After We Fell (55 page)

M
y thoughts are racing as I start the washing machine. Hardin came here, to Seattle—and I didn't have to ask or beg him. He came of his own accord. Even if it's only for one night, it means so much to me, and I hope that it will turn out to be a step in the right direction for us. I'm still so conflicted when it comes to our relationship . . . We always have so many problems, so many pointless fights. We're such different people, and I'm at a point now where I'm not sure it will ever work.

But right now, now that he's here with me, I want nothing more than to try this long-distance half relationship/half friendship, and see where it takes us.

“I knew he'd show up,” Kimberly says from behind me.

When I turn around, I see her leaning against the doorframe of the laundry room. “I didn't,” I tell her.

She gives me an oh-please look. “You had to know he would. I've never seen a couple like the two of you.”

I sigh. “We aren't exactly a couple . . .”

“You ran into his arms like something out of a movie. He's been here for less than fifteen minutes, and you're already doing his laundry.” She nods to the machine.

“Well, his clothes are filthy,” I say, ignoring the first part of her remark.

“You two just can't stay away from one another; it's really something to watch. I do wish you were coming out tonight so you could get dressed up and show him what he's missing by not
being here in Seattle with you.” She winks and then leaves me alone in the laundry room.

She's right about Hardin and me not being able to stay away from each other. It's always been that way, since the day I met him. Even when I tried to convince myself that I didn't want him, I couldn't ignore the fluttering I felt inside me every time we ran into each other.

Back then, Hardin always seemed to appear wherever I was . . . Granted, I did go to his fraternity house every chance I could. I hated it there, but something inside me drew me to the place, knowing that if I went, I would see him. I didn't admit it then, not even to myself, but I longed for his company, even when he was being cruel to me. The memories feel so ancient and almost dreamlike as I recall the way he used to stare at me during class, then roll his eyes when I said hello.

The washing machine makes a random little beep, bringing me back to reality, and I hurry down the hallway to the guest room that has been designated as Hardin's for the night. The room is empty; Hardin's empty bag is still on the bed, but he's nowhere to be found. I walk across the hall and find him standing over the desk in my room. His fingertips are tracing the cover of one of my notebooks.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

“I just wanted to see where you're . . . living now. I wanted to see your room.”

“Oh.” I notice the way his brows pull together when he calls it “my room.”

“Is this for a class?” he asks, holding up the black leather notebook.

“It's for creative writing.” I nod at him. “Did you read it?” I can't help but feel a little nervous at the thought that he may have. I've only completed one assignment so far, but like everything else in my life, it ended up relating to him.

“A little.”

“It's just an assignment,” I say, fumbling to explain myself. “We were asked to do a freestyle essay as the first assignment and—”

“It's good, really good,” he says, praising me, and places the book back on the desk for a moment before picking it up again and opening it to the first page. “ ‘Who I am.' ” He reads the first line out loud.

“Please don't,” I beg.

He gives me a questioning little smirk. “Since when are you shy about showing your schoolwork?”

“I'm not. It's just . . . that piece is personal. I'm not even sure if I want to turn it in.”

“I read your religion journal,” he says—and my heart stops.

“What?” I pray that I heard him wrong.
He wouldn't. He couldn't have read it . . .

“I read it. You left it at the apartment, and I found it.”

This is humiliating. I stand in silence while Hardin stares at me from across the room. Those were private thoughts that I never expected anyone to read, except my professor, maybe. I'm mortified that Hardin pored over my deepest thoughts.

“You weren't supposed to read those. Why would you?” I ask, trying not to look at him.

“Every entry was about me,” he says by way of defending himself.

“That's not the point, Hardin.” My stomach is in my throat, making it hard to breathe. “I was going through a really bad time, and those were private thoughts for my journal. You were never meant to—”

“They were really good, Tess. So good. It hurt me to read the way you were feeling, but the words, what you had to say—it was perfect.”

I know he's trying to compliment me, but it only embarrasses me further.

“How would you feel if I read something you wrote to express your feelings in a private way?” I ignore the compliments from him about my writing. His eyes flash with panic, and I tilt my head in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” is all he says, shaking his head.

T
he look in her eyes almost makes me stop, but I have to be honest, and I want her to know how interesting I found her writing. “I've read it at least ten times,” I admit.

Her wide eyes don't meet mine, but her lips part slightly and she replies, “You have?”

“Don't be ashamed. It's only me, remember?” I smile at her, and she steps closer to me.

“I know, but I probably sounded so pathetic. I wasn't thinking clearly when I was writing them.”

I press my fingers against her lips to silence her. “No, you didn't. They were brilliant.”

“I . . .” She tries to speak beneath my fingers, and I press them harder.

“Are you done yet?” I grin at her, and she nods. Slowly, I remove my fingers from her lips, and her tongue darts out to wet them. I can't help but stare.

“I have to kiss you,” I whisper, our faces mere inches apart. Her eyes look into mine, and she swallows loudly before licking her lips again.

“Okay,” she whispers back to me. Her hands are greedy as she wraps her fists around the fabric of my shirt. She pulls me closer, her breathing heavy.

Just before our lips can connect, a knock sounds at the bedroom door. “Tessa?” Kimberly's high-pitched voice calls through the half-open door.

“Get rid of her,” I whisper, and Tessa backs away from me.

First the kid, now his mom. We might as well invite Vance to join as well.

“We're leaving in a few minutes,” Kimberly says without coming in.

Good for you. Now get the fuck out of here . . .

“Okay—I'll be right out,” Tessa responds, and my irritation grows.

“Thanks, hon,” Kimberly says and walks off, humming some pop song.

“I shouldn't have even fucking—” I begin.

