After We Collided (The After Series) (42 page)

“I am not hurt.” He glares at me. Hardin and his pride.

“You just said you were.”

“No, I didn’t, don’t tell me what I said.”

“Okay, okay.” I throw my hands up, giving in. I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to pull the pin on the grenade that is Hardin. He walks over to the key rack and takes his key chain off while he stumbles to grab his boots. “What are you doing?” I rush over to him.

“Leaving, what does it look like?”

“You aren’t leaving. You have been drinking. A lot.” I reach for his keys, but he slips them into his pocket.

“I don’t give a shit, I need more to drink.”

“No! You don’t. You had enough—and you broke the bottle.” I try to reach for his pocket, but he grabs ahold of my wrist like he has done countless times.

This time is different because he’s so angry, and for a second I begin to worry. “Let go,” I challenge him.

“Don’t try to stop me from leaving and I’ll let go.” He doesn’t let up, and I try to appear unaffected.

“Hardin . . . you’re going to hurt me.”

His eyes meet mine, and he lets go quickly. When he raises
a hand, I flinch and slink back away from him, but he’s only running it through his hair, I see.

His eyes flash with panic. “You thought I was going to hit you?” he nearly whispers, and I back away farther.

“I . . . I don’t know, you’re
so
angry, and you’re scaring me.” I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but this is the easiest way to get him back to reality.

“You should know I wouldn’t hurt you. No matter how drunk I am, I wouldn’t fucking touch you.” He glares at me.

“For someone who hates your father so much, you sure as hell don’t have a problem acting like him,” I spit.

“Fuck you—I’m nothing like him!” he shouts.

“Yes, you are! You’re drunk, you left me at that party, and you broke half our decorations in the living room—including my favorite lamp! You are acting like him . . . the old him.”

“Yeah, well, you’re acting like your mum. A spoiled snobby little—” he sneers and I gasp.

“Who
are
you?” I ask and shake my head. I walk away, not wanting to hear any more from him, and I know if we continue to argue while he’s this drunk, it will not end well. He’s taken his disrespect to a whole new level.

“Tessa . . . I’m . . .” he begins.

“Don’t.” I turn and spit before continuing to the bedroom. I can take his rude comments, I can take him yelling at me—because, hell, I dish it out right back to him—but we both need distance before one of us says something even worse.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says and follows me.

I close the bedroom door and lock it behind me. I slide my back down its smooth surface until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. Maybe we can’t make this work. Maybe he’s too angry and I’m too irrational. I push him too far and he does the same to me.

No, that isn’t true. We are good for each other
because
we
push each other. Despite all the fights and tension between us, there’s passion. So much passion that it nearly drowns me, pulling me under. And he’s the only light, the only one to save me regardless of whether he’s the one dooming me.

Hardin taps the wood softly. “Tess, open the door.”

“Just go to sleep, please,” I cry.

“Dammit, Tessa! Open this door now. I’m sorry,
okay
?” he shouts and begins to pound at the door.

Praying that he won’t bust through the door, I force myself up off the floor and pad over to the dresser to dig through my bottom drawer. When I see the white of the paper, relief washes over me, and I go into the closet and close myself in there. As I begin reading Hardin’s note to me, the pounding at the door is drowned out to the point of no longer existing. The ache in my chest dissolves along with my headache. Nothing exists except this letter, these perfect words from my imperfect Hardin.

I read it over and over until my tears stop along with the noise from the hall. I desperately hope that he didn’t leave, but I’m not going out there to find out. My heart and my eyes are too heavy. I need to lie down.

Taking the letter with me, I drag my body to the bed, still wearing my dress. Eventually sleep comes to me, and I am free to dream of the Hardin that scribbled these words on a sheet of paper in a hotel room.

WHEN I WAKE UP
in the middle of the night, I fold the letter up and place it back in my bottom drawer before opening the bedroom door. Hardin is asleep in the hallway, curled up in a ball on the concrete floor. Figuring I shouldn’t wake him, I leave him alone to sleep off his intoxication, and go back to sleep.

