After We Collided (The After Series) (15 page)

“I wouldn’t do that,” I say and mean it. No matter how angry I have ever been at Hardin, I wouldn’t damage his relationship with his mother. “I’ll just finish my laundry, then go. I thought you weren’t going to be here, so I figured I’d stay here instead of that motel.” I shrug uncomfortably. We’ve been in the bedroom a little too long.

“You don’t have anywhere to go?”

“I could go to my mother’s. I just really don’t want to,” I admit. “The motel isn’t bad, just a little expensive.” This is the most civil conversation Hardin and I have had in the past week.

“I know you won’t agree to stay here, but I could give you some money?” I can tell he’s afraid of my reaction to his offer.

“I don’t need your money.”

“I know, I just thought I would offer.” He stares at floor.

“We better go back out there.” I sigh and open the door.

“I’ll be out in a second,” he says softly.

I don’t like the idea of going out there to face his mother alone, but I can’t stay in the small space of this bedroom with Hardin. I take a deep breath and leave the room.

When I enter the kitchen, she looks over at me from where she stands at the sink. “He isn’t upset with me, is he? I didn’t mean to crowd you.” Her voice is so sweet. A total contrast to her son’s.

“Oh no, of course not. He was just . . . going over a few things about this week,” I lie. I have always been a terrible liar, so I usually avoid it at all costs.

“Okay, good. I know how moody he can be.” She smiles with such warmth that I can’t help but smile back.

I pour my own glass of water to calm my nerves, and she begins to speak as I take a sip. “I still can’t wrap my head around how beautiful you are. He told me you were the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, but I thought he was exaggerating.”

Less gracefully than the most beautiful girl a boy’s ever seen would do, I spit my water back into my glass.
Hardin said what?
I want to ask her to verify that, but instead I just take another sip of water to mask my embarrassing reaction.

She laughs. “Honestly, I thought you would be covered in tattoos and have green hair or something.”

“No, no tattoos for me. Or green hair.” I laugh and feel my shoulders begin to relax.

“You’re an English major like Hardin, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Call me Trish.”

“I actually have an internship at Vance Publishing, so my class schedule is kind of weird. And right now we’re on break.”

“Vance? As in Christian Vance?” she asks. I nod. “Oh, I haven’t seen Christian in at least . . . ten years.” She looks down at the glass of water in my hands. “Hardin and I actually lived with him for a year after Ken . . . Well, never mind, Hardin doesn’t like when I spout off at the mouth.” She chuckles nervously.

I didn’t know that Hardin and his mother stayed with Mr. Vance, but I knew that he was very close with him, closer than he would be if Christian were only his father’s friend.

“I know about Ken,” I say to Trish in an attempt to ease her discomfort, but then I immediately worry that I’ve implied I know about what happened to
her
, and I worry I’ve upset her.

So when she replies, “You do?” I try to hedge a little and follow up with, “Yeah, Hardin has told me . . .”

But when Hardin appears in the kitchen I stop, and I have to admit I’m happy for the intrusion.

He raises a brow. “Hardin has told you what?”

My tension goes through the roof, but to my surprise, his mother covers, saying, “Nothing, son, just some girl talk,” and walking over to him and wrapping her arm around his waist. He pulls away slightly, as if out of instinct. She frowns, but I get the feeling this is a normal interaction between them.

The dryer beeps, and I take that as my cue to exit the room and finish up my laundry so I can get out of here, fast.

I pull my warm clothes from the dryer and sit on the floor in the small laundry room to fold them. Hardin’s mother is so sweet, and I find myself wishing that I could have met her under different circumstances. I don’t feel anger toward Hardin; I have been angry long enough. I feel sadness, and a longing for what we could have been.

After I’m done with my clothes, I go to the bedroom to repack my bags. I wish I hadn’t hung any clothes in the closet or put food in the kitchen.

“Do you need some help, dear?” Trish asks me.

“Um, I was just getting my things ready to go to my mother’s for the week,” I reply, figuring I might as well just go there since the motel is expensive.

