“Fuck—come on, Hannah!” The salty wind whips my face and I squeeze my eyes shut for a single moment, picturing her onstage, smashing a guitar; laughing by a bonfire; thesoft look in her eyes before we kissed. I kick off, pulling Hannah behind me. But I’ve overes-timated my strength. She’s too heavy without help, and the rip current doesn’t want to release us.
Hannah’s eyes flutter again. She needs a doctor. I’ve fucked it all up swimming out here, with my self-destructive savior complex, and won’t Bryan be surprised—
A giant wave crashes, pushing me underwater, and it’s pitch-black out here so deep. The current tumbles me. I can’t breathe, I don’t know where the surface is—
Hands seize my shoulders and pull. Suddenly there’s air again, and a man atop a Jet Ski, his face blurry at first because there’s so much salt water clouding my eyes. I want to shout with relief, the sound of his motor the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. He yells, pointing at the water, and I see Hannah drifting. I don’t think twice, using the last of my strength to kick back to her and push her toward the Coast Guard officer. Together, we manage to get her prone body out of the water, draping her over the Jet Ski, and then the officer extends a hand and helps me climb atop.
“Hold on,” he yells. “Keep her secure.”
I throw myself over Hannah as the Jet Ski kicks into high gear, pitching us backward, and then we’re racing over the waves, hitting the choppy water so fast it takes all my power not to fly off.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper into Hannah’s cold skin. My throat is raw.
It’s only when the Jet Ski approaches the shallow water that I realize what a circus the beach has become. There’s an ambulance in the sand, red and blue lights flashing, and EMTs in dark uniforms pacing near the water. The crowd has almost doubled in size, and now there are so many lifted cameras recording, so many spectators, that I want to scream.
The Jet Ski hits the sand and the engine cuts. EMTs and Coast Guard officers rush toward us, lifting Hannah’s limp body, yelling “Out of the way! Clear a path!”
“I’m fine,” I yell, as an EMT wrenches me off the Jet Ski. “It’s her. Focus on her.”
“We’ve got an unresponsive female in her late twenties,” says a Coast Guard officer into his radio. “EMS is on-site and administering services.”
They’ve laid Hannah in the sand. It’s a terrible sight with her eyes closed, skin pale, wet hair fanning around her.
“She’s breathing,” barks one of the EMTs, crouched near her mouth.
I choke down a sob as an EMT presses a freezing stethoscope to my chest.
“Is thatHannah Cortland?” someone asks. An excited murmur ripples through the crowd.
“It’s her,” someone else shouts, and the circle of spectators tightens. The people filming lift their phones higher.
“Leave her alone,” I yell, struggling to my feet, but the EMT beside me keeps a tight grip on my wrist.
“Don’t,” he warns, shaking his head.
My whole life, I’ve obeyed commands. Been good-natured Theo, the Fixer, taking everyone’s shit, trying to please everybody.
I’m so tired of it.
“Is she dead?” The blond man from before, the one who warned me not to go in the water, who just stood there watching Hannah slowly drown, kneels with his phone, trying to get a close-up.
“Sir, step back,” orders an EMT, but the man turns to his friend, says something, and laughs.
Laughs.The inhumanity of it. Everywhere she goes, people are hungry for Hannah’s pain. Months of watching it unfold helplessly, of hoarding love and fear, collide into a tidal waveof feeling, and I snap, launching at the guy and tackling him into the sand. There are screams as the crowd jumps away.
“What the fuck?” he yells, swinging at me, but I dodge and punch him square in the face, connecting with a loud crack that sends seismic pain through us both.
Coast Guard officers are shouting at me to stand down, but I’m beyond reason.
The blond guy’s friend shoves me off and I take a swing at him too. Instantly, two more men are on me. One pulls my arms behind my back and the other cracks me across the face, the pain sharp, blood blooming on my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of iron.
A Coast Guard officer grabs me but I wrestle out of his hold and swing wildly. I connect with someone’s nose, and suddenly there’s a wall of men. I’m trying to defend myself but someone’s fist catches my teeth and blood spills down my chin into the sand. I follow it, dropping to all fours, battered on all sides. The world narrows to the pain of the blows. Distantly I know how bad this is, what could happen to me, but underneath the agony is the strangest satisfaction. All I’ve ever wanted to do is take care of the people I love, show up for them, and now no matter what happens, I regret nothing, I would do it all over again.
Chapter 53
Excerpt fromNew Yorkmagazine article, “Hannah Cortland, Agent Provocateur” (Sunday, November 10, 2024)
I’ll be honest with you. Until Hannah Cortland shaved her head, I didn’t know much about her, other than bits and pieces picked up from internet perusing. I knew she was a singer, that her style was puerile Goth meets beach blond—like the cheerleader in high school who paints her nails black to signify her inner anguish—and that young people cried over her on TikTok. In other words, Cortland was the celebrity equivalent of fast food: light on substance, high on salt.
