Sometimes, I almost believed my own act.

“Well, it looks like you have your work cut out for you, Hannah.” Pam nodded at my in-box, then went clicking out of my office and closed the door.

The workday flew by. I had a sandwich delivered for lunch so that I could stay in my warm office. Besides, I was having fun. I worked at the center of a world I loved—the world of publishing—and I believed in the old romance of book writing, bookmaking, and bookselling.

I bundled up and left the office at six. I brought two manuscripts home with me.

My thoughts turned to the empty condo, and instead of driving home, I headed to Cherry Creek for a little retail therapy.

The mall was surprisingly busy. I smiled as I wandered through Macy’s and into the open shopping center. This almost made me feel less lonely. Almost …

I paused in front of Fragrance Hut and glanced at the rows of perfume and cologne. Hm. I should buy something for Matt. Something for … us.

I hesitated outside Victoria’s Secret. The windows displayed super-lean, leggy mannequins in getups that probably required instruction manuals. I swallowed and looked closer. Well, Matt did like me in lingerie …

I headed into the store, a light blush warming my face. The simple act of choosing lingerie to wear for Matt was a turn-on.

I drifted around the tables, trailing my fingers over satin and lace, bustiers and corsets. The more risqué lingerie hung in the back. I picked out a delicate black baby doll and held it up for inspection. It was tiny, and it was all sheer lace. I draped it over my arm. Perfect. What else?

As I shopped, I began to feel more daring. Matt would flip when he saw me in this stuff. I chose a form-fitting garter slip with polka dots, ruffles, and matching thigh-highs. I bought mesh panties with a bow on the back and a slip with a bustle that would barely cover my ass.

I left the store with a smile on my face.

I made a shopping trip each evening after work, ticking off items on a list I titled “Weekend Getaway.” Matt’s list-making habit had rubbed off on me.

I stocked up on canned foods and frozen meals for Matt. I bought a big cooler, a new first aid kit, two flashlights and a wholesale-sized pack of batteries, a can of bear spray, camping rations, antibiotic ointment, even long underwear.

And that was when I made myself stop. I was standing in Cabela’s with the underwear removed from its package because I wanted to check the length. I unfurled the scrunched, withered white legs, and I began to giggle. My giggles turned to laughter, which turned to louder laughter. Louder laughter turned to fitful howls.

I couldn’t stop, even when other customers began glancing at me. Oh … my God … what was I doing? My worry for Matt was somehow manifesting as thermal underwear.

I bought the long underwear because I knew Matt would get a kick out of it.

It was Thursday. Enough is enough, I told myself. My pile of Matt supplies looked like Y2K prep plus lingerie. Everything was laid out on the living room floor. Laurence eyed me as I added the thermal underwear to the pile.

“I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m done. Seriously.”

On a whim, I flicked on the Christmas tree lights. They winked merrily and lit the condo white and blue. I sighed.

Yeah, it was definitely time to take down this tree … so why couldn’t I?

In our haste to plan and execute Matt’s disappearance, Matt and I forgot all about the holiday. Two presents sat under the tree, one from Matt to me, one from me to Matt.

He’d wrapped mine in gold paper with black ribbon. I shook the small box. Hm.

“What do you think?” I said to Laurence. He flicked an ear. I grinned and moved both gifts into my suitcase.

Chapter 16

MATT

The chair listed left a little. I tilted my head. Good enough.

It was broken at three joints, where two legs met the seat and again where a spindle fit into the top rail. Really, I could have done worse.

Duct tape formed a lumpy seal around the joints. I set the chair in a corner.

“It was like that when I got here,” I said. I frowned. No, no. I should sound more offhanded. I tried a little laugh and eyed the chair as though seeing it for the first time. “Oh, that? No idea. Kevin is weird.”

I even rehearsed the truth.

“The chair? No big deal. I lost it after I read some bad reviews. Oh, and I crushed my phone with my bare foot because I’m manly like that. Ha…”

On second thought, I carried the chair to the cellar. Out of sight, out of mind.

I swept the fragments of my TracFone into a dustpan.

