by Anna Todd
“No, don’t call her that.” I roll my eyes. “Well . . . she kind of is being one, but it’s nothing big. I’m just . . . I don’t know why I called, really.”
“Well . . .” He pauses, and I hear a car door shut. “Do you want to talk or something?”
“Is that okay? Can we?” I ask him. Only hours ago I was telling him that I needed to be more independent, yet here I am, calling him the moment I’m upset.
“Sure.”
“Where are you, anyway?” I need to keep the conversation as neutral as possible . . . not that it’s ever possible to keep things between Hardin and me neutral.
“A gym.”
I almost laugh. “A gym? You don’t go to the gym.” Hardin is one of the few people to be blessed with an incredible body without ever having to work out. His naturally large build is perfect, tall with broad shoulders, even though he claims that he was lanky and thin as a young teenager. His muscles are hard but not too defined; his body is the perfect mixture of soft and hard.
“I know. She was kicking my ass. I was genuinely embarrassed.”
“Who?” I say a little forcefully. Calm down, Tessa, it’s obviously the woman whose voice you heard.
“Oh, the trainer. I decided to use that kickboxing shit you got me for my birthday.”
“Really?” The thought of Hardin kickboxing makes me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking about. Like him sweating . . .
“Yeah,” he says, a little shyly.
I shake my head to try to cast out the image of him shirtless. “How was it?”
“Okay, I guess. I prefer a different type of exercise. But on the plus side, I’m a lot less tense than I was a few hours ago.”
I narrow my eyes at his response even though he can’t see me.
My fingers trace the flower-print fabric of the comforter. “Do you think you’ll go again?” I finally feel like I can breathe as Hardin begins to tell me about how awkward the first half hour of his session was, how he kept cursing at the woman until she slapped him across the back of his head, repeatedly, which, in turn made him respect her and stop being such a jerk to her.
“Wait.” I finally speak. “Are you still there?”
“No, I’m home now.”
“You just . . . left? Did you tell her?”
“No, why would I?” he asks, as if people acted like him all the time.
I like the idea that he dropped what he was doing just to talk to me on the phone. I shouldn’t, but I do. Which warms me, but also makes me sigh and say, “We aren’t doing a very good job on this space thing.”
“We never do.” I can picture his smirk even though he’s speaking from more than a hundred miles away.
“I know, but—”
“This is our version of space. You didn’t get in the car and drive here. You only called.”
“I guess so . . .” I allow myself to agree with his twisted logic. In a way, though, he’s right. I don’t know yet if it’s a good or a bad thing.
“Is Noah still there?”
“No, he left hours ago.”
“Good.”
I’m looking at the darkness beyond the ugly curtains of my room when Hardin laughs and says, “Talking on the phone is so fucking weird.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We’ve been talking for over an hour.”
I pull my phone from my ear to check the time, and sure enough, he’s right. “It doesn’t seem that long,” I say.
“I know, I never talk to anyone on the phone. Except when you call me to bother me about bringing something home, or a few calls to my friends, but they never last longer than like two minutes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why would I? I was never into the teenage dating shit; all my friends used to spend hours on the phone listening to their girlfriends go on about nail polish or whatever the fuck girls talk about for hours on end.” He laughs lightly, and I frown a little at the reminder that Hardin never got the chance to be a normal teenager.
“You didn’t miss out on much,” I assure him.
“Who did you used to talk to for hours? Noah?” Spitefulness is clear in his question.
“No, I never did that talking-for-hours thing either. I was busy shoving my nose into novels.” Perhaps I was never a true teenager either.
“Well, I’m glad you were a nerd, then,” he says, making my stomach flutter.
“Theresa!” I’m snapped back into reality as my mother repeatedly calls for me.
“Oh, is it past your bedtime?” Hardin teases. Our relationship, nonrelationship, giving-each-other-space-but-talking-on-the-phone thing, has become even more confusing within the last hour.
“Shut up,” I respond and cover the receiver long enough to tell my mother I’ll be right out. “I need to see what she wants.”
“You’re really going tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I am.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “Okay, well, be safe . . . I guess.”
“I can call you in the morning?” My voice is shaky as I offer.
“No, we probably shouldn’t do this again,” he says, and my chest tightens. “Well, not often, anyway. It doesn’t make sense to talk all the time if we aren’t going to be together.”
“Okay.” My response sounds small, defeated.
“Good night, Tessa,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
He’s right—I know he is. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I shouldn’t even have called him in the first place.
chapter sixty-nine
TESSA
It’s fifteen minutes until five o’clock in the morning, and for once my mother isn’t dressed for going out. She’s wearing a silk pajama suit and has her robe wrapped around her, matching slippers covering her feet. My hair is still damp from my shower, but I’ve taken the time to apply some makeup and decent clothing.
My mother studies me. “You have everything you need, correct?”
“Yes, everything I have is in my car,” I say.
“Okay, be sure to get gas before you leave town.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother.”
“I know. I’m only trying to help.”
