The next morning, I stared bleary-eyed into the bottom of my coffee cup and wondered how long it would take for enough caffeine to kick in to give me energy to go get another cup. I’d dropped off to sleep over my keyboard sometime around four a.m., then dragged my idiotic ass to bed fully clothed.

I shuddered to think what I’d actually managed to write in those wee hours. Gibberish, probably. Flat, pointless gibberish. I wasn’t even going to look at it.

“Good morning, sweetheart!” My mother came in from the garden and stripped off her work gloves, leaving her hands and manicure pristine. She even had this little pad she knelt on out there to keep her knees from getting dirty. She’d probably have a stroke if she heard I’d had sex outdoors. In a pickup truck. “Your lights were on pretty late last night.”

“I was reading,” I mumbled. “A thriller. Gripping.”

“Ah, well, I guess it’s a good thing you can sleep in.” She kissed me on top of the head.

No. No, it was not a good thing. I should have to get up and go work in an office or a factory or on someone’s hot, tar-covered rooftop.

“Just watch your energy levels today. You don’t want anything to get out of whack. You’re taking your medicine, right?”

I nodded. I took my medicine religiously. If I was exhausted today, it would have nothing to do with my wonky thyroid.

“Oh, Hannah, before I forget, I talked to Mary Beth Connell again about her son taking you out.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping this story ended with Mary Beth Connell’s son agreeing with me that this wasn’t the sixties and he didn’t want to be set up by his mom.

“And she says Jeffrey is free Friday night and would love to take you to dinner.”

I winced. Seriously? He was down with this? “What if I’m not free Friday night?”

Mom looked at me, curiously. “Aren’t you?”

“Well…” I sighed. “Yes, but…”

“Hannah, honey, it’s one dinner. If you don’t like him, he’s going back to Harvard in a month.”

“Yale,” I muttered.

“Whatever.” Mom shrugged. “You would rather a Harvard boy? I’m sure we can find one of those. I think Suzanne Gardner’s son, Ronnie Nesbit, is at business school there. Or is it London? I can’t remember if she said England or New England. But either way, you know, he’s a Nesbit. They’re one of the oldest families in New York.”

“Mom!” I interrupted. “You know, if all you can tell me about these guys is where they went to school and how famous their last name is, you shouldn’t be surprised when I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry,” she snapped. “Is there a list of things you’d like to know about them before you agree to sit across the table from one for an hour and a half?”

Major, career prospects, bank account… I clenched my teeth. No. I wasn’t like that. “I don’t know,” I said instead. “Maybe something about their personalities?”

Mom looked confused. “That’s what you go on the date to find out, Hannah. That’s the whole point of a date. To get to know someone. But fine, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested. I just thought you might want to do something other than sit around the house all day moping…”

“Okay,” I said. I had to admit, she had a point. Mom was only trying to help, even if she had a clunky, old-society-debutante way of going about it. Jeffrey Connell from Yale Law might not be my type, but at least it would get me out of the house, and out of my head.

“That’s my girl!” she said with a smile. “And trust me. I set you up with nice dinner dates. Your dad told me the two of you had a great time at the yacht club the other day.”

My head snapped up. He did? She must have asked.

“I’m so glad you’re getting along again.”

“Me too,” I replied flatly. How did he do it? Dad had been lying to Mom for more than two decades, and he seemed to have absolutely no problem with it. I’d been keeping this secret for eight months, and I wanted to vomit every time I was reminded of it.

“And you’ll have an equally lovely evening with the Connell boy, too,” Mom said now. “I’m sure of it.”

If we were going to weigh all my future dates based on my experience the other evening, poor Jeffrey Connell had a lot to live up to.

---

The next few days were a blur. I spent most of them at my computer, when I wasn’t actively unconscious or sneaking off to the kitchen to grab whatever I could from the fridge. If Mom had been worried before about my lack of a social life, I was sure the lack of showering scared her to death. I didn’t even do my usual exercise of laps in the pool, and I definitely wasn’t lounging around in my bikini, though I admit I peeked out the window from time to time to see if Boone was on the roof.

He never was.

A little after lunch on Friday, I typed the words Smash cut to credits.

Sixty-seven pages. Way too short for a proper script, true, but not bad for a first draft. Plus, it was damn scary, if I did say so myself. Still needed a title, though. One-word titles were super popular these days. Insidious, Saw, Triangle—even Render.

I’d think about it. A good one would come along.

Elated, I backed up the file and floated out into the living room.

“Hello, hermit,” my mother said from the couch. “Good to see you’re still alive.”

“Sorry,” I said, sheepish. “I got involved with a project online—”

“Where online?” she pressed. “You haven’t posted to Facebook in over a month.”

It still bugs me that my mother checks up on my social media. I’m not a teenager anymore.

“It’s nothing, Mom,”

“It’s not nothing. It’s those movie forums. You know they’re all a bunch of sweaty men who haven’t had jobs since their Blockbusters shut down, don’t you?”

Mom was not wrong about that. It was one of the reasons I quit going to those forums back in high school. Less real information and insight about the movies and more petty squabbling.

“What stupid thing are you arguing about this time? The consistency of the blood spatter in the latest disgusting slasher flick?” She tsked at me. “I really hoped you’d grown out of that.”

Actually, I’d done the exact opposite. I’d grown into it, big time. Hmmm… Blood Pact? Blood Roots?

“Well, at least you’ve emerged in time to get ready for your date.”

Right. My date with Jeffrey Connell. I’d been so busy the last few days, I hadn’t even thought of it. The List? Kindred? Wait, I think that one had already been used.

“Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

I pushed the parade of potential titles out of my mind. “No? A dress?”

Mom looked hurt. I bit my lip. “Why don’t we go in my room and check out the options?” I suggested.

