7. My writing
I reread my list.
I glanced at the TV.
How disturbing. My list seemed infinitely more important than the coverage of the riots in Brazil, where my girlfriend happened to be traveling.
I knew Bethany was safe, though. She'd sent me an email that morning.
In case you were wondering, which I'm sure you were since I can feel your concern all the way in South America (sarcasm), my parents and I are safe. We narrowly missed some rioting in Florianopolis but now we're far from any of it. I'll start calling if you don't write. How are the meals? Kisses, Bethany.
Her threat to start calling felt very real, and very menacing.
I couldn't deal with Bethany calling while I was with Hannah, and I wanted to be with Hannah all the time. Dropping her off last night had been hell.
I had driven Hannah home in stunned silence—no girl ever made me come that fast and that hard with her mouth—and maybe her boldness angered me, but I liked it too. I liked being caught off guard. I liked being provoked. I wanted nothing more than to blow by Hannah's house, drive her to my apartment, bend her over the kitchen counter, and spank her until she cried. And fuck her hard and make her come, too.
Damn. This girl was getting under my skin.
The worst part was, I could see Hannah's disappointment when I pulled up to her house. She tried to play it off, but she was a shit actress. She'd just given me the blowjob of my young life and I must have seemed annoyed about it.
Why else would I end the night so abruptly? Why else wouldn't I take her to my place?
The questions were plain in her eyes, and the hurt.
She thanked for me dinner.
I barely replied.
My mind was already churning.
How could I have Hannah over when every corner of my apartment screamed, "I have a girlfriend! A female resides here! Look, tampons!"
Step one: buy time.
Subject: Dynamite
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Time: 8:15 AM
Morning Hannah,
I have plans after work that will go on indefinitely, so if you don't hear from me tonight you know the reason.
Matt
* * *
I sent the email and called Pam.
Step 2: get rid of the suspicious labeled food in my freezer.
It would be a shame to throw out the food, and anyway, I'm not that coldhearted. I felt a stab of guilt as I thought about Bethany cooking and labeling the meals.
My behavior was starting to beg the question—why not just break up with her? Call her and do the deed. Make this right. It had to happen.
But not yet.
Dumping my girlfriend over the phone while she was on vacation felt about as wrong as cheating on her under the same circumstances, and two wrongs...
Shit, think about this later.
"Matthew?" Pam's clipped voice came on the line.
"Hey Pam." I paced through the kitchen. "Look, I need a favor. I need you to swing by and pick something up."
"You have new pages for me?"
Poor Pam, she sounded ridiculously excited. I smirked at the gridlock of Tupperware in my freezer. Pam was the only person I knew who would store and return these without asking any questions. To her, I was simply M. Pierce, eccentric writer extraordinaire.
"New pages?" I said, closing the freezer. "Mm... not quite..."
After Pam left with three grocery bags of frozen meals (and assurances to restore them when I asked), I began to comb my apartment and remove all traces of Bethany.
I thought listening to hiphop would help distract me from the scumbagginess of my task, but after "99 Problems" and "Heartless" I flung my iPod away.
Everything went into duffel bags: pictures of Bethany and I, all my photo albums, her razors, makeup, shampoo, and other toiletries, her jewelry and clothes, my books, manuscripts, files with documents pertaining to royalties and film deals—shit, I even threw my tax stuff in the bag. Yeah, like Hannah would look in my file cabinet. I was getting paranoid.