After We Fell (36 page)

“I already told everyone you'd be there, by the way. They were excited!” she adds right as she walks out of the room and shuts the door. I open my mouth to protest, but she's already gone.

This room brings back too many memories. I hate it, but love it at the same time. My old side is still empty, although Steph has covered the bed in clothes and shopping bags. I run my fingers along the footboard, remembering the first time Hardin slept in the small bed with me.

I can't wait to get away from this campus—from this entire town and all the people in it. I've had nothing but heartbreak since the day I arrived at WCU, and I wish I'd never come in the first place.

Even the wall reminds me of Hardin and the time he tossed my notes around the room, making me want to slap him, until he kissed me, hard, up against it. My fingers move to my lips, tracing the shape of them, and they tremble at the thought of never kissing him again.

I don't think I can stay in this room tonight. My mind will be reeling the entire time; memories will be haunting me, playing behind my eyes each time they close.

Needing to find something to do to keep myself distracted, I take out my laptop and try to search for somewhere to live in Seattle. Just as I suspected, it's a lost cause. The only apartment that I can find is a thirty-minute drive from Vance Publishing's new office, and it's slightly over my budget. I save the phone number in my cell anyway.

After another hour of searching, I end up swallowing my pride and call Kimberly. I didn't want to ask her if I could stay with her and Christian, but Hardin has left me no choice. Being Kimberly, of course, she happily obliges, emphasizing how delighted they'll
be to host me at their new house in Seattle and bragging a little that it's even bigger than what they're in now.

I promise her that I won't stay longer than two weeks, hoping to buy myself enough time to find an affordable apartment that doesn't come with bars across the windows. Suddenly I realize that with all the Hardin drama I've been dealing with, I'd almost forgotten about the mess at the apartment and the fact that someone broke into it while we were gone. I'd like to think it wasn't my father, but I just don't know if I can believe that. If it
was
him, he didn't steal anything; maybe he just needed a place to stay for the night and he didn't have anywhere else to go. I pray that Hardin doesn't hunt him down and accuse him of the break-in. What would be the point? Still, I probably should try to find him first, but it's getting late, and honestly, I'm a little afraid to be on that side of town alone.

I WAKE UP
when Steph stumbles into the room around midnight, tripping over her own feet as she falls onto her bed. I don't remember falling asleep at the desk, and my neck aches when I lift up my head. When I run my hands over it, it hurts worse than before.

“Don't forget your party tomorrow,” she mumbles and passes out almost immediately.

I walk over and take her boots off her feet while she begins to snore, quietly thanking her for being a good friend to me and letting me stay in her room with only an hour's warning.

She groans and says something incoherent before rolling over and snoring again.

I'VE BEEN LYING
in my old bed reading all day. I don't want to go anywhere or talk to anyone, and I especially don't want to run into Hardin, though I doubt I would. He has no reason to be anywhere near here, but I'm
paranoid and heartbroken and don't want to take any chances.

Steph doesn't wake up until after four in the afternoon.

“I'm going to order pizza—do you want some?” she asks, wiping last night's heavy eyeliner from her eyes with a small napkin from her purse.

“Yes, please.” My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten once today.

Steph and I spend the next two hours eating and talking about her upcoming move to Louisiana, and how Tristan's parents are less than pleased with him transferring schools because of her.

“I'm sure they'll come around—they liked you, right?” I encourage her.

“Yeah, sort of. But his family is obsessed with WCU and something like legacy blah blah blah.” She rolls her eyes, and I laugh, not wanting to explain to her what it means to families to continue a legacy.

“So, the party. Do you know what you're wearing yet?” she asks, smiling wickedly. “Or do you want to borrow something of mine for old times' sake?”

I shake my head. “I can't believe I'm even agreeing to this after . . .” I almost mention Hardin, but I redirect. “. . . after all the times you've forced me to come to these parties in the past.”

