After We Fell (12 page)

His eyes meet mine, and he nods. “Yeah?” He sits on the bed.

“When you . . . you know, was it because I was pulling your hair?”

“What?” He laughs lightly.

“When I pulled at your hair, you liked it?” I flush.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh.” I can't imagine the shade of red I'm turning right now.

“Is that weird to you? That I liked it?”

“No, I'm just curious,” I tell him truthfully.

“Everyone has certain things they like during sex; that's one of mine. I didn't know it until just now, though.” He smiles, completely unfazed that we're talking about this.

“Oh yeah?” I get excited at the thought that he learned something new while with me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, my hair's been pulled on by other girls, but it's different with you.”

“Oh,” I say for the tenth time, but this one leaves me feeling flat.

Likely unaware of my reaction, Hardin looks at me with curiosity gleaming in his green eyes. “Is there something
you
like that I haven't done?”

“No, I like everything you do,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I know, but is there something you've thought about doing before that we haven't done?”

I shake my head.

“Don't be embarrassed, baby—everyone has fantasies.”

“I don't.” At least, I don't think I do. I haven't had any experience outside of Hardin, and I don't know of anything else besides what we've done.

“You do,” he says with a smile. “We just have to find them.”

My stomach flutters, and I don't know what to say.

But then my father's voice breaks our conversation. “Tessie?”
My first thought is that I'm relieved that his voice sounds like it's coming from the living room and not the hallway.

Hardin and I both stand.

“I'm going to use the restroom,” I say.

He nods with a wicked grin and heads into the living room to join my father.

When I get into the bathroom, Hardin's phone is sitting on the edge of the sink.

I know I shouldn't, but I can't stop myself. I immediately go to the call log, but it doesn't show. All the calls have been cleared. Not a single one is shown on the screen. I try again, and then look at the text-message screen.

Nothing. He's deleted everything.

H
ardin and my father are both seated at the kitchen table when I emerge from the bathroom, Hardin's phone in hand.

“I'm wilting away here, babe,” Hardin says when I reach them.

My father looks over sheepishly. “I could eat . . .” he begins, like he's unsure.

I place my hands on the top of Hardin's chair and he leans his head back, his damp hair touching my fingers. “Then I suggest you make yourself something to eat,” I say and place his phone in front of him.

He looks up at me with a completely neutral expression. “Okay . . .” he says and gets up and goes to the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I have my leftovers from Applebee's.”

“Are you upset with me about taking him drinking today?” my father asks.

I look over at him and soften my tone. I could tell what my dad was like when I invited him in. “I'm not upset, but I don't want it to become a regular thing.”

“It won't. Besides, you're moving,” he reminds me, and I look across the table at the man I've only known for two days now.

I don't reply. Instead I join Hardin at the fridge and pull the freezer door open.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask him.

He looks at me with wary eyes, clearly trying to assess my mood. “Just
some chicken or something . . . or we can order some takeout?”

I sigh. “Let's just order something.” I don't mean to be short with him, but my mind is whirling with possibilities of what was on his phone that he felt needed to be deleted.

Once ordering food becomes the plan, Hardin and my father begin bickering over Chinese or pizza. Hardin wants pizza, and he wins the argument by reminding my father who will be paying for it. For his part, my father doesn't seem offended by Hardin's digs. He just laughs or flips him off.

It's a strange sight, really, to watch the two of them. After my father left, I would often daydream about him when I saw my friends with their fathers. I had created a vision of a man who resembled the man I grew up with, only older, and definitely not a homeless drunk. I had always thought of him carrying an attaché case stuffed with important documents, walking to his car in the morning, coffee mug in hand. I didn't imagine he'd still be drinking, that he'd be ravaged by it like he's been, and that he'd be without a place to live. I can't picture my mother and this man being able to hold a conversation, let alone spending years married to each other.

“How did you and my mother meet?” I say, suddenly voicing my thoughts.

“In high school,” he answers.

Hardin grabs his phone and leaves the room to order the pizza. Either that or to call someone and then quickly delete the call log.

I sit at the kitchen table across from my father. “How long were you dating before you got married?” I ask.

“Only about two years. We got married young.”

I feel uncomfortable asking these questions, but I know I wouldn't have any luck getting the answers from my mother. “Why?”

“You and your mom never talked about this?” he asks.

“No; we never talked about you. If I even tried to bring the subject up, she shut down,” I tell him, and watch his features transform from interest to shame.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.

“No, I get it. I don't blame her.” He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Hardin strolls back into the kitchen and sits down next to me. “To answer your question, we got married young because she got pregnant with you, and your grandparents hated me and tried to keep her away from me. So we got hitched.” He smiles, enjoying the memory.

“You got married to spite my grandparents?” I ask with a smile.

My grandparents, may they rest in peace, were a little . . . intense.
Very
intense. My childhood memories of them include being shushed at the dinner table for laughing and being told to take my shoes off before walking on their carpet. For birthdays, they would send an impersonal card with a ten-year savings bond inside—not an ideal gift for an eight-year-old.

My mother was essentially a clone of my grandmother, only slightly less poised. She tried, though; my mother spends her days and nights trying to be as perfect as she remembers her own mother being.

Or
, I suddenly think,
as perfect as she imagines her being.

My father laughs. “In a way, yes, to piss them off. But your mother always wanted to be married. She practically dragged me to the altar.” He laughs again, and Hardin looks at me before laughing as well.

I scowl at him, knowing he's concocting some snarky comment about me forcing him into marriage.

