After We Fell (42 page)

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 . . .

C
arol crosses her arms over her chest. “Not happening.”

“I know that,” I seethe and wonder just how angry Tessa would be if I cussed her mother out. Leaving her room, her childhood bedroom, is hard enough without hearing the strangled whine that falls from her lips when I cross the threshold into the hallway.

“Where were you tonight while this was happening?” she questions.

“At home.”

“Why weren't you there to stop this?”

“What makes you so sure I wasn't a part of it? You're usually quick to blame me for everything wrong in the world.”

“Because I know that regardless of your poor choices and your even poorer attitude, you wouldn't let anything like this happen to Tessa if you could help it.”

Is that a compliment from her?
A backhanded one . . . but, hell, I'll take it, especially considering the circumstances. “Well . . .” I begin.

She holds her hand up to silence me. “I wasn't finished. I don't blame you for everything that's wrong in the world.” She gestures to the sleeping, or half-conscious, girl lying on the small bed. “Just
her
world.”

“I won't argue with that.” I sigh in defeat. I know she's right; there's no denying that I've ruined nearly everything in Tessa's life.

He's been my hero, my tormentor at times, but mostly my hero,
she had said in her journal. A hero? I'm far from a fucking hero. I would give anything to be one for her, but I just don't know how to go about it.

“Well, at least we can agree on something.” Her full lips turn up in a half smile, but she blinks it away and looks down at her feet. “Well, if that was all you needed, you can go.”

“Okay . . .” I take one last look at Tessa and then turn back to her mum, who is staring at me again.

“What are your plans in regard to my daughter?” she asks with some authority, but also maybe a little fear. “I have to know what your long-term intentions are, because every time I turn around, something else is happening with her, and not something good. What do you plan to do with her in Seattle?”

“I'm not going to Seattle with her.” The words are thick and heavy on my tongue.

“What?” She begins to walk down the hallway, and I follow her.

“I'm not going. She's going without me.”

“As happy as that makes me, may I ask why?” A perfectly arched brow rises, and I look away.

“I'm just not, that's why. It's better for her that I don't go, anyway.”

“You sound just like my ex-husband.” She swallows. “Sometimes I blame myself for Tessa attaching herself to you. I worry that it's because of the way her father was, before he left us.” Her manicured hand lifts up to smooth her hair, and she tries to appear unaffected by her mention of Richard.

“He has nothing to do with her relationship with me; she barely knows him. The few days they've spent together lately shows just that: she doesn't remember enough about him to affect her choice in men.”

“Lately?” Carol's eyes widen in surprise, and I watch in horror as the color drains from her face. And any small understanding we had been creating seems to disappear along with it.

Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit.
“She . . . um, we ran into him a little over a week ago.”

“Richard? He found her?” Her voice breaks, and she places her hand on her neck.

“No, she ran into him.”

Her fingers start running nervously over the pearls around her neck. “Where?”

“I don't think I should be telling you any of this.”

“Excuse
me?” Her arms drop, and she stands there gaping in shock.

“If Tessa wanted you to know that she'd seen her dad, she would have told you herself.”

“This is more important than your dislike for me, Hardin. Has she been seeing him
often
?” Her gray eyes are now glazed over, threatening to spill tears at any moment, but knowing this woman, she would never in a million years shed a tear in front of anyone, especially me.

I sigh, not wanting to betray Tessa, but reluctant to cause any more shit with her mum. “He stayed with us for a few days.”

“She wasn't going to tell me, was she?” Her voice is thin and hoarse while she picks at her red fingernails.

“Probably not. You aren't the easiest person to talk to,” I remind her. I wonder if this is a good time to bring up my suspicion about him breaking into the apartment.

“And you are?” She raises her voice, and I step closer. “At least I care about her well-being; that's more than I can say for you!”

I knew the civil conversation between us wouldn't last long. “I care about her more than anyone, even you!” I fire back.

“I am her mother; no one loves her more than I do. The fact that you think you possibly could just shows how demented you really are!” Her shoes click against the floor as she paces back and forth.

“You know what I think? I think that you hate me because I remind you of him. You hate the constant reminder of what you ruined, so you hate me so you don't have to hate yourself . . . but do you want to know something?” I wait for her sarcastic nod before continuing: “You and I are a lot alike, too. More alike than Richard and I, really: we both refuse to take any responsibility for our mistakes. Instead we blame everyone else. We isolate the ones we love and force them—”

“No! You're wrong!” she cries out.

Her tears and histrionics somehow keep me from finishing that thought: that she will spend the rest of her days alone. “No, I'm not wrong. But what I
am
is leaving. Tessa's car is still around school somewhere, so I'll bring it back tomorrow unless you want to make the drive yourself.”

Carol wipes at her eyes. “Fine, bring the car. At five tomorrow.” She looks up at me through bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara. “That doesn't change anything. I'll never like you.”

“And I'll never care if you do.” I walk toward the front door, momentarily debating whether I should go back down the hallway, get Tessa, and bring her with me.

“Hardin, despite the way I feel toward you, I do know that you love my daughter. I just want to remind you again that if you love her—truly love her—you will stop interfering in her life. She's not the same girl that I dropped off at that devil school half a year ago.”

“I know.” As much as I hate this woman, I feel pity for her, because, like me, she'll probably be alone for the rest of her miserable life. “Can you do me a favor?” I ask.

She eyes me suspiciously. “What would that be?”

