After We Fell (89 page)

As I pass the historic homes and tourist attractions, I finally arrive in the residential part of town. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in Hampstead lives in a historic mansion and is rolling in wealth. All that is clear as I pull into my mum's gravel driveway. The old house looks like it could topple over any day now, and I'm glad to see the Sold sign on the lawn. Her future husband's house, just next door, is in much better shape than this shithole and about twice the size.

“Tessa.” I call her out of her deep sleep. She's probably drooled all over the damn window.

My mum appears at the front door only seconds after the headlights hit her windows. She pushes open the screen door and rushes down the small steps like a madwoman. Tessa's eyes open, and she focuses on my mum, who now is pulling at the passenger-door handle to get to her. What is it with everyone liking her so much?

“Tessa! Hardin!” My mum's voice is high and overly excited as Tessa unbuckles her seat belt and climbs out of the car. Womanly hugs and greetings are exchanged while I grab the bags from the trunk.

“I'm so glad you two are here.” My mum smiles, wiping a tear from her eyes. This is going to be a long weekend.

“Us, too.” Tessa answers for me and allows my mum to pull her by the hand into the small house.

“I don't like tea, so there won't be any stereotypical English welcome here, but I made some coffee. I know you both love your coffee,” my mum hums.

Tessa laughs, thanking her. My mum is keeping her distance from me, obviously trying not to set me off during the weekend of her wedding. The two women disappear into the kitchen, and I take the stairs to my old bedroom to get rid of these bags. I hear their laughter travel through the house, and I try to convince myself that nothing catastrophic will happen this weekend. Everything will be fine.

The room is empty except for my old twin bed and a dresser. The wallpaper has been stripped off, leaving a hideous trail of glue along the walls. My mum is obviously trying to get the place ready for the new owner, but seeing the place like this actually makes me feel a little strange.

I
still can't believe you both came,” Trish says to me. She hands me a cup of coffee—black, just the way I like it—and I smile at her thoughtfulness. She's a beautiful woman, with bright eyes and an equally bright smile—and she's dressed in a deep blue tracksuit.

“I'm so glad we could make it,” I tell her. I take a glance at the clock on the oven; already 10 p.m. The long flight and time change have thrown me off.

“Me, too. If it wasn't for you, I know he wouldn't be here.” She places her hand over mine. Unsure how to respond, I smile. She catches on to my discomfort and changes the subject.

“How was the flight? Did Hardin behave?” Her laugh is gentle, and I don't have the heart to tell her that her son was a complete tyrant throughout the security scan and half of the flight.

“He was fine.” I take a sip of the steaming coffee just as Hardin joins us in the kitchen. The house is old and cramped, too many walls close off too much of the space. The only decorations are brown moving boxes piled in the corners, but I feel oddly comfortable and at ease in Hardin's childhood home. I can tell by the look on his face when he leans down to walk under the archway leading to the kitchen that he doesn't feel the same way about this house. These walls hold too many memories for him, and instantly my impression of the place begins to dim.

“What's with the wallpaper?” he asks.

“I was removing it all to paint before selling, but the new owners are planning to tear the house down anyway. They want to build an entirely new home on the lot,” his mother explains. I like the idea of the house being demolished.

“Good, it's a shit house anyway,” he grumbles and picks up my coffee cup to take a sip. “Are you tired?” He turns to me.

“I'm fine,” I say, meaning it. I enjoy Trish's humor and warm company. I'm tired, but there'll be plenty of time to sleep. It's still fairly early.

“I've been staying at Mike's house, next door. I assumed you wouldn't want to stay there.”

“Obviously not,” Hardin replies. I take my coffee back from him, giving him a silent plea to be polite to his mother.

“Anyway”—Trish ignores his rude remark—“I have plans for her tomorrow, so I hope you can occupy yourself.”

It takes me a moment to realize she's referring to me.

“What sort of plans?” Hardin doesn't seem pleased with the idea.

“Just prewedding things. I have an appointment for us at a spa in town, and then I'd love it if she'd go with me to the last fitting of my wedding dress.”

