After We Collided (The After Series) (13 page)

“So what do you think I should do? Not as her friend, but as my . . . you know, my father’s stepson?”

“You mean stepbrother? Your stepbrother.” He smiles. I roll my eyes and he laughs. “Well, has she talked to you at all?” he asks.

“Yeah . . . I actually went to Seattle last night, and she let me stay with her,” I tell him.

“She
what
?” He is clearly surprised.

“Yeah, she was drunk. I mean
really
drunk, and she practically
made
me fuck her.” I notice his sour expression at my choice of words. “Sorry . . . she made me sleep with her. Well not
made me,
because I wanted to, I mean how could I say no . . . she’s just . . .”
Why am I even telling him this?

He waves his hands in the air. “Okay! Okay! I get it, jeez.”

“So anyway, then this morning I said some shit that I shouldn’t have said because she told me she kissed someone else.”

“Tessa kissed someone?” he asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Yeah . . . some guy at a fucking nightclub.” I groan. I don’t want to think about that again.

“Wow. She really is pissed at you,” he says.

“I. Know.”

“What did you say to her this morning?”

“I told her that I fucked Molly yesterday,” I admit.

“Did you? You know . . . have sex with Molly?”

“No, God no.” I shake my head.

What the hell is going on here that I am having some twisted heart-to-heart with Landon, of all people?

“Then why did you say that you did?”

“Because she angered me.” I shrug. “She kissed someone else.”

“Okay . . . so you said that you slept with Molly, who you know Tess despises, just to hurt her?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Good idea.” He rolls his eyes.

I wave his snarky movement away with a strong hand. “Do you think she loves me?” I ask, because I have to know.

Landon snaps his head up, suddenly serious. “I don’t know . . .” He’s a terrible liar.

“Tell me. You know her better than anyone, except me.”

“She loves you. But because of how you betrayed her, she’s convinced that you never loved her,” Landon explains.

It breaks my heart all over again. And I can’t believe I’m asking for his help, but I need it. “What can I do? Will you help me?”

“I don’t know . . .” He looks up at me with uncertainty, but he must see my desperation. “I guess I can try to talk to her. Her birthday is tomorrow—you know that, right?”

“Yeah, of course I know that. Do you have plans with her?” I ask him. He better not.

“No, she said she’s going to stay at her mother’s house.”

“Her mother’s house? Why? When did you talk to her?”

“She texted me about two hours ago, and what else is she supposed to do? Stay at a motel by herself on her birthday?”

I choose to ignore his last question. If I’d just kept my cool this morning, she might have possibly let me stay another night with her. Instead, she’s still in Seattle with fucking Trevor.

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and my father’s body appears in the doorway a moment later. “I thought I heard your voice . . .”

“Yeah . . . I came to talk to Landon,” I lie. Well, it’s half the truth; I was going to talk to whoever I saw first.

I’m pathetic.

He looks surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah. Um, also, Mum is coming Tuesday morning,” I tell him. “For Christmas.”

“That’s great to hear. I know she misses you,” he tells me.

My first instinct is to think of a comeback, some remark about how shitty a father he is, but I simply don’t feel like it.

“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to talk,” he says and walks back to the stairs. “Oh, and Hardin?” my father says when he’s halfway up.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Okay,” I state. I don’t know what else to say. My dad gives me a tight smile and continues up the stairs.

This whole day is a fucking mess. My head hurts. “Well . . . I guess I’m going to go . . .” I say to Landon, and he nods.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promises as I walk to the door.

“Thanks.” And when we both stand awkwardly in the doorway, I mumble, “You know I’m not going to like hug you or some shit, right?”

As I walk out the door, I hear him laugh and shut the door.

B
ig plans for Christmas?” Trevor asks.

I raise one finger to tell him to wait a moment while I savor this bite of ravioli. The food here is excellent, and I’m no foodie, but I imagine this has to be a five-star restaurant.

“Not really. Just going to my mother’s house for the week. You?”

“I’m doing some volunteer work at this shelter, actually. I don’t really like to go back to Ohio. I have a few cousins and aunts, but since my mother passed, there isn’t much there for me,” he explains.

