by Anna Todd
“Oh, yeah. Landon came by.”
“Oh . . .” But then we hear his mother in the living room, and he moves to go. He stops before walking through the door and turns to me. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”
I sigh. “Me either.”
At that, he nods, and we both get up to join his mother in the other room.
chapter twenty-four
TESSA
When Hardin and I enter the living room, his mother is sitting on the couch with her wet hair pulled into a bun. She looks so young for her age, so stunning. “We should rent some movies, and I’ll make dinner for all of us!” she exclaims. “Don’t you miss my cooking, dumpling?”
Hardin rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Sure. Best cook ever.”
This couldn’t possibly be more awkward.
“Hey! I’m not that bad.” She laughs. “And I think you just talked yourself into being chef tonight.”
I shift uncomfortably, unsure how to behave around Hardin unless we’re together or fighting. This is an odd place for us, though I suddenly realize this is a pattern of ours: Karen and Ken had been under the impression that we were dating before we actually were.
“Can you cook, Tessa?” Trish asks, breaking my thoughts. “Or is it Hardin, too?”
“Um, we both do. Maybe more ‘preparing’ than cooking, really,” I answer.
“I’m glad to hear that you’re taking care of my boy, and this apartment is so nice, too. I suspect Tessa does the cleaning,” she teases.
I’m not “taking care of her boy,” since that’s what he’s missing out on for hurting me the way he did. “Yeah . . . he’s a slob,” I answer.
Hardin looks down at me with a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m not a slob—she’s just too clean.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s a slob,” Trish and I say in unison.
“Are we going to watch a movie or pick on me all night?” Hardin is pouting.
I sit down before Hardin does so I don’t have to make the uncomfortable decision about where to sit. I can see him eyeing the couch and me, silently deciding what to do. After a moment, he sits right next to me, so I feel the familiar heat from his proximity.
“What do you want to watch?” his mother asks us.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hardin replies.
“You can choose.” I try to soften his answer.
She smiles at me before choosing 50 First Dates, a movie I’m sure Hardin will hate.
And right on cue, Hardin groans as it begins. “This movie is old as shit.”
“Shhh,” I say, and he huffs but stays quiet.
I catch him staring at me several times while Trish and I laugh and sigh along with the movie. I’m actually enjoying myself, and for a few moments I almost forget everything that has happened between Hardin and me. It’s hard not to lean into Hardin, not to touch his hands, not to move his hair when it falls onto his forehead.
“I’m hungry,” he mumbles when the movie ends.
“Why don’t you and Tessa cook, since I had such a long flight?” Trish smiles.
“You’re really milking this long-flight thing, aren’t you?” he says to her.
She nods with a wry smile that I’ve seen on Hardin’s face a few times.
“I can cook, it’s okay,” I offer and stand up. I walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter. I grip the edges of the marble countertop harder than necessary, trying to catch my breath. I don’t know how long I can do this, pretend that Hardin didn’t destroy everything, pretend that I love him. I do love him, I am miserably in love with him. The problem is not my lack of feelings toward this moody, egotistical boy. The problem is that I’ve given him so many chances, always dismissing the hateful things that he says and does. But this time it’s too much.
“Hardin, be a gentleman and help her,” I hear Trish say, and I rush over to the freezer to pretend like I wasn’t having a mini breakdown.
“Um . . . I can help?” His voice carries through the small kitchen.
“Okay . . .” I answer.
“Popsicles?” he asks, and I look at the object in my hands. I had meant to grab chicken, but I was distracted.
“Yeah. Everyone likes Popsicles, right?” I say, and he smiles, revealing those evil dimples of his.
I can do this. I can be around Hardin. I can be nice to him, and we can get along.
“You should make that chicken pasta that you made for me,” I suggest.
His green eyes focus on me. “That’s what you want to eat?”
“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Of course not.”
“You’re being so weird today,” I whisper so our houseguest doesn’t hear.
“No, I’m not.” He shrugs and steps toward me.
My heart begins to race as he leans in. As I move to step away, he grabs the door to the freezer and pulls it open.
I thought he was going to kiss me. What the hell is wrong with me?
We cook dinner in almost complete silence, neither of us knowing what to say. My eyes watching him the entire time, the way his long fingers curl around the base of the knife to chop the chicken and the vegetables, the way he closes his eyes when the steam from the boiling water hits his face, the way his tongue swipes the corners of his mouth when he tastes the sauce. I know that observing him like this isn’t conducive to being impartial, or healthy in any way, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll set the table while you tell your mom it’s ready,” I say when it’s finally done.
“What? I’ll just call her.”
“No, that’s rude. Just go get her,” I say.
He rolls his eyes but obeys anyway, only to return seconds later, alone. “She’s asleep,” he tells me.
I heard him, but I still ask, “What?”
“Yeah, she’s passed out on the couch. Should I just wake her up?”
“No . . . She had a long day. I’ll put some food away for her so whenever she gets up she can eat. It’s sort of late anyway.”
“It’s eight.”
