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She nods with a wry smile that I’ve seen on Hardin’s face a few times.
“I can cook, it’s okay,” I offer and stand up. I walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter. I grip the edges of the marble countertop harder than necessary, trying to catch my breath. I don’t know how long I can do this, pretend that Hardin didn’t destroy everything, pretend that I love him. I do love him, I am miserably in love with him. The problem is not my lack of feelings toward this moody, egotistical boy. The problem is that I’ve given him so many chances, always dismissing the hateful things that he says and does. But this time it’s too much.
“Hardin, be a gentleman and help her,” I hear Trish say, and I rush over to the freezer to pretend like I wasn’t having a mini breakdown.
“Um . . . I can help?” His voice carries through the small kitchen.
“Okay . . .” I answer.
“Popsicles?” he asks, and I look at the object in my hands. I had meant to grab chicken, but I was distracted.
“Yeah. Everyone likes Popsicles, right?” I say, and he smiles, revealing those evil dimples of his.
I can do this. I can be around Hardin. I can be nice to him, and we can get along.
“You should make that chicken pasta that you made for me,” I suggest.
His green eyes focus on me. “That’s what you want to eat?”
“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Of course not.”
“You’re being so weird today,” I whisper so our houseguest doesn’t hear.
“No, I’m not.” He shrugs and steps toward me.
My heart begins to race as he leans in. As I move to step away, he grabs the door to the freezer and pulls it open.
I thought he was going to kiss me. What the hell is wrong with me?
We cook dinner in almost complete silence, neither of us knowing what to say. My eyes watching him the entire time, the way his long fingers curl around the base of the knife to chop the chicken and the vegetables, the way he closes his eyes when the steam from the boiling water hits his face, the way his tongue swipes the corners of his mouth when he tastes the sauce. I know that observing him like this isn’t conducive to being impartial, or healthy in any way, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll set the table while you tell your mom it’s ready,” I say when it’s finally done.
“What? I’ll just call her.”
“No, that’s rude. Just go get her,” I say.
He rolls his eyes but obeys anyway, only to return seconds later, alone. “She’s asleep,” he tells me.
I heard him, but I still ask, “What?”
“Yeah, she’s passed out on the couch. Should I just wake her up?”
“No . . . She had a long day. I’ll put some food away for her so whenever she gets up she can eat. It’s sort of late anyway.”
“It’s eight.”
“Yeah . . . that’s late.”
“I guess.” His voice is flat.
“What is with you? I know this is uncomfortable and all, but you are being so weird,” I say as I put food on two plates without thinking.
“Thanks.” he says and grabs one before sitting down at the table.
I grab a fork from the drawer and opt to stand at the counter to eat. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” He grabs a forkful of chicken and digs in.
“Why you’re being so . . . quiet and . . . nice. It’s weird.”
He takes a moment to chew then swallow before he answers. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“Oh” is all I can think to say. Well, that’s not what I expected to hear.
He turns the tables on me then. “So why are you being so nice and weird?”
“Because your mother is here and what happened, happened—there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can’t hold on to that anger forever.” I lean against the counter on my elbow.
“So what does that mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying that I want to be civil and not fight anymore. It doesn’t change anything between us.” I bite my cheek to keep my eyes from tearing up.
Instead of saying anything, Hardin stands up and throws his plate into the sink. The porcelain splits down the middle with a loud crack that causes me to jump. Hardin doesn’t flinch or even turn back around as he stalks off to the bedroom.
I peer into the living room to make sure that his impulsive behavior hasn’t woken up his mother. Fortunately, she’s still asleep, her mouth slightly open in a way that makes her resemblance to her son all the stronger.
As usual, I’m left to clean up the mess that Hardin made. I load the dishwasher and put away the leftovers before wiping down the counter. I’m exhausted, mentally more than physically, but I need to take a shower and go to bed. But where the hell am I going to sleep? Hardin is in the bedroom and Trish is on the couch. Maybe I should just drive back to the motel.
I turn the heat up a little and switch off the light in the living room. When I walk into the bedroom to get my pajamas, Hardin is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up, so I grab a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and panties from my bag before exiting the room. As I hit the doorway, I hear what sounds like a muffled sob.
Is Hardin crying?
He isn’t. He couldn’t be.
On the off chance that he is, I can’t leave the room. I pad back to the bed and stand in front of him. “Hardin?” I say quietly and try to remove his hands from his face. He resists, but I pull harder. “Look at me,” I beg.