“C’mon!” he yells once more, and I bite my tongue in laughter.
I suppose Tessa was right: he isn’t too terrible of company. Not my first choice, obviously, but not so bad.
“I hear that the more you yell and scream, the more likely they are to win,” I tell him.
He ignores me and continues to yell and boo with the ebb and flow of the game. I alternate between paying attention and texting Tessa dirty things, and before I realize it, Landon’s yelling “Yes!” when his team wins the game at the last second.
The crowd piles out of the arena, and I push my way through them. “Watch it,” a voice behind me says.
“Sorry,” Landon apologizes.
“That’s what I thought,” the voice says, and I turn around to find a nervous Landon and an asshole wearing the opposing team’s jersey. Landon swallows but doesn’t say anything else as the man and his crew continue to taunt him.
“Look how scared he is,” another voice says, one of the asshole’s friends, I presume.
“I . . . I . . .” Landon stammers.
Are you kidding me? “Fuck off, both of you,” I snarl, and they both turn to look at me.
“Or what?” I can smell the beer on the tall one’s breath.
“Or I will shut you up in front of everyone, and you’ll be so humiliated it’ll be on the game’s highlight reel. That’s what,” I warn him, meaning every single word.
“C’mon, Dennis, let’s go,” the short one, the only one with some sense, says and tugs on his friend’s jersey, and they disappear into the crowd. I grab Landon by the arm and pull him the rest of the way. Tessa will have my balls if I let him get beat up tonight.
“Thanks for that, you didn’t have to do it,” Landon says when we reach his car.
“Don’t make it awkward, okay?” I grin, and he shakes his head, but I hear him laugh quietly to himself.
“Should I take you back to your apartment now?” he asks after several minutes of awkward silence while we wait to leave the crowded parking lot.
“Yeah, sure.” I check my phone again to see if Tessa has responded; she hasn’t. “Are you moving?” I ask Landon.
“I don’t know yet, I really want to be closer to Dakota,” he explains.
“So why doesn’t she move here?”
“Because her career in ballet wouldn’t work here; she has to be in New York City.” Landon lets another car pass in front of his, despite the fact that we’ve barely moved in the line of traffic since we left our parking spot.
“And you are just going to give up your life and move for her?” I scoff.
“Yeah, I would rather do that than continue to be away from her. I don’t mind moving, anyway. New York City would be an awesome place to live. It’s not always about one person in the relationship, you know?” he says, looking sideways at me. Fucker.
“Was that supposed to be directed at me?”
“Not exactly, but if you think it was, maybe it is.” A group of drunken idiots stumbles in front of the car, but Landon doesn’t seem to mind that they’re blocking us.
“Shut the hell up, would you?” I say. He’s just being a dick now.
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t move to New York to be with Tessa?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m telling you. I don’t want to live in New York, so I won’t be living in New York.”
“You know I don’t mean New York, I mean Seattle. She wants to live in Seattle.”
“She’ll be moving to England with me,” I tell him. I turn the volume dial on his radio up in hopes of ending this conversation.
“What if she doesn’t? You know she doesn’t want to, so why would you force her to?”
“I’m not forcing her to do anything, Landon. She will move because we’re supposed to be together and she won’t want to be away from me, simple as that.” I check my phone once more to try to distract myself from the irritation my lovely stepbrother is causing me.
“You’re an asshole.”
I shrug. “Never claimed that I wasn’t.”
I dial Tessa’s number and wait for her to answer. She doesn’t. Great, fucking great. I hope she’s still at home when I get there. If Landon didn’t drive so goddamn slow, we would be there by now. I stay silent, picking at the torn skin surrounding my fingernails. After what seems like three fucking hours Landon pulls up in front of my apartment.
“Tonight wasn’t so bad, right?” he asks me as I get out of the car, and I chuckle.
“No, I guess it wasn’t,” I admit. Then I tease, “If you tell anyone I just said that, I will kill you.”
Landon chuckles as he drives off. I let out a deep breath, very pleased that he didn’t get his ass beat by those guys tonight.
When I walk into the apartment, Tessa is sound asleep on the couch, so I just sit and watch her for a bit.
chapter seventy-five
HARDIN
After watching Tessa sleep for a while, I gather her into my arms and carry her to our bedroom. She hugs on to my arms and rests her head against my chest. I gently lay her onto our bed and pull the covers up to her chest. I give her a soft kiss on the forehead and am about to turn and get myself ready for bed when she says something.
“Zed,” she mumbles.
Did she just . . . ? I stare at her, trying to replay the last three seconds in my mind. She didn’t say—
“Zed.” She smiles, rolling onto her stomach.
What the fuck?
Part of me wants to wake her up and demand to know why she would call his name—twice—in her sleep. The rest of me, the paranoid and fucking fed-up part of me, knows what she’d say. Tessa will tell me that I have nothing to worry about, that they’re only friends, that she loves me. Some of that may be true, but she just said his name.
Hearing that asshole’s name fall from her lips on top of fucking Landon and his certainty about his future—it’s too much. I’m not certain of anything, not in the way he is, and Tessa obviously isn’t sure about me either. Otherwise she wouldn’t be dreaming of Zed.
