After We Fell (82 page)

I recoil, my blood instantly boils, and the raging need to defend Hardin surfaces. “Don't you dare bring Hardin into this! He's been taking care of my father and providing him with somewhere to live to keep him off of the streets!” I hate the way my choice of words resembles my mother's.

Hardin crosses the room and stands beside me. I know he's going to warn me to stay out of it.

“It's true, Carol. He's a good man, and he loves her more than I've ever seen a man love a woman,” my father chimes in. My mother's fists ball at her sides, and her perfectly blushed cheeks flare a deep red.

“Don't you dare defend him! All of this—she waves one clenched fist through the thick air—“is because of him! She should be in Seattle, creating a life for herself, finding herself a suitable man . . .”

I can barely hear anything over the blood rushing and pumping through my head. In the midst of all of this, I feel terrible for Landon, who has kindly retreated to the bedroom to leave us alone, and for Hardin, who is, yet again, being used as my mother's scapegoat.

“She
is
living in Seattle, she's here visiting her father. I told you that on the phone.” Hardin's voice breaks through the chaos; it's barely controlled, and it sends a shiver over my body, raising the small hairs on my arms.

“Don't think that just because you called me we're suddenly friends,” she snaps. Hardin jerks me back by my arm, and I glare up at him, puzzled. I hadn't even realized that I started toward her until he stopped me.

“Judgmental as always. You'll never change, you're still the same woman you were all those years ago.” My father shakes his head in disapproval. I'm thankful that he's on Hardin's side.

“Judgmental? Are you aware that this boy, the one you're defending, weaseled his way between your daughter's legs to win money in a bet he made with his friends?” My mother's voice is cold—smug, even.

All of the air leaves the room, and I'm choking, gasping for a simple breath.

“That's right! He was bragging around campus about his conquest. So don't you defend him to me,” she hisses. My father's eyes are wide. I can see the stormy currents gathering behind them as he looks at Hardin.

“What? Is this true?” My father is choking for breath, too.

“It's not important! We've already passed it,” I tell him.

“See, she went and found herself someone exactly like you. Let us pray that he doesn't get her pregnant and leave when times get tough.”

I can't listen anymore. I can't let Hardin be dragged through the mud by both of my parents. This is a disaster.

“And not to mention just three weekends ago, a man dropped her at my house unconscious because of his”—she points to Hardin—“friends! They nearly had their way with her!”

The reminder of that night pains me, but it's the way my mother is blaming Hardin that bothers me the most. What happened that night was in no way his fault, and she knows it.

“You son of a bitch!” my father says through his teeth.

“Don't,” Hardin calmly warns him. I pray that he listens.

“You had me fooled! Here I was thinking you just had a bad rep, some tattoos, and an attitude! I could deal with that. I'm the same way. But you
used
my daughter!” My father dashes toward Hardin, and I stand in front of him.

My brain hasn't had a chance to catch up with my mouth. “Stop it! Both of you!” I scream. “If you want to go to war over your past, that's your choice, but you won't bring Hardin into it! He called you for a reason, Mother, and yet here you are throwing him under the bus out of anger. This is his place, not either of yours. Both of you can get the hell out!” My eyes burn, as if they're begging me to shed the warm tears, but I refuse.

My mother and father both halt; they look at me, then at each other. “Sort your crap out or leave; we'll be in the bedroom.” I wrap my fingers around Hardin's, and I try to pull him behind me.

He hesitates for a moment before using his long legs to step in front of me and lead me down the hallway, still grasping my hand. His grip is tight, nearly unbearably so, but I stay quiet. I'm still in shock from my mother's arrival and blowup; too much pressure on my hand is the least of my concerns.

I push the door closed behind me just in time to muffle the shouting voices of my parents down the hall. Suddenly I'm nine again, running through the backyard of my mother's house to my haven, the small greenhouse. I could always hear the shouting, no matter how loud Noah attempted to be in order to mute the unpleasant noise.

