by Anna Todd
For every dollar she gives, she’s rewarded with a smile, a “thank you” or “God bless you.” Tessa’s the kind of person who tries to pull the best out of everyone. She gives more of herself than she should and she expects people to be kind, even when it’s not the most accessible part of their nature. I think she sees her small mission as some kind of redemption for her failed relationship with her father, and even with Hardin, who is one of the most difficult people I know. Maybe she couldn’t help those two, but she can help these people. I know it’s naïve, but she’s my best friend and this is one of the only positive things that actually energizes her lately. She doesn’t sleep. Her gray eyes are swollen 99 percent of the time. She’s struggling with getting over a catastrophic breakup, the death of her father, moving to a new place, and not getting accepted into NYU.
That’s a lot for one person to carry on their back. When I met Tessa a year ago, she was so different. Her shell was the same, a beautiful blonde with pretty eyes, a soft voice, and a high GPA. The first time I talked to her, I felt like I had met the female version of myself. We immediately bonded over being the first two to arrive in the lecture hall our first day of college. Tessa and I got closer as her relationship with Hardin developed. I watched as she fell in love with him, and he fell harder, and they both fell apart.
I watched them rip each other apart and then stitch each wound back together. I watched them become one another’s everything, then their nothing, then everything again. I had trouble picking sides during the war. It wasn’t without causalities. It was just too complicated and messy, so now I’m taking my cue from Bella Swan and staying neutral, like Switzerland.
Yikes, I’m referencing Twilight. I need caffeine. Pronto.
When I walk into the kitchen, Tessa is sitting at the small table with her phone in her hand.
“Morning.” I nod to her and switch on the Nespresso machine. I’ve become somewhat of a coffee snob since working at Grind. It helps to have a roommate who’s equally obsessed. Not as picky, but even more addicted than I am.
“Morning, sunshine,” Tessa says distractedly, at first barely glancing up from her phone, but then her eyes go straight to the gash above my eyebrow and concern takes over her expression. After rubbing some Neosporin on it this morning, I was happy to be able to omit the Disney Band-Aid.
“I’m fine, but damn, that was embarrassing.” I grab a pod of Brazilian espresso and push it into the machine. The counter space in here is minimal, and the thing takes up half the room between the off-white fridge and the microwave, but it’s a necessity.
Tessa smiles, biting her lip. “A little,” she agrees, and covers her mouth to stifle her amusement.
I wish she would laugh . . . I want her to remember how it feels.
I glance over at her miniature coffee cup. It’s empty.
“Need a refill? Do you work today?” I ask.
She sighs, picks up her phone, then puts it back down. “I do.” Her eyes are stained with angry red lines again. Bloodshot from the tears soaked into her pillowcase. I didn’t hear crying last night, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t. She’s slightly better at hiding her feelings lately. Or so she thinks.
“Yes to both. Work. And want more coffee. Please,” she clarifies with a half smile. Then she clears her throat and her eyes fall to the table as she asks, “Do you know which days Hardin will be here yet?”
“Not yet. We’re still a few weeks away, so he hasn’t told me. You know how he is.” I shrug my shoulders. If anyone knows Hardin, it’s her.
“You’re sure this is okay, right? Because you know if you aren’t, I can have him stay at a hotel or something,” I offer.
I would never want her to be uncomfortable in her own apartment. Hardin would fight me over this, but I don’t care.
She forces a smile. “No, no. It’s fine. This is your place.”
“And yours,” I remind her.
I put the first cup of espresso into the freezer for Tessa. She’s doing this thing lately where she only drinks cold coffee. My suspicion is that even something as simple as a warm cup of coffee reminds her of that boy.
“I’m going to pick up extra shifts at Lookout. I’m almost done with training anyway. They’re letting me do brunch and dinner today.”
My chest aches for my friend, and for once, my loneliness doesn’t seem so bad compared to the alternative of her shattered heart.
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. I’m fine. It’s been—what?” She shrugs. “Four months
or something?”
She’s lying through her teeth, but nothing good is going to come from me calling her out on it. Sometimes you have to let people feel what they need to feel. Hide what they think they need to hide and process it however they do.
The espresso burns my throat. It’s thick and strong, and suddenly I have more energy than I did two seconds ago. Yes, I’m aware that it’s a mental thing, and no, I don’t care. I throw the little cup into the sink and grab my sweatshirt from the back of the chair. My running shoes are by the door, lined up in a straight row with the other shoes . . . Tessa’s doing.
I slip them on and head out.
chapter
Five
THE AIR IS CRISP and I can actually smell fall in the air. Fall has always been my favorite season. I love waiting for the seasons to change, watching the leaves go from green to brown, smelling the cedar in the air. Football season leads to hockey season, and hockey season leads to my life being interesting for a little while. I’ve always loved waiting for the sports seasons to start, raking the yard with my mom, and jumping into big messy piles of loose leaves, then stuffing them into plastic bags with pumpkin faces printed on them.
