by Anna Todd
Zed rubs her arms to calm her, and rage rips through me. I dig into my pocket and pull out my lighter. Neither of them notice; they just cling to each other as my thumb flicks over the lighter. The small flame is familiar, an old friend now, as I bring the flame to the curtain. My eyes close as Tessa’s face is illuminated by the angry flames consuming the room.
“HARDIN!” MARK’S FACE is the first thing I see when my eyes fly open. I push his face away and fling myself from the couch and fall onto the floor in a panic.
Tessa was . . . and I was . . .
“You were having one hell of a dream, man.” Mark shakes his head at me. “Are you okay? You’re soaked.”
I blink a few times and run my hands through my sweat-drenched hair. My hand is killing me. I figured the bruising would lighten up by now, but it hasn’t.
“Are you okay?”
“I . . .” I have to get out of here. I have to go somewhere or do something. The image of the room in flames is burned into my memory.
“Take this and go back to sleep; it’s four in the morning.” He pulls the top off a plastic bottle and drops a single pill into my sweaty palm.
I nod, unable to speak. I dry-swallow the pill and lie back on the couch. Eyeing me one last time, Mark disappears back into his bedroom, and I pull my phone from my pocket and look at Tessa’s picture.
Before I can stop myself, my finger is running over the call button. I know I shouldn’t, but if I can just hear her voice once, maybe I’ll sleep peacefully.
“Your call cannot be completed as dialed . . .” a robotic voice intones coldly. What? I check my screen and try again. Same message. Again and again.
She couldn’t have changed her number. She wouldn’t . . .
“Your call cannot be . . .” I hear for the tenth time.
Tessa changed her number. She changed her phone number, to make sure I can’t reach her.
When I fall asleep again, hours later, I’m met with a different dream. It begins the same, with me coming home to that apartment, but this time no one is home.
chapter eighteen
HARDIN
You still haven’t let me finish what I started on Sunday.” Janine leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. I move over on the couch a little to get away from her, but taking it as a sign that maybe we’re going to lie down together or something, she only moves closer.
“I’m good.” I turn her down for the hundredth time in the past four days. Has it really been only four days?
Fuck.
Time needs to move faster, or I don’t know if I’ll survive.
“You need to loosen up. I can help you with that.” Her fingers trail down my bare back. I haven’t showered in days, or worn a shirt. I couldn’t bring myself to put the damn thing back on after Janine wore it. It smelled like her, not like my angel.
Fucking Tessa. I’m going crazy. I can feel the hinges holding my mind in one piece being pulled farther, ready to snap completely.
This is what happens every time I sober up—she creeps into my mind. The nightmare I was tortured with last night still haunts me. I would never hurt her, not physically. I love her. Loved her. Fuck, I still love her and I always will, but there isn’t shit I can do about it.
I can’t fight every day of my life to be perfect for her. I’m not what she needs, and I never will be.
“I need a drink,” I tell Janine. She gets up from the couch languorously and goes into the kitchen. But when another unwelcomed thought of Tessa intrudes, I yell out, “Hurry up.”
She walks in holding a bottle of whiskey, but stops and gives me a look. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? If you’re going to be an asshole, you can at least make it worth my while.”
I haven’t left this apartment since I arrived, not even to walk down and get a change of clothes from my rental car.
“I still say your hand is broken,” James says as he walks into the living room, interrupting my thoughts. “Carla knows what she’s talking about. You should just go to the clinic.”
“No, I’m fine.” I ball my fist and splay my fingers to prove the point. I flinch and curse at the ache. I know it’s broken, I just don’t want to do shit about it. I have been self-medicating for four days now; a few more won’t hurt.
“It’s never going to heal if you don’t. Just go real quick, and when you get back, you can have that bottle to yourself,” James insists. I miss the asshole James. The James who would fuck a chick and show the tape to the chick’s boyfriend an hour later. This concerned-for-my-health James is annoying as fuck.
“Yeah, Hardin, he’s right,” Janine butts in, moving the whiskey behind her back.
“Fine! Fuck,” I grumble. I grab my keys and phone and leave the apartment. I grab a shirt from the backseat of the rental and throw it on before heading to the hospital.
THE WAITING ROOM is crowded with too many noisy children, and I’m stuck in the only empty seat, which is next to a whiny homeless man who got his foot run over.
“How long have you been waiting?” I ask the man.
He smells like garbage, but I can’t say shit, because I probably smell worse than he does. He reminds me of Richard, and I wonder how he is doing in rehab. Tessa’s father is in rehab, and here I am drowning myself in liquor and clouding my mind with excessive amounts of pot and the occasional pill from Mark. The world is an amazing place.
“Two hours,” the man responds.
“Fucking hell,” I mumble to myself and stare at the wall. I should have known not to come here at eight at night.
Thirty minutes later, my homeless companion’s name is called, and I’m relieved to be able to breathe from my nose again.