“I wish you hadn't called her.” I break from my memories and look up at Hardin. Landon is sitting at the desk, making a point not to stare at us.

“You needed her. You were in denial.” His voice is gravelly.

“She made things worse; she told him about what you did.”

“It made sense at the time to call her. I was trying to help you.”

The look in his eyes tells me he really thought it might work. “I know,” I say with a sigh. I wish he'd run the idea past me first, but I know he was doing what he thought was right.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don't.” He shakes his head and plops down on the bed. Looking up at me with real anguish, he says, “We'll always be reminded of that shit—you know that, don't you?”

He's shutting down; I can feel it just as surely as I can see it happening in front of me.

“No, that's not true.” There's at least some truth to my words in that once everyone we know finds out about the bet, it'll become old news to them all. I shudder at the thought of Kimberly and Christian finding out, but everyone else around us now knows the humiliating truth.

“Yes, it is! You know it is!” Hardin raises his voice and paces across the floor. “It's never going to go away, every time we fucking turn around, someone is throwing it in your face, reminding you of what a fuckup I am!” His fist collides with the top of the desk before I can stop him. The wood splinters, and Landon jumps to his feet.

“Don't do this! Don't let her get to you, please!” I grab a fistful of his black sweatshirt, stopping him from beginning another assault on the already broken wood. He jerks away, but I don't let up. I grab both sleeves this time, and he turns around, fuming.

“Aren't you tired of this shit? Aren't you tired of the constant fight? If you would just let me go, your life would be much easier!” Hardin's words come out clipped and loud, and each syllable cuts
deep. He always does this; he always goes for self-destruction. I won't allow it this time.

“Stop that! You know that I don't want easy and loveless.” I gather his face between my hands and force him to look at me.

“Both of you, listen to me,” Landon interrupts. Hardin doesn't look at him; he keeps his furious gaze on me. My best friend, Hardin's stepbrother, walks across the room to stand only feet away from us.

“You guys can't do this again. Hardin, you can't let people get into your head like that; Tessa's is the only opinion that matters. Let hers be the only voice in your head,” he tells us.

It's as if the black rings around Hardin's eyes visibly shrink as he takes in the words. “And Tess . . .” Landon sighs. “You don't need to feel guilty and try to convince Hardin that you want to be with him; you staying around through everything should be proof enough.”

Landon has a point, but I'm not sure if Hardin will see it through his anger and pain.

“Tessa needs you to comfort her right now. Her parents are screaming at each other in there, so be here for her—don't make this about you,” Landon tells his stepbrother. Something in his words seems to click in Hardin's mind, and he nods, tilting his head down to press his forehead against mine, his harsh breathing slowing with each breath.

“I'm sorry . . .” he whispers.

“I'm going to go home now.” Landon looks away from us, seemingly uncomfortable with witnessing the intimacy between Hardin and me. “I'll let my mom know you'll be by.”

I move away from Hardin to wrap my arms around Landon's neck. “Thank you for everything. I'm so glad you were here,” I say into his chest. His arms tightly hug me, and this time Hardin doesn't pull me away. When I step out of the embrace, Landon leaves the room, and I look back at Hardin. He's examining his
bloody knuckles, a sight that was beginning to turn into a distant memory; now I'm seeing it again as the thick blood drips onto the floor.

“About what Landon said,” Hardin says, wiping his bloodied hand on the bottom of his sweatshirt. “When he said yours should be the only voice in my head. I want that.” When he looks up at me again, his expression is haunted. “I want that so fucking bad. I can't seem to shake them . . . Steph, Zed, now your mum and dad.”

“We'll figure it out, we will,” I promise him.

“Theresa!” My mother's voice resounds from outside the door. I had been too wrapped up in Hardin to notice that the noise in the living room had dissipated. “Theresa, I'm coming in.”

The door opens on the last word, and I stand behind Hardin. This seems to be a pattern.