When Tessa looks over at me, I stop myself from finishing my rude remark. It wasn't true, anyway . . . nothing could keep me from wanting to be here right now.

“I have to go out there now, to watch Smith. If you want to stay in here, you can.”

“No, I want to be wherever you are,” I tell her, and she smiles.

Fuck, I want to kiss her. I've missed her so much, and she says she's missed me, too . . . Why doesn't she just . . . Her hands wrap around the top of my black T-shirt, and she presses her lips against mine. I feel as if someone has plugged me into an electrical outlet, every fiber of me igniting and buzzing. Her tongue enters my mouth, pressing and caressing, and I wrap my hands around her hips.

I pull her across the room until my feet hit the footboard of the bed. I lie back, and she falls gently on top of me. Wrapping her body into my arms, I turn us over so her body is under mine. I can feel her pulse hammering under my lips as they slide down her neckline and back up to the sweet spot just under her ear. Gasps and quiet moans are my reward. Slowly, I begin what I know are torturing movements, grinding my hips against hers, pressing her into the mattress. Tessa's fingers move to touch the
heated skin under my T-shirt, and her nails rake down my back. As I bring her earlobe between my lips—

The image of Zed thrusting into her flashes through my mind, and I'm on my feet within seconds.

“What's wrong?” she asks. Her lips are deep pink and swollen from my gentle assault.

“I-it's, it's nothing. We should . . . um . . . go out there. Take care of the little shit,” I respond frantically.

“Hardin,” she presses.

“Tessa, let it go. It's nothing.” Oh, you know, just that I dreamed of Zed fucking you practically through to the other side of our mattress, and now I can't stop picturing it.

“Okay.” She lifts herself from the bed and wipes her hands against the soft material of her pajamas.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to rid my mind of the disgusting images. If that poser asshole interrupts another second of my time with Tessa, I'll break every bone in his goddamned body.

A
fter too many kisses for Smith's liking, Kimberly and Vance finally leave. Each of the three times they reminded us they were only a phone call away in case there's trouble, Hardin and Smith rolled their eyes dramatically. When she pointed to the list of emergency numbers on the kitchen counter, they shared a little, cute look of disbelief.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask Smith once their car is out of sight.

He shrugs from where he's sitting on the couch and looks up at Hardin, who looks down at the kid like he's an amusing little ferret or something.

“Okay . . . What about a game—do you want to play a game or something?” I suggest when neither of them speaks.

“No,” Smith replies.

“I think he just wants to go back to his room and do whatever the hell he was doing before Kim dragged him out here,” Hardin says, and Smith nods curtly in agreement.

“Well . . . okay, then. You can go back to your room, Smith. Hardin and I will be out here if you need anything. I'll be ordering dinner soon,” I tell him.

“Can you come with me, Hardin?” Smith asks in the softest tone possible.

“To your room? No, I'm good.”

Without a word, Smith climbs down from the couch and
walks over to the stairs. I shoot a glare at Hardin, and he shrugs his shoulders. “What?”

“Go to his room with him,” I whisper.

“I don't want to go to his room. I want to be out here with you,” he says matter-of-factly. As much as I want Hardin to stay with me, I feel bad for Smith.

“Come on.” I nod to the blond boy as he slowly ascends the steps. “He's lonely.”

“Dammit, fine.” Hardin groans and sulks across the living room to follow Smith up the stairs. I'm still a little bothered by his odd reaction to our kiss in the bedroom. I thought it was going great—better than great—but he climbed off me so abruptly that I thought he'd been injured. Maybe after being away from me for so long he doesn't feel the same? Maybe he's not as attracted to me . . . sexually, as he once was. I know that I'm dressed in baggy pajamas, but he never had a problem with them before.

Unable to come up with any reasonable explanation for his behavior, instead of letting my imagination run wild, I grab the small stack of takeout pamphlets that Kimberly left for us so we could figure out what to order for dinner. I decide on pizza, and grab my phone before going into the laundry room. I place Hardin's clothes in the dryer and sit on the bench in the center of the room. I call for the pizza and wait while watching the machine turn around and around.

A
s Smith walks around his bedroom, I stand in the doorway and take a mental inventory of all the shit this kid has. Man, he's spoiled as hell.

“What do you want to do?” I ask the kid as I step into the room.

“I don't know.” He stares at the wall. His blond hair is combed to one side so perfectly it's almost creepy.

“Then why did you want me to come up here?”

“I don't know,” the little shit repeats. Stubborn little fucker.

“Okay . . . well, this isn't going anywhere . . .” I trail off.

“Are you living here now, too, with your girl?” Smith suddenly blurts.

“No, only visiting for tonight,” I say and look away from the kid.

“Why?” His eyes home in on me. I can feel them without even glancing his way.

“Because I don't want to live here.” I do, though. Sort of.

“Why? You don't like her?” he questions.

“Yes. I like her.” I laugh. “I just . . . I don't know. Why do you always ask me so many questions?”

“I don't know,” he responds simply and pulls some sort of train set from under his bed.

“Don't you have any friends you can play with?” I ask the boy.

“No.”

That doesn't seem right. He's an all-right kid. “Why not?”

He shrugs and disconnects a piece of the train track. His small hands disconnect another piece, and he switches the metal out with two new tracks from a box at the end of his bed.

“I'm sure you can make friends at school.”

“No, I can't.”

“Are the kids assholes to you or something?” I ask him. I don't bother to correct my language. Vance has the mouth of a fucking sailor, and I'm sure his son has heard worse.

“Sometimes.” He twists the edges of some type of wire and connects a small train car to it. The wire sparks in his hands, but he doesn't flinch. Within seconds, the train begins to move around the track, starting slowly and then gradually picking up speed.