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But wait—why did I just call it home? I only lived there six months.
And then I realize: Hardin. It’s because of Hardin. Wherever he is will always feel like home to me.
“Well, that’s too bad. Maybe I’ll make a trip to Seattle soon. I have some friends there,” Zed says. “Would that be okay?” he asks after a few seconds.
“Oh, yeah! Of course.”
“Okay.” He laughs. “I’m flying down to Florida to see my parents this weekend—I’m running late for my flight, actually—but maybe I could try next weekend or something?”
“Yeah, sure. Just let me know. Have fun in Florida,” I say just before I hang up. I put the phone down on my stack of notes, and mere seconds later it vibrates.
Hardin’s name appears on the screen, and taking a deep breath and ignoring the flutter in my chest, I answer.
“What are you doing?” he asks immediately.
“Um, nothing.”
“Where are you?”
“Kim and Christian’s house. Where are you?” I sarcastically respond.
“Home,” he says matter-of-factly. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know . . . the gym?” Hardin has been consistently going to the gym, every day, all week.
“I just left there. Now I’m home.”
“How was it, Captain Brevity?”
“Same,” he curtly remarks.
“Is something wrong?” I ask him.
“No. I’m fine. How was your day?” He’s quick to change the subject, and I wonder why, but I don’t want to push him, not with the phone call to Zed weighing on my chest already.
“It was okay. Long, I guess. I still don’t like my political science class,” I groan.
“I told you to drop it already. You can take another class for your social science elective,” he reminds me.
I lie back on my bed. “I know . . . I’ll be okay.”
“Are you staying in tonight?” he asks, warning clear in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m already in my pajamas.”
“Good,” he says, which makes me roll my eyes.
“I called Zed, just a few minutes ago,” I blurt. Might as well get it over with. Silence looms on the line, and I wait patiently for Hardin’s breathing to slow.
“You what?” he says sharply.
“I called him to thank him for . . . last weekend.”
“Why, though? I thought we were . . .” I can hear him barely controlling his anger as he breathes heavily into the receiver. “Tessa, I thought we were working on our problems.”
“We are, but I owed it to him. If he hadn’t shown up when he did—”
“I know!” Hardin snaps, like he’s trying to keep something at bay.
I don’t want to argue with him, but I can’t expect anything to change if I keep things from him. “He said he was thinking about visiting,” I say.
“He’s not coming there. End of discussion.”
“Hardin . . .”
“Tessa, no. He isn’t. I’m doing my best here, okay? I’m trying really fucking hard not to lose my shit right now, so the least you can do is help me out on this.”
I sigh in defeat. “Okay.” Spending time with Zed can’t possibly end well for anyone, Zed included. I can’t lead him on again. It’s not fair to him, and I don’t think he and I will ever be able to have a strictly platonic relationship, not in Hardin’s eyes, or, really, in Zed’s own.
“Thank you. Now, if it were always that easy to get you to comply . . .”
What? “I will never just comply, Hardin, that’s—”
“Easy, easy, I’m just teasing. No need to get all testy,” he says quickly. “Anything else I should know about while you’re at it?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, tell me what’s been happening on that shitty radio station you’ve become obsessed with.”
And as I go into detail about a woman who was looking for her long-lost love from high school while she was pregnant with her neighbor’s child, the lurid details of the story, and the scandal that ensues, have me animated and laughing. By the time I mention the cat, Mazzy, I’m laughing hysterically. I tell him how it would be hard to be in love with one man while pregnant with another man’s child, and he doesn’t agree. Of course, he believes the man and woman brought the scandal upon themselves, and teases me for getting so involved in talk radio. Hardin laughs along with my story, and I close my eyes and pretend that he’s lying next to me.
Chapter eighty-two
HARDIN
I’m sorry!” Richard says with a ragged breath. A layer of sweat has coated his entire body as he wipes his vomit from his chin. I lean against the doorframe and debate whether or not to walk away, leaving him in his own filth.
He’s been doing this all day, vomiting, shaking, sweating, whining.
“It will be out of my system soo—”
He leans back over the toilet and expels more vomit, like a geyser. Fucking great. At least he made it to the toilet this time.
“Hope so,” I say and leave the bathroom. I open the window in the kitchen, allowing the cold breeze to waft in, and grab a clean glass from the cabinet. The sink creaks as I turn the faucet to fill the glass, and I shake my head.
What the hell am I supposed to do with him? He’s detoxing all over my goddamn bathroom. With one last sigh, I take the glass of water and a sleeve of crackers into the bathroom and place them on the rim of the sink.