My family watched helplessly as my appetite dwindled. I lost fifteen pounds. On the weekends, I went to bed at ten and slept in until two.
I couldn't stand to hear my own name. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.
Matt used to say it constantly.
He growled it, he moaned it, he whispered it. He said it like a curse—like a plea.
Hannah, oh fuck, Hannah.
Hannah, never deny me.
Hannah, I can't be apart from you.
Promise. Hannah, Promise. Promise you'll be here no matter what.
I couldn't stand to see myself. I avoided mirrors. I dressed plainly. I got a severe A-line haircut and began to straighten my hair.
When my family's vigilant concern became too suffocating, I got the condo in Denver and holed up. I had no friends to see and no desire to go out anyway. That bastard had been my life every day since I returned to Colorado.
And that bastard was still my life, even when August rolled around and I hadn't seen him in four weeks.
He was there because he wasn't there.
How could I make anyone understand?
He was still with me. He was the negative space.
CHAPTER 21
Matt
_____
MY LIFE IMPLODED on Monday.
Hannah emailed me on Wednesday.
To this day, I don't know what I did on Tuesday. It was the first of my lost days.
I reread Hannah's email until I could recite it.
Subject: (no subject)
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Time: 7:20 PM
Matthew,
I'll try to keep this brief.
You know I didn't come over on Monday, and you know why. By now you also know I won't answer your calls, texts, or emails.
Please stop trying to contact me. Please don't try to see me. I want to tell you "it's over," but it never started, did it?
Against my better judgment, I am keeping my job at the agency. The purpose of this email is to ask you not to attempt to see me there. I love and need the job.
If you have any respect for me (do you?), show me by leaving me alone. If you harass me at work, I'll have no choice but to quit. Please don't make me do that.
Hannah Catalano
* * *
She signed the email so formally. Hannah Catalano. I felt the cold anger stretching between us.
She was no longer my Hannah, my little bird, my slut.
She never had been.
I spent the rest of the week in my apartment. I made lists. I made a list of ways to get Hannah back. I made a list of ways to apologize. I even made a list of specious claims to catch her attention: I have cancer, I left something at your house, I lost Laurence.
Admittedly, these lies were petty and pathetic, but the key was to brainstorm. If I brainstormed enough, I would find the solution.
I emailed and called Hannah multiple times a day, despite her request for no contact. I had to fight. I knew she wanted me to fight. I would have wanted her to fight for me.
I also knew that the right combination of words, or the right call on the right day, would bring her back to me. I just needed to keep trying.
A deluge of calls and emails came my way—from Pam, my brothers, my uncle, my psychiatrist—but nothing more from Hannah. I ignored them.
I ventured out after a week.
I guess that was when I "assaulted" the reporter. The story was a gross exaggeration.
To be fair, I don't remember exactly what happened, but I find it hard to believe that I beat the man "within an inch of his life."
Fucking papers.
I know it happened around noon. I remember the dreamlike heat. I was starved, dizzy, headed to the corner store to buy a bag of litter for Laurence.
I remember a man calling out to me.
"Matthew Sky! Over here! M. Pierce!"
I tried to jog away.
"Matthew, hey, Matthew Sky, right here!"
He was chasing me, shouting at me.
I remember thinking that tenacious asshole could be the same reporter Hannah ran into at the agency.
He could be the reason she didn't come to me. The reason I didn't get to explain. I had things to explain. I needed that chance.
I needed to cry with her.
I needed to hold her.