“Don't tell her that I was here. If she doesn't remember, don't tell her.” Tessa is so out of it she probably won't remember a thing. I don't think she even knows that I'm here now.

Carol looks at me, looks through me, and nods. “That I can do.”

M
y head is heavy, so heavy, and the light shining through the yellow curtains is bright, too bright.

Yellow curtains? I reopen my eyes to find the familiar yellow curtains of my old bedroom covering the windows. Those curtains always drove us both crazy, but my mother couldn't afford to buy a matching set, so we learned to live with them. And the last twelve hours come flooding back in pieces, broken and jumbled memories that make little sense to me.

Nothing makes sense. It takes seconds, minutes maybe, for my mind to even attempt to comprehend what happened.

Steph's betrayal is my strongest memory from the night, one of the most painful memories I have ever had to experience. How could she do that to me? To anyone? The whole situation is just so wrong, so twisted, and I never saw it coming. I remember the strong sense of relief I felt when she walked into the room, only to slip back into a panic when she admitted she had never been a friend to me after all. Her voice was so clear, despite the state I was in. She put something in my drink to slow me down, or worse, to make me pass out—all so she could get some sort of unwarranted revenge on me and Hardin. I was so afraid last night, and she went from being my safety to being a predator so quickly that I could barely comprehend the shift.

I was drugged, at a party by someone who I thought was my friend. The reality of this hits me hard, and I swipe angrily at the tears soaking my cheeks.

Humiliation replaces the sting of betrayal when I remember Dan and his camera. They took off my dress . . . the small red camera light in the dim room is something I don't think I'll ever forget. They wanted to violate me, tape it, and show it to an audience. I hold my stomach, hoping to not get sick, again.

Every single time I think I may get a break from the constant battle that has become my life, something worse happens. And I keep putting myself in these situations. Steph, of all people? I still can't grasp it. If her reasoning was true, if she did it only because she doesn't like me and she has a thing for Hardin, why didn't she just tell me in the first place? Why did she pretend to be my friend all this time only to set me up? How could she smile in my face and go shopping with me, listen to my secrets and share my worries, only to be planning something like this behind my back?

I sit up slowly, and it's still too fast. My pulse is pounding behind my ears, and I want to rush to the bathroom and force myself to throw up, in case any of the drug remains in my stomach. I don't, though, and instead close my eyes again.

When I wake up again, my head is a little lighter, and I manage to get out of my childhood bed. I don't have any pants on, only a small T-shirt that I don't remember putting on in the first place. My mother must have dressed me . . . but that doesn't seem likely.

The only pajama pants left in my old dresser are uncomfortably tight and too short. I have gained weight since I left for college, but I feel more confortable and confident in my body . . . more now than I ever felt before.

I wobble out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and to the kitchen, where I find my mother leaning against the counter, reading a magazine. Her black dress is smooth and lint-free, her matching heels are high, and her hair is curled into perfect, classic waves. When I glance at the clock on the stove, I see that it's a bit past four in the afternoon.

“How are you feeling?” my mother asks timidly as she turns to face me.

“Terrible,” I groan, unable to put on a friendly, much less a brave face.

“I'd imagine, after the night you had.”

Here we go . . .

“Have some coffee and some Advil; you'll feel better.”

I nod slowly and walk over to the cabinet to grab a coffee mug.

“I have church this evening; I assume you won't be coming along? You missed the morning service,” she says in a flat voice.

“No, I'm in no shape to be in church right now.” Only my mother would ask me to go to church with her when I just woke up after sleeping off a date-rape drug.

She grabs her handbag from the kitchen table, then turns back to me. “Okay, I'll tell Noah and Mr. and Mrs. Porter you said hello. I'll be home around eight, maybe shortly after.”

A pang of guilt hits me at the mention of Noah's name. I still haven't called him since I learned of his grandmother's passing. I know I should have, and I need to. I'll do it after church ends—if I can find my phone, that is.

“How did I get here last night?” I ask, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I remember Zed storming into Hardin's old room and breaking the camera.

“The young man who brought you was named Zed, I believe.” She looks back down at her magazine and quietly clears her throat.

“Oh.”

I hate this. I hate not knowing. I like to be in control of everything, and last night I wasn't in control of my thoughts or of my body.

My mother puts down the magazine with what sounds like a slap. She looks at me blankly, says, “Call me if you need anything,” and walks toward the front door.

“Okay . . .”

Turning, my mother gives one last disapproving glance toward my tight pajamas and leaves the house. “Oh, and go through my closet and find yourself something to wear.”

The moment the screen door closes, a flash of Hardin's voice pops into my mind.

This is all my fault,
he said. It couldn't have been Hardin—my mind is playing tricks on me. I need to call Zed and thank him for everything. I owe him so much for coming to my aid, for saving me. I'm so grateful to him, and I'll never be able to thank him enough for helping me and driving me all the way here. I can't imagine what would have happened in front of that camera had he not shown up.

Salty tears mix with black coffee for the next half hour. Finally, I force myself from the table and into the bathroom to wash last night's disgusting events from my body. By the time I'm searching in my mother's closet for something without a built-in underwire bra, I feel a good deal better.

“Do you not own any
normal
clothing?” I groan, pushing through hanger after hanger holding cocktail dresses. I'm at the point where I would rather sit naked before I finally find a cream-colored sweater and dark jeans. The jeans fit perfectly, and the sweater is tight on my chest, but I'm grateful to have found anything casual at all, so I'm not going to complain.