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Toward the end of the second week I started taking my notebook with me everywhere. Jotting down sentence fragments and writing prompts — anything and everything that sounded catchy or good. This resulted in some really kickass openings. Some high-level brainstorming that had me sneaking off to jot things down, whenever I was around the guys and inspiration happened to strike.
It was the following Tuesday that I woke up exhausted, rubbing my eyes. I reached for Adam or Dante first, having been in each of their beds the night before. Realizing I was in my apartment alone, I reached for my notebook instead.
Only my notebook wasn’t there.
I bolted upright. The details of last night were fuzzy, but slowly they came back. Dinner with the guys, then back to their apartment where I became the dessert. That part was especially fun. And yet…
I also remembered waking after midnight and slipping out. Riding the elevator down to the street, with the intentions of going home and finally getting a good night’s sleep in my own bed.
And here I was. Only my notebook… wasn’t.
Shit.
Frantically I tried to remember where I’d had it last. Mind racing, heart pounding, I started tearing my desk apart. I checked the kitchen. The living room. The bedroom again.
Then I heard it: the buzzing of an alert on my phone.
I picked it up and thumbed the button. There was a text-message there, from Adam. Actually two text-messages, one right after the other.
Call us. We need to talk.
Those six little words caused a lump to form in my throat. But it was the second message that instantly turned all of the blood in my veins to ice.
“Hannah.”
Twenty-Seven
“HANNAH”
I slumped glumly through the door of The Dirty Bean this time, feeling shaky and nervous. A far cry from the cool confidence of two weeks ago, when I’d come here last.
The guys all sat in the same spot as before, around the same little table. Only instead of laughing and talking and looking downright happy, they appeared almost as miserable I was.
“Hi.”
Not one of them said a word in response, at least at first. I sat down, taking the same seat as last time. Adam was staring at the floor, Trey at the ceiling. Dante was the only one actually drinking coffee. Eventually he pushed something across the table, in my direction.
“Here’s your book.”
I stared down at the marbled notebook like it were an alien life-form. For so many weeks, it had been all-important. Right now it was the last thing in the world I wanted.
“We found it in our bathroom,” said Adam. His voice was low and full of sorrow. “You must’ve…”
“Left it there by accident,” I acknowledged. “I know.”
The three of them shifted uncomfortably, each waiting for the other to start. I could only sit there, hands folded. Awaiting the barrage of questions I knew would eventually come.
In a way, that part was the most ironic of all.
“So who are you really?” Trey finally asked. “What’s your actual name?”
It hurt, to hear him put it that way. But what hurt even more was the look of pain and disappointment in his eyes.
“Brooke,” I said dejectedly. “My name is Brooke Ruland.”
“So ‘Hannah’ was bullshit,” Dante sneered.
I took my lumps. Slowly, I shrugged one sad shoulder.
