Night Owl(56)

A cold, familiar smirk distorted my lips.

"You think you can?" I said.

"I know I can. I'll take care of you." The girl's hands moved down my back. No fire sprang up in their wake. I only became aware of my pronounced ribs and the ridge of my spine. Huh. I'd have to pick up some eggs while I was here. More fat, more protein.

The girl began to undo my jeans. I let her, gazing down impassively as she worked. She gripped my soft cock and I saw her brows knit. My smirk twitched.

After massaging me ineffectually for a minute, the girl dropped to her knees. I had to hand it to her—she was determined. She licked along the soft organ and sucked at the tip. When she glanced up at me, confusion flashed through her eyes.

My cock had zero interest.

I shrugged, and then started to laugh helplessly. The girl turned red.

"Nice try, kid," I said.

I tucked my member away, did up my jeans, and strolled out of the barn. Turns out laughter works as well as tears.

I made two scrambled eggs when I got back to the cabin. I pushed them around on my plate, washing down small bites with bourbon. Somehow, the booze and pharmaceuticals kept my stomach full. I tried to eat throughout the day, but most nights I ended up puking.

No big deal; nausea comes with the territory.

I wrote for a few hours and then I got too drunk to see straight. I'd hit a roadblock in The Surrogate. My protagonist was about to make love to the woman he spent half the novel chasing. I wanted to write a steamy sex scene, but the words weren't flowing.

The images weren't flowing.

Usually I could sit back, imagine a scene, and transcribe it. Not this time. I kept thinking about Hannah reading it. I wanted to write it for her.

I tried to reconnect with the passion we used to feel. In my car, in the field, in her room, in my bed. The images were sterile. Hands on skin, mouths locked.

Fuck. What was happening to me? And why was I having Pam feed my novel to Hannah anyway? There was no point. Three months had passed. Hannah and I were definitely over.

I could barely remember the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair.

She had become an idea.

I sent my story to Hannah the way people pray—casting my plea into the ether. A plea to be understood. Looking for the signs.

I woke on the couch. At some point, I had changed into a pair of loose pajama pants. The cold bit at me and I let it. So much of my life now was dumb penitence.

After taking two shots and a Xanax, I called Mike.

Mike was still a decent psychiatrist, even if I didn't trust him. He set me up with meds before I flew out to New York. I called him from time to time. A thirty-minute call to Mike cost me a hundred bucks, but the money didn't matter.

"Hi Matthew. How are you doing?"

"Fine. You know, good. Is it a good time?"

"Yes, sure."

I heard a door close.

"Look, who transcribes your notes?" I said.

"Matthew, we've been over this. I—"

"No, I know. But Hannah's mom, she does that, you know? The transcription stuff. And I was thinking, if she types your notes..."

Mike was one of very few people who didn't cut me off when I rambled. Granted, my rambling worked in his monetary favor. I still appreciated it.

"You know, that would be bad for me," I said. I began to prowl through the cabin. Shadows pooled on the floor. I had no idea what time it was or even what day. I lost whole weeks to the rhythms of drunkenness. "There are things I want to say. But no one can know. It gets onto the internet and everywhere."

The Mike-Hannah's mother connection evaded me. I thought about it a lot. There was Hannah's mother and the medical records. There was Mike, my psychiatrist. They might be conversing, but how could I ever find out?


"Mm."

I leaned my weight on her. Fuck, I was really feeling the alcohol.

As we passed my bottle, Hannah plucked it up and helped me toward the kitchen.

"Last one," I said, eyeing the bourbon.

"Then you do it."

My hand shook as I poured the amber liquid down the drain.

Hannah didn't know—how could she?—what this meant for tomorrow.

As she helped me into the bedroom, I glimpsed a pendant resting near the hollow of her throat. It was bright against her pale skin.

"The lock," I mumbled. More like three of the locks; I was seeing triple. Still, I knew exactly what it was—the padlock necklace I bought for Hannah in Estes.

"I got it engraved," she said. She brought my hand to the smooth metal and I traced a finger over the letters... H... M.

Hannah.

Matt.

I collapsed onto the bed and reeled into darkness.

CHAPTER 26

Hannah

I WOKE WITH a start. The bed was cold. The room was dark and quiet and it took me a moment to remember where I was: in a cabin in Geneva, NY.

Under the bathroom door, I saw a strip of light.

God, Matt...

I sat up against the headboard and gathered the quilt around myself. Was he sick, or just using the bathroom? Did he have a secret stash of alcohol in the cabin? I stared into the darkness and tried to empty my mind.

Inside, I could feel the chipped fragments of my heart. My poor, beautiful lover... what had agony done to him?

He was twenty pounds lighter, at least, and his eyes were wild and glassy. His handsome features were scruffy with stubble. His hair grew long down the back of his neck.