Last Light(70)

And then I thought of Matt at his worst: drunk in New York, unable to meet my eyes, or hiding in our condo, disgusted by the world’s curiosity. Paranoid. Angry. Duplicitous. And now … shamelessly admitting that he put Night Owl online in a twisted effort to manipulate me.

Memory stopped, and I sank.

Tears threatened, hot with anger, and fear tightened around my heart. Matt … my Matt. No! Not my Matt. A liar. Always lying. Always hurting me to get what he wanted, even when I was the thing he wanted.

Despite my balled-up barricade of limbs, I began to tremble. Blindly, I felt for the nearest pillow and buried my face in it. Ribs of corduroy pressed back. I swear, that pillow smelled like Matt. A dry sob escaped me, and I screamed—the sound ugly and hoarse. It was over. We were over. I gave myself up to the rending panic of separation, the heart clinging to what it knows—Matt—and then I dropped the pillow and shuffled into the kitchen.

Painful hiccups constricted my throat.

But at least I wasn’t a crying, snotty mess. Sadness could wait until later. Right now, I needed anger.

After a few false starts, I wrote a note on our magnetic memo pad.

Matt,

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I tried to get close to you. I tried to know you. But you never let me in. You’re the lord of lies.

Don’t try to find me. Like I said—we’re over.

Hannah

I reread the note, then tore it from the pad and left it on the kitchen counter.

Like I said—we’re over.

The words became a rhythm, driving me forward.

If Matt wasn’t losing his mind right now, he was on his way here. I had two hours tops.

We’re over. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. It’s over. I began to pack, grabbing clothes and toiletries. We’re over. My laptop, my purse, work-related papers. It’s over.

I took nothing Matt had given me. I took only what I needed.

A wide-eyed Laurence watched me dash through the condo.

When my suitcase was full, I plunked it down by the door, my car keys jangling in my hand. Ready to go. My heart thudded crazily. A sweat-soaked curl stuck to my temple. In my head, the voice of reason said: Get out! Get away from this unhealthy situation. Get away from this unhealthy man. Matthew Sky.

“Matt,” I whispered, and his name summoned the memory of him, tall and moody, demanding, passionate, green eyed. My own personal monster of jealousy. I winced. Another girl might have found Matt’s devotion compelling—he was willing to do anything to have me—but it frightened me. He frightened me.

I had called him the lord of lies, and that title seemed more and more appropriate.

“Good-bye,” I said. The word slipped off my tongue, into our quiet condo, which held our hundreds of memories. Please, I thought, let me go this time. And even as I issued that silent plea, I knew he wouldn’t. How could I make him let me go?

My heart hurt—that tight, ironic pain localized in the chest.

I fished a pen out of my purse and walked back to the kitchen counter.

I knew how to make Matt let me go, and it was terrible.

I had to hurt him. I had to lie. I had to get on his level, and make him know this pain.

My hand shook above the note on the counter. After all these lies, what was one more? I swallowed, and then I scribbled a line at the bottom of the page: P.S. I slept with Seth.





Chapter 36


MATT


Mel followed me through the cabin as I packed.

I didn’t have much—just a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries, a few books, my laptop, and my writing supplies. I moved the perishable food to the freezer. I made my bed.

In my mind, I said good-bye to each room.

The master bathroom where I f*cked Hannah in the tub.

The bedroom where we made love all night.

The guest bedroom, which I considered “Mel’s room.”

The cellar where I hid Kevin’s broken chair.

Good-bye.

I lingered in the open main room, the kitchen and living room with its many windows. Afternoon sunlight lay along the floor. It glanced off the counters and gleamed on my desk, which was not really my desk.

But it had been my desk, as much as anything belongs to anyone. I sat there and did good work. And when I needed a break …

I walked out onto the deck. Mel lurked, my petite shadow.

“Your hand,” she whispered.

I glanced at my hand. Something was broken; I’d made sure of that. Maybe a knuckle. Maybe one of those long fine bones between the joints. Nate would know, though I didn’t particularly care. I just wanted the pain—hard and real and punishing.

A pain to keep me in the present moment.

A pain to keep me from losing it, because losing it is the easy way out.

“It feels fine,” I lied.

I adjusted the bandage around my palm. It was Mel’s handiwork, a bulky mess of gauze and medical tape. I’d called Mel as soon as I got off the phone with Hannah. I said we needed to get to Denver—now—and then I started packing with one hand, swearing every time my swollen knuckles grazed a wall.

By the time Mel arrived, my hand was puffy and wine red.

“You’re sad,” Mel insisted, her small voice bringing me back to reality.

I shrugged. It seemed like a good sign that I wasn’t manic with urgency, and it also seemed like a bad sign. Like I was resigned. Like I was going back to Denver the way people return to a burnt home—not to salvage it, but to wade through the wreckage and suffer.