After We Fell (32 page)

“Shh . . .” He covers my mouth with his lips and kisses me, hard. My lips part, and he takes full advantage, tugging at my hair once more, dipping his tongue into my mouth, and pulling me as close to his body as possible.

“Touch me,” he begs, reaching for my hands. I don't have to be told twice; I want to touch him, and he needs the reassurance. This is the way we deal with things, and as unhealthy as it is, it doesn't feel that way when he's kissing me like this and begging me to put my hands on him.

I fumble for the buttons on his shirt, and he groans impatiently, using both hands to tug at either side of it, popping off the buttons.

“I liked that shirt,” I say into his mouth, and he smiles, his lips against mine.

“I hated it.”

I push the fabric down past his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His tongue is slow in my mouth, and I'm melting in his arms at the rough yet incredibly sweet kiss. I feel the anger and frustration behind his lips, but he does his best to hide it. He's always hiding.

“I know you'll leave me soon,” he says, moving his lips down to my neck again.

“What?” I pull back a little, surprised by his words, and confused.

My heart aches for him, the liquor making me even more sympathetic toward his feelings. I love him, I love him so much. But he makes me feel so weak, so vulnerable. The moment I allow myself to believe he's worried, sad, or upset in any way, it's like all my emotions shift, only focusing on him and not myself or how I feel.

“I love you so,” he whispers, dragging his thumb slowly across my
lips. His bare chest and torso look heavenly against his black jeans, and I know I'm at his complete mercy.

“Hardin, what—”

“Let's talk later. I want to feel you.” He guides me to the bed, and I try to ignore my mind screaming at me to stop him, not to give in to him. I can't, though. I'm not strong enough to stop myself when his callused hands are running up my thighs, pushing them open slightly, when he's teasing me with an index finger running over my panties.

“Condom,” I pant, and his bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“What if we don't use one? What if I come inside of you, you wouldn't be . . .”

But he stops himself, and I'm glad. I don't think I'm prepared for whatever it was he was going to say. He lifts himself off of me, stands to his feet, and saunters over to the suitcase on the floor. I lie back, staring at the ceiling, trying to sift through my drunken thoughts.
Do I really need Seattle? Is Seattle important enough to me to lose Hardin?
The pain that courses through me at the thought is nearly unbearable.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says from across the room.

When I sit up, he's staring down at a small piece of paper in his hand.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks as his eyes meet mine.

“What?” I look down at the floor; my dress lies in a pile on the dark hardwood with my shoes. At first I'm a little confused, but then I look down and see my bra lying on the floor.
Shit.
I hop up quickly and attempt to grab the paper from him.

“Don't play stupid with me—you got his
fucking number
?” He gapes, holding the paper above his head so I have no chance of taking it back.

“It wasn't like that, I was mad and he was—”

“Bullshit!” he shouts.

Here we go.
I know that look. I still remember the first time I saw that look on his face. He was pushing over the cabinet at his father's house the first time I saw his face twisted in anger this way. “Hardin—”

“Go on, call him. Let him fuck you—because I sure as hell don't want to.”

“Don't overreact,” I beg. I'm too drunk to get into a screaming match with him.

“
Overreact?
I just found another guy's number in your dress,” he hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched in annoyance.

“You aren't innocent here either,” I remark as he paces back and forth. “If you're going to yell at me, save your breath. I'm done fighting with you every single day,” I say with a sigh.

He points at me angrily. “You do this! You're the one that constantly enrages me; it's your fault that I'm like this, and you know it!”

“No! No, it's not.” I struggle to keep my voice down. “You can't blame everything on me. We both make mistakes.”

“No,
you
make mistakes. A shit ton of them, and I'm sick of it.” He tugs at his hair. “You think I want to be this way? Fuck no, I don't. You do this to me!”

I stay quiet.

“Go on, cry,” he says, mocking me.

“I'm not going to cry.”

His eyes go wide. “Well, surprise, surprise.” He claps his hands in the most degrading way possible.

I laugh. Which stops him.

“Why are you laughing?” He stares at me for a beat. “Answer me.”

I shake my head. “You're fucked up. I mean colossally fucked up.”

“And you're a selfish bitch. What else is new?” he snaps, and my laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

I rise from the bed without a word, without a tear, and grab a
T-shirt and shorts from the drawer. I pull them on hastily as he watches me.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asks.

“Leave me alone.”

“No, come here.” He reaches for me and I desperately want to slap him, but I know he'll stop me.

“No, get off of me!” I shake my arm from his grip. “I'm done. I'm so done with this back-and-forth. I'm tired and exhausted, and I don't want to do it anymore. You don't love me—you want to possess me, and I won't let you.” I look straight into his brilliant green eyes. Straight through them, and say, “You're broken, Hardin, and I can't fix you.”

His face falls at the realization of what he's done to me, and to himself, and he stands in front of me with all emotion pulled out of him. His shoulders sink, and his eyes are no longer brilliant as he stares back at me, finally seeing a blank expression mirrored back at him. I have nothing left to say, he has nothing left to break inside of me or himself, and by the way the color has drained from his face, he's finally realized it.

L
andon opens the door, rubbing his eyes. He's half dressed, wearing only plaid pants, no shirt or socks.

“Can I sleep in here?” I ask him, and he nods drowsily, not asking any questions. “I'm sorry for waking you up,” I whisper to him.