C
ome the morning, the hallway is empty and the mess in the living room is completely cleared. Not one single piece of glass is left on the floor. The room smells of lemons, and the whiskey is no longer splattered across the wall.

I’m surprised Hardin even knew where the cleaner is stored.

“Hardin?” I call, my voice hoarse from all the yelling I did last night.

Getting no answer, I go over to the kitchen table, where an index card with his handwriting rests.
Please don’t leave, I’ll be back soon
, it says.

The thousand pounds of pressure lifts from my chest, and I grab the e-reader, make a cup of coffee, and wait for his return.

What feels like hours go by before Hardin finally comes back home. I have since showered, cleaned up the kitchen, and read fifty pages of
Moby-Dick—
and I don’t even care for the book. Most of the time that has passed has been filled with me thinking of every possibility of his behavior and what he will say. The fact that he didn’t want me to leave, so that is a good thing. Right? I sure hope so. The entire night is a blur, but I remember the key points.

When I hear the click of the front door, I instantly still. Everything I’ve been preparing to say to him vanishes from my mind. I set the e-reader down on the table and sit up on the couch.

When Hardin walks through the door, he’s wearing a gray sweatshirt and his signature black jeans. He doesn’t leave the
house in anything except black and occasionally white, so the contrast today is a little strange, but the sweatshirt makes him look younger somehow. His hair is messy and pushed off his forehead, and his eyes have dark circles under them. In his hand is a lamp, different from the one he shattered last night, but very similar.

“Hey,” he says and runs his tongue along his bottom lip before pulling his lip ring between his teeth.

“Hi,” I mutter in return.

“How . . . how did you sleep?” he asks.

I stand up from the couch as he walks toward the kitchen. “Good . . .” I lie.

“That’s good.”

It is evident that we’re both treading very lightly, afraid to say the wrong thing. He stands by the counter, and I stay near the fridge.

“I, um . . . I got a new lamp.” He nods at his purchase before setting it on the counter.

“It’s nice.” I feel anxious, very anxious.

“They didn’t have the one we had, but they—” he begins.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, interrupting him.

“Me, too, Tessa.”

“Last night was not supposed to go that way,” I say and look down.

“That is surely an understatement.”

“It was a terrible night. I should have let you explain yourself before I kissed someone, it was stupid and immature of me.”

“Yes, it was. I shouldn’t have had to explain myself, you should have trusted me and not jumped to conclusions.” He leans his elbows on the counter behind him, and I fiddle with my fingers, trying not to pick at the skin around my fingernails.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I heard you the first ten times, Tess.”

“Are you going to forgive me? You were talking about kicking me out.”

“I wasn’t talking about kicking you out.” He shrugs. “I was just saying that relationships do not work.”

A big part of me was praying that he wouldn’t remember the things he was saying last night. He basically told me that marriage is for fools and that he should be alone.

“What are you saying?”

“Just that.”

“Just that
what
? I thought . . .” I don’t know what to say. I thought the new lamp was his way of apologizing and that he felt different this morning than he did last night.

“You thought what?”

“That you didn’t want me to leave because you wanted to talk about it when you got home.”

“We
are
talking about it.”

A lump grows in my throat. “So what, then, you don’t want to be with me anymore?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying. Come here,” he says, opening his arms.

I stay silent as I cross our small kitchen and step closer to him. He grows impatient, and when I get close enough he pulls me to his chest, wrapping his arms around my waist. My head lies on his chest, the soft cotton of his sweatshirt is still cool from the cold winter air. “I missed you so much,” he says into my hair.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” I reply.

He pulls me closer. “Yes, you did. When you kissed that guy, I lost you momentarily; that was enough for me. I couldn’t stand it, not even for a second.”

“You didn’t lose me, Hardin. I made a mistake.”

“Please . . .” he begins to say, but corrects himself: “Don’t do it again. I mean it.”

“I won’t,” I assure him.

“You brought Zed here.”

