She’d been his, once, and she’d give anything to have him back. Hannah dug the bottom edge of her palms into her eyes, thinking if she just pressed hard enough, somehow it wouldn’t hurt so much.
Finally, she opened her eyes again and pushed the paper aside, but not before her eye caught the sidebar to the right: LT. GOVERNOR ELECT KINGSLEY GIROUX STEPS DOWN. Hannah’s body folded over the table, her throbbing, tired head resting like dead weight on her forearms; suddenly, it was all too heavy to hold up.
Hannah fell further into hopelessness after that, sleeping mostly during the day and waking up for long stretches at night—always after a dream about Deacon. Unable to fall back to sleep, she’d sit on top of her bed, holding her knees to her chest, and listen to the world outside her window—the occasional car whizzing down the street with the radio blasting, trees being pushed around by the wind, and the nightly feral cat brawl—still pretending that he was coming for her.
Trays of food began to show up on her dresser as she lost track of time altogether. The sound of the doorbell would remind her when it was daytime again. Once she heard Peter trying to make conversation with her dad. He left her a book to read.
One afternoon, she awoke to someone sitting near the foot of her bed. She opened her eyes, thinking her mother had come home.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing. I’m sorry for what happened.” On cue, Taylor began to cry like one of those soap opera actresses Hannah had been watching recently. “If I’d known what Toby was going to do, I would have stopped him, told somebody. Guess I didn’t know him at all.”
Hannah sat up. The girl pressed her lips together, eyeing Hannah’s bedhead, and waited for Hannah to respond. She seemed genuinely sad as she cried, but there was something irritating about her movements. It was the way she held her stomach, consciously rubbing it to get Hannah’s attention.
“Taylor?”
“Yeah.”
“You really are pregnant, aren’t you?”
“Afraid so. Six months,” she said, perking up.
“Oh my God, what are you going to do?”
“What is there to do? Have it. Give it up for adoption. Pretend it never happened. My mother can’t even look at me.”
“How long were you with Toby?”
“Oh, it’s not Toby’s. Some guy I met eons ago. Summer fling, you know? I just said that it was Toby’s. I had no idea he’d go ape-shit and threaten Deacon for the abortion money.” She sniffed. “From what I heard, Mr. Giroux didn’t even know that Toby had changed schools. He was still paying his mother for that private boys school up north,” she said, suddenly quite dry-eyed and matter-of-fact.
“Why did you let Toby think it was his?” Hannah asked, feeling the blood course up her neck and into her temples.
Taylor looked at Hannah like she’d just said something stupid. “Toby fell so hard for me, so quickly and everything, that I knew he’d do anything I asked . . . ”
Hannah closed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists, her nails cutting her skin. She wanted to lose it on Taylor so badly she could taste it. For now, the balled-up covers she was strangling would have to do.
“Just go,” she said calmly.
She waited for her bedroom door to close before rolling over and releasing everything she had into her pillow. Her screams somersaulted into cursing sobs, aimed at those stupid, stupid girls, the same ones she’d once thought were so important—starting with evil Gillian, who’d wanted her forever silenced, and ending with Taylor, the selfish bitch who didn’t have a clue what she had done, who was too thick and self-absorbed to ever get it.
She rolled onto her back, resting her hands behind her head, feeling spent and tired of it all. She stared at her bedroom ceiling, counting the cracks and thinking she’d like to change the color of her room. Just a bunch of doofuses.
She got up and took a shower.
CHAPTER 44
HANNAH PULLED THE PHONE INTO HER ROOM, CLOSING her door. At the sound of his voice, her nervousness almost made her hang up. Instead, she let go of her stuffed hippo and decided to go for it.
“Peter? Hi.” Her brain suddenly blanked; she looked to her Christopher Atkins poster on the wall for help. “Ah, so . . . I-I just wanted to thank you . . . for saving my life,” she finally managed in a small voice that didn’t sound like hers. She cleared her throat. What am I doing? She’d been thinking about Peter, wondering how he was after that night. She’d lost track of him after he tackled Toby. They both could have been killed, and she’d been the one to drag him into it. She twisted the phone cord through her fingers, walking in circles around her room.
“So, about everything . . . if you hadn’t been there . . . I wouldn’t be . . .”
“Hannah, I didn’t save you.”
“What?”
“I didn’t do anything. You saved yourself.”
“I don’t . . .” She could hear Peter exhaling into the phone and wished she could see his face.
“When Toby turned the gun on you, Deacon was still moving on the ground, but Toby wouldn’t let you go to him, remember?” Hannah felt like she was watching a movie as she sat down on the edge of her bed and listened as Peter retold the nightmare. As he did, it all flooded back—including the words she’d used to subdue Toby, distracting him, before she pulled the gun from his hands. She had been the one to sail it into the lake. Not Peter.
“’Bout the time your father got there, those two guys, who said they were cops, showed up in that white car and took Deacon away. Before the ambulance arrived. It was weird,” Peter said.