“I know you are.” I open my arms to hug her goodbye, and when she gives me a stiff little embrace, I pull back and decide to pour myself a cup of coffee for the road. That small, silly hope still nags at me, the foolish part of me that wishes so badly that headlights will appear in the darkness, Hardin will climb out of the car, bags in hand, and tell me that he’s ready to go to Seattle with me.
But that foolish part of me is just that: foolish.
At ten minutes after five, I give my mother one last hug and climb into the car, which fortunately I had the foresight to warm up with the heater on. Kimberly and Christian’s address is programmed into the GPS on my phone. It keeps closing down and recalculating, and I haven’t even left the driveway. I really do need a new phone. If Hardin were here, he’d remind me repeatedly that this is another reason to get an iPhone.
But Hardin’s not here.
THE DRIVE IS LONG. I’m just at the beginning of my adventure, and already a thick cloud of unease is forming within me. Each small town that I pass makes me feel more and more out of place, and I wonder if Seattle will feel even worse. Will I settle in there, or will I run back to the main WCU campus, or even to my mother’s place?
When I check the clock on my dashboard, I see it’s only been an hour. Although, as I think about it, the hour did pass pretty quickly, which, in an odd way, makes my mind begin to feel lighter.
When I look again, twenty minutes have passed in a blink. The farther I get from everything, the lighter my mind feels. I’m not controlled by panicked thoughts as I drive down the dark and unfamiliar roads. I focus on my future. The future that no one can take from me, that no one can make me give up. I stop frequently for coffee, snacks, and just to breathe in the morning air. When the sun finally comes up halfway through my drive, I
focus on the bright yellow and orange light it casts and the way the colors blend together, making a beautiful, bright new beginning to the day. My mood lightens with the sky, and I find myself singing along to Taylor Swift and tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as she talks about “trouble walking in”—and I laugh at the irony of the lyrics.
As I pass the sign welcoming me to the City of Seattle, my stomach fills with butterflies, the good kind. I’m doing this. Theresa Young is now officially in Seattle, making a life for herself at an age when most of her friends are still trying to figure out what they want to do with their lives.
I did it. I didn’t repeat my mother’s mistakes and rely on other people to carve my future for me. I had help, obviously—and I’m grateful for it—but it’s up to me now to take it all to the next level. I have an amazing internship, a sassy friend and her loving fiancé, and a car full of my belongings.
I don’t have an apartment . . . I don’t have anything except my books, the few boxes in my backseat, and my job.
But it will work out.
It will. It has to.
I will be happy in Seattle . . . it’ll be just like I had always imagined it to be. It will.
Every single mile drags on and on . . . every second is filled with memories, goodbyes, and doubts.
KIMBERLY AND CHRISTIAN’S HOUSE is even larger than I had expected from Kimberly’s description. I’m nervous and intimated by the driveway alone. Trees line the property, the hedges around the house are well manicured, and the air smells of some flower I don’t quite recognize. I park behind Kimberly’s car and take a deep breath before climbing out. The large wooden door is crested with a large V—and I’m giggling at the arrogance of such a decoration when Kimberly opens the door.
She raises her eyebrow to me and follows my eyes to the door she’s just opened. “We didn’t put that there! I swear: the last family that lived here was named Vermon!”
“I didn’t say anything,” I inform her with a shrug.
“I know what you’re thinking; it’s hideous. Christian is a proud man, but even he wouldn’t do such a thing.” She taps the letter with her red fingernail, and I laugh again as she ushers me inside. “How was the drive? Come in, come in, it’s cold out there.”
I follow her into the foyer and welcome the warm air and sweet smell of a fireplace.
“It was okay . . . long,” I tell her.
“I hope I never have to make that drive again.” She scrunches up her nose. “Christian’s at the office. I took the day off to make sure you get settled in. Smith will be home from school in a few hours.”
“Thank you again for letting me stay. I promise I won’t be here longer than two weeks.”
“Don’t stress yourself; you’re finally in Seattle.” She beams, and at last it hits me: I AM in Seattle!
chapter seventy
HARDIN
How was the kickboxing yesterday?” Landon asks, his voice strained, his face contorted into a stupid-looking expression of physical effort as he lifts yet another bag of mulch. When he drops it into place, he puts his hands on his hips and says with a dramatic eye roll, “You could help, you know.”
“I know,” I say from the chair I’m sitting on and prop my feet up on one of the wooden shelves inside Karen’s greenhouse. “Kickboxing was okay. The trainer was a woman, so that was fucking lame.”
“Why? Because she kicked your butt?”
“You mean my ass? And no, she did not.”
“What made you go, anyway? I told Tess not to buy you that pass to the gym, because you wouldn’t use it.”
Annoyance flares in my chest at the way he called her “Tess.” I don’t like it one fucking bit. It’s only Landon, I remind myself. Of all the shit I have to worry about right now, Landon is the least of my concerns.
“Because I was enraged, and I felt like I was going to break everything in that goddamned apartment. So when I noticed the voucher as I was pulling out all of the drawers in the dresser, I grabbed it, put my shoes on, and took off.”
“You pulled out all the drawers? Tessa’s going to kill you . . .” He shakes his head and finally takes a seat on the stack of mulch bags. I don’t know why he agreed to help his mum move all this shit around, anyway.
