Sharing Hannah

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Adam leapt in.

“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, yes and no. Yes, I made the name up. But no, the whole thing was never bullshit.”

“What whole thing?” spat Trey. “The part where you made up a fake profile in order to meet us? Or the part where you actually dated us just to fill your notebook with research for some… story?”

My stomach twisted sourly. God, it all sounded so horrible! Especially when it was laid totally bare like that.

“You are writing a story, aren’t you?”

It was all I could do to choke back tears. But I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

“Yes.”

Dante crossed his arms and shook his head. Trey swore, mightily.

“But why Hannah?” asked Adam. His face twisted into a frown almost immediately. “I mean… Brooke.”

He said my name with such acid disdain. Like it was poison in his mouth.

“I mean, are you writing a novel? Was this whole thing nothing more than—”

“An article. For a magazine.”

They kept stopping to glance at each other, while shaking their heads. It was like they couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

“It was never meant to be this way,” I pleaded. “I… I had an assignment, and I was looking to find someone who—”

“Did you already write this article?” Trey asked.

For a moment I froze. I couldn’t lie.

“Partially.”

“Then let’s see it.”

All three of them sat up a little straighter. I thought again about lying, about telling them the rough draft was at home, on my computer. But there was a voice in the back of my mind. A new voice.

A voice that was telling me the time for lying was over

.

Instead I pulled out my phone and punched a series of buttons. It took a few moments, but eventually I called up the same email draft I’d sent to Chloe.

“It’s… not finished,” I said defensively. “This was only a rough—”

Trey stopped me again, this time by holding up one finger. He began reading. The others moved in on either side of him, so they could read too.

Oh my God…

I felt like shit. Utter shit. The biggest piece of shit on the entire fucking planet. For the next three minutes I could do nothing but sit there quietly as they read my story, which was really their story, all told through the perspective of “Hannah.” A girl who, up until a couple of hours ago, they shared time with. Played with. Laughed with.

Maybe even loved.

You’re such an asshole, Brooke.

It was Trey who looked up first. His gaze was more incredulous than accusatory, and somehow that made me feel even worse.