“You’re leaving today? Right now?” She frowns.

“Yeah . . . I told her I would come for Christmas.” For once I want Hardin to come into the room to help me talk my way out of this.

“Oh, I was hoping you would stay at least a night. Who knows when I’ll be able to see you again—and I would love to get to know the young woman who my son has fallen in love with.”

And suddenly something in me wants to make this woman happy. I don’t know if it’s because of my mistake about saying I knew about Ken and her, or because of the way she covered for me in front of Hardin. But I do know I don’t want to overthink this, so I silence my inner voice and just nod, and say, “Okay.”

“
Really?
You’ll stay? Just one night, then you can go to your mum’s house. You don’t want to be driving through that snow anyway.” She wraps her arms around me and hugs me for the fifth time today.

At least she’ll be here to be a buffer between Hardin and me. We can’t fight if she’s here. Well, I won’t fight, at least. I know this is probably . . . certainly the worst idea, but Trish is hard to say no to. Just like her son.

“Well, I’m going to take a quick shower. I had a long flight!” She smiles broadly and heads out.

I sink down onto the bed and close my eyes. This is going to be the most awkward, painful twenty-four hours of my life. No matter what I do, I always seem to end up back where I started, with him.

After a few minutes I open my eyes to find Hardin standing in front of the closet with his back to me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says when he turns back around. I sit up. He
is being so strange, apologizing every other word. “I see that you cleaned the apartment,” he says softly.

“Yeah . . . I couldn’t help it.” I smile, and so does he. “Hardin, I told your mom that I would stay tonight. Only tonight, but if that’s not okay, I’ll go. I just felt bad because she’s so nice, and I couldn’t say no, but if that makes you uncomfor—”

“Tessa, it’s fine,” he says quickly, but then his voice shakes when he adds, “I want you to stay.”

I don’t know what to say, and I don’t understand this strange turn of events. I want to thank him for the present, but there is just too much going on inside of my head.

“Did you have a nice birthday yesterday?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah. Landon came by.”

“Oh . . .” But then we hear his mother in the living room, and he moves to go. He stops before walking through the door and turns to me. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

I sigh. “Me either.”

At that, he nods, and we both get up to join his mother in the other room.

W
hen Hardin and I enter the living room, his mother is sitting on the couch with her wet hair pulled into a bun. She looks so young for her age, so stunning. “We should rent some movies, and I’ll make dinner for all of us!” she exclaims. “Don’t you miss my cooking, dumpling?”

Hardin rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Sure. Best cook ever.”

This couldn’t possibly be more awkward.

“Hey! I’m not that bad.” She laughs. “And I think
you
just talked yourself into being chef tonight.”

I shift uncomfortably, unsure how to behave around Hardin unless we’re together or fighting. This is an odd place for us, though I suddenly realize this is a pattern of ours: Karen and Ken had been under the impression that we were dating before we actually were.

“Can you cook, Tessa?” Trish asks, breaking my thoughts. “Or is it Hardin, too?”

“Um, we both do. Maybe more ‘preparing’ than cooking, really,” I answer.

“I’m glad to hear that you’re taking care of my boy, and this apartment is so nice, too. I suspect Tessa does the cleaning,” she teases.

I’m not “taking care of her boy,” since that’s what he’s missing out on for hurting me the way he did. “Yeah . . . he’s a slob,” I answer.

Hardin looks down at me with a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m not a slob—she’s just too clean.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s a slob,” Trish and I say in unison.

“Are we going to watch a movie or pick on me all night?” Hardin is pouting.

I sit down before Hardin does so I don’t have to make the uncomfortable decision about where to sit. I can see him eyeing the couch and me, silently deciding what to do. After a moment, he sits right next to me, so I feel the familiar heat from his proximity.

“What do you want to watch?” his mother asks us.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hardin replies.

“You can choose.” I try to soften his answer.

She smiles at me before choosing
50 First Dates,
a movie I’m sure Hardin will hate.

And right on cue, Hardin groans as it begins. “This movie is old as shit.”