Hannah nodded, barely remembering their faces. The details from that horrific night she’d unconsciously buried. Now it felt like it had happened to someone else.
They ended up staying on the phone for a while. Peter was so easy to talk to, and it felt good to release some of her guilt from that night. His perspective filled in the holes for her and lessened the nagging anxiety she’d been feeling that she could have done more to prevent Deacon’s death. Patiently, he rehashed all the details of that night with her over and over again, and for that she was grateful. With him, she never needed to explain.
Hannah caught her reflection in her movie star mirror and watched herself twirling her hair while on the phone with a boy—her friend. “Want to come over and watch a movie later?” she asked on a whim, surprising herself.
She smiled as she hung up and rose to get dressed.
Hannah spent the following weeks reading in her room from a growing stack of books supplied by Peter. She didn’t know why he kept loaning her books, but she was glad for it. She found solace in writing in her diary and listening to music, too—mostly to avoid doing homework, even though she was finding school easy again.
It hadn’t taken as long as she’d thought it would for the whispers and stares to die down at school. She had winter break to thank for that. Pretty soon after the semester started, it seemed, the entire student body was off concerning itself with the latest big high school drama.
Sometimes the sadness would creep back into her heart without warning; the radio would play one of their songs, and the jagged pain of him being gone would dive right back into her chest. When she just needed to remember Deacon, to feel him again, she’d pull out from underneath her bed a purple shoebox. She’d written their initials, H and D, on it, and dubbed it her “HAD” box. Inside were mementos of the darkly romantic, undeniably sexy boy she would always love, including the dried white rose he’d given her after their first fight, the only note he’d ever written her—the one warning about Gillian’s trap for her in the park—the newspaper article about his death, and the small pink polka-dotted diary with a heart-shaped lock in which she had recorded their brief three months together.
Flipping through the pages, Hannah could decipher her mood immediately by her handwriting, from blissfully happy to crying her eyes out. The later entries were the most erratic, filled with mounting angst and worry, always worry. She seemed constant
ly at odds with herself, questioning his genuineness and her insecurities about why he was with her. Thankfully, she didn’t feel like that girl now.
The more Deacon had dealt, especially when it came to the heavier stuff he’d started bringing back from the city toward the end, the more distant he had become. It hadn’t mattered what they felt for one another; the drugs had always come first. Like the day she found them: several plastic sandwich bags brimming with small, jagged rocks, off-white in color, stashed in the back of her bottom dresser drawer. They’d spoken volumes as she flushed them, one by one, down the toilet.
But still at night she dreamed of Deacon. Beyond her overwhelming sense of loss, there was an intense love and gratitude surrounding her memories of him. Deacon was the one who had changed everything. Good and bad, wild and tortured, he had given her real beauty, the beauty she couldn’t see in herself. I like you like this.
And maybe, just maybe, she’d given him the peace he sought as well. How he’d longed for his parents’ attention and love. Just like Hannah. Perhaps in their short time together, she had given him what he’d craved: love and understanding from someone who was as broken and desperate inside as he was—just as tortured by obsessions and compulsions it seemed no one else would understand.
She knew that beneath his outward beauty had lived a trapped, caring boy with a longing, dark heart. Inside the black armor of his don’t-mess-with-me clothing and ultra-cool persona had lived someone wanting to be loved—just like her. He hadn’t seen her acne and lame hair. Instead, he’d looked into her eyes and kissed her soul.
“I loved you at your darkest,” she whispered.
EPILOGUE
AS A KID—PRIOR TO HIS PARENTS’ SEPARATION, BEFORE HIS world bottomed out—Deacon used to watch in rapt fascination as his father cleaned and hand-polished his prized gun collection. His mother would be off somewhere, her obsessive-compulsive energy temporarily removed from the house for a few hours, granting the two of them a shared solitude that was magical.
His father would softly whistle over the classical music playing low in the room while he lined up each gun case across his massive desk under the glow of the green bankers lamp. Deacon was allowed to open the cases one by one, each with a unique locking mechanism that made him feel important and smart. He’d take a step back after the last one, hold his breath, and watch his father survey his “babies” while he listened to the logs pop in the fireplace.
His father told colorful stories, each one larger than the last, revealing the natural southern drawl that he hid from the public as he spoke. Affectionately, he referred to each rifle or pistol as “her” and “she.” Some had been passed down in his family from Civil War days. The small, shiny, modern one was usually left out of the case and tucked in the top drawer of his father’s desk. Deacon was never allowed to touch it or be in the study without his father. But he never listened.
At fourteen, when Deacon returned to live with Kingsley, he’d found the drawer unlocked. He’d rarely touched the small pistol, however; the mystique of it had faded by then, along with everything else from his early childhood days. The Friday of the shooting, he wanted to take it with him on his city run, since he wasn’t going to risk the “Barbie and Ken” shield after last time’s near disaster with Jade. But he found the drawer empty.
