After Ever Happy (After #4) (11 page)

I sure as hell don’t want the answer to that question. I don’t want to picture her face when she opened the door. I don’t even want to think about the way she felt when she saw only one ticket stuffed into the front pocket of that suitcase. All my clothes have been removed from it and tossed into the backseat of my rental.

I know her well enough to know that she’s going to expect a goodbye from me. She’s going to try to find me before she gives up. But after her one last effort, she
will
give up. She won’t have a choice, because she will never be able to find me before the flight, and by tomorrow she’ll be far, far gone from me.

“Dude!” Mark’s voice is loud and his hand is waving in front of my face. “Are you fucking zoning out?”

“My bad,” I say with a shrug. But then it occurs to me: if Tessa gets lost in London looking for me, what will I do? Anything?

Mark puts his arm around me, pulling me into the conversation he and James have broken into as they decide who to invite over. They name loads of familiar names and a few that I haven’t heard and start making phone calls for a midday party, barking out times and liquor orders.

I pull away and go into the kitchen to look for a glass for some water, looking around the apartment for the first time since I walked through the door. It’s a fucking mess. It looks the way the frat house did every Saturday and Sunday morning. Our apartment never looked this way, not when Tessa was around, at least. The counters were never covered in old pizza boxes, and the tables were free of beer bottles and bongs. I’m backsliding, and I fucking know it.

Speaking of bongs, I don’t even have to look over at Mark and James to know what they’re doing now. I hear the bubbling noise of the water in the bong, then the distinct smell of pot starts filling the place.

Masochist that I am, I pull my phone out of my pocket and turn the power back on. The picture I have set as my wallpaper is my new favorite of Tess. For now, at least. My favorite changes every damn week, but this one is fucking perfection. Her blond hair is down, hanging over her shoulders, and the light is shining on her, making her glow. A true smile fills her entire face, and her eyes are screwed shut, her nose crinkled in the most adorable fucking way. She was laughing at me, scolding me, really, for smacking her ass in front of Kimberly, and I’d snapped the picture just as she burst into laughter after I whispered to her the other, much-dirtier things I could do in front of her obnoxious friend.

I wander back into the living room, and James snatches my phone from my hand. “Give me some of whatever you’re on!”

I’m quick to take it back before he can get a glance at the picture.

“Touchy, touchy,” James mocks me as I change the background. No need to fuel these fuckers.

“I invited Janine,” Mark says, sharing a laugh with James.

“I don’t know why you two are laughing.” I point to Mark. “She’s
your
sister.” Then I point at James. “And
you
fucked her, too.” Not like this is surprising; Mark’s sister is known for fucking every single one of her little brother’s friends.

“Fuck you, man!” James takes another hit from the bong and passes it to me.

Tessa would fucking kill me. She would be so disappointed; she doesn’t approve of me drinking, let alone smoking pot.

“Hit it or pass it,” Mark urges.

“If Janine is coming over, you’ll need it. She’s still hot as fuck,” James tells me, earning a glare from Mark and a laugh from me.

Hours pass this way, smoking, dwelling, drinking, dwelling, smoking, and before I know it, the place is full of people, including the girl in question.

I
may not have much, but I still have a little pride, and I would rather face Hardin by myself and have this conversation one-on-one. I know exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to tell me that I am too good for him and that he is no good for me. He’s going to say something hurtful, and I will try to convince him otherwise.

I know Kimberly must think I’m a fool for chasing after him after his cold dismissal, but I love him, and this is what you do when you love someone: you fight for him—you chase after him when you know he needs you. You help him fight the battle against himself, and you never give up on him, even when he gives up on himself.

“I’m fine. If I find him and you’re with me, he will feel cornered, and it will make things worse,” I tell Kimberly for the second time.

“Be careful, please. I don’t want to have to kill that kid, but, at this point, nothing is off the table.” She half smiles at me. “Wait, one more thing.” Kimberly raises a finger and rushes over to the coffee table in the center of the room. She digs through her purse and then waves me over to her.

