No Hannah.
I didn't know how to be apart from Hannah anymore. I didn't know how to wake up without her. When I was with her, I felt right and the world felt full of possibility.
We'd spent all of Sunday driving and hiking around the park. We drove back late last night. When I dropped Hannah off and pulled away, a familiar desperation came over me.
Why the desperation, still?
Why did every small separation still seem to echo a future goodbye?
I had broken up with Bethany. I called her the same day I tried to meet Hannah for lunch. In vague terms, I told Bethany that I could no longer be with her. I apologized for the timing, the phone call, everything.
Bethany sobbed and swore. She was by turns accepting, then venomous and threatening. She demanded to know if I was seeing someone else.
"There's no one," I lied.
I would protect Hannah no matter what. I wouldn't drag her deeper into my mess.
"I don't believe you!" Bethany's voice was shrill. "You lying cheating fuck!"
"Bethany, please—"
"Don't say my name! You fucking asshole. I've always been able to do better. Like I need you and your ridiculous antisocial neurotic bullshit. Good riddance. You don't give a fuck about anyone or anything but your fucking writing."
I didn't hang up on Bethany. I smoked and let her rip into me; I watched the city darken and thought of Hannah. When this was over, I could really be with her.
Finally, Bethany wound down to tearful hiccups.
She said she couldn't wait to tell her father that he was right about me, that I was no good after all. He was right, I thought.
She said she would get her things when she returned and stay with a friend, and could I please not be around when she packed.
"Of course," I said, lighting my third cigarette. "I'll go out. I can gather up your things, if you want..."
I thought of Bethany's stuff crammed into the trunk of my car.
"Fuck you," she said, and she was gone.
That night, I didn't let myself reach out for Hannah. Bethany might call back for another round of cussing and questioning, and besides, I didn't deserve Hannah's comfort. I deserved a night alone.
I deserved worse.
Had I really made things right by breaking up with Bethany? I had no intention of telling Bethany about Hannah or Hannah about Bethany. Could I pull this off? Could I blithely begin a relationship with Hannah on this foundation of lies?
I peeled back the sheets and checked my phone.
8:45 a.m.
Hannah would be getting ready for work. More like on her way to work. I hoped she wasn't too wiped out from our weekend in the mountains.
Maybe today I could meet her for lunch—for real.
I frowned. Would I need to dress up like a "businessman" again? Sooner or later, and preferably sooner, I had to tell Hannah that I was M. Pierce. She would understand. She would see how I'd been cornered into the lie about my line of work. Wouldn't she?
I pulled on a t-shirt and flopped into my office chair. I opened my email. An email appeared as I was deleting spam. I smirked at the sender name: FIT TO PRINT.
That goddamn zine. I subscribed to their updates simply because they were vocally obsessed with the mystery of me. They weren't idiots, either. Somehow they had uncovered my representation by Pam's agency. Keeping an eye on them couldn't hurt.
I skimmed over the subject line.
My body went cold.
My throat constricted.
It wasn't possible. I clicked the link to the story.
M. PIERCE'S IDENTITY UNVEILED; FIT TO PRINT FIRST TO PRINT
July 8, 2013
Author M. Pierce is Denver resident Matthew Robert Sky Jr., an anonymous source recently revealed.
Though Sky forced friends and family to sign non-disclosure agreements protecting his privacy, sources close to his girlfriend say they have long known she was protecting Sky's secret.
"She would never tell and always fudged about his work," said one friend, "but we had a bet going about it. There were a lot of small clues. He controlled and manipulated her with threats."