I turn back to my dad. “Were you against marriage?” I ask.

“No. I don't remember, really; all I know is I was scared as hell to have a baby at nineteen.”

“And rightfully so.
We can see how that worked out for you,” Hardin remarks.

I shoot him a glare, but my father only rolls his eyes at him.

“It's not something I recommend, but there are a lot of young parents that can handle it.” He lifts his hands up in resignation. “I just wasn't one of them.”

“Oh,” I say. I can't imagine being a parent at my age.

He smiles, clearly open to giving me what answers he can. “Any more questions, Tessie?”

“No . . . I think that's all,” I say. I don't exactly feel comfortable around him, though in a strange way I feel more comfortable than I would if my mother were sitting here instead of him.

“If you think of any more, you can ask me. Until then, do you mind if I take another shower before dinner comes?”

“Of course not. Go ahead,” I say.

It seems like he's been here longer than two days. So much has happened since he appeared—Hardin's expulsion/nonexpulsion, Zed's appearance in the parking lot, my lunch with Steph and Molly, the ever-disappearing call log—just too much. This overstressful, constantly growing pile of issues in my life doesn't appear to be letting up anytime soon.

“What's wrong?” Hardin asks when my father disappears down the hall.

“Nothing.” I stand up and take a few steps before he stops me by touching my waist and turning me around to face him.

“I know you better than that. Tell me what's wrong,” he softly demands, placing both hands on my hips.

I look him dead in the eyes. “You.”

“I . . .
what
? Talk,” he demands.

“You're acting weird, and you deleted your text messages and calls.”

His features twist in annoyance, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you be looking through my phone, anyway?”

“Because you're acting suspicious, and—”

“So you go through my shit? Didn't I tell you before not to do that?”

The look of indignation on his face is so brazen, looks so practiced, that my blood gets boiling. “I know I shouldn't be going through your things—but you shouldn't give me a reason to. And if you don't have anything to hide, why would you care? I wouldn't mind if you looked through my phone. I have nothing to hide.” I dig mine out of my pocket and hold it out. Then I start to worry that maybe I
didn't
delete the text from Zed on there and I panic, until Hardin waves it away like my trust is a gnat.

“You're just making up excuses for how psychotic you are,” he says, his words burning me.

I don't have anything to say. Well, actually, I have a lot to say to him, but no words come from my mouth. I push his hands from my hips and storm off. He said he knows me well enough to sense when something's wrong with me. Well, I know him well enough to sense when he's close to being caught at something. Whether it be a small lie or a bet for my virginity, the same thing happens each time: first he acts suspicious, then when I bring it up to him he gets angry and defensive, and finally he spits harsh words at me.

“Don't walk away from me,” he bellows from behind me.

“Don't follow me,” I say and disappear into the bedroom.

But he appears in the doorway a second later. “I don't like you going through my shit.”

“I don't like feeling like I
have
to.”

He closes the door and leans his back against it. “You don't have to; I deleted that stuff because . . . it was an accident. It's nothing for you to be all worked up over.”

“Worked up? You mean ‘psychotic'?”

He sighs. “I didn't really mean that.”

“Then stop saying things you don't mean. Because then I can't tell what's true and what's not.”

“Then stop going through my shit. Because then I can't tell if I should trust you or not.”

“Fine.” I sit down at the desk.

“Fine,” he repeats and sits down on the bed.

I can't decide if I believe him or not. Nothing adds up, but in a way it does. Maybe he did delete the texts and calls by accident, and maybe he
was
talking to Steph on the phone. The bits and pieces of the conversation that I caught fuel my imagination, but I don't want to ask Hardin about it because I don't want him to know I overheard them. It's not like he'd tell me what they talked about anyway.

“I don't want there to be secrets between us. We should be past that,” I remind him.

“I know,
fuck
. There aren't any secrets; you're being crazy.”

“Stop calling me crazy. You of all people shouldn't be calling anyone that.” I regret the words as soon as they're out, but he doesn't seem fazed.

“I'm sorry, okay? You're not crazy,” he says, then smiles. “You just go through my phone.”

I force a smile in return and try to convince myself that he's right, that I'm being paranoid. Worst-case scenario, he's hiding something from me. I'll find out eventually, so there isn't any point in obsessing over it now. I've found out everything else.

I mentally repeat the logic over and over until I'm convinced.

My father yells something from the other room, and Hardin says, “I think the pizza's here. You're not going to be mad at me all night, are you?”

But he leaves the room without giving me a chance to answer.

I swivel on my seat and look at where I laid my phone on the desk.
Curious, I check it, and sure enough, I have another new text from Zed. I don't bother to read it this time.

THE NEXT DAY
is my last at the old office, and I drive slower than usual to work. I want to take in every street, every building on the way. This paid internship has been a dream come true. I know I'll be working for Vance in Seattle, but this area is where it started, where my career started.

Kimberly is sitting at her desk when I step off the elevator. Multiple brown boxes are stacked near the side of her desk.

“Good morning!” she chirps.

“Good morning.” My voice isn't capable of sounding as cheery as hers. I'd come off nervous and awkward.

“Ready for your last week here?” she asks as I fill a small Styrofoam cup with coffee.

“Yes—my last
day
, actually. I'm going on a trip for the rest of the week,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Wow! Your last day! I should have gotten you a card or something.” She smiles. “But then, I could just give it to you next week at your new office.”

I laugh. “Are
you
ready to go? When will you be leaving?”