After We Fell (79 page)

“How was the drive?” Landon asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy-colored slacks.

“Shit,” Hardin says at the exact moment I say, “Good.”

Landon and my father both laugh, Hardin looks annoyed, and I'm just happy to be home . . . with my best friend and the closest
relative that I'm in contact with. Which only reminds me that I have to call my mother, which I keep putting off.

“I'm going to put your bag in the bedroom,” Hardin announces, leaving the three of us to continue our welcoming. I watch as he disappears into the room we once shared. His shoulders are set low, and I want to follow after him, but I don't.

“I've missed you too much, Tessie. How's Seattle treating you?” my father asks. It's odd to look at him now, wearing one of Landon's collared shirts and dress slacks, with no hair on his face. He looks like a completely different man. The bags under his eyes have gotten puffier, though, and I notice the way his hands are slightly shaking at his sides.

“It's good, I'm still getting used to it,” I tell him.

He smiles. “That's good to hear.”

Landon steps closer to me as my father takes a seat on the edge of the couch. He turns his back away from my father as if he wants to keep our conversation private. “It feels like you've been gone for months,” he says, holding my gaze as he speaks.

He looks tired, too . . . maybe from staying at the apartment with my father? I don't know, but I want to find out.

“It does, I feel like time is strange in Seattle—how
is
everything? I feel like we've barely talked.” It's true. I haven't called Landon as often as I should have, and he must've been really busy dealing with his last semester at Washington Central. If less than three weeks is this tough, how will I be able to bear him moving all the way to New York?

“I knew you'd be busy, everything's okay,” he says. His eyes dart to the wall, and I sigh. Why do I feel like I'm missing something obvious?

“Are you sure?” I glance back and forth between my best friend and my father, taking in Landon's drained expression.

“Yeah, we'll talk about it later,” he says, waving my concern off. “Now tell me about Seattle!” The dim light that was in his
eyes intensifies into a bright burn of happiness, the happiness that I have missed so much.

“It's okay . . .” I trail off, and his forehead creases in a frown. “Really, it's okay. Much better now that Hardin is visiting more.”

“So much for space, huh?” he playfully teases, nudging my shoulder with the palm of his hand. “You two have the strangest definition of breaking up.”

I roll my eyes, agreeing, but I say, “It's been really nice having him there. I'm still as confused as ever, but Seattle feels more like the Seattle of my dreams when Hardin is there with me.”

“I'm happy to hear it.” Landon smiles, his gaze shifting as Hardin walks up and stands next to me.

Looking around, I say to the three of them, “This place is in much better condition than I thought it would be.”

“We've been cleaning it while Hardin was in Seattle,” my father says, and I laugh, reminded of Hardin's grumpy complaint that the two of them were messing with his things.

I look back at the well-organized foyer, remembering the very first time I stepped through the door with Hardin. I fell in love instantly with the old-fashioned charm of the place: the exposed brick wall was so enchanting, and I was beyond impressed by the expansive book shelving covering the far wall. The concrete flooring added to the personality of the apartment, unique and beautiful. I couldn't believe that Hardin had chosen the most perfect space, suiting both of us in a way I didn't think was possible. It wasn't extravagant, not in the slightest, but it was so beautiful and so thoughtfully laid out. I remember how nervous he was that I wouldn't like it. I was nervous, too, though. I thought he was insane for wanting to me live with him so soon into our back-and-forth relationship—and I now know that my apprehensiveness was very well justified; Hardin had used this apartment as a trap. He thought that I'd be forced to stay with him after I found out about the wager he'd made with his group of friends. In a way, it
worked, and I don't particularly love that part of our past, but I wouldn't change it now.