“Oh, Trevor, I’m sorry about your mother. But that’s very kind of you, to volunteer.” I smile sympathetically and take the last piece of ravioli into my mouth. It tastes as good as the first bite, but this revelation about Trevor makes me enjoy the food a little less while making me appreciate the dinner even more. Is that strange?

We talk for a while longer, and enjoy an amazing flourless chocolate cake with a caramel topping for dessert. Afterward, when the waitress brings our check, Trevor pulls out his wallet.

“You aren’t one of those women who demands to pay half of the bill, are you?” he teases.

“Ha.” I laugh. “Maybe if we were at McDonald’s.”

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything. Hardin would have made some stupid sarcastic remark about how my comment had set feminism back fifty years.

Seeing that a light rain-snow mix has resumed, Trevor tells me to wait inside while he calls a cab, which is very considerate of him. A few moments later he waves at me through the glass, and I rush to get inside the warm cab.

“So what made you want to get into publishing?” he asks as we head back to the hotel.

“Well, I love to read—it’s all I do. It’s the only thing that interests me, so it was just a natural career choice for me. I would love to become an author sometime in the future, but for now I love what I get to do at Vance,” I tell him.

He smiles. “That’s the same with me and accounting. Nothing else interests me either. I’ve known from a young age that I would do something with numbers.”

I despise math, but I just smile as he continues to talk about it. “So do you like to read?” I ask when he finishes and we pull up at the hotel.

“Yeah, sort of. Mostly nonfiction.”

“Oh . . . why?” I can’t help but ask.

He shrugs. “I just don’t really care for fiction.” He hops out of the cab and holds a hand out for me.

“How can you not?” I ask and take his hand to get out. “The best thing about reading is to escape from your life, to be able to live hundreds or even thousands of different lives. Nonfiction doesn’t have that power—it doesn’t change you the way fiction does.”

“Change you?” He raises his brow.

“Yes, change you. If you aren’t affected somehow, even in the slightest bit, you aren’t reading the right book.” As we pass through the lobby, I look at the great artwork on the walls. “I would like to think that every novel I’ve read has became a part of me, created who I am, in a sense.”

“You’re very passionate!” He laughs.

“Yeah . . . I guess I am,” I say. Hardin would agree with me, we would carry on this conversation for hours, possibly even days.

We ride the elevator in relative silence, and when we step off, Trevor walks a half step behind me down the hall. I’m exhausted and ready to go to sleep even though it’s only nine.

Trevor smiles when we reach the door to my room. “I had an amazing time with you tonight. Thank you dining with me.”

“Thank
you
for the invitation.” I smile back.

“I really enjoy spending time with you; we have a lot in common. I would love to see you again.” He waits for my response, then clarifies: “Outside of the work setting.”

“Yeah, I would like that,” I say.

He takes a step toward me, and I freeze. His hand reaches up and rests on my hip and he leans into me.

“Um . . . I don’t really think this is the right time,” I squeak.

His cheeks flame in embarrassment, and I feel terribly guilty for declining his advance.

“Oh, I understand. I’m sorry. I sh-shouldn’t have . . .” he stutters.

“No, it’s okay. I’m just not ready for that . . .” I explain, and he smiles.

“I understand. I’ll let you go now. Good night, Tessa,” he says and walks away.

As soon as I enter my room I let out a deep breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding in. I step out of my shoes, debating whether or not to undress or just lie down. I’m tired, so tired. I decide to lie down while deciding, and within minutes I’m out.

THE ENTIRE NEXT DAY
with Kimberly flies by, and we do more gossiping than shopping.

“How was your night last night?” she asks me.

The woman filing my nails perks her head up nosily, and I smile at her. “It was nice, Hardin and I went to dinner,” I say, and Kimberly gasps.

“Hardin?”

“Trevor. I meant Trevor.” I would smack myself in the forehead if I weren’t getting a manicure.

“Hmm . . .” Kimberly teases me, and I roll my eyes.

