Page 8

“What are your plans for today?” he asks with a mouth full of Frosted Flakes, Hardin’s favorite.
“Well, I have class, and Hardin has a meeting with the university board.”
“The university board? That sounds serious . . .”
I look at my father and wonder, Should I tell him? But then, figuring I have to start somewhere, I say, “He got in a fight on campus.”
“And they’re making him talk in front of the board? In my day, you got a slap on the wrist, and that was that.”
“He destroyed a lot of property, expensive property, and he broke the guy’s nose.” I sigh and stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. I need the extra energy today.
“Nice. So what was the fight about?”
“Me, sort of. It was something that was building over time, and it finally just . . . exploded.”
“Well, I like Hardin even more now than I did last night.” He beams. Though I’m glad that he’s warming to my boyfriend, it’s not for a good reason. I don’t want the two of them bonding over violence.
I shake my head and gulp down half my coffee, letting the hot liquid soothe my frantic nerves.
“Where’s he from?” He sounds genuinely interested in learning more about Hardin.
“England.”
“Thought that was the accent. Though sometimes I can’t tell it from Australian. So his family’s still there?”
“His mother is. His father’s here. He’s the chancellor at WCU.”
Curiosity fills his brown eyes. “Ironic, then, about the expulsion.”
“Very.” I sigh.
“Your mother’s met him?” he asks, then takes a big spoonful of cereal.
“Yes, she hates him.” I frown.
“?‘Hate’ is a strong word.”
“Trust me, in this case it’s not strong enough.” The ache from the loss of my relationship with my mother is much less potent than it used to be. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.
My father puts down his spoon and nods several times. “She can be a little hardheaded; she just worries about you.”
“She doesn’t need to. I’m fine.”
“Well, let her be the one to come around, then; you shouldn’t have to choose one or the other.” He smiles. “Your grandma didn’t approve of me either—she’s probably scowling at me from her grave as we speak.”
This is all so strange, sitting in my kitchen with my father, bonding over cereal and coffee after all these years. “It’s just hard because we’ve always been close . . . as close as she’s capable of, at least.”
“She always wanted you to be just like her; she made sure of that from a young age. She’s not a bad person, Tessie. She’s just afraid.”
I look at him quizzically. “Of what?”
“Everything. She’s afraid of losing control. I’m sure seeing you with Hardin terrified her and made her realize she doesn’t have control over you anymore.”
I stare at the empty cup in front of me. “Is that why you left? Because she wanted to control everything?”
My father sighs softly, an ambiguous sound. “No, I left because I have my own issues and we weren’t good for one another. Don’t worry about us.” He chuckles. “Worry about yourself and your troublemaker of a boyfriend.”
I can’t picture the man in front of me and my mother being able to hold a conversation; they are just so different. When I glance at the clock, I realize it’s past eight.
I get up and put my cup in the dishwasher. “I need to wake up Hardin. I threw your clothes in the wash last night. I’ll get dressed and bring them out.”
I go into the bedroom and see that Hardin is awake. As I watch him pulling a black T-shirt over his head, I suggest, “Maybe you should wear something a little more formal to the meeting?”
“Why?”
“Because they’re deciding your educational future, and a black T-shirt doesn’t show much effort on your end. You can change right after, but I really think you should dress up.”
“Fuuuuuck.” He exaggerates the word and throws his head back.
I walk past him and into the closet to retrieve his black button-up shirt and pants.
“No dress slacks—for the love of God, no.”
I hand the pants to him. “It’s only for a little while.”
He holds the garment like it’s nuclear waste or an alien artifact. “If I wear this shit and they still kick me out, I’ll burn that whole campus to the ground.”
“You’re so dramatic.” I roll my eyes at him, but he doesn’t look amused as he steps into the dress pants.
“Is our apartment still operating as a homeless shelter?”
I drop the shirt, still on the hanger, onto the bed and march to the door.
Frantic fingers lace through his hair. “Dammit, Tess, I’m sorry. I’m getting anxious, and I can’t even fuck you to settle me down because your dad is on our couch.”
His vulgar words stir my hormones, but he’s right: my father in the other room is a big impediment. I walk over to Hardin, whose long fingers are struggling with the top button on his shirt, and gently move his hands out of the way. “Let me,” I offer.
His eyes soften, but I can tell he’s beginning to panic. I hate seeing him this way; it’s so foreign. He’s so controlled all the time, never caring much for anything—except me, and even then he’s still pretty good at hiding his feelings.