Despite the memories of our happy first days here, for some reason I still can't shake the unsettling rustling that I feel in my stomach. I feel like a stranger here now. The once-charming brick wall has been stained by bloody knuckles too many times to count, the books on those shelves have been witness to too many screaming matches, the pages have soaked up too many tears in the aftermath of our endless fighting, and the image of Hardin crumpled on his knees in front of me is so strong it's practically imprinted into the floor. This place is no longer the treasure to me that it once was, and these walls now hold memories of sadness and betrayal, not only Hardin's, but Steph's as well.

“What's wrong?” Hardin asks the moment my expression turns melancholy.

“Nothing, I'm fine,” I tell him. I want to shake off the unpleasant memories lodging in my mind, taking away from these moments of happiness at being reunited with Landon and my father after the lonely weeks I've endured in Seattle.

“I'm not buying it,” Hardin huffs, but drops it and walks into the kitchen. After a second, his voice travels into the living room. “Is there no food in the place?”

“Ahh, here it goes. It had been so nice and quiet,” my father whispers to Landon, and they share a friendly laugh. I'm so thankful to have Landon in my life and to have what seems to be a budding relationship with my father, though it seems that Hardin and Landon both know him better than I do.

“I'll be back in just a minute,” I say.

I want to change out of this heavy sweatshirt; it's too warm in the small apartment, and I feel my lungs yearning for a fresh breath as the moments pass. I need to read Hardin's letter again; it's my favorite thing in the entire world. It's much more than a
thing to me; it expresses his love and passion in a way that his mouth never could. I've read it so many times that I have it memorized, but I need to physically touch it again. Once I hold the tattered and worn pages between my fingers, all the anxiety I'm feeling will be replaced by his thoughtful words, and I'll be able to breathe again and enjoy my weekend here.

I search the top of the dresser and each drawer before moving along to the desk. My fingers push through piles of paper clips and pens to no avail.
But
where else could he have placed it?

I find my e-reader and the bracelet resting on top of my religion journal, but the letter is nowhere to be found. After placing the bracelet on the desk, I move to the closet and search through the empty shoe box that Hardin uses to store his work files during the week. I lift the lid to find it empty except one single piece of paper, which, I'm sad to see, is not the letter.
What is this, though?
Hardin's handwriting is scribbled across it from top to bottom, and if I wasn't so worried about my letter, I would stop to check it out. It's really weird that this paper is randomly here. I make a mental note to come back and read the scribbles on that page and put the lid back onto the box and store it back where I found it.

Worrying that I may have overlooked the letter in the drawer, I march back to the dresser. What if Hardin threw it away?

No, he wouldn't; he knows how much that letter means to me. He'd never do that. I pull my old journal out once more, turn it upside down, and shake it, hoping the letter will fall out. I'm beginning to panic, until a flicker of white catches my attention. It's a shred of paper, twirling through the air between my journal and the floor. I reach down and pick it up just as it lands on the floor.

I recognize the words immediately—they're practically etched into my mind. It's only half a sentence, almost too small to read,
but the ink-smeared words are clearly written in Hardin's handwriting. My stomach drops. I stare at the fragment of paper, and the realization hits me. I just know that he did, in fact, destroy it. I begin to weep and let the shred slip from my shaking fingers and fall back to the floor. My heart is instantly broken, and I begin to wonder just how much one heart can bear.

Y
ou're free to go.” I release Landon from his babysitting duties.

“I'm not going, she just got here,” he replies, challenging me. I guess he's one of the biggest reasons, if not the only reason, that she wanted to come to this damned place at all.

“Fine,” I huff and lower my voice. “How was he while I was gone?” I quietly ask.

“He was good; he's less shaky, and he hasn't thrown up since yesterday morning.”

“Fucking junkie.” I run my hands over my hair. “Fuck.”

“Calm down, it's all going to work out,” my stepbrother assures me.

I ignore his words of wisdom and leave him in the kitchen to find Tessa. When I reach the bedroom door, I hear a strangled sob coming from inside. I take a quick step forward to find her with both hands cupped over her mouth, her blue eyes bloodshot and full of tears as they stare down at the floor. One more step is all it takes for me to spot what it is that she's looking at. Fuck.