“Of course,” I say at the same time that Hardin asks, “How long will
that
take?”

“Just the afternoon, I'm sure,” Trish assures her son. “That's only if you want to accompany me, Tessa. You don't have to, I just thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together while you're here.”

“I'd love to.” I smile at her. Hardin doesn't argue, which is good, because he would have lost.

“I'm glad.” She smiles, too. “My friend Susan will be joining us for lunch. She's dying to meet you, she's been hearing about you for so long that she doesn't believe you exist, she—”

Hardin begins to choke on his coffee, interrupting his mother's excited rambling.

“Susan Kingsley?” He eyes Trish, his shoulders tight and his voice shaky.

“Yes . . . well, her name is no longer Kingsley, she's remarried.” Trish stares back at him in a way that makes me feel like I've wandered into some sort of private conversation where I'm not wanted. Hardin stares back and forth between his mother and the wall before turning on his heel and leaving us alone in the kitchen.

“I'm going to head next door now for bed. If you need anything, let me know.” The excitement in her voice has faded; she sounds drained. Trish leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the back door and stepping outside.

I stand alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, finishing my coffee, which is pointless, because I need to go to sleep, but I finish it anyway and rinse the cup out in the sink before heading up the staircase to find Hardin. The upstairs hall is empty; torn wallpaper hangs on one side of the narrow passageway, and I can't help but compare Ken's magnificent house to this one; the differences are impossible to ignore.

“Hardin?” I call for him. All the doors are closed, and I don't feel comfortable opening them without knowing what's on the other side.

“Second door,” he calls back. I follow his voice to the second door along the hallway and push it open. The handle sticks, and I have to use my foot to get the wood to budge.

Hardin is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, when I enter. He looks up at me, and I walk over to him.

“What's wrong?” I ask, running my fingers through his messy hair.

“I shouldn't have brought you here,” he says, taking me by surprise.

“Why?” I sit down on the bed next to him, keeping a few inches between our bodies.

“Because”—he sighs—“. . . I just shouldn't have.” He lies back against the mattress and throws his arm over his face, so I'm unable to read his expression.

“Hardin . . .”

“I'm tired, Tessa, go to sleep.” His voice is muffled by his arm, but I know that this is his way of ending the conversation.

“Aren't you going to change?” I press, not wanting to go to bed without his shirt.

“No.” He rolls over onto his stomach and reaches up to shut off the light.

W
hen my alarm sounds at nine, I have to force myself to get out of bed. I barely slept; I was tossing and turning all night. The last time I checked the time it was three in the morning and I wasn't sure if I had gotten any sleep or if I had been awake the entire time.

Hardin is asleep, his arms crossed over his stomach. He didn't hold me last night, not once. The only contact we had consisted of his hands reaching for me in his sleep, just to make sure I was still there, before they went back to his stomach. His mood change doesn't completely surprise me. I know he didn't want to come here for the wedding, but the high level of his anxiety doesn't make much sense to me, especially since he refuses to talk to me about it. I'd like to ask him just how he expected to deal with me moving here with him if he doesn't even want me here for one weekend.

I brush my hand over his forehead, pushing the mass of hair away, and move down to touch the light stubble that darkens his jawline. His eyelids flutter and I quickly pull away and stand to my feet. I don't want to wake him, his sleep wasn't the least bit peaceful either. I wish I knew what was haunting him. I wish he hadn't closed down so abruptly. He revealed everything to me in the letter that he wrote me—and later destroyed—and while most of the things he referred to concerned terrible mistakes he'd
made, I've dealt with them and moved on. Nothing he did in his past will cause any damage to our future. He needs to know this. He has to know this, or it will never work.

The bathroom isn't hard to find, and I wait patiently for the water to turn from brown to clear. The shower is loud and the water pressure is very strong, almost painful, but it does wonders for the tension I've accumulated in my back and shoulder muscles.

I'm fully dressed in a pair of jeans and a cream tank top, but I hesitate before pulling on a floral-print lace sweater. It doesn't have buttons, which means Hardin can't demand that I close it; he's lucky I'm not wearing the tank top alone. It's spring now, and here in Central London it feels like it.

