I probably should have quit the job on principle—after all, Matt helped me get it—but I didn't. It was my dream job. I needed the money. Matt had his fun with me and I got the raw end of it. At least I had something to show for my pain.
Pam must have known I had some stake in the M. Pierce identity explosion, but we only had one conversation about it. It was the day after the news broke, the day after I walked into a reporter babbling about Matthew Sky being M. Pierce. The day after I read the infamous Fit to Print article.
The day after I promised to go see Matt no matter what, and never showed.
I remember how I felt when I woke that day, as if someone had scraped out my insides. I was a walking shell of Hannah.
I had a job to get to. I had motions to go through.
I showered and dressed mechanically. I arrived at work ten minutes early. Pam was waiting for me, leaning against her desk.
"Hannah," she said, giving me one of her terse smiles.
"Morning." My voice didn't sound like mine. It was a croak coming out of my hollow body. I didn't bother to clear my throat.
"I'm glad to see you. I wasn't sure..."
I paused on my way to my office.
I had been worried Matt would be there, camping on the steps of the agency, waiting for me. It was a relief not to see him—and it hurt, too. By that point, he hadn't begun his barrage of phone calls, texts, and emails. I didn't know if he would even fight for me.
His secret was out. His fun was over. Maybe he would simply discard me, a casualty of his double life. I couldn't put anything past him.
I turned and took a shaky breath.
"I love this job," I said as calmly as possible. I forced myself to meet Pam's eyes. Worse than her usual steely stare was the concern I saw in her gaze. "I have no reason to miss a day."
"No?" She smiled at me. Fuck, I was ill equipped to deal with this friendly side of Pam. I needed Pam the bitch, not Pam the shoulder to cry on. And I would start blubbering if she didn't quit with the soft eyes and concerned smiles.
I cried myself ragged last night. I cried through my shower that morning. My reservoir of tears was by no means exhausted.
"No," I said.
"Alright." Pam pursed her lips. "Matthew was asking about you yesterday. He sounded very concerned. In fact, he hung up on me."
I never want to learn how to say goodbye.
My eyes stung. I swallowed.
"We got in touch," I said.
Pam studied me a moment longer. I wondered how much she knew, how much she might have inferred. The big news to the literary world was that M. Pierce had a name, Matthew Sky. The big news to me was that Matthew Sky had a girlfriend.
I was reeling in my own private agony. Pam might have guessed as much.
"Alright," she said again, this time with a finalizing tone. The all-business fa?ade fell back over her face. "Today I need you to..."
I listened. I took notes. I did my job.
I went home, skipped dinner, and crashed.
I woke and repeated my hollow routine.
I won't say the pain inside of me dulled. Rather, I came to expect it. I even came to expect the fierce spikes of hurt I felt at random—when I saw my brother's Frisbee, when I saw a Lexus, when I heard a pop like fireworks.
Anything could bring it on. The smell of pine. A warm breeze. A certain sort of smile on a stranger's face.
Sometimes I thought I saw Matt in the city crowds.
I would look and find a tall stranger heading to work.
Chrissy tried to coerce me into vandalizing Matt's car.
"You know what they look like, Hannah. You know where he parks them! Take a baseball bat to that motherfucker's windshield. He wouldn't do anything about it, the *."
I winced and walked away.
In spite of my anger and misery, and in spite of how idiotic and used I felt, the thought of hurting Matt galled me. I couldn't stop myself from watching the news and reading the articles about his life. I couldn't stop the surge of sorrow I felt when I learned about his parents and his botched suicide, his stay in the psych ward and his descent into addiction.
Matt. My Matt. I loved him, and I hated him.