We always had so many leaves to deal with because of the two massive birch trees in the front yard. Fall in Michigan never lasted long enough, though. By the third football game, the gloves and coats came out full force. And while I was sad to see fall go, I’ve always liked the bite of the cold air on my skin. Unlike most people, I thrive in winter. For me, the cold means sports, holidays, and a crap load of sweets piled on the kitchen counter. Dakota always hated the cold. The way her nose would turn red and her curly hair would dry out drove her insane. She always looked cute, wrapped up in layers of sweaters, and I swear to you, the girl wore mittens in September.
The best park to run the track in Brooklyn happens to be a bit far from my apartment. McCarren Park joins the two hippest parts of Brooklyn: Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Full beards and lumberjack flannels come out in droves in this part of the city. The locals bring their black-framed glasses and establish tiny little restaurants with dim lighting and small plates of heaven. I don’t quite understand why men in their twenties want to dress like men in their seventies, but the food that surrounds the cool kids here is well worth having to stare into a crowd of men with handlebar mustaches. The walk to my favorite park is a little over twenty minutes, so I usually run there, then run for an hour, and cool down during the walk home.
I pass a woman loading a tiny baby into a running stroller. My knee hurts, but if she can run with a baby in a stroller, I’ll be just fine. Two minutes into running, the ache in my knee shifts into a throbbing, sharp pain. Thirty seconds later, the pain is shooting from muscle to muscle. I feel every step from my fall in the shower. Forget this.
I’m off today, and even if my leg’s acting up, I don’t want to sit in the house on my first Saturday off since I started working. Tessa has to work tonight. In addition to her telling me, I saw it written on her little planner board on the fridge. Deciding to call my mom, I pull my phone out and sit down on a bench. She’s due soon and I can feel her nerves from here. She’ll be the best mom my little sister could be blessed with, whether she believes it or not.
My mom doesn’t answer. Well, my only friend is busy and my mom didn’t answer, meaning I don’t know what to do next. I’m officially a loser. My sneakers hit the pavement and I start counting the steps as
I walk. The pain in my knee isn’t too bad as long as I’m walking instead of pushing my body to run.
“On your left!” a woman running with a stroller calls as she passes me. She’s pregnant and the stroller has two chubby babies inside. This lady has her hands full. This is a trend in Brooklyn—lots of babies and the strollers to match. I’ve even seen people pushing their strollers, baby and all, into bars in the early evening.
I have nothing to do. I’m a twenty-year-old college student living in what is purportedly the greatest city in the world, and I have absolutely nothing to do on my day off.
I feel sorry for myself. Not really, but I would rather wallow and complain about my boring life than attempt to make new friends. I don’t know where to begin making friends. NYU isn’t as friendly as WCU, and if Tessa hadn’t spoken to me first, I probably wouldn’t have made any friends there either. Tessa is the first person I’ve started a friendship with since Carter died.
Hardin isn’t included in this because that was a much more complicated situation to start. He acted like he hated me, but I had a feeling it wasn’t as clear-cut as it seemed even then. Really, it was more that he felt the relationship between his dad and me was the epitome of everything that was wrong in his life. He was jealous, and I understand that now. It wasn’t fair that I got the new and improved version of his previously alcoholic, emotionally abusive father. He loathed me for our shared love of sports. He hated the way his dad moved my mom and me into a big house, and he despised the car his dad bought me to drive. I knew he would be a difficult part of my new life, but I had no idea that I would be able to identify with his anger and see through his pain. I didn’t grow up in a perfect home like he had assumed.
I had a father who died before I had a chance to know him, and everyone around me tried to make up for that. My mom filled my childhood with stories about the man, trying to make up for his early death. His name was Allen Michael, and by her report he was a well-liked man with long brown hair and big dreams. He wanted to be a rock star, my mom told me. Stories like that made me miss him without even knowing him. He was a humble man, she says, who passed away from natural causes at the unfairly young age of twenty-five, when I was only two. I would have been lucky to know him, but I didn’t get the chance. Hardin’s pain came from a different beast, but I’ve always believed that suffering is one thing people shouldn’t compare.
The biggest difference between my upbringing and Hardin’s is due to our mothers. My mom was fortunate enough to have a good job with the city, and we were able to fall back on my dad’s life insurance from his factory job. Hardin’s mom worked long hours and barely brought in enough money to support the two of them. They had it much, much worse.
It’s hard for me to imagine my stepfather, Ken, the way Hardin knew him. To me, he’ll always be the kind, lighthearted, and sober man he is today—the chancellor of WCU, no less. He’s done so much for my mom and he loves her as much as anyone could. He loves her more than liquor, and Hardin hated that, but now he understands that it was never a competition. If Ken could have, he would have chosen his son over the bottle long ago. But sometimes people just aren’t as strong as we want them to be. All of Hardin’s pain festered and grew into a fire that he couldn’t contain. When everything hit the fan, and Hardin—and the rest of us—found out that Ken isn’t his birth father, the fire took one final massive breath and burned him one last time. He made the choice after that to take control of his life, his actions, and himself.
