Night Owl (The Night Owl Trilogy #1)

Night Owl (The Night Owl Trilogy #1) Page 30

"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.

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, fuck, fuck. Which was which? Why did Matt have all these fucking 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, fuck," 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.

"Yeah, okay," I said. I needed to be strong right now. I needed to be calm. "Okay, the—"

"Get m-me in the c-car," Matt prompted, lurching toward the doorway. "Your ph-phone. Geneva General."

Matt's anxiety was contagious. My heart began to hammer and my hands shook. At least I had something to do besides hover and panic.

I helped Matt through the cabin and out onto the porch. He vomited over the rail.

He was still wearing boxers and those sad old slippers. I couldn't look at the slippers. I could not break down right now.

I boosted him into the car as best I could. Matt slumped in the seat. I dashed back to the cabin for my flip-flops and purse.

Geneva General Hospital was less than four miles away. I propped my phone on my thigh and studied the directions as I backed up the drive too fast, thwacking branches. I squeezed Matt's shoulder.

"It's okay now," I said. "We'll be there in eight minutes. Five minutes. I love you, Matt."

If Matt heard me, he gave no indication. He was crumpled against the car door. He flinched with each bump in the road and his shallow breath hitched, but I wasn't about to slow down. I drove like hell, swerving and spraying gravel. My headlights bobbed crazily in the morning dark.

"It's okay," I kept saying, "it's okay," staring between my phone and the road. Fuck the dark. Fuck these road signs!

"Here!" I turned sharply onto North Street. Matt swayed. "Sorry, I—" I glanced at Matt and slammed on the brakes. My scream filled the car. Matt was convulsing, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his arms and legs jerking spastically.

I floored the gas. The tires screeched.

By the time we reached the hospital Matt had stopped seizing. I didn't know which was worse—the spasms or this death-like stillness.

Another seizure shook him as I hurtled out of the SUV. I sprinted past the ambulance bay. Eerie white light lit everything. Oh god, thank god, thank god for this place. I realized I was praying as I ran. God, don't take him! God, please, he's mine!

I burst into the ER.

I must have said the right words, explained things right. All I could hear was my fear grinding and screaming. My heart was in the car with Matt.

I led the paramedics outside and watched as they dragged him onto a stretcher. His beautiful body was lifeless. Then he started to seize.

Strangers surrounded the stretcher. I tried to get to Matt. They ran the stretcher into the hospital and I rushed after them. I collided with a nurse.

"My boyfriend!" I shrieked, reaching after him. My boyfriend?

"Hun, listen to me." The nurse held my shoulders. No way could I get past this lady; she was solid and Germanic. "We need you here right now. What's your name?"

"Hannah. Hannah Catalano."

I glanced around for the first time. An old man and a younger couple sat in the lobby. All three pairs of eyes were on me.

"Okay hun, what's your boyfriend's name? Did he bring ID?" The nurse led me behind the front desk. Right, this was the desk clerk. I'd just seen her, and I nearly climbed over her desk screaming about Matt.

I dropped into a bony aluminum chair and hugged myself. Matt, oh god, Matt.

For the next fifteen minutes, I fielded questions and filled out paperwork, half of which I couldn't complete. Every other question was a reminder of how little I knew about Matt.

At least I wasn't bawling. Fear and hollow dread held back my tears.

"What are they doing? Can they stop the seizures? Is—"

The nurse rebuffed my questions with more of her own.

"He's very dehydrated. Do you know how long he's been drinking? How many times has he detoxed in the past?"

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!

Detoxed in the past...

I remembered the way Matt's hand shook when I made him pour out his last bottle. I wanted to scream. He knew this would happen, didn't he? He'd been down this road before, probably more than once.

Around six, the nurse released me.

"I'll call you in as soon as he's stable," she promised.

I shambled into the lobby.

People came and went. The fluorescent lights hummed steadily.

I Googled alcohol withdrawal on my phone and skimmed the results.

Life-threatening condition.

Drinking heavily for weeks.

Agitation, seizure, delirium tremens... can be fatal.

When I held Matt last night and he came into my hand—was it the last time? And if I lost him now, how was I supposed to live?