“But it's the last one. Plus, you know you won't find anyone even remotely as cool as us to hang with at the Seattle campus.” She bats her long false lashes at me, and I groan.

“I remember when I first saw you. I opened the door to this room and nearly had a heart attack. No offense.” I smile, and she returns it. “You said the parties were big, and my mother nearly passed out. She wanted me to switch rooms, but I wouldn't . . .”

“Good thing you didn't or you wouldn't be dating Hardin,” she says with a smirk, then looks away from me. For a moment I fantasize
what it would have been like if I had changed rooms and never seen him again. Despite everything we've been through, I would never want to take any of it back.

“Enough reminiscing—let's get ready!” she cheers, clapping her hands in front of my face before she grabs me by the arms and drags me off the bed.

“NOW I REMEMBER
why I hated communal showers,” I groan, while towel-drying my hair.

“They aren't so bad.” Steph laughs, and I roll my eyes, thinking about the shower at the apartment. Every single thing reminds me of Hardin, and I'm doing my best to keep this fake smile going, but inside I'm burning.

Finally, my makeup applied and hair curled, Steph helps zip me into the yellow-and-black dress that I bought just recently. The only thing keeping me standing and present right now is the hope that the party may in fact be fun and I can have at least two hours of peace.

Tristan arrives a little after eight to pick us up; Steph refuses to let me drive, because she plans on having me drink until I can't see straight. Which is an idea I think I like. If I can't see straight, then I can't see Hardin's dimpled smile or scowl before me every time I open my eyes. Still, it won't stop me imagining him when my eyes are closed.

“Where's Hardin tonight?” Nate asks from the passenger seat, and I panic momentarily.

“Gone. Out of town with his father,” I lie.

“Aren't you two leaving Monday for Seattle?”

“Yeah, that's the plan.” I feel my palms beginning to sweat. I hate lying and I'm terrible at it.

Nate turns around and offers me a sweet smile. “Well, good luck to both of you. Wish I could've seen him before he left.”

The burn increases. “Thanks, Nate. I'll let him know you said that.”

When we pull up to the frat house, I immediately regret my decision to come. I knew this was a bad idea, but I wasn't thinking clearly and felt I needed a distraction. This isn't a distraction, however. This is one big reminder of everything I've been through and everything I've subsequently lost.

It's almost humorous, the way I regret coming here every single time but somehow always end up at this damn frat house.

“Showtime,” Steph says and hooks her arm through mine with a wild smile.

For a second her eyes brighten, and I can't help but feel as if there's something else behind her choice of words.

W
hen I knock on the door to my father's office, I feel nauseous. I can't believe it's come to this, to me seeking him out for advice. I just need someone to listen to me, someone who knows how I feel, or close to it.

His voice sounds from inside the room. “Come in, dear.” I hesitate before entering, knowing this is going to be uncomfortable but necessary. I sit down in the chair in front of his large desk, watching his expression change from expectant to surprised.

A little laugh escapes his mouth. “Sorry, I thought you were Karen.” But then, seeing my mood, he stops, watching me carefully.

I nod, then look away. “I don't know why I'm here, but I don't know where else to go.” I lay my head in my hands, and my father takes a seat on the edge of his mahogany desk.

“I'm glad you came to me,” he says quietly, gauging my re­action.

“I wouldn't exactly say I came to you,” I remind him. I did in fact come to him, but I don't want him thinking this is some big revelation or some shit, even though it sort of maybe is. I watch as he gulps and nods slowly, his eyes moving everywhere in the room except to me.

“You don't have to be nervous; I'm not going to throw a fit or break anything. I don't have the energy.” I stare at the rows of plaques on the wall behind him.

When he doesn't respond, I let out a sigh.

Of course
that
seems to prompt him, that sign of my defeat, and he says, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No. I don't,” I say and look at the books along his wall.

“Okay . . .”

I sigh, feeling the inevitability of this moment. “I don't want to, but I'm going to, I guess.”