“My fiancée is in labor,” a man announces as he enters the lobby. He’s dressed in a neatly pressed button-down shirt and khaki pants. He looks oddly familiar.
When a petite and very pregnant brunette steps out from behind him, I sink lower in the plastic chair. Of course this would be happening. I would be on a bender, getting my broken hand looked at, at the exact moment she goes into labor and arrives at the hospital.
“Can you help us?” he says, pacing back and forth frantically. “She needs a wheelchair! Her water broke twenty minutes ago, and her contractions are only five minutes apart!”
His antics are making the other patients in the waiting room start to get a little anxious, but the pregnant woman just laughs and wraps her hand around her man’s. But then, that’s Natalie for you.
“I’m okay to walk, I’m fine. It’s okay.” Natalie explains to the nurse that her fiancé, Elijah, is more panicked than necessary. While he continues to pace, and she remains calm, almost hostesslike, I laugh from my seat, and Natalie looks over to find me staring.
A big smile fills her face. “Hardin! What a coincidence!” Is this the pregnant-woman glow people are always going on about?
“Hey,” I say, looking everywhere except her fiancé’s face.
“I hope you’re well.” She comes closer to me while her guy talks to the nurse. “I met your Tessa just the other day. Is she here with you?” Natalie asks, searching the lobby.
Shouldn’t she be like screaming in pain or something? “No, she’s, uhm . . .” I begin to make up an explanation, but right then another nurse steps from behind the check-in station and says, “Miss, we’re ready for you.”
“Oh, hear that? The show must go on.” Natalie turns, but then looks over her shoulder and waves at me. “It was good to see you, Hardin!”
I sit there, my mouth agape.
This must be some sick joke from above. I can’t help but be a little happy for the girl; her life wasn’t completely ruined by me . . . Here she is, smiling and madly in love, ready to have her first child while I sit alone, smelling and wounded in the crowded waiting room.
Karma has finally caught up to me.
chapter nineteen
TESSA
Thank you for following me here. I just wanted to drop the car off and grab the
last of my things,” I tell Landon through the passenger window of his car.
I was conflicted when it came to where to leave the car. I didn’t want to leave it parked at Ken’s house, because I was afraid of what Har—he . . . will say or do when he eventually shows up to get it. Parking it in the lot at the apartment makes more sense; it’s a nice, well-patrolled area, and I don’t think anyone will mess with it without being caught.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come up there with you? I could help you carry stuff down,” Landon offers.
“No, I’ll go alone. I only have a few things anyway. It will only take one trip. Thank you, though.” All of which is the truth, but the truth-truth is that I just want to say goodbye to our old place on my own. On my own: it feels more natural that way now.
When I walk into the lobby, I try not to let old memories flood my mind. I think of nothing—blank white spaces and white flowers and white carpet and white walls. No thoughts of him. Only white spaces and flowers and walls, not him.
My mind has another plan for me, however, and slowly the white walls are streaked with black, the carpet is soiled with black paint, and the flowers rot into black waste leaves and flake away.
I’m only here to grab a few things, only one box of clothes and a folder from school, that’s it. I’ll be in and out in five minutes. Five minutes isn’t long enough to get sucked back into the darkness.
It’s been four days now, and I’m only growing stronger. It’s getting easier to breathe with each second that passes without him. Going back here, to this place, could end up being a terrible blow to my progress, but I need to get this over with if I want to move on and never look back. I’m going to New York.
I’m going to forgo summer-semester classes, like I’d been considering, and get to know the city that will be my home, at least for a few years. Once I’m there, I’m not leaving until I graduate from college. Another transfer on my transcripts will only make me look bad, so I have to stay in one place until I finish. And that place will be New York City. It’s a scary thought, and my mother won’t be happy about the move, but it’s not up to her. It’s up to me, and I’m finally making decisions based solely on my needs and my future. My father will be finished with his rehab program by the time I get settled in, and if it’s possible, I’d love for him to come visit me and Landon.
I begin to panic just thinking about my lack of preparations for this move, but Landon is going to help me sort out all of the details; we have spent the last two days applying for grant after grant. Ken has drafted and sent out a recommendation letter, and Karen has been helping me google part-time jobs. Sophia has been over every day, too, filling me in on the hottest spots in town and warning me of the dangers of living in such a massive city. She was sweet enough to offer to speak with her boss about helping me get a job as a hostess at the restaurant she’ll be at herself.
Ken, Karen, and Landon recommended that I just transfer to the new Vance Publishing branch that will be opening within the next few months. Living in New York City without an income will be impossible, but it’s just as impossible to get a paid internship without graduating college first. I still haven’t talked to Kimberly about my move, but she has so much going on right now and they just returned from London. I’ve barely heard from her, only a text here and there, but she assures me she will call as soon as everything settles down.
Pushing my key into the lock of our apartment, it hits me that a hatred for the space has taken root since I was last here, making it hard for me to believe that I ever loved this place so much. Entering, I see the light is on in the living room: just like him to leave it on before going on an international trip.
