And Matt wasn't just being polite. He laughed and asked questions; he reminded me where I was when I lost my train of thought.
By the time we were done, I had told Matt my condensed life story.
And I had gleaned a single new fact about him.
He was twenty-eight.
"We're in Billings," I told him at the end of the call.
Matt enthused about Montana briefly. He mentioned idolizing Norman Maclean and having done some hiking and climbing around Glacier—and then, as though he'd let go of two precious pearls, he shut down.
"Climbing, huh?" I ventured.
"Mm."
Mm seemed to be Matt's all-purpose noise, which could mean yes, no, let me think about it, I'm bored, I'm amused, I'm annoyed, I'm aroused—basically anything.
"That's cool. You must love Colorado then. Are you super outdoorsy or something?"
"Mm."
"Cool..." I snapped up the new facts: Twenty-eight, Norman Maclean, outdoorsy.
Just what I needed to fuel my fantasies: the idea of a well-read young man with a leanly muscled climber's body. Yes please.
"I better get to sleep," I said reluctantly. I glanced at my watch. 3:40 a.m. "Geez, where does the time go."
"Optima dies," Matt mumbled, trailing off.
"What?"
"Latin. Nevermind."
I frowned.
"Okay. Well. Yeah. Sleep. I think if we get going early and push it, we'll be in Colorado by evening. I'll reply to your post ASAP."
"No rush on that. You'll be busy when you get home."
"I know. I want to write it. I miss our story... a lot."
"Then I look forward to it," he said.
I heard a little electronic click and glanced at my phone. Matt was gone.
Note to self: teach this man how to say goodbye.
CHAPTER 5
Matt
_____
You're projecting your assholery onto me.
"The last pages you sent me," Pam said, leaning across the table, "are very nice. I do have some questions about the pacing. I see your main plot arc, and I want to say it must be a third of the way along. Am I right? Not to pressure you, but I want to mentally deadline this."
Pam's words pinged on the edge of my attention.
Nice. Pacing. Deadline.
Projecting your assholery onto me. How right Hannah was. Because I was cheating, I assumed she was cheating. I made a total ass of myself. I even had the nerve to get pissed about Hannah's imaginary cheating, meanwhile ignoring my own very real deceit.
This situation was getting fucked up.
"Matthew?"
I felt a tug on my sleeve. I glanced down at Pam's perfectly manicured hand.
"Sorry. Ah, I—" I ran a hand through my hair and flashed a smile at Pam, who returned a tight-lipped, all-business smile. "I'm not sleeping well. Going nocturnal or something."
We were seated at a booth in Flight of Ideas, my favorite bookshop-cum-coffeehouse in Denver. Pam looked prim as usual, her frosted blond hair styled in stiff waves around her face. Pam was thirty-six, but she always looked closer to forty with her chalky makeup, dark lipstick, and austere skirt suits.
Pam had been my agent for seven years. I could almost say I trusted her implicitly, but I don't trust anyone implicitly.
"Sorry to hear that. Let's get back to this." She spread her fingers on her laptop. Most of the time, I appreciated Pam's work-centric drive. Today, though, I wanted nothing more than to daydream about Hannah in my air-conditioned apartment.
"I can't help you with the deadline," I said. "I don't know. It'll be done when it's done." I chewed on the end of my stirrer. "Also, Pam, help me to understand why we keep meeting out like this when I have specifically indicated my preference for phone calls, video chats, I don't know, the occasional meeting at my place?"
"It's a matter of convenience, Matthew. Unlike some present, I live on a tight schedule. You know I try very hard to comply with your requests. However, I believe they are still requests, yes? Or have they now become demands?"
I smirked and slouched in the booth, glancing around. That was another thing I liked about Pam; she wasn't a fawner. She gave as good as she got.