Trish didn't give me a specific time for our little jaunt today, so I head downstairs to make a pot of coffee. An hour later, I return upstairs to grab my e-reader so I can read for a while. Hardin has turned over onto his back, and his face is set in a full frown. Without disturbing him, I quickly leave the room and find my way back to the kitchen table. A couple of hours pass, and I'm relieved when Trish comes walking through the back door. Her brown hair is pulled back, just like mine, in a low bun, and she's dressed in—what else—a tracksuit.

“I was hoping you'd be awake, I wanted to give you some time to sleep in after the long day you had yesterday.” She smiles. “I'm ready whenever you are.”

I glance toward the narrow staircase one last time, hoping that Hardin will stroll down it with a smile and a kiss goodbye, but that doesn't happen. I grab my purse and follow Trish out the back door.

W
hen I reach for Tessa, she isn't in the bed. I don't know what time it is, but the sun is too damn bright, pouring through the uncovered windows like it's trying to force me awake. I slept like shit all night, and Tessa kept tossing and turning in her sleep. I was awake most of the night, keeping my distance from her restless body. I need to get a grip before I ruin this entire weekend for her, but I just can't seem to shake my paranoia. Not after my mum had the nerve to invite Susan Kingsley to have lunch with her and Tessa.

I don't bother changing my clothes, just brush my teeth and toss some water onto my hair. Tessa has taken a shower already; her toiletry bag is tucked away neatly in the otherwise empty cabinet.

When I get to the kitchen, the coffeepot is still hot and half full, and a rinsed coffee mug rests on the counter. Tessa and my mum must have already left; I should've spoken up and kept her from going. Why didn't I? This day can go one of two ways: Susan could be a complete bitch and make it hell for Tessa, or she could keep her goddamn mouth shut, and everything could be fine.

What the fuck am I supposed to do all day while my mum has Tessa prancing around town? I could go find them, it
wouldn't be hard, but my mum would probably be upset, and after all, tomorrow is her wedding day. I promised Tess that I'd be on my best behavior this weekend, and even though I've already broken the promise, I don't need to make it any worse.

Y
our hair looks so beautiful.” Trish reaches a newly manicured hand across the table to touch my head.

“Thank you. I'm getting used to it.” I smile, looking into the mirror directly behind our table. The woman at the spa was appalled that I had never dyed my hair before. After a few minutes of persuading, I agreed to darken it slightly, but only at the roots. The final color is a very light brown fading into my natural blond toward the ends. The difference is barely noticeable and looks much more natural than I expected. The color isn't permanent; it'll only last a month. I wasn't ready for a longer-term change, but the more I look at myself in the mirror, the more I like what I see.

The woman did wonders on my eyebrows, too, plucking them into a perfect arch, and my nails and toes are painted a deep red. I declined Trish's offer to get a Brazilian wax; as much as I've considered getting one, it would be awkward to do it with Hardin's mother, and I'm fine with shaving for now. During the walk to the car, Trish teases me about my flimsy shoes, the same way her son does, and I hold back from making a dig at her daily tracksuit-wearing.

I stare out the window the entire drive, taking in every single home, building, store, and person on the street.

“This is the place,” Trish says minutes later as she pulls her
car into a covered parking lot nestled between two small buildings. I follow her to the entrance of the smaller of the two.

I notice that there's moss covering the entirety of the brick building, and the sight of it calls forth my inner Landon, as references to
The Hobbit
pass through my mind. Landon would think the exact same thing if he were here, and we'd share a laugh while Hardin griped about how terrible the movies are and how they destroyed J.R.R. Tolkien's vision. Landon would argue back, as always, claiming that Hardin secretly loves the movies, and Hardin would flip him off. Selfishly, I imagine a place where Hardin, Landon, and I could live close to one another, a place where Landon and Dakota could live in Seattle, maybe in the same building as Hardin and me. A place where one of the few people who actually care about me won't be moving across the country in a few weeks.