Grabbing paper and pen, I scribble out a note for her, leave it on the dresser, and head out into the night.
I TURN THE CAR toward the Canal Street Tavern. I don’t want to go there in case Nate and the group are still there, but there’s a place close by where I used to drink all the time. Gotta love the state of Washington and the dumb-asses that never ID college kids.
Tessa’s voice plays in my mind, warning me not to drink again after the last time, but I don’t give a shit. I need a drink. I hear Zed and Landon’s voices next. Why does everyone around me think their opinions matter to me?
I’m not moving to Seattle—Landon and his shit advice can fuck off. Just because he wants to follow his girlfriend around doesn’t mean that I want to. I can see it now: I pack my shit and move to Seattle with her, and two months later she decides she’s had enough of my shit and she leaves me. In Seattle, it’ll be her world, not mine, and I could be pushed out of it just as easily as I was brought in.
When I arrive at the bar, the music is low and there aren’t many people inside. A familiar blonde stands behind the bar and looks at me with surprise, and interest, in her eyes.
“Long time, no see, Hardin. Miss me?” She grins and licks her full lips, remembering our nights together, I’m sure.
“Yeah, now give me a drink,” I respond.
chapter seventy-six
TESSA
When I wake up, Hardin isn’t in the bed. I assume he went for a coffee run or he’s in the shower, so I check the time on my phone and force myself out of bed. Despite not having gone out last night, I’m feeling pretty tired, so I don’t really make an effort with my appearance, just pulling on a WCU T-shirt and jeans. I’m tempted to wear yoga pants so I can tease Hardin when I see him, but I can’t find them anywhere. Knowing him, he probably hid them or put them somewhere so no other guys can see me in them.
I look in my top drawer again, and when I close it, a piece of paper
falls from the dresser.
Went out with my dad for breakfast, it says in Hardin’s handwriting. I’m equally confused and happy about this. I really hope Hardin and Ken can continue to build their relationship.
Figuring that they’re probably done, I try calling Hardin, but he doesn’t answer. I shoot him a text message and head out to meet Landon at the coffee shop.
When I get there, Landon is sitting at a table, and gestures to the two drinks in front of him. “I already got yours,” he says with a smile and lifts the paper cup to me.
“That was nice, thanks.” The sweet yet bitter taste of the coffee wakes me up the rest of the way, but then I start getting anxious that I haven’t heard back from Hardin.
“Look at us, looking like regular college students,” Landon jokes, pointing at my shirt and then at his, which is identical to mine. I laugh and take another drink of the blessed coffee.
“Hey, where’s Hardin today?” Landon grins. “He didn’t walk you to class this morning.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. He left me a note that he left early to have breakfast with his dad.”
Landon stops mid-drink and gives me a quizzical look. “Really?” Then after a moment, he nods and says, “Stranger things have happened, I guess.”
His response only makes my mind fill with doubt. Hardin did go to breakfast with his father. Didn’t he?
As Landon and I walk to class, and Hardin still hasn’t responded to my previous or recent texts, an ache in my chest grows.
When we take our seats, Landon looks at me and asks, “Are you okay?” and I’m about to respond when I look up to see Professor Soto entering the room.
“Morning, everyone! Sorry I’m late, I had a late night last night.” He smiles and shakes a leather jacket from his shoulders before throwing it across the back of his chair. “I hope everyone took the time to either purchase or steal a journal?”
Landon and I look at each other and pull out our journals. When I glance around, I see we’re two of the only people to do so, and once again I’m amazed at just how unprepared college students are.
But Professor Soto continues undeterred and absently straightens his tie. “If not, take out a blank piece of paper, because we’re going to use the first half of class to work on the first journal assignment. I haven’t decided how many there will be exactly, but like I said, the journal will make up the majority of your grade, so you need to put in at least a little effort.” He grins and sits, putting his feet on the desk. “I want to know your ideas on faith. What does it mean to you? There is literally no wrong answer here, and your personal religion doesn’t make a difference. You can take this in many different directions—do you yourself have faith in some higher power? Do you feel that faith can bring good things into people’s lives? Maybe you think of faith in a completely different way altogether—does having faith in something or someone change the outcome of a situation? If you have faith that your unfaithful lover will stop being unfaithful, does that make a difference at all? Does having faith in God . . . or a number of gods, make you any better of a person than someone who doesn’t? Take the topic of faith and do what you want with it . . . just do something,” he says.
My mind is whirling with ideas. I used to go to church growing up, but I have to admit my relationship with God hasn’t always been the strongest. Every time I try to press my pen to the first page of my journal, Hardin comes to mind. Why haven’t I heard from him? He always calls. He left a note, so I know he’s safe—but where is he now? How long will it be before I hear from him?
As each text remains unanswered, the panic inside of me grows. He has changed so much, improved his behavior.
Faith. Have I had too much faith in Hardin? If I continue to have faith in him, will he change?
