Page 42

“Stop it,” I snap. My voice doesn’t sound like my voice, and I begin to wonder if I’m even awake right now, or if this is another nightmare.
“I just want to know that you’re not afraid of me. You aren’t, are you?”
“This isn’t about you,” I manage. And it’s true, absolutely true. He’s tried to make this about him—his pain—but this is about my father’s death and that I can’t take any more heartache.
“Fuck.” He sighs, and I just know that he’s running his hands over his hair. “I know it’s not. That’s not what I meant. I’m worried about you.”
I close my eyes and hear thunder in the distance. He’s worried about me? If he was so worried about me, maybe he shouldn’t have sent me back to America alone. I wish I hadn’t made it home; I wish something had happened to me on the trip back—so he could deal with the loss of me.
Then again, he probably wouldn’t want to be bothered. He would be too busy getting high. He wouldn’t even notice.
“You aren’t yourself, baby.”
I begin to shake at the use of the sick nickname.
“You need to talk about this, everything with your dad. It will make you feel better.” His voice is too loud, and the rain is pounding against the old roof. I wish it would just cave in and let the storm outside sweep me away.
Who is this person sitting here with me? I sure as hell don’t know him, and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I should talk about my father? Who the hell is he to sit here and act like he cares about me, like he could help me? I don’t need help. I need silence.
“I don’t want you here.”
“Yes, you do. You’re just mad at me right now because I acted like an asshole and I fucked up.”
The pain I should feel isn’t there, nothing is. Not even when my mind flashes with the images of his hand on my thigh as we drive in his car, his lips gently sliding over mine, my fingers threading through his thick hair. Nothing.
I feel nothing as the pleasant memories are replaced with ones of fists flying through drywall and that woman wearing his shirt. He slept with her only days ago. Nothing. I feel nothing, and it feels so good to finally feel nothing, to finally have control over my emotions. I’m realizing, as I stare at the wall, that I don’t have to feel anything I don’t want to. I don’t have to remember anything I don’t want to. I can forget it all and never allow the memories to cripple me again.
“I’m not.” I don’t clarify the words, and he tries to touch me again. I don’t move. I bite my cheek, wanting to scream again, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction. The calming ease that sweeps over me from his fingers on mine proves just how weak I am, right after I’d just settled on a path of perfect numbness.
“I’m sorry about Richard, I know how—”
“No.” I pull my hand away. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here and pretend like you’re here to help me when you’re the one who has hurt me the most. I won’t tell you again.” I know my voice is flat—I hear it sounding as unconvincing and as empty as I feel inside. “Get out.”
My throat hurts from speaking so much; I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want him to go away, and I want to be left alone. I focus on the wall again, not allowing my mind to taunt me with images of my father’s dead body. Everything is messing with me, fucking with my mind, and threatening the tiny bit of reason left inside me. I’m grieving two deaths now, and it’s tearing me apart piece by tiny piece.
Pain isn’t remotely kind in that way: pain wants its promised pound of flesh, ounce for ounce. It won’t settle until you’re left with nothing but a flaky shell of who you were. The burn of betrayal and the sting of rejection hurt, but nothing compares to the pain of being empty. Nothing hurts worse than not hurting at all, and that that makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time convinces me I’m going fucking crazy.
And I’m actually okay with that.
“Do you want me to get you something to eat?”
Did he not hear me? Does he not understand that I don’t want him here? It’s impossible to think that he can’t hear the chaos inside my mind.
“Tessa,” he presses when I don’t respond. I need him to get away from me. I don’t want to look into those eyes, I don’t want to hear any more promises that will be broken when he begins to let his self-hatred take over again.
My throat burns—it hurts so bad—but I yell for the person who really cares: “Noah!”
As soon as I do, he’s rushing through the bedroom door, looking determined to be the force of nature that will finally move the immovable Hardin out of my room, out of my life. Noah stands in front of me and looks at Hardin, who I finally spare a glance at. “I told you if she called for me, that was it.”
Instantly moving from soft to enraged, Hardin’s shooting bullets at Noah, and I know he’s trying hard to rein in his temper. There’s something on his hand . . . a cast? I look again, and sure enough, a black cast covers his hand and wrist.
“Let’s get something clear,” Hardin says as he stands and looks down at Noah. “I’m trying not to upset her, and that’s the only reason I haven’t snapped your fucking neck. So don’t push your luck.”
In my damaged, chaotic mind, I can see my father’s head snapping back, jaw popping open. I just want silence. I want silence in my ears, and I need silence in my mind.