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When I rise to my feet, her mum is nowhere in sight. I’m surprised she wasn’t hovering over my shoulder while I tried to make amends with her daughter.
And then, as if my thoughts conjured her, she bursts back into the room. “Are you finished?” she demands.
I hold one palm up toward her back. “No, I’m not.” I want to be—Tessa’s calling out for Zed, after all.
Then, meekly, as if admitting that she’s not in control of the entire world, her mum asks, “Can you put her in her room for me before you go? She can’t just lie on the couch.”
“So I’m not allowed here, but . . .” I stop myself, knowing it won’t do any good to get into it with this woman for the tenth time since I met her. So I just nod. “Sure, where’s the room?”
“Last door on the left,” she replies curtly and disappears again. I don’t know where Tessa’s kindness came from, but it sure as hell wasn’t from this woman.
Sighing, I push one arm under Tessa’s knees and one under her neck, lifting her gently. A soft groan falls from her lips as I bring her close to my chest. I keep my head down slightly as I carry her down the hall. This house is small, much smaller than I had imagined.
The last door on the left is nearly closed, and when I push it open with my foot, I’m surprised at the nostalgic feelings that well up deep inside me at the sight of a room that I’ve never been in before. A small bed rests against the far wall, filling nearly half of the tiny bedroom. The desk in the corner is almost the same size as the bed. A teenage Tessa flows through my imagination, the way she must have spent hours and hours sitting at the large desk working on countless homework assignments. Her eyebrows pushed together, her mouth set in a straight overconcentrated line, her hair falling over her eyes, and her hand pushing it back swiftly before pushing the pencil back behind her ear.
Knowing her now, I wouldn’t have guessed these pink sheets and this purple duvet would belong to her. They must have been holdovers from back when a younger Tessa went through her Barbie doll phase that she once described as “the best and worst time in her life.” I remember her describing how she constantly felt the need to ask her mum things like where Barbie worked, what university she attended, if she would have children one day.
I look down at the adult Tessa in my arms and stifle a laugh as I think about her constant curiosity—one of my most and least favorite things about her now. I yank back the blanket and gently lay her across the bed, making sure that there’s only one pillow underneath her head, just the way she sleeps at home.
Home . . . this is not her home anymore. Just like this small house, our apartment was a short stop for her on the way to her dream: Seattle.
The small wooden dresser creaks as I open the top drawer, searching for clothes to place on her half-naked body. The thought of Dan undressing her makes my fists clench around the thin fabric of an old T-shirt from her dresser. I lift Tessa up as gently as I can and drag the shirt over her head. Her hair is messy, and when I attempt to smooth it, it only gets worse. She groans again, and her fingers twitch. She’s trying to move, and she can’t. I hate this. I swallow the bile in my throat and blink away the thoughts of that shit bag’s hands on her.
To be respectful, I look away from her while my hands pull her arms through the small holes and finally she’s dressed. Carol is standing in the doorway; a thoughtful yet uptight expression covers her face, and I wonder how long she’s been standing there.
Chapter sixty-two
TESSA
Just stop! I want to scream at the two of them. I can’t keep up with them fighting this way. I can’t keep up: time doesn’t make sense in this state that I’m in. Everything is out of order. There are slamming doors and my mother and Hardin arguing—and it’s all so hard to hear—but mostly there’s just darkness dragging me under, pulling hard . . .
At some point I ask Hardin, “Yes, what about Zed? Did you hurt him?” At least, the thoughts are there, and I’m trying my hardest to say them. I’m not sure if they make it out of my mouth or not, if my mouth is coordinated with my mind.
“No, it’s Hardin. I’m Hardin, not Zed.”
Hardin is here, not Zed. Wait, Zed is here, too. Isn’t he?
“No, Hardin, did you hurt Zed?” The darkness is tugging me in the opposite direction of his voice. My mother’s voice enters the room and fills it with her authoritarian air, but I can’t make out a word. The only clarity I have is in Hardin’s voice. Not even his words, but how it sounds, how it moves through me.
At some point, I feel something push under my body. Hardin’s arm? I’m not entirely sure, but I’m lifted off of the couch as the familiar minty scent fills my nostrils. Why is he here, and how did he find me?
Only seconds later I’m gently laid back on the bed, then I’m lifted again. I don’t want to move. Hardin’s shaky hands push a shirt over my head, and I want to scream at him to stop touching me. The last thing I want is to be touched, but the moment Hardin’s fingers brush against my skin, the disgusting memory of Dan is erased.
“Touch me again, please. Make it go away,” I beg. He doesn’t reply. His hands keep touching my head, my neck, my hair, and I try to lift my hand to his, but it’s too heavy.
“I love you and I’m so sorry,” I hear before my head rests back on the pillow. “I want to take her home.”
No, leave me here. Please, I think to myself. But don’t go . . .
Chapter sixty-three