Before I realize where the time has gone, I’m on my third page. Most of what I’ve written has gone straight from somewhere inside of me to the paper, leaving my mind and heart out of it. Somehow a weight has been lifted by writing about my faith in Hardin. Professor Soto calls the end of class, and I listen to Landon talk about his journal entry. He chose to write about faith in himself and his future. I wrote about Hardin without a thought. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.
The rest of the day drags on miserably, since I haven’t heard from Hardin. By one o’clock, I’ve called him three more times and sent eight more texts, but nothing. I feel bad about it—especially after having just written about faith and my feelings about him—but my first thought is that I hope he isn’t off doing something that will harm us.
My second thought is of Molly. It’s funny how she always pops up in mind when there’s trouble. Well, not funny, but persistent. She’s like an apparition that appears in my head even though I know he wouldn’t cheat on me.
chapter seventy-seven
HARDIN
Do you want another cup of coffee?” she asks. “It’ll help with the hangover.”
“No, I know how to get rid of a hangover. I’ve had plenty,” I growl.
Carly rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a dick. I was just asking.”
“Stop talking.” I rub my temples. Her voice is annoying as hell.
“Charming as ever, I see.” She laughs and leaves me alone in her small kitchen.
I’m a dumb-ass for even being here, but it’s not like I had another option. Yes, I did, I’m just trying to not take the blame for my overreaction. I was harsh on Tessa and said some pretty fucked-up things, and now here I am in Carly’s kitchen drinking fucking coffee this late in the afternoon.
“Do you need a ride back to your car?” she yells from the other room.
“Obviously,” I respond, and she walks into the kitchen wearing only a bra.
“You’re lucky that I brought your drunk ass home with me. My boyfriend will be arriving soon, so we need to go.” She slides her shirt over her head.
“You have a boyfriend? Nice.” This keeps getting better.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. I do. It may be surprising to you that not everyone just wants an endless parade of fuck buddies.”
I almost tell her about Tessa, but I decide against it, since it’s none of her business. “I gotta piss first,” I tell her and walk toward the bathroom.
My head is pounding and I’m angry at myself for coming here. I should be at home . . . well, on campus. I hear my phone buzzing on the counter and snap back around.
“Don’t you dare answer that,” I bark at Carly, and she takes a step back.
“I’m not! Man, you weren’t this big of an asshole last night,” she remarks, but I ignore her.
I follow Carly to her car, my head pounding with each step against the concrete. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I shouldn’t have drunk at all. I look over at Carly as she rolls her window down and lights a cigarette.
How could she ever have been my type? She’s not wearing a seat belt. She puts makeup on at stoplights. Tessa is so different from her, from any of the girls I’ve ever been with.
As we’re driving back to the bar where I got shit-faced last night, I keep rereading the texts from Tessa, over and over again. This is terrible—she’s probably really worried. My head’s too foggy to think up a good excuse, so I just text her, I fell asleep in the car after drinking too much with Landon last night. Be home soon.
Something feels off, and I pause for a minute. But my whole brain is just rattled, so I hit send and watch the phone to see if she’s replying. Nothing.
Well, I can’t tell her about this, about staying at Carly’s house. She’ll never forgive me, she won’t even hear me out. I know she won’t. I can tell she’s getting tired of my shit lately. I know she is.
I just don’t have a fucking clue how to fix it.
Carly interrupts my rumination when she hits the brake and curses. “Aaagh, fuck. We have to go around—there’s a wreck up there,” she says, pointing to the cars blocking our way.
Glancing up, I see a middle-aged man standing with his hands in his pockets w
hile talking to a police officer. He points to a white car that looks . . . just like . . .
I panic. “Stop the car,” I demand.
“What? Jesus, Hard—”
“I said stop the goddamn car!” Without thinking, I open the door as the car comes to a stop and rush over to the damaged cars. “Where’s the other driver?” I ask the officer angrily and look around the scene.
The front end of the white car is badly damaged, and then I see the WCU parking pass hanging from the rearview mirror. Fuck. An ambulance is parked next to the police car. Fuck.
If something happened to her . . . if she isn’t okay . . .
“Where’s the girl? Someone fucking answer me!” I scream.
The cop gets an aggressively annoyed look on his face, but the other driver sees my anxiety and says softly, “There,” and points to the ambulance.
My heart stops beating.
Wandering over in a daze, I see the ambulance doors are open . . . and Tessa is sitting on its back bumper, an ice pack on her cheek.
Thank God. Thank God it’s only small.
I rush over to her, and the words start tumbling from my mouth. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Relief takes over her features when she sees me. “I had an accident.” Above her eye is a small bandage, and her lip is swollen and split on the side.
“Can you go?” I ask rudely. “Can she go?” I ask the young EMT who’s standing nearby.
The woman nods and walks away quickly. I reach for Tessa’s ice pack and move it, revealing a knot the size of a golf ball. Her cheeks are stained with tears, and her eyes are swollen and red. I can already see the black eye forming under her delicate skin.
“Fuck—are you okay? Was it his fault?” I turn and try to find that asshole again.
“No, I ran into him,” she says, wincing as she grabs the ice pack and puts it back on her skin. Then some of the relief leaves her eyes as she looks up at me and asks, “Where were you all day?”