Kimberly, being Kimberly, brushes a shiny, colorless gloss across my lips and hands me a tube of mascara. She grins. “You want to look your best, right?”

Despite the ache in my chest, I smile at her effort to help me look decent. Of
course
that is part of the equation to her.

TEN MINUTES LATER,
my cheeks are no longer red from crying. The puffiness around my eyes is less noticeable, thanks to concealer and a little shadow. My hair is brushed and somewhat controlled into large waves. Kimberly gave up after a few minutes, sighing, then saying that “beach waves” are in right now anyway. I don’t remember her changing me out of my T-shirt and into a tank top and cardigan, but she has transformed me from a zombie in a remarkably short time.

“Promise me that you will call if you need me,” Kimberly insists. “Don’t think I won’t come looking for you.”

I nod in agreement, knowing that she won’t hesitate. She hugs me twice more before giving me the keys to Christian’s rental, which Hardin left in the parking lot.

When I get into the car, I plug my phone into the charger and roll the window all the way down. The car smells like Hardin, and the empty coffee cups from this morning are still in their holders, reminding me of the way he made love to me only hours ago. That was his goodbye to me—I realize now that part of me knew it then but just wasn’t ready to accept it. I didn’t want to admit the defeat that was skimming around the surface, waiting to encase me. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s almost five o’clock. I have less than two hours to find Hardin and convince him to come back home with me. The flight boards at eight thirty, but we have to arrive a bit before seven to go through security, just to be safe.

Will I be flying home alone?

I look at myself in the rearview mirror, facing that same girl who had to pull herself up off that bathroom floor. I acknowledge the sick feeling that tells me I’ll be on that airplane alone.

I only know one place to look for him, and if he isn’t there, I have no idea what I will do. I start the car up, but pause with my hand on the gearshift. I can’t drive aimlessly around London with no money and nowhere to go.

Desperate and worried, I try to call him again, and I nearly burst into happy tears when he picks up the phone.

“Hellooo, who is this?” an unrecognizable male voice says. I pull the phone away to be sure I called the right number, but Hardin’s name is clear across the screen. “Hellooo,” the man says louder, drawing out the word again.

“Uhm, hi. Is Hardin there?” My stomach twists; it knows that this guy is bad news although I don’t have a clue who he is.

Laughter and multiple voices echo in the background; more than one of them are female voices. “Scott is . . . disposed at the moment,” the man tells me.

Disposed?

“It’s
indisposed,
you idiot,” a woman yells in the background, laughing.

Oh God.
“Where is he?” I can tell I’ve been put on speakerphone, the way the noise changes.

“He’s busy,” another guy says. “Who’s this? You coming to the party? Is that why you called? I like your American accent, birdie, and if you’re a friend of Scott’s . . .”

A party? At only five? I try to focus on that useless fact rather than the multiple female voices bursting through my phone and the fact that Hardin is “busy.”

“Yeah,” my mouth answers before my brain agrees. “I need the address again.”

My voice is shaky and unsure, but they don’t seem to notice.

The man who answered the phone gives me an address, and I quickly type it into the navigation on my phone. It crashes twice, and I have to ask him to repeat himself, but he obliges and tells me to hurry, bragging proudly that there is more liquor there than I’ve ever seen in my life.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER
I’m in the small lot adjoining a run-down brick building. The windows are large, and the three of them are covered in what looks like white tape or possibly garbage bags. The lot is full of cars; the BMW that I drove here sticks out like a sore thumb. The only car even close in resemblance is Hardin’s rental. It’s near the front, blocked in, meaning he’s been here longer than most of the others.

When I reach the door of the building, I take a deep breath to gather my strength. The stranger on the phone said it was the second door on the third floor. The shady building doesn’t seem large enough to have three floors, but as I climb the stairs, I’m proven wrong. Loud voices and the thick smell of marijuana hit me before I even reach the top of the staircase on the second floor.