Whatever his therapist is doing is working, and I’m glad. And it’s done wonders for my mom, who loves that angry boy as if she gave birth to him.
I pass a couple holding hands as they walk their dog and feel even sorrier for myself. Should I be dating? I wouldn’t even know where to start. I want the convenience of having someone around all the time, but I’m not sure I could actually date anyone other than Dakota. The whole dating game just seems so grueling, and it’s only been six months since she broke up with me. Is she dating? Does she want to? I can’t imagine anyone ever knowing me better than her, or making me as happy as she did. She has known me so long and it would take years for anyone to know me as well as she does . . . As she did.
I know I don’t have years to wait; I’m not getting any younger here. But thoughts like that aren’t helping me move on.
The couple stops for a kiss and I look away, smiling because I’m happy for them. I’m happy for the strangers who don’t have to spend their nights alone, jerking off in the shower.
Gah, I sound bitter.
I sound like Hardin.
Speaking of Hardin, I can call him and blow at least five minutes before he hangs up on me. I pull my phone from my pocket and tap on his name.
“Yeah?” he says before the second ring.
“One of your famous warm hellos.” I cross the street, continuing my aimless trek in the general direction of my neighborhood. I should get to know this area better anyway; may as well start today.
“Warm as I’m gonna get. Do you need something in particular?”
An angry cabdriver shouts out of his window at an elderly woman as she slowly crosses the street in front of his car.
“I’m looking at your future self, actually,” I tell him, laughing at my insult. I watch the scene in front of me to be sure the woman makes it across okay.
He doesn’t laugh or ask what the hell I’m talking about.
“I’m bored and wanted to talk about your trip here,” I say into the phone.
“What about it? I haven’t booked the flight yet, but I’ll be there around the thirtieth.”
“Of September?”
“Obviously.”
I can practically see his eyes roll from here. “Are you staying in a hotel, or at my apartment?”
The old woman reaches the other side of the street and I watch as she goes up some steps and into what I assume is her place.
“What does she want me to do?” His voice is low, cautious. He doesn’t have to say her name, hasn’t in a while.
“She says she’s fine with you staying at the apartment, but if she changes her mind, you know you have to go.”
I don’t draw many lines between the two of them, but Tessa is my priority in this situation. She’s the one I hear crying at night. She’s the one who’s trying to become whole again. I’m no fool—Hardin is probably even worse off. But he has found himself a support system and a good therapist.
“Yeah, I fucking know that.”
I’m not in the least surprised by his annoyance. He can’t stand anyone, including me, coming to Tessa’s rescue. That’s his job, he thinks. Even though he’s the one I’m protecting her from.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid. I have a few meetings and wanted to maybe hang out with you and her a bit. Honestly, I’m just happy to be in the same fucking state as her.”
I focus on the first part of his sentence. “What kind of meetings? You’re trying to move here already?”
I sure hope not. I’m not ready to be in the middle of a war zone again. I thought I would have at least a few more months before the magical forces of insanity brought those two back together.
“Fuck no. It’s just some shit for something I’ve been working on. I’ll tell you when I have time to explain the whole thing, which is not now. Someone’s calling on my other line.” He hangs up before I can respond.
I look at the time on my screen. Five minutes and twelve seconds, a record. I cross the street and shove my phone back into my pocket. When I reach the corner, I look around to gauge where I am. Rows of brick town houses and brownstones line both sides of the street. At the end of the block, a small art gallery shows prints of brightly colored abstract shapes hanging from string through its window. I haven’t been inside, but I can only guess how expensive the pieces are.
“Landon!” a familiar voice yells from across the street.
I search the sidewalk and see Dakota. Damn that woman and her lack of clothing. She’s dressed th
e same as yesterday: tight spandex, workout shorts, and a sports bra. Her chest is on the smaller side, but she has the perkiest tits I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen a lot of them, but hers are amazing.
She starts waving at me as she crosses the intersection, and if this isn’t some sort of fate-driven meet-up, I don’t know what is.
chapter
Six
WHEN SHE REACHES ME, Dakota immediately wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me to her. Our embrace lasts a few beats longer than usual, and when she pulls away, she leans her head on my arm. She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, though I always liked to tease that her hair, that wild mass of curls, adds four inches onto her driver’s license stats.
Her nose is red and her hair is particularly wild. It’s not cold yet, but it’s windy and air off the nearby East River adds a chill. She’s not dressed for the fall weather; in fact, she’s not wearing much of anything. I’m not complaining.
“What are you doing over on this side of the tracks?” I ask.
She lives in Manhattan, yet this is the second time I’ve seen her in Brooklyn this week.
“Running. Crossed the Manhattan Bridge, then just kept trucking.” Her eyes meet mine and then quickly dart to my forehead. “What the hell happened to your face?” Her fingers press against my skin and I wince.
“It’s a long story.” I touch over the sensitive spot with my fingers and feel the knot next to the cut.
“Did you get in a street brawl on the way here?” she teases, and a tingling blossoms in my chest, me missing her even though she’s standing right here.