“She’s sort of a B-word,” I say, not wanting to say the real word in front of Trish.
“Oh yeah, she’s a bitch. I’ll say it for you.” She laughs, and I join in.
TRISH COOKS CHICKEN TACOS for dinner, and we make small talk about Christmas, the weather, and everything else except what is actually on my mind: Hardin.
Eventually, I feel like it’s literally killing me not to call him and tell him to come home now.
“Do you think he’s ‘stirred’ long enough?” I say, not admitting that I’ve been counting the minutes.
“No, but it’s not my choice,” his mother says.
“I have to.”
I leave the kitchen to call Hardin. When he answers, the surprise in his voice is evident. “Tessa?”
“Hardin, we still have a lot to discuss, but I would like it if you could come home so we can talk.”
“Already? Yeah—yeah, of course!” He rushes the words. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“Okay,” I say and hang up. I don’t have much time to go over everything in my head before he arrives. I need to stand my ground and make sure that he knows what he did is wrong but that I love him anyway.
I pace back and forth across the chilled concrete floor, waiting. After what seems like an hour, the front door opens, and I listen as his boots thud down the small hallway.
When he opens the bedroom door, my heart breaks for the thousandth time.
His eyes are swollen and bloodshot. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over and places a small object in my hand. Paper?
I look up at him as he closes my fist around the folded-up paper. “Read it before you make up your mind,” he says softly. Then, with a swift kiss to my temple, he goes into the living room.
chapter forty-three
TESSA
As I unfold the paper, my eyes widen in surprise. The entirety of the sheet is covered with black scribbles, front and back. It’s a letter—a handwritten letter from Hardin.
I’m almost afraid to read it . . . but I know that I must.
Tess,
Since I’m not good with words when trying to relate my inner life, I may have stolen some from Mr. Darcy, whom you fancy so much. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten: and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice . . .
I know that I’ve done so many fucked-up things to you, and that I in no way deserve you, but I’m asking—no, begging—you to please look past the things that I have done. I know I ask too much of you, always, and I’m sorry for that. If I could take it all back, I would. I know you are angry and disappointed by my actions, and that kills me. Instead of making excuses for the way I am, I’m going to tell you about me, the me that you never knew. I’m starting with the shit I remember—I’m sure there is more, but I swear not to purposely hide anything else from you from this day forth. When I was around nine, I stole my neighbor’s bike and broke the wheel, then lied about it. That same year I threw a baseball through the living room window and lied about it. You know about my mother and the soldiers. My father left shortly after, and I was glad when he did.
I didn’t have many friends because I was an asshole. I picked on kids in my year, a lot. Every day, basically. I was a dick to my mum—that was the last year I told her I love her. The teasing and being a dick to everyone continued until now, so I can’t name all the instances, but just know it was a lot. Around thirteen, me and some friends broke into the drugstore down the road from my house and stole a bunch of random shit. I don’t know why we did it, but when one of my friends got caught, I threatened him to make him take the blame for it, and he did. I smoked my first cigarette when I was thirteen. It tasted like shit, and I coughed for ten minutes. I never smoked again until I started smoking pot, but I’ll get to that.
When I was fourteen I lost my virginity to my friend Mark’s older sister. She was a whore and seventeen at the time. It was an awkward experience, but I liked it. She slept with all of our friends, not just me. After I had sex the first time I didn’t do it again until I was fifteen, but after that I couldn’t stop. I would hook up with random girls at parties. I always lied about my age, and the girls were easy. None of them cared about me, and I didn’t give a fuck about them. I started smoking pot this same year and did it often. I started drinking around this time—me and my friends would steal liquor from their parents or from anywhere else we could. I started fighting a lot, too. I got my ass beat a few times, but most of the time I won. I was always so fucking angry—always—and it felt good to hurt someone else. I would pick fights with people all the time for fun. The worst one was with this boy named Tucker who came from a poor family. He wore the oldest, rattiest clothes, and I fucking tortured him for it. I would mark on his shirt with a pen just to prove how many times he wore it without washing it. Fucked up, I know.
So anyway, one day I saw him walking and I knocked him in the shoulder just to be a dick. He got angry and called me a dick, so I beat the shit out of him. His nose was broken, and his mum couldn’t afford to even have him see a doctor. I still kept fucking with him afterward. A few months later his mum died, and he went into a foster home, a rich one, lucky for him, and he drove by me one day. It was my sixteenth birthday and he was in a brand-new car. I was angry at the time and wanted to find him just to break his nose again, but now that I think about it I’m happy for him.
I’ll skip the rest of my sixteenth year because all I did was drink, get high, and fight. Actually that goes for seventeen, too. I keyed a few cars, busted some windows as well. When I was eighteen is when I met James. He was cool because he didn’t give a fuck about anything, like me. We drank every day, our group. I would come home drunk every night and would puke on the floor, and my mum would have to clean it up. I would break something new almost every night . . . We had our own little gang of friends, and no one fucked with us. They knew better.
