Chapter 106 (1/2)

WHEN I WAKE UP in the middle of the night, I fold the letter up and place it back in my bottom drawer before opening the bedroom door. Hardin is asleep in the hallway, curled up in a ball on the concrete floor. Figuring I shouldn’t wake him, I leave him alone to sleep off his intoxication, and go back to sleep.

Chapter sixty-four

TESSA

Come the morning, the hallway is empty and the mess in the living room is completely cleared. Not one single piece of glass is left on the floor. The room smells of lemons, and the whiskey is no longer splattered across the wall.

I’m surprised Hardin even knew where the cleaner is stored.

“Hardin?” I call, my voice hoarse from all the yelling I did last night.

Getting no answer, I go over to the kitchen table, where an index card with his handwriting rests. Please don’t leave, I’ll be back soon, it says.

The thousand pounds of pressure lifts from my chest, and I grab the e-reader, make a cup of coffee, and wait for his return.

What feels like hours go by before Hardin finally comes back home. I have since showered, cleaned up the kitchen, and read fifty pages of Moby-Dick— and I don’t even care for the book. Most of the time that has passed has been filled with me thinking of every possibility of his behavior and what he will say. The fact that he didn’t want me to leave, so that is a good thing. Right? I sure hope so. The entire night is a blur, but I remember the key points.

When I hear the click of the front door, I instantly still. Everything I’ve been preparing to say to him vanishes from my mind. I set the e-reader down on the table and sit up on the couch.

When Hardin walks through the door, he’s wearing a gray sweatshirt and his signature black jeans. He doesn’t leave the house in anything except black and occasionally white, so the contrast today is a little strange, but the sweatshirt makes him look younger somehow. His hair is messy and pushed off his forehead, and his eyes have dark circles under them. In his hand is a lamp, different from the one he shattered last night, but very similar.

“Hey,” he says and runs his tongue along his bottom lip before pulling his lip ring between his teeth.

“Hi,” I mutter in return.

“How . . . how did you sleep?” he asks.

I stand up from the couch as he walks toward the kitchen. “Good . . .” I lie.

“That’s good.”

It is evident that we’re both treading very lightly, afraid to say the wrong thing. He stands by the counter, and I stay near the fridge.

“I, um . . . I got a new lamp.” He nods at his purchase before setting it on the counter.

“It’s nice.” I feel anxious, very anxious.

“They didn’t have the one we had, but they—” he begins.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, interrupting him.

“Me, too, Tessa.”

“Last night was not supposed to go that way,” I say and look down.

“That is surely an understatement.”

“It was a terrible night. I should have let you explain yourself before I kissed someone, it was stupid and immature of me.”