After We Fell (81 page)

“I hate that it's like that for you,” Hardin quietly says.

“Me, too.” I sigh in agreement. The pained look on his face makes me add, “It's not your fault.”

“Like hell it isn't.” Exasperated fingers push through the wave of his hair. “I'm the one who ripped up that damn letter, I drove you here, and I thought I could keep your father's habits from you. I thought that asshole Chad was gone for good when I gave him my watch for the money your dad owed.”

I stare at Hardin, who's always so wound up, and I want to hug him. He gave away something of his; regardless of his claims to have no attachment to the object, he gave it up in an attempt to dig my father out of the hole he created for himself. God, I love him.

“I'm very grateful to have you,” I tell him. His shoulders straighten, and his head quickly lifts to look at me.

“I don't know why. I create nearly every disaster in your life.”

“No, I'm equally to blame,” I assure him. I wish he thought more of himself; if only he could see himself the way that I do. “The indifference of the universe does a lot, too.”

“You're lying”—he stares at me with expectant eyes—“but I'll take it.”

I stare at the wall in silence, my brain running over a thousand thoughts per minute.

“I'm still angry that you ran after him like a fucking madman, though,” Hardin scolds me. I don't blame him; it wasn't smart. But I also somehow knew he'd run after me in my ridiculous attempt to chase Chad down and take the watch back from him. What the heck was I thinking?

I was thinking that the watch represented the beginning of a new relationship between Hardin and his father. Hardin said he
hated that watch, and he refused to wear it, claiming it was outrageous. He's unaware of the times I passed the bedroom to see him staring at it in its box. Once he even had the watch resting in his open palm, examining it closely, as if it might burn or heal him. His expression was ambivalent when he tossed it carelessly back into the oversize black box.

“My adrenaline got the best of me.” I shrug, trying to hide the gentle tremor shaking through me at the thought of actually catching up to the hideous man.

I had a bad feeling about him the first time he came to pick my father up from the apartment, but I was unaware of the possibility that he'd return. Out of all the suspicions I held relating to what exactly was happening here, slimy men selling drugs and being paid in watches was never a thought. This obviously was what Hardin referred to as “taking care of it without me having to worry about it.” If I had just kept my behind in the apartment, I could still be blissfully ignorant of the entire situation. I could still see my father in a decent light.

“Well, I don't care much for your adrenaline, then. It obviously cuts off the oxygen to your damn brain,” Hardin huffs, glaring at the refrigerator beside me.

“Should we start the next movie?” My father's voice sounds from the living room. I shoot a sudden panicked look toward Hardin, and he opens his mouth to answer for me.

“In a minute,” he replies, his tone harsh.

Hardin looks down at me, his height and irritated expression overpowering me. “You don't have to go out there and fake some bullshit conversation with them if you don't want to. I'd dare either of them to say shit to you about it.”

The idea of watching a movie with my father does not sound the least bit appealing, but I don't want things to be awkward, and I don't want Landon to go just yet.

“I know.” I sigh.

“You're in denial, and I get that, but you're going to need to face the music sooner or later.” His words are harsh, but his eyes are sympathetic as he gazes down at me. I feel the heat of his fingers trail down the back of both of my arms.

“I'll take later—for now,” I plead with him, and he nods, not approving but accepting my denial. For now.

“Go on and go in there, then. I'll be in in a minute.” He tilts his head toward the living room.

“Okay; can you make some popcorn?” I smile up at him, trying my best to convince him that my heart isn't hammering against my rib cage and my palms aren't sweating.

“You're pushing it . . .” A playful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth while he pushes me out of the kitchen. “Go on.”

When I enter the dimly lit living room, my father is sitting in his usual spot on the couch and Landon is standing, leaning against the dark brick wall. My father's hands are on his lap; he's picking at the skin on his fingertips, a habit I had as a child until my mother forced me to give it up. Now I know where it came from.

