Night Owl(57)

Worst of all, though, was the total absence of his proud spirit. Shuffling around the cabin, refusing to meet my eyes... he was broken.

My intentions dissolved when I saw him. Why did I think I could keep my distance? Why would I want to? Love is relentless.

The bedside clock read 5:12 a.m. No wonder I felt like a train wreck.

I slid out of the sheets and pulled on my tunic top. I had pajamas in my suitcase, but my suitcase was in the car and I had no desire to step away from Matt last night, even after he faceplanted into bed.

I didn't want him to wake up alone. Not ever again.

I padded to the bathroom door and listened.

"Matt?"

Silence.

I knocked gently.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice quiet. It sounded like he was on the floor. I crouched and flattened both hands to the door.

"Are you sure?"

"Mm, I—"

I heard scuffling, then silence.

Last night, watching Matt breathe greedily in his sleep, I wondered if I should be worried about alcohol poisoning. Worry gnawed at me again as I listened through the bathroom door.

"Matt? Are you sick?"

"Hangover," he said, "it's nothing."

His tone definitely said—leave me alone.

He was probably puking his guts out.

Sure enough, I heard more scuffling followed by retching. The sounds were hoarse and painful. I nuzzled closer to the door. Typical Matt, suffering alone.

Why did he hide from me?

By now he should have known that not even a loaded gun could drive me away.

I was fully awake, so I began to pace around the bedroom. I pulled on my leggings. I made the bed. I'm a productive worrier.

The toilet flushed, but Matt didn't emerge.

I roamed through the cabin and did a little more cleaning, gathering laundry and emptying ashtrays. I changed Laurence's water and fed him a few raisins. Poor little guy, the things he must have seen...

My eyes strayed toward the kitchen table with its stacks of pages. I felt a familiar stab of betrayal. I thought of Matt and Pam, conspiring to get The Surrogate to me. A love story. A lie story. I remembered how I felt at the cusp of Matt's unwritten sex scene: I wanted it to happen, the deception didn't matter.

Was Matt trying to manipulate my feelings about what he'd done, or was he simply trying to explain himself?

My heart wasn't made of paper. That was fiction. This was my life.

I was making my way back to the bedroom when I heard a cry.

"Matt!" Fuck this hiding bullshit. I barged into the bathroom.

Matt cowered in the corner, hugging himself and staring at the floor. The smell of vomit hung in the air.

"Oh god, baby," I whispered, kneeling at his side and stroking the hair back from his brow. His whole body shook. He was soaked with sweat.

"Hannah. Hannah..."

He clasped my arm. I had never seen such fear in his eyes. His gaze darted around on the tiled floor, where all I could see were pale tiles with gray speckles.

"Matt, it's okay now, listen to me, it's okay."

Every time I brushed back his hair, a fresh sheen of sweat sprang up on his brow. I touched his neck. His heart was racing. My god, what was this?

"Xanax," he chattered. "Get me one. Get me a Xanax. In the k-kitchen."

"Matt, I don't think—"

"Hannah!"

I scurried to the kitchen. Okay, Xanax. Get a Xanax. Maybe Matt was addicted. Fuck, maybe that's what this was. Fuck. Did he need some kind of fix? Was he doing more than drinking himself to death?

Panic made it impossible to focus. My hands knocked against the table and scattered pill bottles. Fuck, f*ck, f*ck. Which was which? Why did Matt have all these f*cking pharmaceuticals anyway?

Finally I found the Xanax. I shook out one blue oval and ran back to Matt, who was gripping the sink. Water dripped from his hair. He grabbed the pill, chewed and swallowed it, his face twisted in disgust.

I hovered at his side. He smiled grimly at me.

Oh god, I despised my emotions right now. Tears gathered in my eyes and I dashed them away. Fuck, I couldn't stand to see Matt—a man who always seemed so smug and in control—this frightened.

He splashed water on his face. He drank from his cupped hands. I tried to rub his back, but he flinched from my touch. His skin was on fire.

"Matt, what can I do? What's going on? This—" I hesitated. This didn't look like any hangover I had ever seen.

Matt shrank into the corner again. He opened his mouth, then lunged for the toilet, clinging to it and gagging. There was nothing in his stomach. Nothing but water, bile, and a blue swirl of crushed Xanax.

"Ah, f*ck," he groaned.

Violent shivers racked him.

I caught his hand and squeezed it.

"Matt," I said helplessly.

He seemed to be struggling with himself. After a space, he pulled himself to his feet.

"We have to... g-go to the hospital," he said. He searched my eyes, which were the size of plates. "It's okay, Hannah, b-but we h-have to go. Th-this is withdrawal."

Matt's grip on my hand was weak.

His words sank in slowly.

Alcohol withdrawal. I should have guessed, but I had never witnessed it. I had no idea. God, I didn't know a single real alcoholic.

Until Matt.