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“Then he chose a party over going to see you,” he adds.
“Yeah . . .” I really don’t know what else to say.
“I think that really shows what type of person he is and that he isn’t going to change. You know?” Is he right?
“I know. I just really wish he’d talked to me about it or told me he just didn’t want to come over instead of leaving me sitting there for hours waiting on him.” My fingers play with the edges of the table, picking at the peeling wood.
“I don’t think you should talk to him about it; if he thought you were worth his time, he would have showed and not left you waiting.”
“I know you’re right, but this is the main problem in our relationship. We don’t talk about things, we both jump to conclusions that lead to yelling and one of us leaving,” I say. I know Zed is only trying to help, but I really want Hardin to explain to me, to my face, why hanging out with strippers was more important than me.
“I thought you didn’t have a relationship anymore?”
“We do . . . well, we don’t, but . . . I don’t even know how to explain it.” I’m mentally exhausted and Zed’s presence sometimes confuses me even more.
“It’s your choice, I just wish you wouldn’t waste any more time on him.” He sighs and gets up from the couch.
“I know,” I whisper and check my phone for a message from Hardin. There isn’t one.
“Are you hungry?” Zed asks me from the kitchen, and I hear his empty can hit the trash.
Chapter one hundred and eleven
HARDIN
This apartment is so goddamned empty.
I hate sitting here without her. I miss her legs resting on my lap as she studies and I steal unnoticed glances at her while pretending to work. I miss the way she would obnoxiously poke my arm with her pen until I snatched it from her and held it above her head, and then she’d act so annoyed, but I knew she was only bugging me to get me to pay attention to her. The way she would climb on my lap to retrieve the object always led to the same thing, every time, which was obviously a good thing for me.
“Fuck,” I say to myself and set my binder down. I haven’t gotten shit done today, or yesterday, or the past two weeks really.
I’m still pissed that she didn’t respond to me last night, but more than anything I just want to see her. I’m pretty sure she’ll be at my father’s house, so I should just go by there and talk to her. If I call her she may not answer and that will make me more anxious, so I’ll just stop by.
I know I’m supposed to be giving her space, but, really . . . fuck space. It’s not working for me and I hope it’s not working for her either.
By the time I get to my father’s house, it’s almost seven and Tessa’s car isn’t here.
What the fuck.
She’s probably at the store or library with Landon or some shit. I’m proven wrong when I see Landon sitting on the couch with a textbook on his lap. Great.
“Where is she?” I ask him as soon as I enter the living room.
I almost sit down next to him but I decide to stand. That would be weird as fuck to just sit down with him.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her yet today,” he responds, barely looking up from his studies.
“Have you talked to her?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I? Not everyone stalks her,” he says with a smile.
“Fuck off,” I huff.
“I really don’t know where she is,” Landon tells me.
“Well, I’ll wait here . . . I guess.” I walk into the kitchen and take a seat at the counter. Just because I sort of like him a little more now doesn’t mean I’m going to sit there and stare at him while he does his homework.
There’s a blob of chocolate on a plate in front of me with candles reading thirteen. Is this thing supposed to be someone’s birthday cake?
“Who’s shit cake is this in here?” I yell. I can’t make out the name, if that’s what the white icing was supposed to be.
“It’s your shit cake,” Karen answers me. When I turn around, she’s giving me a sarcastic smile.
I didn’t even see her come in. “Mine? It says ‘thirteen.’?”
“Those were the only candles I had and Tessa really got a kick out of them,” she tells me. There’s something behind her voice that sounds off. Is she mad or something?
“Tessa? I’m confused.”
“She made that for you last night while she was waiting for you to get here,” she says, then turns her attention to the chicken she’s now carving.
“I didn’t come here.”
“I know you didn’t, but she was expecting you.” I stare at the hideous cake and feel like a complete ass. Why would she make me a cake without even asking me to come over? I’ll never understand that girl. The longer I stare at the cake she made, the more charming it becomes. I’ll admit it’s not easy on the eyes, but it may have been yesterday before it sat out all night.
I can picture her laughing to herself as she pushed the wrong-numbered candles in the top of the chocolate cake. I can picture her licking the cake batter off of the spoon and scrunching up her nose as she wrote out my name.
She made me a fucking cake and I went to that party. Could I be more of an asshole? “Where is she now?” I ask Karen.
“I have no idea, I’m not sure if she’ll be here for dinner.”
“Can I stay? For dinner?” I ask her.