“Only because you left me at that party and I needed a ride home,” I remind him. We haven’t looked at each other so far during this conversation, and I want to keep it that way. I am fearless . . . well, slightly fearless without those green eyes piercing mine.

“You should have called,” he says.

I continue staring beyond him. “You have my phone, and I waited outside. I thought you were coming back,” I say.

He lifts me gently from his chest and holds me back slightly so he can look at me. He looks so tired. I know that I do, too. “I may have handled my anger poorly, but I didn’t know what else to do.” The intensity of his gaze causes me to move my eyes from his and stare at the floor.

“Do you care for him?” Hardin’s voice is shaky when he lifts my chin to look at him.

What?
He can’t be serious. “Hardin . . .”

“Answer me.”

“Not the way you’re assuming.”

“What does that mean?” Hardin is growing anxious, or angry, I can’t tell. Maybe both.

“I care for him in a way, a friendly way.”

“Nothing more?” Hardin’s tone is pleading, begging me to assure him that I only care for him.

I cup his face with my hands. “Nothing more—I love you. Only you, and I know I did something very stupid, but that was only out of anger, and alcohol. It has nothing to do with me having feelings for anyone else.”

“Why did you have him—of all people—bring you home?”

“He was the only one who offered.” Then I ask a question I instantly regret: “Why are you so hard on him?”

“Hard on him?” he scoffs. “You’re
not
serious.”

“You were very cruel to humiliate him in front of me.”

Hardin takes a step sideways so we’re no longer standing face-to-face. I turn to stand in front of him, and he runs his fingers through his messy hair. “He should have known better than to come here with you.”

“You promised to keep your temper at bay.” I’m trying not to push him. I want to make up, not dive deeper into this argument.

“I have been. Until you cheated on me and left that party with Zed. I could’ve beat the shit out of Zed last night, and hell, I could still leave right now and do it,” he says, raising his voice again.

“I know you could have, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’m not, but I’m glad you are.”

“I don’t want you to drink again. You’re not the same person when you do.” I can feel the tears coming, and I try to swallow them down.

“I know . . .” He turns away from me. “I didn’t mean to get that way. I was just so pissed off and . . . hurt . . . I was hurt. The only thing I could think to do besides kill someone was drink, so I went down to Conner’s and got the whiskey. I wasn’t going to drink that much, but the images of you kissing that guy just kept coming, so I kept going.”

I have half a mind to drive down to Conner’s and yell at that old woman for selling Hardin alcohol, but his twenty-first birthday is exactly a month from today and the damage of last night has already been done.

“You were afraid of me, I saw it in your eyes,” he says.

“No . . . I wasn’t afraid of you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“You flinched. I remember that. Most of everything is a blur, but I remember that clear as day.”

“I was just caught off guard,” I tell him. I knew he wasn’t going to hit me, but he was behaving so aggressively, and alcohol can make people do unspeakable things that they would never do sober.

He steps closer to me, almost closing the entire space between us. “I don’t want you to ever . . . be
caught off guard
again. I won’t drink like that ever again, I swear it.” He brings his hand to my face and traces over my temple with his index finger.

I don’t want to say anything in response, this whole conversation has been confusing and very back and forth. One second I feel that he’s forgiving me, but the next I’m unsure. He’s speaking in a much calmer tone than I expected, but his anger is just under the surface.

“I don’t want to be that guy, and I definitely do not want to be like my father. I shouldn’t have drunk that much, but you were wrong, too.”

“I—” I start to say, but he silences me and his eyes get glassy.

“However, I have done a list of shit . . . an entire book of shit to you, and you always forgive me. I’ve done far worse than you, so I owe it to you to do my best to let it go and forgive you. It isn’t fair to you for me to expect things from you that I can’t return. I really am sorry, Tess, for everything last night. I was a fucking idiot.”

“I was, too. I know how you feel about me with other guys, and I shouldn’t have used that against you in anger. I’ll try to think before I act next time, I’m sorry.”

“Next time?” A small smile plays on Hardin’s lips. He changes moods so quickly.