“See, that’s what I’ve been saying my whole life, but no-one listens.”
“Moving on,” Hannah said firmly. “I have decided to inform you that I suffer from depression, and if that fazes you in any way, we should likely end this discussion here.”
Nate blinked. Finally, she’d managed to get that irritatingly slow, annoyingly sexy grin off his face. That was Hannah; an expert in wiping away smiles.
She held her breath and distracted herself from the mounting tension by examining the iridescent rainbow of her own feelings. Each shining shade represented an odd and usually inappropriate emotion.
Hannah’s emotions, she had come to accept, were often inappropriate.
There was, of course, worry, a bilious green. Her lifelong companion and greatest annoyance, the one feeling that would never, ever leave. Worry was a bitch, but it was a bitch that Hannah knew well.
Next in the rainbow came puce, preemptive relief. Hannah realised with a jolt that part of her was hoping Nate would stop things here. That he’d count her out because she was, as people loved to put it, mentally unstable. That he’d think unbelievably common blips in brain chemistry made her some kind of separate species, and would therefore keep her away from his kids.
Hannah’s depression had started when she was just a kid herself. She wondered how many parents without mental health experiences of their own thought to watch out for warning signs in their children. Hannah would watch, of course. And she would know. But people didn’t tend to care about things like that.
Her next emotion, vivid scarlet, was resentment. Resentment that she felt the need to even disclose this information; resentment that it could bar her from a job she knew herself capable of, a job she’d always excelled at, a job she suddenly realised she really fucking wanted.
Beside resentment was bright orange rage, mostly directed at herself, because all of Ravenswood had called her crazy after she was arrested, but Hannah had been the one who’d publicly snapped in a fit of irritation that yes, she was crazy, had been for a while, and didn’t give a shit.
She’d been younger then, in more ways than one.
There was self-doubt, pale and pink and private like the inside of a stranger’s mouth. You shouldn’t have said anything. There’s a difference between refusing to feel shame and setting yourself up for a fall.
She was used to ignoring self-doubt. It was rather prejudiced, and a bit of a bore. If she held an emotional tea party, self-doubt would eat all the scones and call Hannah fat if she complained.
Finally, she found a familiar grey shade in her colour wheel. Disappointment. Because, during a youthful and hopeful and effervescent time in Hannah’s life, Nate Davis had been the epitome of freedom to her. She had cradled a Nate-flavoured fantasy to her chest, a sweet, golden spark. She’d pulled it out when the other kids had mocked her and excluded her and ignored her, and she’d pulled it out when her moods had been low and her mind not her own and she’d known something was wrong with her but hadn’t known what.
When her own ephemeral confidence had failed her, she’d always bolstered herself by thinking, Nate wouldn’t care what people thought of him. Nate wouldn’t care about any of this. Nate doesn’t follow all the rules that you feel chained to obey.
And now here was Nate, proving that past, innocent version of Hannah wrong. Because he was looking at her so strangely, and he was so very silent, and now he opened his mouth to say…
“That was pretty fucking brave.”
Hannah barely choked down a baffled, What? Clamping her back teeth together, she settled on an astonished stare.
“But also, none of my business.”
She stared harder.
Nate stared back for a moment, as if they’d engaged in some kind of staring competition. Then he said, “You okay?”
Absolutely not. How dare you be so very relaxed while I study emotional rainbows in my head? How dare you pull the rug of expectation from under my feet with this complete lack of drama? How fucking dare you?
“Yes,” Hannah said. She might have the most mortifying habit of speaking her mind—which, incidentally, she blamed on Ruth’s corrupting influence—but even she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Most of the time. Sort of. Occasionally.
“Cool. Anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Oh, great. She’d had a vague idea that the conversation would stop here, to be honest. She hadn’t planned the rest of her grand reveal. And her heart might just give out if he produced any more of those long, dramatic, thoughtful pauses in response to her colourful confessions.
Hannah cleared her throat and blurted, “I used to be a nursery nurse.”
“So I hear.”
“But I’m not anymore.”
“So I hear.”
She shoved a stray braid out of her face and gritted out, “I am legally prohibited from my former occupation.”
“Are you trying to confuse me with big words?”
“No.”
“Because I’m a lot smarter than I was back at school.”
“…Okay?”
“I mean, I’ve read a thesaurus or two.” He raised his hands. “I’m not trying to brag. I’m just saying.”
“Are you… attempting to make me laugh?”
He gave her a crooked little smile, and that bloody dimple made an appearance. “Maybe. What is it people say? ‘God loves a trier?’”
She stared, thoroughly baffled. “You do understand what I’m telling you, correct?”
“I think so.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the silky strands off his forehead. She had no idea why, because it was an utter mess that she couldn’t see being tamed any time soon.
And she did not find that mess beguiling in the slightest. Hannah liked tidy men. Tidy, sensible men who did not have random swallows tattooed on their hands.
Nate tapped his long, blunt fingers against his glass and said, “You…. tried to kidnap North West?”
She stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know. Kanye’s—”
“I know who North West is. How would I ever come close to kidnapping North West?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I truly believe you could do anything you put your mind to. Including flying to the U.S. with the intention to liberate Kim Kardashian’s million-dollar child.”