My father looks puzzled for a moment, and his brown eyes widen, taking me in, watching me carefully, waiting for the catch, I'm sure.

“Believe me,” I say. “If I had anyone else to go to, I wouldn't be here, but Landon is a biased asshole and always takes her side.” I know this isn't even half true, but I don't want Landon's advice right now. More than that, I don't want to admit to him what a dick I've been and the shit I've said to Tessa over the last few days. His opinion doesn't really matter to me, but for some reason it matters more than anyone else's, save Tessa's, of course.

My father gives me a pained smile. “I know that, son.”

“Good.”

I don't know where to start, and honestly, I'm still not sure what brought me here. I had every intention of going to a bar to have a drink, but somehow I ended up pulling into my father's . . . no, my
dad's
driveway. The way Tessa only says “mother” and “father” instead of “mom” or “dad” used to drive me insane; but now it's crept into my speech, too. He's lucky I'm even referring to him as “father” or “dad” instead of “Ken” or “asshole”—as I've done for most of my life.

“Well, as you've probably guessed, Tessa finally left me,” I admit, and look up at him. He does his best to keep a neutral expression while he waits for me to continue, but all I add is “And I didn't stop her.”

“You're sure she won't be back?” he asks.

“Yes, I'm sure. She gave me multiple opportunities to stop her, and she hasn't tried to call or text in”—I glance at the clock on the wall—“almost
twenty-eight hours, and I don't have the slightest clue where she is.”

I was expecting her car to be in the driveway when I arrived at Ken and Karen's. I'm sure it's one of the reasons I headed over here to begin with. Where else could she even be? I hope she didn't drive all the way to her mum's house.

“You've done this before, though,” my father begins. “The two of you always seem to find a way—”

“Are you listening to me? I said she isn't coming back,” I huff, interrupting him.

“I'm listening. I'm just curious as to what makes this time different from the others.”

When I glare at him, he's staring impassively at me, and I resist the urge to get up and leave his overdecorated office. “It just is. I don't know how I know that—and you probably think I'm a dumb-ass for even coming here—but I'm tired, Dad. I'm so fucking tired of being this way, and I don't know what to do about it.”

Fuck. I sound so desperate and fucking pathetic.

He opens his mouth a little, but he stops himself and doesn't say anything.

“I blame you,” I go on. “I really do
blame you.
Because if you'd been around for me, maybe you could have shown me how to . . . I don't know—how to not treat people like shit. If I'd had a man in the house while growing up, maybe I wouldn't be such a shitty person. If I don't find some resolution for Tessa and me, I'm going to end up just like you. Well, you before you became this.” I gesture to his sweater vest and perfectly pressed dress slacks. “If I can't find a way to stop hating you, I'll never be able to . . .”

I don't want to finish the sentence in front of him. What I want to say is that if I can't stop hating him, I'll never be able to show her how much I love her and treat her the way I should, the way she deserves.

My unspoken words linger there in the stuffy, wood-paneled
study like a tortured spirit neither one of us knows how to exorcise.

“You're right.” He surprises me by agreeing at last.

“I am?”

“Yes, you are. If you'd had a father to guide you and show you how to be a man, you'd be better equipped to handle these things, and life in general. I've blamed myself for your . . .”—I watch as he struggles for the words, and find myself leaning forward a little—
“behavior.
The way you are
is
my fault. It all stems from me and from the mistakes I made. I'll carry the guilt for my sins for the entirety of my life, and for those sins, I am so, so sorry, son.” His voice catches at the end, and suddenly I feel . . . I feel . . .

Incredibly nauseous. “Well, that's great, that you can be forgiven, but the result is how I
am
now! What am I supposed to do about it now?” I pick at the torn skin around my fingernails and note that my knuckles are surprisingly not busted, for once. Somehow that takes some of the anger out of me. “There has to be something,” I say softly.