I would buy another phone in town and give Hannah the number when she arrived. I doubted she would call between now and then. We kept communication to a minimum.

I replaced the desk chair with a kitchen chair and scooted closer to my computer.

“Okay, Mel,” I said, opening my laptop, “let’s see the damage.”

A new e-mail announced three private messages on the forum. This poor f**king girl. I skimmed the messages, all from Melanie, all apologies.

I sent a reply.

SUBJECT: “Matt is a tool”

by nightowl on Sunday, February 9, 2014

Hi, Mel,

Thanks for your messages.

I’m the one who needs to apologize. I was an out-of-control ass**le on the phone. I am a “tool” and a “psycho” according to customers who should know. And they want their money back. (I’m laughing.)

Can you guess what happened here? Yes, I decided to read the Night Owl reviews. Just the one-star reviews. Fuck me. I wigged out and called you. You know the rest.

Of course you forgive me because I’m charismatic and winning.

—M

P.S. You should still remove the book before my brother sues your ass.

P.P.S. I broke my phone. I’ll send you my new number soon.

Mel’s reply was waiting in my forum in-box the following morning.

She forgave me, of course, and iterated that I was “an out-of-control ass**le on the phone (and probably off it, too).” I laughed as I read.

“The book is off Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords,” she wrote. “I like my ass and don’t want it sued.” She said she understood my anger. She said she was “waiting for it, actually.”

My grin faded as I read the last line of Mel’s message:

So, Night Owl is no more. What now?

I pondered the question: What now?

I had to admit, I liked this Melanie chick. She had guts and wit. And she was straight-up insane, so we had something in common.

Plus, it was nice to have someone to chat with occasionally. No man is a f**king island.

I typed, “I told you, I’ll give you my new phone number soon. I pulverized my phone after you called fifty times and activated man mode.”

I sent the reply and logged out of the forum.

I couldn’t write worth a damn that morning, couldn’t focus on anything but Hannah and her upcoming visit. So I made a list.

SEX ALL WEEKEND

Hannah, in the flesh (and nothing else)

Candles/atmosphere/flowers?

Nice meal (how?)

Lube … or something

Nonsexual gifts (books?)

Clean the cabin

Do your f**king laundry

Xmas tree/lights etc.

I prowled through the cabin collecting laundry and rereading my list. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Finally. Friday would be Valentine’s Day. It would be our Christmas. I would make it romantic and special—unforgettable—and maybe, just maybe, she would stay with me.

I checked the food situation in the cellar. I had a lot of food—canned food, frozen food, untouched bags of pasta and rice—but nothing that would cohere into a “nice meal.”

My thoughts strayed helplessly back to Hannah.

God, I wanted her sprawled by the fire on a pile of shearling blankets. Naked. The firelight playing on her curves …

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch with a heap of laundry at my feet and the hard-on of the century. I had to laugh.

If this wasn’t the epitome of my life without Hannah, then nothing was.

* * *

“Do you want me to wrap these, hon?” said the cashier. She lifted one of the twenty votive candleholders on the belt. “I don’t have paper, but I can wrap bags around them.”

Twenty scented candles followed the holders.

Also: a new TracFone, two boxes of chocolates, two fresh flower arrangements, three books, warming lube, massage oil, wrapping paper and ribbon, two cards, a plush rabbit holding a heart, a bottle of white wine, and two bags of frozen shrimp and penne dinner. “Ready in 10 minutes,” the bag claimed. “Just heat and serve!”

Hell, I could heat and serve.

“Yeah, please,” I said, “if it’s not too much trouble. I have a long way to go with them.”

I slid off my hat and ruffled my black hair. I watched the cashier from behind my shades. I expected her to do a double take, to hesitate and then say I looked familiar, but she only nodded and began swathing the glass with plastic bags.

“Is it too much?” I gestured to my purchases. “I have a date. For Valentine’s.”

“Oh, it’s never too much.” The cashier smiled so hard that the apples of her cheeks reddened. “Some lucky girl.”

“Mm.”

