
I had called him the lord of lies, and that title seemed more and more appropriate.
“Good-bye,” I said. The word slipped off my tongue, into our quiet condo, which held our hundreds of memories. Please, I thought, let me go this time. And even as I issued that silent plea, I knew he wouldn’t. How could I make him let me go?
My heart hurt—that tight, ironic pain localized in the chest.
I fished a pen out of my purse and walked back to the kitchen counter.
I knew how to make Matt let me go, and it was terrible.