Page 61 of Just My Type
I throw my head back and laugh. “No fucking way. You’re writing us into a book?”
“Okay, well, I’m maybe, kind of, writing a story that bears some similarity to our accidentally getting drunk and married in Vegas situation.” She shrugs. “Write what you know, right?”
“Fuck yes, write what you know. I’m going to be in one of Hannah Evans’ books! This is the best day of my life.”
“Okay but seriously, what’s the deal with you and my books? You’re, like, obsessed or something.”
I’m still not quite ready to talk about that, so I just flash her a grin. “Just obsessed with you, Gorgeous. I have the best wife in the whole entire world.”
She eyes me like she is entirely over my bullshit, and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I love it. “Do you think you’ll finally stop calling me your wife when we’re not married anymore?”
I just barely resist the urge to wince, the thought of no longer being married to her causing an actual, physical ache in my chest, and keep my voice light when I answer her. “No idea, but at the moment, you are my wife, and I love saying it.”
“You love everything. At some point you’re going to slip and say it in front of the wrong person and then everyone will know.”
“Would that be so bad? They all know we got drunk and did showtunes karaoke, and they also know that we’re…” I trail off, not sure exactly what to call us.
“Something,” Hannah says quietly. “We’re something.”
I reach over and take her hand again, not totally satisfied with that answer, but also not entirely disappointed because something is better than nothing. “We’re definitely something. Anyway, we could just explain that we fucked up and accidentally got married. I think my family would think it’s funny. Jo definitely would.”
Hannah leans back in her chair, tilting her face up to the sun and letting out a sigh. “I know you’re right. I don’t know why I want to keep it a secret. I just do.”
“Then that’s enough,” I say simply. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Just like that?” she asks.
I nod, squeezing her hand. “Yep. Just like that.”
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Hannah whispers, rolling her head to look at me, her eyes flashing with emotion.
“All you ever had to do was be yourself.” We stare at each other for a long moment, time stretching, that familiarelectricity building between us, drawing us closer and closer together, as if the universe understands that we are never meant to be too far apart. The ding of Hannah’s phone shocks us out of our trance.
She reaches for it, fumbling it briefly before righting it and unlocking the screen. I see the change in her immediately. The way her shoulders rocket up to her ears. The tight clench of her jaw. The sharp intake of breath.
I reach over and lay my hand on her leg, tapping my thumb three times. Hannah covers my hand with the hand not holding her phone and taps twice, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly before handing me her phone. I glance at the screen and curse under my breath.
Brett
I’m starting to lose my patience, Hannah. Come the fuck home where you belong. You’re nothing without me. It’s about damn time you realized that.
“Hannah, what the fuck is this?”
“Just Brett’s daily text.”
I grip her phone so tightly I’m shocked the screen doesn’t shatter. “He says shit like this to you every day?”
Hannah attempts to look casual, but I can see the pain in her eyes, mixed with fury. An incandescent, slow burn rage. The type that this asshole deserves. “Scroll up. You’ll see.”
I do what she says, too angry to appreciate the fact that she’s letting me into this corner of her life. One I know she hasn’t opened up to anyone else. My eyes scan the screen, taking in Brett’s texts, stretching back months. Little phrases here and there jumping out at me. Things like,you’re nothing, andyou belong to me, andsilly little girl. And a memory hits me out of nowhere. Looking up, I lock eyes with Hannah.
“You hear his voice in your head. When you’re writing.”
She looks surprised, her hand tightening over mine. “How do you know that?”
I flip my hand over, lacing our fingers together. “You told me the night we got drunk and married. At the karaoke bar. You said every time you sat down to write, you heard his voice and then you couldn’t write a word.”
“God, drunk me really did let it all hang out.”
