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My mind is whirling with ideas. I used to go to church growing up, but I have to admit my relationship with God hasn’t always been the strongest. Every time I try to press my pen to the first page of my journal, Hardin comes to mind. Why haven’t I heard from him? He always calls. He left a note, so I know he’s safe—but where is he now? How long will it be before I hear from him?
As each text remains unanswered, the panic inside of me grows. He has changed so much, improved his behavior.
Faith. Have I had too much faith in Hardin? If I continue to have faith in him, will he change?
Before I realize where the time has gone, I’m on my third page. Most of what I’ve written has gone straight from somewhere inside of me to the paper, leaving my mind and heart out of it. Somehow a weight has been lifted by writing about my faith in Hardin. Professor Soto calls the end of class, and I listen to Landon talk about his journal entry. He chose to write about faith in himself and his future. I wrote about Hardin without a thought. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.
The rest of the day drags on miserably, since I haven’t heard from Hardin. By one o’clock, I’ve called him three more times and sent eight more texts, but nothing. I feel bad about it—especially after having just written about faith and my feelings about him—but my first thought is that I hope he isn’t off doing something that will harm us.
My second thought is of Molly. It’s funny how she always pops up in mind when there’s trouble. Well, not funny, but persistent. She’s like an apparition that appears in my head even though I know he wouldn’t cheat on me.
Chapter seventy-seven
HARDIN
Do you want another cup of coffee?” she asks. “It’ll help with the hangover.”
“No, I know how to get rid of a hangover. I’ve had plenty,” I growl.
Carly rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a dick. I was just asking.”
“Stop talking.” I rub my temples. Her voice is annoying as hell.
“Charming as ever, I see.” She laughs and leaves me alone in her small kitchen.
I’m a dumb-ass for even being here, but it’s not like I had another option. Yes, I did, I’m just trying to not take the blame for my overreaction. I was harsh on Tessa and said some pretty fucked-up things, and now here I am in Carly’s kitchen drinking fucking coffee this late in the afternoon.
“Do you need a ride back to your car?” she yells from the other room.
“Obviously,” I respond, and she walks into the kitchen wearing only a bra.
“You’re lucky that I brought your drunk ass home with me. My boyfriend will be arriving soon, so we need to go.” She slides her shirt over her head.
“You have a boyfriend? Nice.” This keeps getting better.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. I do. It may be surprising to you that not everyone just wants an endless parade of fuck buddies.”
I almost tell her about Tessa, but I decide against it, since it’s none of her business. “I gotta piss first,” I tell her and walk toward the bathroom.
My head is pounding and I’m angry at myself for coming here. I should be at home . . . well, on campus. I hear my phone buzzing on the counter and snap back around.
“Don’t you dare answer that,” I bark at Carly, and she takes a step back.
“I’m not! Man, you weren’t this big of an asshole last night,” she remarks, but I ignore her.
I follow Carly to her car, my head pounding with each step against the concrete. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I shouldn’t have drunk at all. I look over at Carly as she rolls her window down and lights a cigarette.
How could she ever have been my type? She’s not wearing a seat belt. She puts makeup on at stoplights. Tessa is so different from her, from any of the girls I’ve ever been with.
As we’re driving back to the bar where I got shit-faced last night, I keep rereading the texts from Tessa, over and over again. This is terrible—she’s probably really worried. My head’s too foggy to think up a good excuse, so I just text her, I fell asleep in the car after drinking too much with Landon last night. Be home soon.
Something feels off, and I pause for a minute. But my whole brain is just rattled, so I hit send and watch the phone to see if she’s replying. Nothing.
Well, I can’t tell her about this, about staying at Carly’s house. She’ll never forgive me, she won’t even hear me out. I know she won’t. I can tell she’s getting tired of my shit lately. I know she is.
I just don’t have a fucking clue how to fix it.
Carly interrupts my rumination when she hits the brake and curses. “Aaagh, fuck. We have to go around—there’s a wreck up there,” she says, pointing to the cars blocking our way.
Glancing up, I see a middle-aged man standing with his hands in his pockets while talking to a police officer. He points to a white car that looks . . . just like . . .
I panic. “Stop the car,” I demand.
“What? Jesus, Hard—”
“I said stop the goddamn car!” Without thinking, I open the door as the car comes to a stop and rush over to the damaged cars. “Where’s the other driver?” I ask the officer angrily and look around the scene.
The front end of the white car is badly damaged, and then I see the WCU parking pass hanging from the rearview mirror. Fuck. An ambulance is parked next to the police car. Fuck.
If something happened to her . . . if she isn’t okay . . .
“Where’s the girl? Someone fucking answer me!” I scream.