“Yeah . . . that’s late.”
“I guess.” His voice is flat.
“What is with you? I know this is uncomfortable and all, but you are being so weird,” I say as I put food on two plates without thinking.
“Thanks.” he says and grabs one before sitting down at the table.
I grab a fork from the drawer and opt to stand at the counter to eat. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” He grabs a forkful of chicken and digs in.
“Why you’re being so . . . quiet and . . . nice. It’s weird.”
He takes a moment to chew then swallow before he answers. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“Oh” is all I can think to say. Well, that’s not what I expected to hear.
He turns the tables on me then. “So why are you being so nice and weird?”
“Because your mother is here and what happened, happened—there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can’t hold on to that anger forever.” I lean against the counter on my elbow.
“So what does that mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying that I want to be civil and not fight anymore. It doesn’t change anything between us.” I bite my cheek to keep my eyes from tearing up.
Instead of saying anything, Hardin stands up and throws his plate into the sink. The porcelain splits down the middle with a loud crack that causes me to jump. Hardin doesn’t flinch or even turn back around as he stalks off to the bedroom.
I peer into the living room to make sure that his impulsive behavior hasn’t woken up his mother. Fortunately, she’s still asleep, her mouth slightly open in a way that makes her resemblance to her son all the stronger.
As usual, I’m left to clean up the mess that Hardin made. I load the dishwasher and put away the leftovers before wiping down the counter. I’m exhausted, mentally more than physically, but I need to take a shower and go to bed. But where the hell am
I going to sleep? Hardin is in the bedroom and Trish is on the couch. Maybe I should just drive back to the motel.
I turn the heat up a little and switch off the light in the living room. When I walk into the bedroom to get my pajamas, Hardin is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up, so I grab a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and panties from my bag before exiting the room. As I hit the doorway, I hear what sounds like a muffled sob.
Is Hardin crying?
He isn’t. He couldn’t be.
On the off chance that he is, I can’t leave the room. I pad back to the bed and stand in front of him. “Hardin?” I say quietly and try to remove his hands from his face. He resists, but I pull harder. “Look at me,” I beg.
The breath is knocked out of me when he does. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are soaked with tears. I try to take his hands in mine, but he jerks away. “Just go, Tessa,” he says.
I’ve heard him say that too many times. “No,” I say and kneel down between his opened legs.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. “This was a bad idea. I’m going to tell my mum in the morning.”
“You don’t have to.” I’ve seen him let out a few tears before, but never full-on, body-shaking, tears-streaming-down-his-face crying.
“Yeah, I do. This is torture for me to have you so close but so far. It’s the worst possible punishment. Not that I don’t deserve it, because I know I do, but it’s too much,” he sobs. “Even for me.” He draws in a deep, desperate breath. “When you agreed to stay . . . I thought that maybe . . . maybe you still cared for me the way I do for you. But I see it, Tess, I see the way you look at me now. I see the pain I’ve caused. I see the change in you because of me. I know that I did this, but it still kills me to have you slip through my fingers.” The tears come much faster now, falling against his black T-shirt.
I want to say something—anything—to make this stop. To make his pain go away.
But where was he when I was crying myself to sleep night after night?
“You want me to go?” I ask, and he nods.
His rejection hurts, even now. I know I shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this, but I need more. I need more time with him. Even dangerous, painful time is better than no time. I wish I didn’t love him, that I had never met him.
But I did. And I do love him.
“Okay.” I swallow and stand up.
His hand grips my wrist to stop me. “I’m sorry. For everything, for hurting you, for everything,” he says, goodbye thick in his tone.
As much as I resist this, I know deep down that I’m not ready for him to give up on me. On the other hand, I’m not ready to easily forgive him either. I’ve been in a constant state of confusion for days, but today takes the cake.
“I . . .” I stop myself.
“What?”
“I don’t want to go,” I say so low that I’m not sure he even heard me.
“What?” he asks again.
“I don’t want to go. I know I should, but I don’t want to. Not tonight at least.” I swear I can see the pieces of the broken man in front of me slowly come back together, one by one. It’s a beautiful sight, but terrifying deep in my soul, too.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know what it means, but I’m not ready to find out either,” I say, hoping to be able to get at this feeling by talking about it.
Hardin looks at me blankly, his earlier sobs nowhere to be find. Robotically, he wipes his face with his shirt and says, “Okay. You can sleep on the bed, I’ll take the floor.”
As he grabs two pillows and the throw blanket from the bed, my mind can’t help but entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, all those tears were for show. Still, somehow I know that they couldn’t have been.
chapter twenty-five
TESSA
Tucked like I am under our comforter, the thought that keeps going through my mind is that I never, ever would have thought I’d witness anything like that from Hardin. He was so raw, so vulnerable, as his body shook with tears. I feel like the dynamic between Hardin and me is constantly shifting, so that one of us is always gaining an upper hand over the other. Right now, I would be the one in control.