“We need to talk about this, all of this.” She eyes Hardin and me with equal intensity. Hardin's head turns, and he looks down at me, raising an eyebrow for approval.

“I don't think there's much to discuss,” I say from behind my shield.

“There's plenty to discuss. I'm sorry for my behavior tonight. I lost my mind when I saw your father here, after all these years. Please give me a little time to explain. Please.” The word “please” sounds foreign coming from my mother's lips.

Hardin steps away, exposing me to her. “I'm going to go clean this up.” He lifts his battered hand in the air and exits the room before I can stop him.

“Sit down, we have a lot to discuss.” My mother runs her palms down the front of her dress and pushes her thick blond waves to one side before she sits down on the edge of the bed.

T
he cold water blasts from the faucet onto my torn flesh. I stare down at the sink, watching as the red-stained water swirls around the metal drain.

Again? This shit happened again? Of course it did; it was only a matter of time.

I leave the bathroom door open so I can easily access the room across the hall if I hear any screaming. I have no fucking idea what I was thinking when I called that bitch. I shouldn't call her that . . . but she is one, so . . . bitch it is. At least I'm not saying it in front of Tessa. When I called her, I could only think of Tessa's blank expression and naive remarks, saying things like “he's not doing drugs” as she tried to convince herself of what was obviously not true. I knew she'd come undone at any moment, and for some stupid fucking reason I thought her mum being here could possibly be of help.

This is precisely why I don't try to help people. I have no experience in it. I'm pretty damn excellent at fucking shit up, but I'm no savior.

A flash of movement in the mirror catches my eye, and I look up to see Richard's reflection staring back at me. He's leaning against the narrow doorframe, his expression wary.

“What? Did you come to try and shank me or something?” I say flatly.

He sighs and runs his hands over his clean-shaven face. “No, not this time.”

I scoff, half wishing that he would try and come at me. I'm certainly wound up enough for a brawl, or two.

“Why didn't either of you tell me?” Richard asks, obviously referring to the bet.

Is he fucking serious?

“Why would I tell you? And you sure as hell aren't stupid enough to believe Tessa would tell her father—her
absentee
father—some shit like that.” I turn the faucet off and grab a towel to apply pressure to my knuckles; they've stopped bleeding, for the most part. I should learn to switch hands, punch with my right from now on.

“I don't know . . . I feel blindsided, I thought you two were just opposites attracting, but now . . .”

“I'm not asking for your approval. Nor do I need it.” I walk past him and hurry down the hallway. I go and grab the bag of burned popcorn that still rests on the floor.

“Let hers be the only voice in your head.”
Landon's words echo through my mind. I wish it were that easy, and maybe it will be one day . . . I sure as hell hope so.

“I know you don't; I just want to understand all this shit. As her dad, I feel obligated to beat your ass.” He shakes his head.

“Right,” I say, wanting to remind him again that he hasn't been her father for over nine years.

“Carol was a lot like Tessa when she was young,” he says, following me into the kitchen.

I recoil, and the bag nearly slips from my fingers. “No, she wasn't.”

There is no way in hell that this could be true. Honestly, I used to think Tessa was just like that prudish, bitchy woman, but now that I actually know her, I'm sure that it couldn't be further from the truth. Her struggle to appear perfect is certainly the result
of having the woman as her mother, but otherwise Tessa is nothing like her.

“It's true. She wasn't quite as nice, but she wasn't always . . .” He trails off, grabbing a bottled water from my fridge.

“A bitch?” I finish his sentence for him. His eyes dart down the empty hallway as if he's afraid she's going to appear and toss him around again. I'd like to see that happen, actually . . .

“She was always smiling . . . Her smile was something else. All the men wanted her, but she was mine.” He grins at the memory. I didn't sign up for this shit . . . I'm no fucking counselor. Tessa's mum is hot as hell, but she's got a constant stick up her ass that someone needs to remove, or maybe the complete opposite . . .