Last Light(27)

As I shopped, I began to feel more daring. Matt would flip when he saw me in this stuff. I chose a form-fitting garter slip with polka dots, ruffles, and matching thigh-highs. I bought mesh panties with a bow on the back and a slip with a bustle that would barely cover my ass.

I left the store with a smile on my face.

I made a shopping trip each evening after work, ticking off items on a list I titled “Weekend Getaway.” Matt’s list-making habit had rubbed off on me.

I stocked up on canned foods and frozen meals for Matt. I bought a big cooler, a new first aid kit, two flashlights and a wholesale-sized pack of batteries, a can of bear spray, camping rations, antibiotic ointment, even long underwear.

And that was when I made myself stop. I was standing in Cabela’s with the underwear removed from its package because I wanted to check the length. I unfurled the scrunched, withered white legs, and I began to giggle. My giggles turned to laughter, which turned to louder laughter. Louder laughter turned to fitful howls.

I couldn’t stop, even when other customers began glancing at me. Oh … my God … what was I doing? My worry for Matt was somehow manifesting as thermal underwear.

I bought the long underwear because I knew Matt would get a kick out of it.

It was Thursday. Enough is enough, I told myself. My pile of Matt supplies looked like Y2K prep plus lingerie. Everything was laid out on the living room floor. Laurence eyed me as I added the thermal underwear to the pile.

“I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m done. Seriously.”

On a whim, I flicked on the Christmas tree lights. They winked merrily and lit the condo white and blue. I sighed.

Yeah, it was definitely time to take down this tree … so why couldn’t I?

In our haste to plan and execute Matt’s disappearance, Matt and I forgot all about the holiday. Two presents sat under the tree, one from Matt to me, one from me to Matt.

He’d wrapped mine in gold paper with black ribbon. I shook the small box. Hm.

“What do you think?” I said to Laurence. He flicked an ear. I grinned and moved both gifts into my suitcase.





Chapter 16


MATT


The chair listed left a little. I tilted my head. Good enough.

It was broken at three joints, where two legs met the seat and again where a spindle fit into the top rail. Really, I could have done worse.

Duct tape formed a lumpy seal around the joints. I set the chair in a corner.

“It was like that when I got here,” I said. I frowned. No, no. I should sound more offhanded. I tried a little laugh and eyed the chair as though seeing it for the first time. “Oh, that? No idea. Kevin is weird.”

I even rehearsed the truth.

“The chair? No big deal. I lost it after I read some bad reviews. Oh, and I crushed my phone with my bare foot because I’m manly like that. Ha…”

On second thought, I carried the chair to the cellar. Out of sight, out of mind.

I swept the fragments of my TracFone into a dustpan.

I would buy another phone in town and give Hannah the number when she arrived. I doubted she would call between now and then. We kept communication to a minimum.

I replaced the desk chair with a kitchen chair and scooted closer to my computer.

“Okay, Mel,” I said, opening my laptop, “let’s see the damage.”

A new e-mail announced three private messages on the forum. This poor f*cking girl. I skimmed the messages, all from Melanie, all apologies.

I sent a reply.

SUBJECT: “Matt is a tool”

by nightowl on Sunday, February 9, 2014

Hi, Mel,

Thanks for your messages.

I’m the one who needs to apologize. I was an out-of-control * on the phone. I am a “tool” and a “psycho” according to customers who should know. And they want their money back. (I’m laughing.) Can you guess what happened here? Yes, I decided to read the Night Owl reviews. Just the one-star reviews. Fuck me. I wigged out and called you. You know the rest.

Of course you forgive me because I’m charismatic and winning.

—M

P.S. You should still remove the book before my brother sues your ass.

P.P.S. I broke my phone. I’ll send you my new number soon.

Mel’s reply was waiting in my forum in-box the following morning.

She forgave me, of course, and iterated that I was “an out-of-control * on the phone (and probably off it, too).” I laughed as I read.

“The book is off Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords,” she wrote. “I like my ass and don’t want it sued.” She said she understood my anger. She said she was “waiting for it, actually.”

My grin faded as I read the last line of Mel’s message: So, Night Owl is no more. What now?

I pondered the question: What now?

I had to admit, I liked this Melanie chick. She had guts and wit. And she was straight-up insane, so we had something in common.

Plus, it was nice to have someone to chat with occasionally. No man is a f*cking island.

I typed, “I told you, I’ll give you my new phone number soon. I pulverized my phone after you called fifty times and activated man mode.”

I sent the reply and logged out of the forum.

I couldn’t write worth a damn that morning, couldn’t focus on anything but Hannah and her upcoming visit. So I made a list.