After our manicures we find a department store. We look at a lot of different shoes, and I see some stuff I like, but nothing I really want to buy. Kimberly buys several tops with an enthusiasm that tells me she
really
likes shopping.

As we pass by the men’s department, she pulls a navy button-up shirt off the rack and says, “I think I’ll get Christian a shirt as well. It’s fun because he hates when I spend money on him.”

“Doesn’t he . . . you know, have a lot?” I ask, hoping not to sound too nosy.

“Oh yes. Shitloads. But I like to pay for myself when we go out. I’m not with him for his money,” she says proudly.

I’m glad that I met Kimberly. Aside from Landon, she’s my only friend now. And I’ve never really had a lot of female friends, so this is a little new for me.

Despite that, when Christian calls and arranges for the car to pick us up, I’m glad. I’ve had an amazing time here in Seattle, but it’s been a horrible time as well. I sleep the entire drive back home and have them drop me back off at the motel. To my surprise, my car is there, parked where it had been before.

I pay for two more nights and text my mother to tell her I’m sick, and that I suspect it’s food poisoning. She doesn’t respond, so I turn on the television after getting into my pajamas. There is nothing, literally nothing, on, and I would rather read anyway. I grab my car keys and go out to the car to get my bag.

When I open my car door, something black catches my eye. An e-reader?

I pick it up and pull the small Post-it note off the top.
Happy Birthday—Hardin
, it reads. My heart swells, then tightens. I never liked the idea of portable reading devices. I prefer to hold a book in my hands. But after the conference this weekend, my opinion has slightly changed. Besides, it’ll make it easier to carry around submissions for work without having to waste all that paper printing them out.

Still, I grab Hardin’s copy of
Wuthering Heights
off the floorboard and go back to my motel room. When I turn the device on, I immediately smile, then sob. On the home screen there is a tab named
Tess
, and when I tap it with my finger, a long list of every novel Hardin and I have discussed, bickered over, or even laughed about appears.

W
hen I finally wake up, it’s two in the afternoon. I can’t remember the last time I slept past eleven, let alone later than lunch, but I forgive myself by taking into account that I stayed up until four reading and browsing through Hardin’s wonderful gift. It is so thoughtful, too thoughtful, the best gift I’ve ever received.

Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I check my missed calls. Two from my mother, one from Landon. A few “Happy Birthday” messages clog my inbox, including one from Noah. I’ve never been that into birthdays, but I don’t exactly love the idea of being alone today either.

Well, I won’t be alone. Catherine Earnshaw and Elizabeth Bennet are much better company than my mother.

I order a crapload of Chinese food and stay in my pajamas the entire day. My mother is irate when I call her and tell her that I’m “sick.” I can tell that she doesn’t believe me, but honestly, I don’t care. It’s my birthday, and I can do whatever I choose to do, and if what I choose to do is lie in bed with takeout and my new toy, then that’s what I’ll do.

My fingers try to pull up Hardin’s number a few times, but I stop them. No matter how wonderful his present was, he still slept with Molly. Whenever I think he couldn’t possibly hurt me worse, he does. I begin to think about my dinner with Trevor on Saturday. Trevor, who is so nice and so charming. He says what he means, and he gives me compliments. He doesn’t yell at me, or annoy me. He has never lied to me. I never have to guess what
he’s thinking or how he’s feeling. He’s smart, educated, successful, and he volunteers at shelters on holidays. He’s so perfect, compared to Hardin.

The problem is that I shouldn’t be comparing him to Hardin. Trevor is a little boring, yes, and we don’t share the same passion for novels that Hardin and I do, but we also don’t share a damaged past.

The most infuriating thing about Hardin is that I actually love his personality, rudeness and all. He’s funny, witty, and can be so sweet when he wants to be. This gift is messing with my head—I need to remember what he has done to me. All the lies, the secrets, and most all the times he’s fucked Molly.

I text Landon back to thank him, and within seconds he responds asking for the address of my hotel. I want to tell him not to drive all the way here, but I also don’t want to spend the remainder of my day completely alone. I don’t get dressed, but I do slip on a bra under my shirt and read some more, waiting for Landon to arrive.