Night Owl

His secret was out. His fun was over. Maybe he would simply discard me, a casualty of his double life. I couldn't put anything past him.



I turned and took a shaky breath.



"I love this job," I said as calmly as possible. I forced myself to meet Pam's eyes. Worse than her usual steely stare was the concern I saw in her gaze. "I have no reason to miss a day."



"No?" She smiled at me. Fuck, I was ill equipped to deal with this friendly side of Pam. I needed Pam the bitch, not Pam the shoulder to cry on. And I would start blubbering if she didn't quit with the soft eyes and concerned smiles.



I cried myself ragged last night. I cried through my shower that morning. My reservoir of tears was by no means exhausted.



"No," I said.



"Alright." Pam pursed her lips. "Matthew was asking about you yesterday. He sounded very concerned. In fact, he hung up on me."



I never want to learn how to say goodbye.



My eyes stung. I swallowed.



"We got in touch," I said.



Pam studied me a moment longer. I wondered how much she knew, how much she might have inferred. The big news to the literary world was that M. Pierce had a name, Matthew Sky. The big news to me was that Matthew Sky had a girlfriend.



I was reeling in my own private agony. Pam might have guessed as much.



"Alright," she said again, this time with a finalizing tone. The all-business façade fell back over her face. "Today I need you to..."



I listened. I took notes. I did my job.



I went home, skipped dinner, and crashed.



I woke and repeated my hollow routine.



I won't say the pain inside of me dulled. Rather, I came to expect it. I even came to expect the fierce spikes of hurt I felt at random—when I saw my brother's Frisbee, when I saw a Lexus, when I heard a pop like fireworks.



Anything could bring it on. The smell of pine. A warm breeze. A certain sort of smile on a stranger's face.



Sometimes I thought I saw Matt in the city crowds.



I would look and find a tall stranger heading to work.



Chrissy tried to coerce me into vandalizing Matt's car.



"You know what they look like, Hannah. You know where he parks them! Take a baseball bat to that motherfucker's windshield. He wouldn't do anything about it, the pussy."



I winced and walked away.



In spite of my anger and misery, and in spite of how idiotic and used I felt, the thought of hurting Matt galled me. I couldn't stop myself from watching the news and reading the articles about his life. I couldn't stop the surge of sorrow I felt when I learned about his parents and his botched suicide, his stay in the psych ward and his descent into addiction.



Matt. My Matt. I loved him, and I hated him.



My family watched helplessly as my appetite dwindled. I lost fifteen pounds. On the weekends, I went to bed at ten and slept in until two.



I couldn't stand to hear my own name. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.



Matt used to say it constantly.



He growled it, he moaned it, he whispered it. He said it like a curse—like a plea.



Hannah, oh fuck, Hannah.



Hannah, never deny me.



Hannah, I can't be apart from you.



Promise. Hannah, Promise. Promise you'll be here no matter what.



I couldn't stand to see myself. I avoided mirrors. I dressed plainly. I got a severe A-line haircut and began to straighten my hair.



When my family's vigilant concern became too suffocating, I got the condo in Denver and holed up. I had no friends to see and no desire to go out anyway. That bastard had been my life every day since I returned to Colorado.



And that bastard was still my life, even when August rolled around and I hadn't seen him in four weeks.



He was there because he wasn't there.



How could I make anyone understand?



He was still with me. He was the negative space.



CHAPTER 21



Matt



MY LIFE IMPLODED on Monday.



Hannah emailed me on Wednesday.



To this day, I don't know what I did on Tuesday. It was the first of my lost days.



I reread Hannah's email until I could recite it.



Subject: (no subject)



Sender: Hannah Catalano



Date: Wednesday, July 10, 2013



Time: 7:20 PM



Matthew,



I'll try to keep this brief.



You know I didn't come over on Monday, and you know why. By now you also know I won't answer your calls, texts, or emails.



Please stop trying to contact me. Please don't try to see me. I want to tell you "it's over," but it never started, did it?



Against my better judgment, I am keeping my job at the agency. The purpose of this email is to ask you not to attempt to see me there. I love and need the job.



If you have any respect for me (do you?), show me by leaving me alone. If you harass me at work, I'll have no choice but to quit. Please don't make me do that.



Hannah Catalano



* * *



She signed the email so formally. Hannah Catalano. I felt the cold anger stretching between us.



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 asshole 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.



I also one-sidedly continued the story of Cal and Lana. Nothing was over. Everything went into the manila envelope.



Three weeks had passed, and I felt a growing sense of urgency about getting the material to Hannah. I needed to see her.



My brothers and uncle called and emailed relentlessly. What the fuck did they want? I couldn't deal with them yet, and their barrage of attention was making me anxious.



I couldn't lose focus.



I hadn't seen Hannah, but I knew I was close to getting her back. If I could just get the envelope to her. The letters explained everything.



Bethany texted me on the 29th.



I'm in the city staying with a friend. I'll be over on Friday to get my stuff. Stay away from the apartment this weekend.



Under different circumstances Bethany's tone would have pissed me off, but I wanted to see her about as much as she wanted to see me. Besides, I was on a mission. August was two days away and I'd be damned if I started a new month without Hannah.



I gathered Bethany's stuff from the trunk of my car and piled it in the living room.



I never considered taking Bethany to court, though I could have. She was the source, I knew it, and we had a non-disclosure agreement—but the damage was already done, and the lawsuit would bring more publicity.