He never made it into the city; instead, he found Jade outside his house that morning, too strung out to stand, and immediately he knew that something was happening; he could feel it. He forced her to talk, and soon she was relaying Gillian’s whole plan—babbling about how it involved Toby, and revealing its ultimate target, his one weakness. Hannah.
God, how he loved the way she looked that night with her wild hair lit up under the park lights, her face still incredibly loving. She must care or she wouldn’t have shown, he thought when he saw her. He was so sure that he had it all under control. Toby was a joke. He could take care of everything, and then Hannah wouldn’t have to worry. He’d prove himself to her. Prove his love. But he hadn’t seen the gun coming. How the hell did Toby get their father’s gun?
A clean hit, one doctor said.
Lucky, the other one told him.
Do this, and we won’t go after the girl, those cops said standing over his hospital bed, somewhere outside of town.
He could see her now when he closed his eyes, feel her presence as he walked up the path to his old dorm under the humming of the street lamps. “Soon,” he whispered into the night air. The thought of her was the one thing sustaining him. She’s still in love; I can feel it.
The door opened before he had a chance to knock. “D . . . good to see you, been a long time, man.”
“Thomas.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my early readers, diehard believers, and fearless cheerleaders, especially Caitlin McCarthy, Lauren Longwell, Linda Lowe, Kristen McManus, Shelbi Brennan, and Isla Brennan.
For Isabelle Herbrich, Robin Coyle, Laura Emmert, Patty Skahill, Sarah Stites, and Beth Foster, who knew me when and still love me today.
For Mom, Dad, Tommy, Andy, and Danny, who raised me well. And to the Cumiskey-Pulaski-AlFerranto clan, who welcomed me into their loving fold and gave me wings.
I’m blessed beyond words for my dearest New York, Colorado, and North Carolina friends and family who love me just the way I am and encouraged me to finally do this! You all know who you are, but text me if you don’t.
For my Wit, Wine & Wisdom sisters, who make me braver every day.
To my generous teacher and mentor at Gotham Writers, Julie Chibbaro, who ignited the match that became I Like You Like This. And to those who made the fire burn brighter, especially the gifted Jaime Karnes and my fellow Gotham classmates.
To my amazing publisher, Brooke Warner, project manager, Cait Levin, and all my She Writes Press sisters, especially Dorit Sasson, Susan Hadler, Nicole Waggoner, and Anna Gatmon, who guided me along the way.
For my fearless editors, Krissa Lagos and Megan Rynott, whose kind insight helped craft the story of Hannah and Deacon into a better one.
A big shout-out to my wondrous publicity team at Book-Sparks, especially Crystal Patriarche and Morgan Rath. To Maggie Ruf at SparkPoint Studio for a beautiful website. And to Kristin Bustamante at BookSparks for her fabulous graphics.
Thank you to Julie Metz at She Writes Press for the lovely cover, and to my niece, Beth Pulaski, for the wonderful profile picture.
I’m grateful for the unwavering support from my favorite guys: Mac, Finn, and Fletcher.
Finally, for Mark, my biggest supporter and hero and the one who holds my hand through everything. In the crook of your arm is where I belong. Always.
About the Author
Heather Cumiskey is a freelance writer and editor. She studied English at State University of New York at Albany. I Like You Like This is her debut novel. She resides in Maryland with her husband and three sons.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere.
Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
How to Grow an Addict by J.A. Wright. $16.95, 978-1-63152-991-7. Raised by an abusive father, a detached mother, and a loving aunt and uncle, Randall Grange is built for addiction. By twenty-three, she knows that together, pills and booze have the power to cure just about any problem she could possibly have . . . right.
Beautiful Garbage by Jill DiDonato. $16.95, 978-1-938314-01-8. Talented but troubled young artist Jodi Plum leaves suburbia for the excitement of the city—and is soon swept up in the sexual politics and downtown art scene of 1980s New York.
Cleans Up Nicely by Linda Dahl. $16.95, 978-1-938314-38-4. The story of one gifted young woman’s path from self-destruction to self-knowledge, set in mid-1970s Manhattan.
Keep Her by Leora Krygier. $16.95, 978-1-63152-143-0. When a water main bursts in rain-starved Los Angeles, seventeen-year-old artist Maddie and filmmaker Aiden’s worlds coll
ide in a whirlpool of love and loss. Is it meant to be?
The Rooms Are Filled by Jessica Null Vealitzek. $16.95, 978-1-938314-58-2. The coming-of-age story of two outcasts—a nine-year-old boy who just lost his father, and a closeted young woman—brought together by circumstance.
An Address in Amsterdam by Mary Dingee Fillmore. $16.95, 978-1-63152-133-1. After facing relentless danger and escalating raids for 18 months, Rachel Klein—a well-behaved young Jewish woman who transformed herself into a courier for the underground when the Nazis invaded her country—persuades her parents to hide with her in a dank basement, where much is revealed.
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