“Why would I possibly want to—?” Hannah shook her head sharply. “I have no idea why I’m going along with this. You’re being ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I have a criminal record—”
“I know.”
“Which includes—” she broke off, her brain catching up with her mouth. “You… know?”
“I know you fucked up Daniel Burne’s Porsche.” He wrinkled his nose. “I always hated that guy.”
Hannah stared. “You know.”
“Obviously I know. Just because I left Ravenswood, doesn’t mean I was spared constant gossip via regular phone calls home.”
“Your mother told you?” she squeaked, mortified.
He smirked. “Ma doesn’t gossip. Zach told me.”
Oh, Zach. She was so going to enjoy strangling him, when next they spoke.
“So, just to be clear,” she said slowly, “you are not concerned by my numerous criminal convictions.”
“Nah. I’m used to having a convicted criminal in the house.”
“You… are?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in close, his expression conspiratorial, and she couldn’t help it—she leaned in too. Then he whispered, “It’s me.” And smiled.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Hannah sat back with a huff. “You don’t count.”
“I don’t?”
“No! You know that you’re trustworthy, because you’re you!”
“You think I’m trustworthy?”
“It doesn’t matter if I think you’re trustworthy—”
“It does,” he interrupted. “It absolutely matters. If you took this job, Hannah, we’d be living together.
You have to watch your own back, too, you know.”
She was, for a moment, rendered speechless. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. “Alright. That’s… I suppose that’s true.”
He nodded, raising his drink to his lips. Hannah was embarrassingly distracted by the bob of his throat and the press of his mouth against glass. She wondered how strange it would seem if she closed her eyes, just to escape that hypnotic sight.
Quite strange, probably.
He finished drinking and said, “So, do you want to know what I did?”
As if she didn’t know already. “You were charged with affray and grievous bodily harm on two separate occasions after taking part in supposedly non-violent protests.”
He faltered. “You… appear to have memorised my criminal record.”
“Memorised is a strong word. I heard about it. Once.” Briskly, Hannah turned away from his open astonishment and picked up the planner on the booth seat beside her. She slapped it onto the table with a little thud and opened it up. “Anyway! Now that we’ve gotten the necessary disclosure out of the way—”
“What the bloody hell is that?” He stared at her lovely teal planner as if she’d just shat on the table.
“It’s my planner,” she said, even though that should be pretty obvious. The word PLANNER was imprinted onto the leather front cover. Honestly, people were so unobservant.
“Why is it so… huge?”
“Could we focus on the matter at hand?” It belatedly occurred to her that this was actually a job interview and she should be on her best behaviour. You know, polite and meek and subordinate, and all the other things she wasn’t.
But it was far too late now. Somehow—maybe because he was friendly like Evan or charming like Zach or blunt like Ruth—she’d accidentally started being herself around Nate Davis. Of course, Hannah’s self was generally far too abrasive to forget. And since she couldn’t erase the last ten minutes, she’d just have to forge ahead and wow him with the many meaningful pieces of paper she’d collected in her life.
“This,” she said, pulling out a crisp white sheet, “is my C.V. References are available on request. And this is a letter from a family I babysit for occasionally…” She laid it on the table in front of him. “I find the third paragraph especially helpful. Now, over here I have all of my qualifications—”
Nate held up a hand, using his other to turn over her C.V. “Uh… hang on. If you want me to read all of this, it’ll take me a while. And I’ll need digital copies.”
“You will?”
He glanced up. “Oh, yeah. Turns out I’m dyslexic. Hey, since I’m back in town, I should hunt down Mr. Meyers and tell him I’m not an idiot, but he is a raging dick.”
“Mr. Meyers died three years ago,” Hannah said automatically. Retaining and relaying information was a lot easier than grappling with emotional responses.
“Hmm. Does he have a gravestone I can piss on, or anything?”
She really shouldn’t laugh at such awful disrespect. She absolutely should not. But since their old Geography teacher had gained all his life’s happiness through bullying the children he taught, she allowed herself a tiny snicker.
Which made Nate’s wicked grin spread wider. And now that shallow dimple was visible again, barely hidden by his stubble, and she was getting heart-pounding, sense-stealing Year Ten flashbacks. Abort mission.
“I can definitely email these,” she said briskly, sliding out a few more pages. “I mean, I can scan them, and—”
“Christ, don’t bother scanning shit. Honestly, I’m not gonna read it.”
She blinked. “Um… I could… read it for you?”
“I can read, love.” Oh, God. Now he’d think she’d said that because he was dyslexic, rather than because she was a try-hard weirdo. Only he didn’t seem particularly offended. Especially not when he said, “It’s just, I’m 99% sure that I’m going to hire you.”
For a moment, Hannah’s jaw actually dropped. How mortifying. She clamped it shut before anything untoward could sneak out, like an embarrassing flood of gratitude or a comment about his biceps.
Finally, she managed to croak out, “You are?”
