Page 38

“No, but it’s a long story. Right after his dad called and told him, they left town for the weekend to celebrate. I think that’s why Hardin came here, to confront his dad. He never comes here,” he explains and opens the back door.
I see a shadow sitting at a small table on the patio. Hardin.
“I don’t know what you think I can do, but I’ll try.”
Landon nods. He leans down and puts his hand on my shoulder. “He was calling out for you,” he tells me quietly, and my heart stops.
I walk toward Hardin and he looks up at me. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is hidden under a gray beanie. His eyes go wide, then darken, and I want to step back. He looks almost scary under the dim patio light.
“How did you get here—” Hardin says loudly and stands up.
“Landon . . . he . . .” I answer, then wish I hadn’t.
“You fucking called her?” he yells toward Landon, who for his part walks back inside.
“You leave him alone, Hardin—he is worried about you,” I scold.
He sits back down, gesturing for me to take a seat, too. I sit across from him and watch as he grabs the mostly empty bottle of dark liquor and puts it to his mouth. I watch his Adam’s apple move as he gulps it down. When he’s finished, he slams the bottle down onto the glass of the patio table and it makes me jump, thinking either the bottle or the table or both might break.
“Aww, aren’t you two something. You both are so predictable. Poor Hardin is upset, so you gang up on me and try to make me feel bad for breaking some shitty china,” he drawls with a sick smirk.
“I thought you don’t drink?” I ask him and cross my arms.
“I don’t. Until now, I guess. Don’t try to patronize me; you’re no better than me.” He points a finger at me, then grabs the bottle for another swig.
And it’s scary, but I can’t deny that being near him, even in his drunken state, breathes life into me. I have missed the feeling Hardin gives me.
“I never said I was better than you. I just want to know what made you drink now?”
“What does it matter to you? Where’s your boyfriend?” His eyes blaze into mine and the emotion behind them is so strong that I am forced to look away. If only I knew what that emotion was; hatred, I suppose.
“He’s back in my room. I just want to help you, Hardin.” I lean a little over the table to reach for his hand, but he recoils from my touch.
“Help me?” he cackles. I want to ask him why he was calling out for me if he is going to continue to be hateful, but I don’t want to throw Landon under the bus again. “If you want to help me, then leave.”
“Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?” I look down at my hands and pick at my fingernails.
He sighs and pulls his beanie off and runs his hand through his hair before pulling it back on. “My father decided to tell me just now that he is marrying Karen—and the wedding’s next month. He should have told me long ago, and not over the phone. I’m sure perfect little Landon’s known for a while.”
Oh. I hadn’t actually expected him to tell me, so I am not sure what to say. “I am sure he had his reasons not to tell you.”
“You don’t know him; he doesn’t give a shit about me. You know how many times I have talked to him in the last year? Maybe ten! All he cares about is his big house, his new soon-to-be wife, and his new, perfect son.” Hardin slurs and takes another drink. I stay quiet while he continues. “You should see the dump that my mum lives in in England. She says she likes it there, but I know she doesn’t. It’s smaller than my dad’s bedroom here! My mum practically forced me to come here for university, to be closer to him—and we see how that worked out!”
With this little bit of information he has given me I feel like I can understand him so much better. Hardin’s hurt; that’s why he is the way he is.
“How old were you when he left?” I ask him.
He eyes me warily but answers. “Ten. But even before he left, he was never around. He was at a different bar every night. Now he’s Mr. Perfect and he has all this shit,” Hardin says and waves his hand toward the house.
Hardin’s dad left when he was ten, just like mine, and they were both drunks. We have more in common than I thought. This wounded and drunk Hardin seems so much younger, so much more fragile than the powerful person I’ve known so far.
“I’m sorry that he left you guys, but—”
“No, I don’t need your pity,” he interrupts.
“It’s not pity. I’m just trying to—”
“Trying to what?”
“Help you. Be here for you,” I say softly.
And he smiles. It’s a beautifully haunting smile, and makes me hopeful that I can help him through this, but I know what is really about to happen.
“You are so pathetic. Don’t you see that I don’t want you here? I don’t want you to be here for me. Just because I messed around with you doesn’t mean I want anything to do with you. Yet here you are, leaving your nice boyfriend—who can actually stand to be around you—to come here and try to ‘help’ me. That, Theresa, is the definition of pathetic,” he says, punctuating it with air quotes.
His voice is full of venom, just like I knew it would be, but I ignore the pain in my chest and look at him. “You don’t mean that.” I think back to a week ago when he was laughing and tossing me into the water. I can’t decide if he is a great actor, or a great liar.