God, now I was analyzing Pam. Was Pam analyzing me? Fuck, I just needed to eat. My morning coffee on an empty stomach was giving me the shakes.
"Imperative that she... not know who I am," I stumbled. Awesome phrasing. Way to go bestselling author. "Ah, that is, documents and... things you might have with my name... in connection with..."
Pam let me flounder. I despised her for it.
"Pam, I know you take my privacy as seriously as I do, but in this circumstance I..."
Finally, the steely bitch spoke up. God damn, I was glad to have Pam Wing as a friend and not an enemy.
"There is nothing in this office," she said, "on paper or otherwise, in that connection. It's all at my home office, and even there, the computers have passwords and the file cabinet is locked. I'm surprised you've never asked about this before."
Pam was right. Until now, I never cared to know how Pam safeguarded my identity, I only cared that she did it. She had to be wondering what about Hannah inspired my paranoia. Fuck, fuck. This call was another mistake.
"You say you know I take your privacy seriously," she went on, "but maybe you don't know. Your publishers and I cannot publicize you—more's the pity. All we can publicize is your mystery. I trust this makes sense to you. I have a vested interest in your anonymity. Now, rather than insulting me with insinuations that I am careless, why don't you join the working world and do some writing. Your five minutes are up."
Pam hung up.
I sank into my office chair.
Fuck, I felt like puking.
Normally, Pam's zingers delighted me. Not today.
I opened my lists. I'm a list-maker. Mike says I need to break away from the lists; he says that I need to feel comfortable with the conditions of life, which are often out of my control.
I say fuck that.
Just opening the documents made my hands stop shaking.
I could cover all my bases. I wasn't living a double life. I was protecting the integrity of my prose. I could be with Hannah. I could keep her from getting hurt. I could do it all.
I zoned out as I scanned my lists.
First, I had a list of people who knew I was M. Pierce (and their non-disclosure agreements on file): Bethany, one of my exes, my brothers Nate and Seth, my uncle, one friend, Pam and her partner Laura, my psychiatrist Mike, and a select group at Knopf.
I also had lists of important dates. I had lists of precautions to take in protecting my identity. I had to-do lists. Lists of things that frightened me. Lists of unhealthy thought patterns. Lists of ideas for my novels. People to call in emergencies. Reasons to stay sober. Good restaurants. Movies. Songs and artists. Books. Adjectives. Websites. Colors. Critics. Blogs. Bookshops. Streets. Cars. Quotes. Prizewinners. Magazines. Clubs.
It was all there. It was all organized. I lost nothing.
I opened a new document and typed: THINGS I WANT TO DO WITH HANNAH.
I smiled and brooded while the churning in my stomach ceased.
Things I want to do with Hannah: dance, watch a movie, camp, swim, hike, bike, take a trip, build something, have a food fight, write more, do Christmas— My phone chimed.
It was a text from Hannah.
Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?
My carefully collected calm scattered. Hannah. Working for Pam. Wanting to meet me. In five hours. My hands started to shake again.
I didn't need food in five hours. I needed food now. Too bad anxiety kills my appetite.
I texted Hannah.
In spite of the mini-meltdown I had going, I jumped at the thought of seeing her. I missed her like hell.
Sounds great. I'd say my place but neither of us will get back to work. The med. deli.
I tried to write over the next two hours. No dice. I tried to eat some cereal. It was like chewing on glue. Finally, I tried to sleep.
I must have drowsed, because I woke with a jolt at 12:50. Shit, I had to go. Now.
I was in the parking garage when I realized my attire was definitely not "businessman." Not even "casual Friday businessman." More like "I walk dogs for a living."
Fuck. I dashed back to the elevator.