“Okay!” She smiled and stood up.

It didn’t bode well that Mom was more excited for this date than I was. She flipped through all my dresses and settled on a lovely blue silk one printed with watercolor tulips in orange and yellow. After I’d showered, she even helped me curl my hair so it fell in wavy ringlets around my shoulders.

“You look lovely, Hannah,” she said, as we looked at the results in the bathroom mirror. “I promise you, Jeffrey will be impressed that you dressed up for this date. When you take it casually, they take it casually.”

So when I climb into Boone’s truck a sweaty, wilted mess, he feels free to do me against the roof? Good to know, Mom.

“But when you’re serious, they know they have to bring their best as well.”

I’m pretty sure Boone brought his best the other day. I couldn’t imagine what other feats he was capable of.

“I know you think I’m old fashioned for saying this, but sometimes the old sayings are true for a reason. They don’t buy the cow if they can get the milk for free.”

“Mo-om…”

She held up her hands, defensively. “It’s not just about sex,” she said. She’d known I was having sex since I was sixteen years old, and she’d immediately marched me down to her gynecologist and put me on the pill. No judgment from Mom—just immediate action to prevent there being any scandal. “It’s about being something special, something that no one else offers them.”

“So I’m cream?” I asked.

“Cream of the crop, kid,” she said, and bounced one of my curls. Ooh, The Crop. That had potential. “And I don’t want anyone taking you for granted. You aren’t just any girl. You’re Hannah Swift.”

Yeah. Hannah Swift. I was Hannah Swift because Mom was married to Dad when I was born. Tess was not Hannah Swift because her mother wasn’t. I was Hannah Swift, with all the rights and privileges that entailed. I was Hannah Swift, with all the requirements and expectations that came alongside.

She stood back, arms folded across her chest. “I wish your Dad was here to see how pretty you look.”

I didn’t. I didn’t think I’d ever look pretty to my father again. “You’re acting like I’m going to prom.”

“Compared to your usual social routine lately, this is prom.”

The doorbell rang, a melodious chime that echoed through our two story entryway and down the wide, empty halls.

Mom beamed. “He’s here! Do you want me to get it so you can make an entrance?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can get it.”

My heels clicked down the hall to the door, and the silk of my skirt rippled around my knees as my golden hair bounced like I was in a shampoo commercial. I’m sure I made quite the picture as I opened our twelve foot tall, gleaming wood-and-crystal door.

“Hi,” said Jeffrey Connell. “You must be Hannah.” And he held out a rose. A single red rose, like I was the winner in a dating reality show.

“Thank you,” I said automatically, and took it. Jeffrey Connell was very handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with clean-cut brown hair that swooped respectably from a side part. He wore a blue button-down shirt, a yellow tie, and a navy blazer with gold buttons. His khakis were carefully pressed. His shoes were highly polished. He certainly looked like a guy who went to Yale Law. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure,” he said, then glanced at his watch. A gold watch. “Though we shouldn’t stay long. Our reservations are at seven.”

I nodded, and opened the door wider. Don’t Open the Door. Like Don’t Go Into The Woods. No, too much of a rip-off. Plus, it would get confused with Let Me In.

I led Jeffrey back down the hall into the living room, where my mother had turned on the lights and was sitting, reading a book as if she’d been doing so for an hour. “Jeffrey!” she trilled, rising to meet him. “How lovely. And you brought Hannah flowers!”

Well, flower.

“I’ll just go find a vase for this,” I said, and escaped to the kitchen. Luckily, crystal vases were not in short supply, and I returned right away, holding the vase awkwardly. Was I supposed to put it in my room or something? Jeffrey and Mom were seated on the couch, chatting away. I placed the vase on a side table.

“Well, Mrs. Swift,” Jeffrey was saying as he stood up, “I guess Hannah and I should be on our way. Don’t worry, I won’t keep her out too late.”

I gave a polite little laugh. “Don’t worry, Jeffrey. I’m twenty-one, not sixteen.”

He didn’t laugh back, just laid his hand gently on the small of my back and guided me back down the hall, out the door, down the walk, and into the car. After he opened the door for me, of course. Jeffrey Connell drove a Lexus hybrid.

“Nice car,” I said, making myself comfortable in the velvety soft leather seats as he got in the driver’s side.

“Thanks,” he replied. “It’s actually my dad’s.”

As we started off, I realized that I had no idea where we were going. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

“We have a dinner reservation at seven at the country club,” Jeffrey replied. “I think your parents are members, right?”

“Oh…yes,” I replied, taken aback. The country club? Like, with the roast beef carving station and the dessert tray and the crowds of golfers and retirees? That was unexpected.

“Great. Do you play golf?” he asked, casting a quick, appraising glance at me.

“Why? Interested in a night game?”

His brow furrowed. “No…I just wanted to know if you play. Since you’re a member. I love golf.”

“No,” I replied. “I mean, I’ve swung a club a few times. And miniature golf and stuff. But tennis is really my sport.”

“Ah, tennis!” he tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Great sport. They have such nice facilities at the club, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Were we seriously talking about the condition of the tennis courts at my parents’ country club? “Good…clay.”

“Tennis is a decent sport, too. Golf’s better for talking, though. You can really talk during a golf game. Tennis it’s pretty much limited to before and after.”

“Bowling,” I said. “You can talk a lot during bowling. And you can play at night. And in the rain.”

We pulled up to a stoplight and Jeffrey stared at me, utterly confused. “Who’s talking about bowling?”

I blinked at him. What, aside from me? “I thought we were talking about sports where you could talk while you played.”

He burst out laughing. “You’re funny! That’s great. That’s really great.” He made a left turn and continued on to the country club. “Bowling. What a riot.”

I stared out my window. This was going to be a long night.