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She bent down to help and smiled at him, and Hardin couldn’t help remembering how soft her lips were when she forced herself on him the other night. He was surprised as fuck—he didn’t take her as the type to make the first move and was fairly positive that she had only kissed her lame-ass boyfriend before. Her gasping and the way her hands were so eager to touch him made that pretty clear.
“So what’s going on with the bet?” Logan nodded toward Tessa as she smiled widely, spotting Landon in all his nerd glory, backpack and all.
“Nothing new,” Hardin instantly replied, covering the paper with one arm. How was he supposed to know what was going on with the mouthy, poorly dressed girl? She had barely spoken to him since her crazy-ass mom and lame-ass boyfriend had showed up pounding on her door Saturday morning.
Why was her name written on this paper? And why was Hardin feeling like he was going to break out in a full-on sweat if Logan didn’t stop staring like he knew something?
“She’s annoying, but she seems to like me more than Zed, at least.”
“She’s hot,” the two guys said at the same time.
“If I was a dickhead, I would go against the two of you. I’m better looking anyway,” Nate teased, sharing a laugh with Logan.
“I want nothing to do with this shit. This is all fucking stupid, really—you shouldn’t have fucked his girlfriend,” Logan scolded Hardin, who only laughed.
“It was worth it,” he said, looking back to the sidewalk across the courtyard. She had disappeared, and he changed the subject, asking about that weekend’s party coming up.
As the two of them bickered over how many kegs to buy, Hardin found myself writing down how afraid she’d looked on Friday when she nearly pounded his door in to get away from that creepy Neil, who tried to make a move on her. He’s a bastard, and would surely remain pissed at Hardin for the bottle of bleach he poured on his bed Sunday night. It wasn’t like Hardin gave a shit about her; it was the principle of the situation.
After that, the words just kept writing themselves. I had no control over it, and with every interaction I had with her, I had more to say about her. About the way she crinkled her nose in disgust when she explained to me that she hated ketchup. I mean, who hates ketchup?
With every small detail I learned about her, my feelings grew. I would deny them until later, but they were there.
When we lived together, it grew harder to write. I found myself writing much less often, but when I did, I would hide my latest writing in the closet in a shoe box. I had no idea that Tessa had found the damn thing until now, and here I am, wondering when I will stop complicating my damn life.
More memories flood my mind, and I wish I could just plug her into my head, so she could read my thoughts and decipher my intentions.
If she were in my head, she could see the conversation that led me to New York City to meet with publishers. It wasn’t something that I had ever intended to do. It just happened. I had written down so many moments, so many memorable moments between us. The first time I said I loved her; the second time, when I didn’t take it back. Thinking about all of these memories while cleaning up this mess is overwhelming, and I can’t help the memories from setting up shop in my mind.
He was leaning against the goalpost, pissed and bruised. Why had he started a fight with those guys in the middle of the stupid-ass bonfire anyway? Oh yeah, because Tessa left with Zed, and he hung up on Hardin, leaving him with nothing but a sarcastic tone and the knowledge that Tessa was in Zed’s apartment.
It drove him much crazier than it should have. He wanted to forget about it, block it out, and feel physical pain in place of the unwelcome burn of jealousy. Would she fuck him? he kept thinking. Would he win?
Was it even about winning anymore? He couldn’t tell. The lines had blurred sometime, and Hardin couldn’t exactly put his finger on when it happened, but he was aware of it, sort of.
He had sat down on the grass, wiping the blood from his mouth, when Tessa approached. Hardin’s vision was slightly blurred, but she was clear, he remembered that. During the drive back to Ken’s house she was fidgety, unsure, and acting as if he were some rabid animal.
She focused on the road and asked, “Do you love me?”
Hardin was surprised—hell, he was fucking surprised and not prepared to answer her question. He’d already proclaimed his love for her, then taken it back, and there she was, crazy as ever, asking if he loved her while his face was swelling and bruising.
Of course he loved her, who the fuck was he kidding?
Hardin avoided answering her question for a while, but holding back became unbearable, and he found the words spilling out. “It’s you. You’re the person that I love the most in the world.” It was true, as embarrassing and uncomfortable as it was to admit. He loved her, and he knew from then on that his life would never be the same after her.
If she left him, if she spent the remainder of her life absent from his, he would still never be the same. She had altered him, and there he stood, bloody knuckles and all, wanting to be better for her.
The next day, I found myself giving the pile of crumpled, coffee-stained pages a title: After.
I still wasn’t ready or actually considering publishing it until I made the mistake of bringing it to one of my group-therapy sessions a few months ago. Luke had grabbed the binder from under my plastic chair as I told the story of burning my mother’s house to the ground. The words were forced—I hate talking about that shit—but I kept my eyes above the curious eyes watching me and pretended that Tessa was there, in the room, smiling and proud of me for sharing my darkest time with a group of strangers who were just as fucked-up as I am . . . was.