But I don’t want to be. And I don’t like this dynamic. Love shouldn’t be such a battle. Besides, I don’t trust myself to be in control of what happens between us. Up until a few hours ago I had it all figured out, but now, after seeing him so shaken up, my mind is muddled and my thoughts clouded.
Even in the darkness, I can feel Hardin’s eyes on me. When I let out the breath I realized I was holding, he quickly asks, “Do you want me to turn the television on?”
“No. If you want to, you can, but I’m okay,” I answer.
I wish that I had grabbed my e-reader so I could read until I fell asleep. Maybe observing the ruination of Catherine and Heathcliff’s lives would make mine seem easier, less traumatic. Catherine spent her whole life trying to fight her love for that man, on and off until the day she begged for his forgiveness and claimed she could not live without him—only to die hours later. I could live without Hardin, couldn’t I? I won’t spend my entire life fighting this. This is only temporary . . . Right? We won’t bring ourselves and others misery because of our stubbornness and hard heads, right? I’m bothered by the uncertainty of this parallel, especially since it means I start comparing Trevor to Edgar. I don’t know how to feel about this. It’s awkward.
“Tess?” my very own Heathcliff calls, wresting me away from my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I croak.
“I didn’t fuck . . . sleep with Molly,” he says, as if correcting his foul language makes the statement any less shocking.
I stay silent, partly stunned by him talking about this, partly because I want to believe him. But I can’t allow myself to forget that he’s a master of deception.
“I swear it,” he adds.
Oh, well, if he “swears” it . . . “Why did you say that, then?” I ask harshly.
“To hurt you. I was just so mad because you said you kissed someone, so I just said the thing that I knew would hurt you the most.”
I can’t see Hardin, but somehow I know that he’s lying on his back, his arms crossed, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. “Did you really kiss someone?” he asks before I can respond.
“Yeah,” I admit. But when I hear the suction of a deep breath, I try to soften the blow by adding, “Only once.”
“Why?” His voice is cool yet heated. It’s a strange sound.
“I honestly have no idea . . . I was mad because of how you were acting on the phone, and I had way too much to drink. So I danced with this guy, and he kissed me.”
“You danced with him? Danced how?” he asks.
I roll my eyes at Hardin’s needing to know every detail of what I do, even when we aren’t together. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
His words thicken the air between us again. “Yes, I do.”
“Hardin, we just danced like people do at a club. Then he kissed me and tried to get me to go home with him.” I stare at the blades on the ceiling fan. I know that if we keep talking about this, they will eventually be forced to stop, unable to cut through the tension.
I try to change the subject. “Thank you for the e-reader. It was very thoughtful.”
“He tried to get you to go home with him? Did you?” I hear him shuffling, giving me an indication that he’s now sitting up.
I remain flat against the mattress. “Do you even have to ask that? You know I would never do that,” I snap.
“Well, I never thought you would be kissing and dancing at a club either,” he barks.
After a few beats of silence I speak. “I don’t think you want to get started on the unexpected.”
The blankets shuffle again, and I can feel him right next to me. That voice is right next to me. “Tell me, please tell me, that you didn’t.”
He sits down on the bed next to me and I move away from him. “You know I didn’t. I saw you later that night.”
“I need to hear you say it.” His voice is harsh but pleading. “Say that you only kissed him once and you haven’t spoken to him since.”
“I only kissed him once and I haven’t spoken to him since,” I repeat, only because I know he desperately needs to hear the words.
I keep my eyes focused on the swirl of ink poking out from the low collar of his shirt. Having him on the bed soothes me and burns me all at once. I can’t stand the internal battle I’m stuck in the middle of.
“Is there anything else I should know?” he asks softly.
“No,” I lie. I am not telling him about the date with Trevor. Nothing happened and it’s none of Hardin’s business. I like Trevor, and I want to keep him safe from the time bomb that is Hardin.
“You sure?”
“Hardin . . . I don’t really think you’re in the position to be hounding me,” I say and look into his eyes. I can’t help it.
“I know,” he surprises me by saying.
When he moves off of the bed, I try to ignore the emptiness that takes me over.
chapter twenty-six
HARDIN
Today has been hell. A hell that I welcomed with open arms, but hell all the same. I never expected to see Tessa when I came home from the airport. I had come up with a simple lie: my girlfriend wouldn’t be available because she’d be out of town all week for Christmas. My mum had whined a little but didn’t ask too many questions or push my story. She had been so thrilled—and surprised, really—that I had a woman in my life. I think her and my father both expected me to be alone my entire life. Then again, so did I.
I find it amusing, in a twisted way, that I can’t go a second without thinking of this girl, when up until three months ago I wanted to be alone. I never knew what I was missing, and now that I found it, I can’t let it go. It’s only her, though; no matter what I do, I can’t shake her.
I tried to stop, tried to forget about her, tried to move on . . . and it was a disaster. The perfectly nice blonde that I took out Saturday night wasn’t Tessa. No one would ever be. Sure, she looked like her, even dressed like her. She blushed when I cursed and seemed a little afraid of me throughout our dinner. She was nice enough, yeah, but she was boring.