That reporter, he got to her. He stopped her. He ruined it.
Then I remember sprinting along the sidewalk. My fists hurt and they were hot and wet.
I ran home and locked my door, washed my hands and sat in the bathtub.
My uncle's lawyer handled the assault charges. Then, without any encouragement from me, he launched the libel suit that would ultimately shut down Fit to Print.
After that, I only went out at night. I wore a hoodie with the hood up, sunglasses, and sneakers. I could outrun anything. I ran everywhere I went.
I jogged to payphones and tried Hannah's cell. I drove past her house.
I took cold showers and only ate when the hunger hurt. I did jumping jacks in the living room. I was fixing things with Hannah. I needed to keep up my energy.
Another week passed and I called Pam.
"Matthew! My god, check your email. I've only sent about twenty."
I jogged through my apartment with my cell to my ear. I was always ready to run. When Hannah called, I would be ready to go to her, no matter what.
"Hey," I puffed. "I got your emails. I haven't had time to reply."
"Drowning in damage control?"
"I guess." I circled the kitchen island. "I'm calling to ask about Hannah."
"Hannah? What about her?"
"How is she?"
"How are you might be a better question." A hard edge came into Pam's voice. I stopped jogging. I braced myself against the counter. God, I was winded.
"Why won't you tell me about Hannah? What's going on?"
"Hannah is fine. She's a first-rate secretary. Are you writing? Not that I could blame—"
"Why are you lying?" I sat on the kitchen floor. Fuck, I had to get some water into my system. "How is she? Is she there?"
"Matthew. Whatever this is, I am not doing it. Hannah is your friend. If you need to talk to her, you talk to her. I'm your agent. I'm concerned for you. We have things to discuss, and—"
"Are you talking to the reporter?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are you talking to him? The reporter. Is Hannah?"
"Look, I need you to—"
I ended the call.
Fuck.
I guzzled a bottle of water and started to laugh. I was thinking about how Hannah would laugh at me now if we were together. We laughed a lot. We had a good thing going. We laughed about Laurence. And that night when I got on the webcam and she asked if I was naked, we laughed pretty hard.
"You're a funny little bird," I said, smiling and shaking my head.
I started to read the news online.
The Fit to Print people still had a huge boner for me. Or rather, it was bigger than ever. They printed everything they could get their hands on.
I wrote long, meticulous emails to Hannah clarifying the facts.
Speaking of boners, I was blessedly free of them. I don't think I could have gotten it up if I tried. I didn't try. Arousal would only distract me.
I printed the emails I wrote to Hannah and filed them in a manila envelope. I was beginning to think she had blocked my emails. If she were reading them, she would have called.
I typed and printed letters for her. I kept a daily diary addressed to Hannah. Sometimes I rambled for pages, describing the way she looked and laughed. I apologized. I revoked my apologies, saying I would do it again. I told her about Laurence. I described the reporter and warned her to steer clear.
I also one-sidedly continued the story of Cal and Lana. Nothing was over. Everything went into the manila envelope.
Three weeks had passed, and I felt a growing sense of urgency about getting the material to Hannah. I needed to see her.
My brothers and uncle called and emailed relentlessly. What the fuck did they want? I couldn't deal with them yet, and their barrage of attention was making me anxious.
I couldn't lose focus.
I hadn't seen Hannah, but I knew I was close to getting her back. If I could just get the envelope to her. The letters explained everything.
Bethany texted me on the 29th.
I'm in the city staying with a friend. I'll be over on Friday to get my stuff. Stay away from the apartment this weekend.