The games started, the ones I told you about, and you know what happened with Natalie. That was the worst of that, I swear. I know you are disgusted by me not caring about what happened to her. I don’t know why I didn’t care, but I didn’t. Just now, when I was driving here to this empty hotel room, I was thinking about Natalie. I still don’t feel as bad as I should, but I was thinking—what if someone did that to you? I nearly had to pull over to get sick even thinking about you being in Natalie’s place. I was wrong, so wrong for doing that to her. One of the other girls, Melissa, got attached to me as well, but nothing came of it. She was obnoxious and loud. I told everyone that she had hygiene problems, down there . . . so everyone gave her shit about it, and she never bothered me again. I got arrested once for being drunk in public, and my mum was so angry she left me at the police station all night. Then when everyone found out about the Natalie shit, she had enough. I threw a fit when my mum mentioned sending me to America. I didn’t want to leave my life back home no matter how fucked up it was—I was. But when I beat the shit out of someone in front of a crowd during a festival, Mum was done. I applied to WCU and got in, of course.
When I got here to America I fucking hated it. I hated everything. I was so upset that I had to be near my father that I rebelled even further, drinking and partying at the frat house all the time. I met Steph first. I hooked up with her at a party and she introduced me to the rest of her friends. Nate and I hit it off the best. Dan and Jace were dicks, Jace the worst. You already know about Dan’s sister, so I’ll skip that. There were a few girls that I fucked since then, but not as many as your imagination will have you think. I did sleep with Molly once after you and I kissed, but the only reason I did it was because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t get you o
ut of my head, Tess. I kept thinking it was you the entire time. I had hoped that would help, but it didn’t. I knew it wasn’t you. You would have been better. I kept telling myself, if I only see Tessa one more time I will realize this is just a ridiculous fascination, nothing more. Purely lust. But every time I saw you I wanted more and more. I would think of ways to annoy you just so I could hear you say my name. I wanted to know what you were thinking of in class that made you stare at your book with a frown, I wanted to smooth the crease between your brows, I wanted to know what you and Landon whispered about, I wanted to know what you were writing in that damned planner of yours. I actually almost took it from you once, that day when you dropped it and I handed it to you. You probably don’t remember, but you were wearing a purple shirt and that hideous gray skirt you used to wear almost every other day.
After that day in your dorm when I fucked up your notes and kissed you against the wall, I was in too deep to stay away. I thought about you constantly. My every thought was consumed by you. I didn’t know what it was at first—I didn’t know why I had become so obsessed with you. The first time that you stayed the night with me is when I knew, KNEW that I loved you. I knew that I would do anything for you. I know that sounds like bullshit now, after all that I’ve put you through, but it’s true. I swear it.
I found myself daydreaming—me daydreaming . . . about the life that I could have with you. I pictured you sitting on the couch with a pen between your teeth and a novel on your lap, your feet on my lap. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head. It tortured me, wanting you the way that I did and knowing you would never feel the same. I threatened anyone who tried to sit in that seat next to you, threatened Landon, to make sure that I could sit there, just to be near you. I would tell myself over and over that I was only doing all of this weird shit to win the bet. I knew that I was lying to myself, I just wasn’t ready to admit it. I would do shit, like crazy shit, to fuel my obsession with you. I would mark lines in my novels that reminded me of you. Do you want to know the first one? It was, “He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”
I knew I loved you when I was highlighting fucking Tolstoy.
When I told you I loved you in front of everyone, I meant it—I was just too much of a prick to admit it once you dismissed me. The day that you told me you loved me was the first time I felt like there was hope, hope for me. Hope for us. I don’t know why I kept hurting you and treating you the way that I did. I won’t waste your time with an excuse, because I don’t have one. I just have all these bad instincts and habits, and I’m fighting against them for you. All I know is that you make me happy, Tess. You love me when you shouldn’t, and I need you. I have always needed you and always will. When you left me just last week it nearly killed me, I was so lost. So completely lost without you. I went on a date with someone last week. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I can’t stand to chance losing you again. I wouldn’t even call it a date, really. Nothing happened between us. I almost kissed her, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t kiss her, I couldn’t kiss anyone but you. She was boring, and nothing compared to you. No one is, no one ever will be.
I know it’s probably too late for this, especially now that you know all of the fucked-up shit I’ve done. I can only pray that you will love me the same after reading this. If not, that’s okay. I will understand. I know you can do better than me. I’m not romantic, I won’t ever write you poetry or sing you a song.
I’m not even kind.
I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again, but I can swear that I will love you until the day that I die. I’m a terrible person, and I don’t deserve you, but I hope that you will allow me the chance to restore your faith in me. I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you, and I understand if you can’t forgive me.
Sorry. This letter wasn’t supposed to be this long. I guess I’ve fucked up more than I thought.
I love you. Always.
Hardin.