I guess it was only a week ago, though. Time is tricky when you’re in hell.
I walk straight to the bedroom and into the closet to grab the folder I came for. No reason to draw this out any longer than needed. The manila folder isn’t on the shelf where I remember its being, so I’m left sifting through piles of Hardin’s work. He probably shoved the folder into the closet while attempting to clean the messy room.
That old shoe box is still on the shelf, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I reach for it, pull it down, and sit cross-legged on the floor. I lift the top off and set it aside. The box is full of page after page of his handwriting scribbled in random lines, covering the front and back of the pages. I notice that some of the pages are typed, and I choose one of those to read.
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.
I immediately recognize the words of Austen. I read through a few pages, recognizing quote after quote, lie after lie, so I reach for one of the handwritten pages instead.
That day, day five, is when the weight appeared on my chest. A constant reminder of what I have done, and most likely lost. I should have called her that day while staring at her pictures. Did she stare at mine? She only has one to this day, and ironically I found myself wishing I would have allowed her to take more. Day five was when I threw my phone against the wall in the hopes of smashing it, but I only managed to crack the screen. Day five is when I desperately wished she would call me. If she called me then it would be okay, everything would be okay. We would both apologize and I would go home.
As I read through the paragraph for the second time, my eyes threaten to spill tears.
Why am I torturing myself by reading this? He must have written this long ago, right after he returned from London the last time. He has changed his mind completely and wants nothing to do with me, and finally I’m okay with that. I have to be. I’ll read one more paragraph and I’ll put the lid back on the box, only one more, I promise myself.
Day six I woke with swollen and bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t believe the way I broke down the previous night. The weight on my chest had magnified and I could barely see straight. Why am I such a fuckup? Why did I continue to treat her like shit? She is the first person who has ever been able to see me, inside of me, the real me, and I treated her like shit. I blame her for everything when in reality it was me. It was always me, even when I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I was. I was rude to her when she tried to talk to me about things, I yelled at her when she called me out on my bullshit, and I lied to her repeatedly. She has forgiven me for everything, always. I could always count on that and maybe that’s why I treated her the way I did, because I knew I could. I smashed my phone under my boot on day six.
That’s it. I can’t read any more without breaking every ounce of strength I have built since I left him in London. I toss the pages back into the box and slam the lid down. Unwelcome tears spill from my traitorous eyes, and I can’t get out of here fast enough. I would rather call the administrative office and get reprints of all my transcripts than spend another minute in this apartment.
I leave the shoe box on the floor of the closet and walk across the hall to the bathroom to check my makeup before I go back downstairs and face Landon. Pushing the door open, I turn the light on, yelping in surprise when my foot catches on something.
Someone . . .
My blood turns to ice, and I try to focus on the body on the floor of the bathroom. This isn’t happening.
Please, God, don’t let it be . . .
And when my eyes focus, half of a prayer is answered. It’s not the boy who left me that’s lying still on the floor at my feet.
It’s my father, with a needle sticking out of his arm and no color in his face. Which means half of my nightmares have been fulfilled instead.
chapter twenty
HARDIN
The pudgy doctor’s glasses are hanging from the bridge of his nose, and I can practically smell the judgment radiating off him. I assume he’s still mad that I flew off the handle after be
ing asked “Are you sure you hit a wall?” for the tenth time. I know what he’s thinking, and he can fuck off.
“You have a metacarpal fracture,” he informs me.
“English, please?” I mumble. I’ve calmed, for the most part, but I’m still beyond pissed-off by his questioning and hard stares. Working in the busiest clinic in London, he has surely seen worse than me, but he still glares at me every chance he gets.
“Bro-ken,” he says in a slow voice. “Your hand is broken, and you’ll need to wear a cast for a few weeks. I’ll give you a prescription to help manage the pain, but you’ll just have to wait it out, wait for the bones to knit back together.”
I don’t know which is more laughable, the idea of wearing a cast or that he seems to think I need help managing my pain. There’s nothing that any pharmacist can dole out that’ll help with my pain. Unless they’ve got a selfless blonde with blue-gray eyes on their shelves, they’ve got nothing for me.
AN HOUR LATER my hand and wrist are covered in a thick plaster. I tried not to laugh in the old man’s face when he asked me what color cast I wanted. I remember being young and wishing to have a cast for all my friends to sign their names and draw stupid pictures in permanent marker across; too bad I didn’t have any friends until I found my place with Mark and James.
Those two are so different now than they were as teens. I mean, Mark is still a dipshit, his brain fried from too many drugs. Nothing will reverse that. But the changes in both men are quite evident. James is pussy-whipped by some med student, which is something I would never have expected. Mark is still wild, still living in a world without consequence, but he’s softer now, more relaxed, and comfortable with living the way he is. Sometime in the last three years they both lost the hardness that used to cover them like a blanket. No, like a shield. I don’t know what caused that change in them, but given my current situation, I don’t welcome it. I expected the same assholes from three years ago, but those blokes are nowhere to be found.