Page 17

Sensing the beginning of a rambling spell, I interrupt her. “Tessa, I know—”
But she surprises me by holding a hand up to silence me. “I wasn’t finished. Not to mention he took the blame for a house fire that you caused and was injured. I love you, and I know you hate him right now, but I know you—the real you—so don’t sit here and act like you don’t give a shit what happens to him, because I know damn well that you do.” Violent coughing punctuates her angry speech, and I push the water bottle to her mouth.
I take a moment to mull over her words as she settles her cough. She’s right—of course she is—but I’m not ready to face any of the things that she just mentioned. I’m not fucking ready to admit that he did something for me—not after all these years. I’m not ready for him to suddenly be a fucking father to me. Fuck no. I don’t want anyone, especially him, to think that this somehow evens the score, that I will somehow forget all of the shit he missed, all of the nights I spent listening to my parents screaming at one another, all of the times I rushed up the stairs at the sound of my father’s drunken voice—the way he knew and didn’t tell me all the while.
No, fuck that. It’s not fucking even, and it never will be. “You think because he gets a little burn on his leg and chooses to take the blame that I will forgive him?” I run my hands through my hair. “I’m supposed to just forgive him for lying to me for twenty-one fucking years?” I ask, my voice much louder than I intended it to be.
“No, of course not!” she says, raising her voice right back at me. I worry that she might blow out a vocal cord or something, but she goes right on. “But I refuse to allow you to brush this off as some small thing he did. He is going to jail for you, and you act as if you couldn’t be bothered to even ask how he is. Absent, lying, father or not, he loves you, and he saved your ass last night.”
This is bullshit. “Whose side are you fucking on?”
“There aren’t any sides!” she shouts, her voice echoing in the small space and not helping my ringing headache one bit. “Everyone is on your side, Hardin. I know you feel like it’s you against the world, but look around you. You have me, your father—both of them—Karen, who loves you as her own, and Landon, who loves you much more than either of you will ever admit.” Tessa half smiles at the mention of her best friend, but continues her lecture. “Kimberly may challenge you, but she cares for you, too, and Smith, you are literally the only person that little boy likes.” She gathers my hands in her shaking ones and rubs her thumbs across my palms in gentle caresses.
“It’s ironic, really: the man who hates the world is most loved by it,” she whispers, her eyes glossy and full of tears. Tears for me, so many tears for me.
“Baby.” I pull her over to my seat, and she straddles my waist. Her arms lock around my neck. “You selfless girl.”
I bury my face in her neck, almost trying to hide in her messy hair.
“Let everyone in, Hardin. Life is much easier when you do.” She rubs my head like that of some pet . . . but I fucking love it.
I nuzzle farther into her. “It’s not that easy.” My throat burns, and I feel like the only breath I can catch is when I’m breathing in her scent. It’s clouded by the faint smell of smoke and fire that I’ve seemed to smother the car in, but still calming.
“I know.” She continues to run her hands over my hair, and I want to believe her.
Why is she always so understanding when I don’t deserve her to be?
The honking of a horn brings me out of my hiding place and reminds me we’re at the gas pumps. Apparently the man in the truck behind us doesn’t appreciate being held up one bit. Tessa climbs off my lap and buckles herself in the passenger seat.
I consider keeping the car parked here just to be a dick, but I hear Tessa’s stomach rumble, causing me to reconsider. When was the last time she ate? That I can’t remember tells me it’s been too long.
I pull away from the pumps and pull into the empty lot across the street, where we slept last night. “Eat something.” I push a breakfast bar into her hands. I pull to the back of the lot, close to a cluster of trees, and turn the heat on. It’s spring now, but the morning air is crisp and Tessa is shivering. I put an arm around her and gesture as if offering her the world. “We could go to Haworth, see Brontë country. I could show you the moors.”
She surprises me by laughing.
“What?” I raise my brow at her and bite into a banana muffin.
“After the night you ha-had”—she clears her throat—“you’re talking about taking me to the moors?” She shakes her head and reaches for her steaming coffee.
I shrug, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know . . .”
“How far is the drive?” she asks, a lot less enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Granted, if this weekend hadn’t turned into complete shit, she’d probably be more excited. I promised to take her to Chawton, too, but the moors seem much more fitting to my mood right now.
“Four hours or so to Haworth.”
“That’s a long drive,” she muses and sips at her coffee.
“I thought you would want to go.” My tone is harsh.
“I would . . .”
I can clearly tell that something about my suggestion is troubling her. Fuck, when am I not creating trouble behind those gray eyes?
“Why are you complaining about a drive, then?” I finish off the muffin and rip open another.