Fuck.

“Tess?” I had planned on coming up with a plan to fix the problem that I created by ripping up that damned letter, but I just haven't had the chance yet. I was going to find the pieces that were left and try to tape them back together . . . or at least tell Tessa what I did before she found out on her own. Too late now.

“Tess, I'm sorry!” The apology tumbles out as tears roll down her tearstained cheeks.

“Why did you—” she sobs, unable to finish the sentence. My heart constricts in my chest. For a brief moment, I'm convinced that I'm hurting worse than she is.

“I was so mad after you left me,” I begin to explain, walking over to her, but she backs away. I don't blame her. “I wasn't thinking properly, and it was there, on the bed, where you left it.”

She doesn't speak or look away from me.

“I am so sorry, I swear it!” I frantically proclaim.

“I . . .” She chokes, furiously wiping at her cheeks. “I . . . just need a minute, okay?” Her eyes close, and a few more tears escape from under her fluttering eyelids.

I want to give her a minute like she asked, but I'm selfishly afraid that she'll grow more and more hurt as time passes and decide she doesn't want to see me.

“I'm not going to leave the room,” I say. She has both her hands pressed over her mouth, but even so, I hear her let out a muffled cry. The sound cuts straight through me.

“Please,” she begs through her pain. I knew she'd be hurt when she found out about me destroying that letter, but what I didn't expect was for it to hurt me so much.

“No, I won't.” I refuse to leave her in here alone to cry over my mistakes, again. How many times has that happened in this apartment?

She looks away from me and sits down at the foot of the bed, her shaky hands clasped on her lap, her eyes half closed, and her lips quivering as she tries to calm herself down. I ignore the push of her hand against my chest when I drop to my knees in front of her and wrap my arms around her body.

After a few exhausted efforts to push me away, she finally gives in and allows me to comfort her.

“I'm so sorry, baby,” I repeat; I don't know if I've ever meant those words so sincerely before.

“I loved that letter,” she says, crying into my shoulder. “It meant so much to me.”

“I know it did. I'm so sorry.” I don't even try to defend myself, because I'm a fucking idiot, and I knew how much that thing meant to her. I gently push her back by her shoulders and take her tearstained cheeks between my hands and lower my voice. “I don't know what to say except I'm sorry.”

Finally she opens her mouth to speak. “I won't say it's okay, because it's not . . .” Her eyes are red-rimmed and already swollen from her sobbing.

“I know.” I bow my head, dropping my hands from her face.

Moments later I feel her fingers press under my chin, tilting my face up to look at her, the way I usually do to her.

“I'm upset . . . devastated, really,” she says. “But there's nothing I can do about it, and I don't want to sit here and cry all weekend, and I certainly don't want you backtracking and beating yourself up over it.” She's trying her hardest to talk herself up, pretending that it doesn't bother her the way that I know it does.

I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding. “I'll make it up to you, somehow.” When she doesn't answer, I press a little. “Okay?”

She wipes at her eyes, her makeup smearing under her fingertips. Her silence is making me uneasy. I'd rather be screamed at than have her cry like this.

“Tess, please talk to me. Do you want me to take you back to Seattle?” Even if she says yes, I sure as hell won't do it, but the offer is tossed between us before I can think it through.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I'm fine.”

With a sigh, she stands, sidestepping my body as she exits the bedroom. I get to my feet and follow her. She closes the bathroom
door, and I go back into the bedroom to grab her small bag. I know her—she'll want to fix that black-smudged mess underneath her eyes.

I tap on the bathroom door, and she opens it slightly, just enough for me to shove the small bag through. “Thanks,” she says, her voice small, defeated.

I've already ruined her weekend, and it's barely started.

“My mom and your dad want you to bring Tessa by the house tomorrow,” Landon calls from the end of the hall.