My father lifts dark eyes from his lap to peer up at me, and a chill runs over me. I can't decipher whether it's the lighting or my mind playing tricks on me, but his eyes are nearly black, and it's making me nauseous. Is he really taking drugs? If so, how much and what kind? My knowledge of drugs consists of having watched a few episodes of
Intervention
with Hardin. I cringed and covered my eyes when the addicts would push the needles into their skin or smoke the frothy liquid off of a spoon. I could barely stand to watch them destroy themselves and everyone around them, while Hardin went on about not feeling an ounce of pity for the “fucking junkies.”

Is my father really one of them?

“I'll understand if you want me to go . . .” My father's voice doesn't match the look in his haunted eyes. It's small, weak, and broken. My chest aches.

“No, it's okay.” I swallow and sit down on the floor to wait for Hardin to join us. I hear the quiet popping of the kernels, and the aroma of popping corn has already filled the apartment.

“I'll tell you anything you want to—”

“It's okay, really,” I assure my father with a smile.
Where is Hardin?

My silent question is answered only moments later when he strides into the living room, a bag of popcorn in one hand and my glass of water in the other. He sits down next to me on the floor without a word and places the bag on my lap.

“It's a little burned, but still edible,” he quietly remarks. His eyes move straight to the television screen, and I know he's holding back many thoughts. I squeeze his hand to thank him for keeping them that way. I don't think I'd be able to handle anything else tonight.

The popcorn is delicious and buttery. Hardin gripes when I offer Landon and my father some. I suspect that's why they refuse it.

“What bullshit are we watching now?” Hardin asks.

“Sleepless in Seattle,”
I answer with a grin.

His eyes roll.
“Really?
Isn't that like an older version of what we just watched!”

I can't help but be amused. “It's a lovely movie.”

“Sure.” He looks at me, but his eyes don't stay on mine as long as usual. He uses his sweatshirt to wipe the greasy butter off his fingers. I cringe and make a mental note to soak the shirt longer than usual tomorrow before I wash it.

“Is something wrong? This movie isn't that bad,” I whisper to him. My father is finishing off the remainder of the pizza, and Landon has taken his seat back on the recliner.

“No.” He still doesn't look at me. I don't want to comment on his odd behavior; everyone's already on edge from tonight's events.

The movie distracts me from myself and my vicious mind long enough to laugh with Landon and my father. Hardin stares at the screen, his shoulders stiff again and his mind miles away. I desperately want to ask him what's wrong so that I can fix it, but I know that it's best to leave him be for now. Instead, I snuggle against his chest with my knees bent beneath me and one arm wrapped around his lean torso. He surprises me by pulling me closer and planting a soft kiss on my hair.

“I love you,” he whispers. I'm nearly convinced that I'm hearing voices until I look up into his expectant green eyes.

“I love you,” I reply softly. I take a few moments to stare at him, just to take in how beautiful he is. He drives me insane, as I do him, but he loves me, and his calm behavior tonight is just another indication of that. No matter how forced the behavior is, he
is
trying, and in that I find solace, a steady certainty that even in the middle of the brewing storm, he will be my anchor. I once feared that he would take me under; now I don't even mind if he does.

A heavy knock at the door jolts me from Hardin's lap. I've somehow migrated there in my near slumber, and he unwraps his arms from around me and gently places me on the floor so he can stand up. I study his face, looking for anger, or shock, but instead he looks . . . worried?

“You're not moving,” he says to me. I nod in agreement. I don't want to face Chad again.

“We should just call the police, otherwise he'll never stop coming here.” I groan, wondering how this apartment could have changed so drastically in the last few weeks. The panic rises into my chest again, and when I look up to gauge my father and Landon's reactions to the intruder, I see that they're both asleep. The television is set on the menu screen for the pay-per-view; we must have all actually drifted off to sleep without realizing it.

“No,” I hear Hardin say. I rise onto my knees when he reaches
the door. What If Chad isn't alone? Will he try to hurt Hardin? I stand up and head toward the couch to wake my father.