I plucked the plush rabbit off the belt and studied it. Lucky girl. Yeah, right. Merry super-belated Christmas and ghetto Valentine’s, Hannah. Here’s a thirty-dollar bottle of wine and a bunch of wax that doubles as chocolate. Run away with me?

With a sigh, I handed the stuffed animal to the cashier.

“Cute!” She passed it over the scanner.

I pulled out my cash and started counting off twenties. “Yeah, I think she’ll like it,” I said, and I did. Hannah would like any gesture from me.

I pocketed my change and carried my bags out to a bench. There, I arranged the candleholders and other items in my pack. The wrapping paper and bouquets poked out the top.

It was Thursday morning. The flowers would easily survive until tomorrow. I couldn’t find Christmas lights in the store, but f**k it. This was good enough. More than good enough.

As I hiked back to the cabin, I laughed and remembered little things about Hannah. I pictured her every which way. My chronic anger and harsh moods stood far off when Hannah filled my thoughts, and no drug could do that for me, and no other human. Just Hannah.

Chapter 17

HANNAH

The garter slip fit me like a sleeve. It hugged everything and covered nothing. My ni**les showed plainly through the sheer cups. The ruffled hem flared around my hips.

I spun before the standing mirror.

I thought of Matt’s gaze and curled my toes.

I don’t know when I decided to drive up to the cabin in nothing but lingerie and a coat, but the idea excited me. Maybe I saw it in a movie: a sexy woman shrugging off her coat, nothing beneath but skin and lace.

Besides, knowing Matt, I’d be lucky if he didn’t f**k me against the car. So why not give him a treat on our way to bliss? I rolled up my black thigh-highs and clipped on the garter straps. I grinned as I slid my feet into pumps. There.

I pulled on my coat, collected my purse, and hoisted Laurence’s portable cage.

He thumped his displeasure.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Tell it to someone else. I could be leaving you with Jamie again.”

I locked the condo and headed out to my car.

Cold air whooshed under my coat. Oof, what a draft …

I giggled as I arranged Laurence’s cage on the backseat and got behind the wheel. I was being quite bad. Matt would love it.

* * *

Though I’d left work early, I hit Friday night traffic on I-25. I sighed as the string of cars slowed, smiled when it picked up, and groaned when it came to a standstill.

What should have been a one-and-a-half-hour drive stretched into two.

The sky darkened as I cruised west toward the mountains. Shivers raced through me.

I sipped a Red Bull and plugged in my iPhone to play music.

With a jolt, I remembered Seth.

DJ, will ya?

Matt’s memorial felt a lifetime away, but the memory of Seth was so fresh that he might have been in the car with me.

I get it, Hannah. “Love is as strong as death,” right?

I highly doubted Seth would “get it” if he knew the truth. Death wasn’t in the picture here, just deception.

My mind trailed over the Goldengrove gig, and I frowned when I remembered I’d deleted all their songs. Yeesh, overreact much? I started a song by Broken Bells.

It was, I realized, very possible that I overreacted to all of it—Shapiro’s interrogation, the looks the other memorial guests gave me, even Seth’s request for a kiss.

I was hypersensitive, crazy with guilt. Maybe there was no harm in any of it …

I turned onto the narrow road leading out to the cabin. My palms began to sweat. God, why was I nervous? I wiped my hands on the seat.

The road steepened and my Civic labored over the snow. My wheels spun. The car pitched forward and slid back.

I found the driveway and veered onto it. Matt had shoveled the dirt drive as well as he could. I slowed the car as I neared the cabin. My headlights swung across the snow.

Matt.

He jogged through a drift. Jesus, he was barefoot! And his hair was … black? But it was Matt. My Matt. My night owl.

As the last light of day peeled off the snow, he closed the distance between us. I lunged out of the car. He caught me in a hug and crushed my body to his.

“Hannah. Goddamn.” He lifted me off my feet. His hands were in my hair, against my neck, on my back and arms. He touched me all over as if to make sure I was real. And maybe I wasn’t. This felt like the best dream.

“Matt. Baby. Hi. Hey…” I stroked his face. I scrubbed away the beginnings of tears from my eyes. “Your hair.” I ruffled it.