I SIT AND STARE at the paper in a daze, then reread it twice. I had no idea what I expected, but this was not it. How can he say he isn’t romantic? The charm bracelet on my wrist and this beautiful, somewhat disturbing, but mostly beautiful letter shows otherwise. He even used the first paragraph of Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth.
Now that he’s bared himself to me, I can’t help but love him more. He has done a lot of things that I would never do, terrible things that hurt many people—but the thing that matters most to me is that he doesn’t do them anymore. He hasn’t always done the right thing, but I can’t ignore all the effort he’s made to show me that he’s changing, trying to change. That he loves me. I hate to admit it, but there is a sort of poetry to him never caring for anyone except me.
I stare at the letter a little longer until there is a knock at the bedroom door. Folding the sheet up, I put it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I don’t want Hardin to try to make me throw it away or tear it up now that I’ve read it.
“Come in,” I say and walk over to the door to meet him.
He opens the door, already staring at the ground. “Did you . . .”
“I did . . .” I reach up and lift his chin to look at me, the way he usually does to me.
His bloodshot eyes are so wide and sad. “It was stupid . . . I knew I shouldn’t have . . .” he begins.
“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t stupid at all.” I move my hand from under his chin, but he keeps his red eyes on mine. “Hardin, it was everything that I’ve been wanting you to say to me for so long.”
“I’m sorry that I took so long, and that I wrote it down . . . It was just easier. I’m not good at saying things.” The red of his weary eyes is beautiful against the vibrant green of his irises.
“I know you aren’t.”
“Did you . . . should we talk about it? Do you need more time, now that you know how fucked up I truly am?” He frowns and looks at the floor again.
“You aren’t. You were . . . You’ve done a lot of things . . . bad things, Hardin.” He nods in agreement; I can’t stand to see him feel so bad about himself, even with his history. “But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You’ve done bad things, but you aren’t a bad person anymore.”
He looks up. “What?”
I take his face between my hands. “I said you aren’t a bad person, Hardin.”
“You really think that? Did you read what I wrote?”
“Yes, and the fact that you wrote it proves that you aren’t.”
Confusion is clear on his perfect face. “How can you say that? I don’t understand—you wanted me to give you space, and you read all that shit, and you still say that? I don’t understand . . .”
I run my thumbs over his cheeks. “I read it, and now that I know everything that you’ve done, my mind hasn’t changed.”
“Oh . . .” His eyes become glossy.
The idea of him crying again, especially in front of me, pains me. He’s obviously not getting what I’m trying to say.
“I already made my mind up while you were gone to stay. And after reading what you wrote, I want to stay more than ever. I love you, Hardin.”
chapter forty-four
TESSA
Hardin takes my hands and holds them for a second before wrapping his arms around me as if I’ll disappear should he let go.
As I said the words I want to stay, I realized how freeing this all is. I no longer have to worry that secrets from Hardin’s past will come back to haunt us. I no longer have to wait for someone to drop a huge bombshell on me. I know everything. I finally know everything he’s been hiding. I can’t help but think of the phrase Sometimes it is better to be kept in the dark than to be blinded by the light. But I don’t think that applies me to right now. I’m disturbed by the things he has done, but I love him and have chosen to not let his past affect us any longer.
Hardin pulls back and sits on the edge of the bed. “What are you thinki
ng? Do you have any questions about anything? I want to be honest with you.” I move to stand between his legs. He flips my hands over in his and traces small patterns on my palms as he searches my face for clues to how I am feeling.
“No . . . I do wish I knew what happened to Natalie . . . but I don’t have any questions.”
“I am done being that person—you know that, don’t you?”
I’ve already told him I do, but I know he needs to hear it again. “I know that. I really do, babe.”
His eyes dart to mine at the use of the word. “Babe?” He arches his eyebrow.
“I don’t know why I said that . . .” I flush. I’ve never called him anything other than Hardin, so it does feel a little odd to call him “babe” like he does me.
“No . . . I like it.” He smiles.
“I’ve missed your smile,” I tell him, and his fingers stop their movements.
“I’ve missed yours, too.” He frowns. “I don’t make you smile enough.”
I want to say something to remove that doubt from his face, but I don’t want to lie to him. He needs to know how I feel. “Yeah . . . we need to work on that,” I say.
His fingers move again, drawing little hearts on my palm. “I don’t know why you love me.”
“It doesn’t matter why I love you, only that I do.”
“The letter was stupid, wasn’t it?”
“No! Would you stop with the self-loathing? It was wonderful. I read it three times straight. It really made me happy to read the things that you were thinking about me . . . about us.”
He looks up, half smirking, half concerned. “You knew I loved you.”
“Yes . . . but it was nice to know the small things, the way you remembered what I was wearing. Those types of things. You never say those types of things.”
“Oh.” He looks embarrassed. It is still slightly unnerving to have Hardin be the vulnerable one in our relationship. That role has always been mine.