The Morning After
“Which bra is your spirit animal?” Mona Vanderwaal’s voice is asking, at the moment when Hanna begins to stir the next morning. “Red Lace, Black Leather, or Plain White?”
Hanna opens her eyes and blinks, taking in the fluorescent lighting, the scratchy paper gown she’s wearing.
She hears giggling and looks over at the chairs near the window, where Mona and her mom are sitting in adjacent hospital chairs and poring over a magazine quiz together.
“You don’t have to answer,” Mona continues, with a wave of her hand. “Hannakins and I snuck into your room to play dress up during many a sleepover, back in the day. So it’s red lace, and that means: Congratulations, Mrs. M! According to Cosmo, your personal kind of sexy is Hot Mama!” She lowers her voice as she continues, “And I’ve also seen your shoe closet - like I always say, the proof is in the pumps!”
Hanna has a massive headache, her skull is hurting from the inside out, but she smiles. Mona being here means she’ll at least get a makeover before they send her home.
“Hey,” Hanna says, still a little groggy.
Her mom jumps to her feet. “Hanna! Thank goodness! You’re awake!”
Mona breezes over to the edge of the bed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Hanna’s ear. “You gave us all a scare, girly-girl! We do not want to lose you to Long Island Iced Teas and allergy medication!” She gives Hanna a wide eyed look that’s so convincing, Hanna can almost taste triple sec on her tongue. “You turned a heel in the parking lot,” Mona continues. “And cracked your head on the concrete.”
Hanna grins as she remembers all the times Mona would make up elaborate stories for their teachers after they’d cut class sophomore year. Listening to her was almost as fun as ditching school in the first place. It’s one of her few happy memories of high school, from the time when it was just the two of them. Back when her worries were more about detention than decapitation. When she thought she and Mona were living the dream, right up until the moment it turned into a nightmare.
“Aria and Emily were here all night,” her mom informs her. Hanna wonders briefly about Spencer and Caleb, but it feels like too loaded a question to ask directly.
“I sent them home to freshen up,” Mona says, imperiously. “Like I told Emily - so Alison got married, that’s no excuse for neglecting your moisturizing regimen!”
“I’m going to go find a doctor,” Ashley announces. “Now that you’re awake, they might be able to release you.”
The moment she’s out the door, Mona grabs Hanna’s hand and drops her voice to a furious hiss. “Hanna Marin, don’t you ever make a plan like that again! Using yourself as bait! Relying on that scruffy boy toy to keep you safe? You’re lucky you didn’t wake up dead!”
“It gets worse,” Hanna says. “Much worse.”
“Well, if you mean your lip lock with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Taken,” Mona says, a hand on her hip, “I’m afraid the cat is already out of the bag. And having kittens.”
Hanna winces. “Spencer knows?”
Mona nods. “Please tell me you don’t want to get back together with him.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Hanna whispers, staring at her toes miserably.
Mona pats her hand. “It’s okay,” she says soothingly, perching on the edge of the bed and flipping the magazine back open. “Now, let’s find out your celebrity soulmate.”
----------
“Emily!” Caleb calls, shouting excitedly from the other side of the loft. “Emily!”
Emily walks down the staircase, toweling her hair dry. “You got shot trying to save me from Lyndon,” she says with a frown, “which means you get to crash on the couch. But it doesn’t mean I’m not really mad at you, or that I come when you call.”
“Sorry,” he says, waving the ipad like a white flag. “But I found a lot of stuff on here. We need to call a meeting.” She almost feels bad when she sees him up close. He’s ragged and unkempt, his hair standing up at odd angles as if he’s been pulling at it. He clearly hasn’t slept, judging by the empty coffee cups scattered around the living room and the caffeine crazed look in his eyes. He also hasn’t shaved, Emily thinks, noticing the uneven stubble shadowing his hollow cheeks. Or showered, she realizes, wrinkling her nose and giving him a wide berth as she goes to pull a yogurt out of the fridge.
“Do you mean call a meeting, or call Spencer?” Emily asks, suspiciously.
“I tried. She’s not taking my calls.”
Emily sighs and pulls out her phone.
----------
Aria tosses an envelope on the kitchen table, where her father is buttering a piece of toast.
“The mail is early,” her mother muses, sipping her coffee as she flips through the newspaper in her robe. The front page headline of the Rosewood Observer proclaims “Tech Mogul Shot!” A picture of Lucas in a suit and tie smiles above the fold.
“It was in the screen door,” Aria shrugs, distracted by a message from Ezra on her phone.
“Everything alright?” Byron asks, raising his eyebrows as he reaches for the envelope.
“Yeah,” Aria says. “Ezra might need to go to Boston to meet with our publicist.”
“Without you?” Ella asks.
Aria forces herself to smile. “It’s fine. I’ve got enough to worry about here.”
Ella gets up and pours Aria an orange juice. “How’s Hanna?”
“Her mom just texted, it looks like she’s being released later today.”
There’s a clang as Byron’s butter knife clatters to the floor. Aria and Ella turn their heads.
“Honey?” Ella inquires. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Byron says, smiling a little too broadly. He bends down to pick up his silverware, stuffing the envelope into his back pocket as he moves towards the sink. “You know, I don’t think I’ve told you how proud I am of you, Aria.”
“Of course you have,” Aria assures him.
Byron turns on the water, steam rises from the sink as he rinses his breakfast plate. “I was bragging to one of my old colleagues from Reykjavik the other day, and he mentioned that a fellowship residency just opened up out there. It’s a light teaching schedule, a stone cottage with an ocean view. I could make a couple of calls -”
“That sounds amazing,” Aria exclaims. “Is it for next year? Things are gonna be a little crazy until after the book comes out, but I could apply after Christmas, maybe in January. When’s the deadline?”
“That’s the thing,” Byron explains. “They need someone as soon as possible. Next week, if they can. But think about it! Ezra can handle the book, he’s done it before. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! You should take advantage of this momentum! You could have your next novel done in no time, away from all these distractions!”
“Dad,” Aria says, almost chuckling at how hard he’s trying to sell this. “I can’t go to Iceland next week. The police asked me to stay in town, remember?”
“You’re not under arrest,” Byron points out. “They have no real way to hold you here.”
“You did go back to Boston,” Ella adds. “Although Byron, I really don’t understand the rush to pack her off. She’s worked hard on this project, of course she wants to enjoy her moment in the sun. It’s exciting! If she’s a good candidate for this fellowship, Iceland will still be there next year.”
“I can’t abandon Ezra to Jillian,” Aria says firmly. “She’ll eat him alive! We’ve got a book tour to schedule, media appearances, edits to approve, cover designs to review - he needs me.”
“But you shouldn’t tie yourself down!” Byron protests. “You’re young! Now is the perfect time to make a leap! Surprise yourself! Go in a new direction! Promise me you’ll think about it!”
“Okay,” Aria says slowly, giving him a raised eyebrow and frown. “I guess I can think about it.”
“That’s great!” Her father enthuses, bending down to give her a hug. He bustles out of the room, so distracted that he leaves the water running in the sink. He locks himself in the bathroom, goes immediately to the sink and splashes cold water on his face. He takes several deep breaths, as if he’s trying to get himself under control, ward off a panic attack.
He pulls the envelope out of his pocket and stares at it, his face drawn and white as a flop sweat beads on his forehead. His hands are shaking as he removes the paper inside for further study. It’s the picture of Aria with the pink streaks in her hair, the message FAMILY MATTERS scrawled across her face.
“No,” he says, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “This isn’t happening.”