“She won’t see it . . . it’s not her place anymore,” I remind him, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
He looks at me guiltily. “Sorry.”
“Yeah.” I sigh; I don’t even have a witty comeback.
“It’s hard for me to feel bad for you when you could be there with her,” Landon says after a few beats of silence.
“Fuck you.” I lean my head back against the wall, and I can feel him staring at me.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he adds.
“Not to you.”
“Or her. Or anyone.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to anyone,” I snap.
“Then why are you even here?”
Instead of answering him, I look around the greenhouse, unsure of what I’m doing in this place myself. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Does he think that I don’t miss her every fucking second? That I wouldn’t much rather be with her than standing here talking to him?
He gives me a sideways look. “What about your friends?”
“You mean the one who fucking drugged Tessa? Or the other one who set me up in order to tell her about the bet.” I start counting them on my fingers to add to the dramatic effect. “Or you could mean the one who is constantly trying to get into her pants. Shall I go on?”
“Guess not. Though I could have told you that your friends sucked,” he says in an annoying tone. “So what are you going to do?”
Deciding that keeping the peace is better than murdering him, I just shrug. “Exactly what I’m doing now.”
“So you’re going to hang out with me and mope around?”
“I’m not moping. I’m doing what you told me to do and bettering myself,” I mock, using air quotes. “Have you talked to her since she left?” I ask.
“Yeah, she texted me this morning to tell me she arrived.”
“She’s at Vance’s, isn’t she?”
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
Fuck, Landon is annoying. “I know she is. Where else would she be?”
“With that Trevor guy,” Landon is quick to suggest. And his smirk makes me reconsider the stay of execution I had just granted him. If I tackled him, it wouldn’t hurt much; he’s only about three feet off the ground anyway. It probably wouldn’t even leave a bruise . . .
“I forgot about fucking Trevor,” I groan, rubbing harshly at my temples. Trevor is almost as infuriating as Zed. Only, I believe that Trevor does actually have good intentions when it comes to Tessa, which only upsets me even more. It makes him more dangerous.
“So what’s next in Project Self-Improvement?” Landon smiles, but it fades quickly and his expression turns serious. “I’m really proud of you for doing this, you know. It’s nice to see you actually trying for once, instead of making an effort for an hour, then going back to the way you were the moment she forgives you. It’ll mean a lot to her to see you really following through on these changes.”
I drop my feet and rock in the chair slightly. Talking like this is stirring something up in me. “Don’t try to lecture me. I haven’t done shit yet; it’s only been a day.” A long, miserable, lonely day.
Landon’s eyes go wide in sympathy. “No, I’m serious. You didn’t turn to alcohol and you haven’t gotten into a fight, you haven’t been arrested, and I know you came to talk to your dad.”
My mouth drops open. “He told you?” That fucker.
“No, he didn’t tell me. I live here, and I saw your car.”
“Oh . . .”
“I think you talking to him really would mean a lot to Tessa,” he continues.
“Would you just stop?” I say, imploring him with a quick hunch of my shoulders. “Fuck. You’re not my shrink.
Stop acting like you’re better than me and I’m some damaged fucking animal that you need to—”
“Why can’t you just graciously accept a compliment?” Landon says over me. “I never said I was better than you. All I’m trying to do is be there for you as a friend. You don’t have anyone—you said it yourself, and now that you let Tessa move to Seattle, you don’t have a single person to give you moral support.” He stares at me but I look away. “You have to stop pushing people away, Hardin. I know you don’t like me—you hate me because you think I’m somewhat responsible for some of the issues you have with your dad, but I care deeply for Tessa and you, whether you want to hear that or not.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I fire back at him. Why does he always have to say shit like this? I came here to . . . I don’t know, talk to him. Not to talk to him . . . not to have him tell me how much he cares about me.
And why would he care about me, anyway? I’ve been nothing but an asshole to him since the day I met him, but I don’t hate him. Does he really think that I do?
“Well, that’s one of those things you need to work on.” He stands to his feet and walks out of the greenhouse, leaving me alone.
“Fuck.” I kick my foot out in front of me, and it collides with the wooden shelving unit. A crack sounds through the room, and I jump to my feet. “No, no, no!”
I try to catch the flower boxes, clay pots, and random shit before they crash to the floor. Within seconds, all of it—the pieces of all of it—is on the floor. This isn’t fucking happening. I didn’t even mean to break this shit, and here I am with a pile of dirt, flowers, and cracked pots at my feet.
Maybe I can clean some of this shit up before Karen . . .
“Oh my,” I hear her gasp, and I turn to the doorway to see her standing there, a little trowel in her hand.
Fuuuck.
“I didn’t mean to knock them down, I swear. I kicked my foot out and accidentally broke the shelf—and all this shit started falling down, and I tried to catch it!” I frantically explain as Karen rushes over to a pile of broken pottery.
Her hands sift through the rubble, trying to piece together a blue flowerpot that has no chance of ever becoming one again. She doesn’t say anything, but I hear her sniffle, and she lifts her arm to wipe her cheeks with her dirt-covered hands.