“Yeah. I mean, you should probably meet the kids again, just to make sure you all get along okay. I don’t know if you noticed the other day, but they’re kind of…”
“Energetic,” she supplied smoothly.
His mouth tipped up into a slow, wry smile. “Yeah. That.”
She knew very well that he actually wanted to see her interact with them. While she’d known Nate and his family for years, in a small town sort of way, they were technically almost strangers. People didn’t take chances with their children. And she appreciated the caution. “I thought they seemed lovely, and I’m happy to meet them again.”
He nodded. “Cool. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re not busy. I don’t want to rush you.”
“But things are time-sensitive,” she said. “Tomorrow is fine.”
He smiled, and she thought she spied a little relief on that annoyingly handsome face. But it came and went so quickly, it might as well have been a mirage. “Cool. I do have a question for you, though.”
Her heart, which had been feeling remarkably light, for once, fell. He looked very serious all of a sudden. “Oh. Okay. Well… go for it.” Please don’t. Please give me the job and leave me be and never question me about anything ever. I know that may sound unreasonable, but I think you’ll get used to it over time.
“I already knew you fucked up Daniel’s car,” he said, “but what I don’t know is why.” His eyes were steady on hers, and they almost seemed soft. Gentle. But that was probably some sort of illusion. “Would you tell me?” he asked. Which was a bit of a plot twist. He had her in the palm of his hand, after all. He’d dangled a job in front of her before asking this. He could’ve just demanded an answer.
Hannah should be suspicious of his motives. She should see his careful phrasing as a front, a sly attempt to seem friendly while tearing open barely-healed wounds. But she was used to hunting out that vicious gleam in peoples’ eyes. Sometimes, she was so eager to see it, she might even imagine a glint that wasn’t there. So if there had been a hint of cruelty around Nate right now, she would’ve seen it. She would’ve.
She didn’t.
All she saw was an irritatingly attractive—but otherwise perfectly reasonable—man watching her with the same sweet reassurance he’d watched his kids with just a couple of a days ago.
So she answered. For the first time ever, actually. She answered.
“He hurt my sister,” she said slowly. “I think everyone knows that, now. He hurt my sister, and I was angry. But I reacted the way I did—so recklessly—because I was angry at myself, too. He hurt her, and I didn’t even notice. Years, he was fucking with her head. And in the end, she had to tell me. But what if she hadn’t? What if she couldn’t bring herself to say it? What if she’d…”
Nate reached across the table and took Hannah’s hand, just as her voice wavered. She looked down sharply, and the sight of someone touching her—touching her like that, to give comfort—was so strange, she almost felt… dizzy? But that couldn’t be right. She was getting overemotional again. What was going on with her right now? She could barely bring herself to look at Nate, she was suddenly so embarrassed—but she couldn’t let him know that, so she looked up anyway, her expression as blank as she could make it.
She certainly wasn’t ready for the look on his face. For the way his dark brows were drawn together, for the worry in his eyes or the kindness in his voice when he said quietly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have asked. I didn’t know.”
Hannah gave a tight shrug and pulled her hand away, mostly because she still felt dizzy. Maybe it was a blood sugar thing. She took another sip of lemonade, and a moment of silence passed.
Then Nate leaned back, his posture casual, arms resting on the back of the booth in that way men had—always taking up space. Usually, it irritated her. But
right now, the way his T-shirt stretched across his broad chest was distracting her from annoyance.
“You know,” he said, his tone lighter, “you haven’t asked about pay yet.”
“Oh. Well.” Hannah cleared her throat and pulled herself together. “I require the equivalent of at least nine pounds an hour. Which is quite reasonable, I think. And you seem a reasonable sort.”
He barked out a laugh. “Ah, I see. So, you tell me what I’m paying?”
“Evidently. Can you manage it?”
Nate pretended to think for a moment, cocking his head dramatically. Finally, though, he said, “Sure. I can manage that. Might even throw in some benefits.”
And that was the moment Hannah realised she was a terrible, wicked, and ungodly woman. Because when he said benefits, she thought of something other than the friendly joke he’d probably intended. Something deliciously inappropriate and alarmingly appealing.
This did not bode well.
Dreaming, for Hannah, was a little bit like being drunk. In both states, she felt removed from herself—but not in a negative way, not like disassociating. It was lighter, a giddy, reckless experience that usually felt delicious. The cautious voices that typically tied her up in knots disappeared, sucked away like cobwebs through a vacuum cleaner. Hannah’s experience of drunkenness and dreaming were enough to convince her that she didn’t have only a single self. Maybe no-one did. Certain basics of identity might remain the same, but people could change significantly depending on their circumstances.
For example, Sober Hannah would rather die than let some random girl give her head in a club bathroom, because 1. germs and 2. germs and 3. dignity and 4. germs. But Drunk Hannah had happily let precisely that scenario come to pass on a hazy summer night in 2009, and had been rewarded for it with a rare orgasm. She hadn’t thought about the prevalence of the herpes virus or the amount of faecal matter in the average toilet cubicle, not even once. And she’d been rewarded with the best sex of her life, while her sober encounters tended to result in awkward disappointment and general disillusionment, no matter what she did.
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