Night Owl(49)

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 * 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.

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.