Looking up, I have to wonder why Hardin would be here. Why would he come to this place to deal with his issues? As I reach the third floor, my heart is racing and my stomach is tied in knots as my mind flips through all of the possible things that could be happening behind the scarred and graffitied door number two.

I shake my head, clearing all the doubts. Why am I so paranoid and nervous? This is Hardin I’m talking about, my Hardin. Even mad and withdrawn, beyond cruel words he would never do anything to purposely hurt me. He is going through a hard time with all of his family issues, and he just needs me to stomp in there and take him home with me. I’m psyching myself out and getting worked up for nothing.

The door opens just before I reach up to knock, and a young guy wearing all black walks past me without stopping or closing the door behind him. Waves of smoke roll out into the hallway, and I have to fight the urge to cover my nose and mouth. I step across the threshold, coughing.

And stop in my tracks at the sight in front of me.

Shocked by the sight of a half-naked girl sitting on the floor, I look around the room and notice that nearly everyone is half-naked.

“Lose the top,” a young guy with a beard says to a bleach-blond girl. She rolls her eyes but quickly disposes of her shirt, leaving her in only a bra and panties.

Staring at the scene a little longer, I realize that they are playing some sort of card game that involves taking their clothes off. This realization is much better than the initial conclusion my mind went to, but only a little.

I’m slightly relieved that Hardin isn’t in the group of increasingly naked cardplayers, and I scan the crowded living room but don’t see him.

“You coming in, or what?” someone asks. I look around, searching for the source of the voice. “Close the door behind you and come in,” he says, stepping forward from behind someone at my left. “Have I met you before, Bambi?”

He chuckles, and I shift uncomfortably as his bloodshot eyes rake over my body, staying too long on my chest to be considered anything but vulgar. I don’t like his chosen nickname for me, but I can’t seem to find a way to tell him my real name. Given the sound of his voice, I’m sure he’s the person that answered Hardin’s phone.

I shake my head; all words have dissolved on my tongue.

“Mark,” he introduces himself, reaching for my hand, but I flinch away. Mark . . . I instantly recognize the name from Hardin’s letter and other stories about him. He’s friendly enough, but I know how he really is. I know what he did to all those girls. “This is my flat. Who invited you?”

At first I think he’s mad because of the question, but his face just reads bravado instead. His accent is thick, and he
is
attractive. Somewhat frightening, but attractive. His brown hair is sticking up at the front, and his facial hair is messy yet groomed, a “douche-bag, hipster look,” as Hardin calls it, but I find it decent. His arms are bare of any tattoos, but two piercings stick out below his bottom lip.

“I’m . . . uhm . . .” I struggle to get a grip on my nerves.

He laughs again and grabs hold of my hand. “Well, Bambi, let’s get you a drink to relax you.” He smiles. “You’re freaking me out.”

As he leads me to the kitchen, I’m beginning to wonder if Hardin is even here. Maybe he dropped the car here and his phone before going someplace else. Maybe he’s in the car. Why didn’t I check it? I should probably go down and do that; he was so tired he just might be napping—

Then my breath is knocked clear from my chest.

If anyone were to ask me how I feel right now, I’m not sure what I would say. I don’t think I’d have an answer. There’s pain and heartache and panic and rejection, but at the same time I feel numb. I feel nothing and everything at once, and it’s the worst sensation I have ever felt.

Leaning against the counter with a joint between his lips and a bottle of liquor in one hand is Hardin. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. What stole my breath is the woman sitting on the counter behind him, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, her body around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Scott! Give me the damn vodka. I need to make my new friend Bambi here a drink,” Mark yells.

Hardin’s bloodshot eyes turn to Mark, and Hardin smiles nastily, a dark look that I have never before seen from him. As he turns from Mark to me, to find out who Bambi is, I’m close enough to see his dilated pupils blow out, instantly wiping away that foreign expression.

“What . . . what are you . . .” He fumbles the words. His eyes follow down my arm and somehow grow even larger as he takes in the sight of Mark’s hand over mine. Pure rage fills Hardin’s face, and I pull my hand away.