I barely register the heavy click of high heels across the hard flooring, so when I turn my head and see my mother, in all her tight-red-dress, curled-hair, and red-lipsticked glory, I'm shocked. Her beautiful face is set in a deep scowl as her darkening eyes meet mine.

“What are you—” I begin. I glance at Hardin; and he's calm . . .
expectant
almost . . .

He allows her to storm past him and stalk toward me.

“You
called
her?” My voice squeaks as the puzzle pieces click into place. He looks away from me. How could he call her? He knows firsthand how my mother is; why on earth would he bring her into this?

“You have been avoiding my calls, Theresa,” she snaps. “And now I find out that your father is here! At this apartment, and he's on drugs!” She storms past me, too, and goes straight for the kill. Her fire-engine-red manicured fingers grip my father's arm, and she yanks his sleeping body off of the couch. He topples to the floor.

“Get up, Richard!” she booms, and I flinch at the harshness in her voice.

My father scrambles up to a sitting position quickly, using his palms to support his body weight, and shakes his head. His eyes nearly pop out of his skull as he takes in the woman in front of him. I watch as he blinks rapidly and stumbles to his feet.

“Carol?” His voice is even smaller than mine.

“How dare you!” She waves a finger in his face, and he backs away from her only to have his legs hit the couch, causing him to fall back. He looks terrified, and I don't blame him.

Landon stirs in the chair and opens his eyes; his expression mimics my father's, confused and terrified.

“Theresa, go to your bedroom,” my mother demands.

What?
“No, I will not,” I counter. Why did Hardin have to call her? Everything would have been okay. I'd have a way to move on from my father, probably.

“She's not a child anymore, Carol,” my father says.

My mother's cheeks puff, and her chest rises, and I know what's coming next. “Don't you dare speak of her as if you know her at all! As if you have any claim on her!”

“I'm trying to make up for lost time—” My father is holding his ground pretty decently for a man who has just been awoken by his angry ex-wife screaming in his face. I don't know what to make of the scene unfolding in front of me. There's something in my father's voice, something in his tone as he steps closer to my mother, gaining confidence that almost looks familiar. I can't quite put my finger on it.

“Lost time! You don't get to make up for lost time! Now I hear you're taking drugs?”

“I'm not anymore!” he yells back at her. I want to cower behind Hardin, but right now I don't know whose side he's actually on. Landon's eyes are focused on me, Hardin's on my father and mother.

“Wanna go?” Landon mouths silently from across the room. I shake my head, silently declining, but hoping that my eyes can convey how thankful I am for his offer.

“Anymore? Anymore!” My mother must have worn her heaviest heels. I'm beginning to wonder if they'll leave dents in the floor as she stomps across it.

“Yes, anymore! Look, I'm not perfect, okay?” His hands move over his short hair, and I freeze. The gesture is so familiar, it's uncanny.

“Not perfect! Ha!” She laughs, her white teeth shining through the dim room. I want to turn a light on but can't bring myself to move. I don't know how to feel or what to think as I watch my parents scream at each other in the middle of the living
room. I'm convinced this apartment is cursed; it has to be. “Not perfect is fine; doing drugs and dragging your daughter down the same path is deplorable!”

“I'm not dragging her down any path! I'm trying my hardest to make up for what I did to her . . . and to you!”

“No! You're not! Your coming back around will only confuse her more! She's already messed her life up enough!”

“She hasn't messed up her life,” Hardin interrupts. My mother shoots him a fiery glare before turning her attention back to my father.

“This is your fault, Richard Young! All of this! If it weren't for you, Theresa wouldn't be in this toxic relationship with this boy!” She waves her hand toward Hardin. I knew it would only be a matter of time before she started in on him. “She never had a male example to show her how a woman should be treated; that's why she's shacked up here with him! Unmarried, living in sin, and Lord only knows what he's doing! He's probably taking the drugs with you!”