“Shhh,” I say, and he huffs but stays quiet.

I catch him staring at me several times while Trish and I laugh and sigh along with the movie. I’m actually enjoying myself, and for a few moments I almost forget everything that has happened between Hardin and me. It’s hard not to lean into Hardin, not to touch his hands, not to move his hair when it falls onto his forehead.

“I’m hungry,” he mumbles when the movie ends.

“Why don’t you and Tessa cook, since I had such a long flight?” Trish smiles.

“You’re really milking this long-flight thing, aren’t you?” he says to her.

She nods with a wry smile that I’ve seen on Hardin’s face a few times.

“I can cook, it’s okay,” I offer and stand up. I walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter. I grip the edges of the
marble countertop harder than necessary, trying to catch my breath. I don’t know how long I can do this, pretend that Hardin didn’t destroy everything, pretend that I love him.
I do love him, I am miserably in love with him.
The problem is not my lack of feelings toward this moody, egotistical boy. The problem is that I’ve given him so many chances, always dismissing the hateful things that he says and does. But this time it’s too much.

“Hardin, be a gentleman and help her,” I hear Trish say, and I rush over to the freezer to pretend like I wasn’t having a mini breakdown.

“Um . . . I can help?” His voice carries through the small kitchen.

“Okay . . .” I answer.

“Popsicles?” he asks, and I look at the object in my hands. I had meant to grab chicken, but I was distracted.

“Yeah. Everyone likes Popsicles, right?” I say, and he smiles, revealing those evil dimples of his.

I can do this. I can be around Hardin. I can be nice to him, and we can get along.

“You should make that chicken pasta that you made for me,” I suggest.

His green eyes focus on me. “That’s what you want to eat?”

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not.”

“You’re being so weird today,” I whisper so our houseguest doesn’t hear.

“No, I’m not.” He shrugs and steps toward me.

My heart begins to race as he leans in. As I move to step away, he grabs the door to the freezer and pulls it open.

I thought he was going to kiss me. What the hell is wrong with me?

We cook dinner in almost complete silence, neither of us knowing what to say. My eyes watching him the entire time, the
way his long fingers curl around the base of the knife to chop the chicken and the vegetables, the way he closes his eyes when the steam from the boiling water hits his face, the way his tongue swipes the corners of his mouth when he tastes the sauce. I know that observing him like this isn’t conducive to being impartial, or healthy in any way, but I can’t help it.

“I’ll set the table while you tell your mom it’s ready,” I say when it’s finally done.

“What? I’ll just call her.”

“No, that’s rude. Just go get her,” I say.

He rolls his eyes but obeys anyway, only to return seconds later, alone. “She’s asleep,” he tells me.

I heard him, but I still ask, “What?”

“Yeah, she’s passed out on the couch. Should I just wake her up?”

“No . . . She had a long day. I’ll put some food away for her so whenever she gets up she can eat. It’s sort of late anyway.”

“It’s eight.”

“Yeah . . . that’s late.”

“I guess.” His voice is flat.

“What is with you? I know this is uncomfortable and all, but you are being so
weird
,” I say as I put food on two plates without thinking.

“Thanks.” he says and grabs one before sitting down at the table.

I grab a fork from the drawer and opt to stand at the counter to eat. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” He grabs a forkful of chicken and digs in.

“Why you’re being so . . . quiet and . . . nice. It’s weird.”

He takes a moment to chew then swallow before he answers. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“Oh” is all I can think to say. Well,
that’s
not what I expected to hear.

He turns the tables on me then. “So why are
you
being so nice and weird?”

“Because your mother is here and what happened, happened—there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can’t hold on to that anger forever.” I lean against the counter on my elbow.

“So what does that mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying that I want to be civil and not fight anymore. It doesn’t change anything between us.” I bite my cheek to keep my eyes from tearing up.

Instead of saying anything, Hardin stands up and throws his plate into the sink. The porcelain splits down the middle with a loud crack that causes me to jump. Hardin doesn’t flinch or even turn back around as he stalks off to the bedroom.