“It's okay,” he mumbles, and stumbles back to the bed. “Here, you can have this one, the other is flat.” He pushes a fluffy white pillow against my chest.

I smile, hugging the pillow close and sitting on the edge of the bed. “This is why I love you. Well, not the only reason, but one of them.”

“Because I gave you the best pillow?” His smile is even more adorable when laced with sleep.

“No, because you're always here for me . . .
and
you have soft pillows.” My voice is so slow when I'm drunk . . . it's odd.

Landon lies back on the bed and moves his body over so that there's plenty of room for me on the other side. “Is he going to come in here after you?” he asks quietly.

“I don't think so.” The moment of humor that came with Landon and his soft pillows has been replaced by the ache of Hardin and the words we exchanged moments ago.

I lie down on my side and look over at Landon lying next to me. “Remember when you said he isn't a lost cause?” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do.” He pauses. “Unless he did something else . . .”

“No, well . . . nothing new, really. I just . . . I don't know if I can do it anymore. We keep moving backward, and we shouldn't be. Every single time I think we're making progress, he becomes that same Hardin I met six months ago. He calls me a selfish bitch, or basically tells me he doesn't love me—and I know he doesn't mean the words, but every syllable crushes me a little more than the last, and I think I'm starting to understand that this really is just the way he is. He can't help it, but he can't change it either.”

Landon watches me with thoughtful eyes before his mouth turns to a frown. “He called you a bitch? Tonight?”

I nod, and he sighs heavily, running his hand over his face.

“I was saying hurtful things to him, too.” I hiccup. The heavy combination of wine and whiskey is going to haunt me tomorrow, I know it.

“He shouldn't call you out of your name—he's a man and you're a woman. It's never okay, Tessa. Please don't make excuses for him.”

“I'm not . . . I just . . .” But that's exactly what I'm doing. I sigh. “I think this is all about Seattle. He went from getting a tattoo for me and telling me that he can't live without me to telling me he only chases me because I fuck him. Oh my gosh! I'm sorry, Landon!” I cover my face with my hands. I cannot believe I just said that in front of him.

“It's okay—you did just fish your underwear out of the hot tub, remember?” He grins, lightening the conversation, and I hope that the relative darkness of the room at least hides my blushing.

“This trip has been a disaster.” I shake my head, pressing it against the cool pillow.

“Maybe not; maybe this is what you two needed.”

“To break up?”

“No . . . is that what happened?” He lays another pillow next to me.

“I don't know.” I bury my face further.

“Is that what you want?” he asks delicately.

“No, but it's what I
should
want. It's not fair to either of us to keep doing this day in and day out. I'm not innocent here either—I always expect too much from him.” My mother's flaws have been passed down to me. She expects too much from everyone, too.

Landon shifts a little. “There isn't anything wrong with expecting things from him, especially when the things that you expect from him are reasonable,” he replies. “He has to see what he has. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him; he needs to remember that.”

“He said that it's my fault . . . that he is the way he is. All I want is for him to be kind to me at least
half
the time, and I want security in our relationship, that's all. It's pathetic, really.” I groan, my voice breaks, and I can still taste the whiskey laced with Hardin's mint on my tongue. “Would you go to Seattle if you were me? I can't help but think I should just call it off and stay here, or go with him to England. If he's acting like this because I'm going to Seattle, maybe I should—”

“You can't not go,” Landon interrupts. “You've been gushing over Seattle since the day I met you. If Hardin won't go with you, then that's his loss. Besides, I give him a week of you being gone before he shows up at your doorstep. You can't give in on this; he has to know that you're serious this time. You have to let him miss you.”

I smile while envisioning Hardin showing up a week after I leave, desperately begging for my forgiveness with lilies in his hand. “I don't even have a doorstep for him to show up on.”

“That was him, wasn't it? The reason that woman wasn't calling you back?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew it. Realtors don't just not return calls. You have to go. Ken will help you find somewhere to stay until you find a permanent place.”

“What if he doesn't come after all? And worse, what if he does come but he's even more angry because he hates it there?”

“Tessa, I'm only saying this because I care about you, okay?” He waits for my response, and I nod. “You'd have to be insane to give up Seattle for someone who loves you more than anything but is only willing to show it half of the time.”

I think about Hardin saying that I make all the mistakes, that
I
make him act the way he does. “Do you think he'd be better off without me?” I ask Landon.

He sits up a little and says, “No, heck no! But seeing as I know you don't tell me even half of the messed-up things he says to you, maybe it really isn't going to work.” Reaching across the empty space between us, his hand touches my arm and he rubs slowly.

Using the alcohol in my veins as an excuse, I grant myself permission to ignore the fact that Landon, one of the only people who actually had faith in my relationship with Hardin, has just thrown in the towel. “I'm going to feel like hell tomorrow,” I say to change the subject before I break the promise that I made with myself not to cry.

“Yeah, you are,” he teases. “You smell like a liquor cabinet.”

“I met Lillian's girlfriend. She kept giving me shots. Oh, and I danced on a bar.”

He gasps gleefully. “You didn't.”

“I did. It was so embarrassing. It was Riley's idea.”

“She's . . . interesting.” Landon smiles and seems to notice his fingertips still running over my skin. He pulls them away and tucks his arm under his head.

“She's the female version of Hardin.” I laugh.

“She is! No wonder she sounds so annoying!” he teases, and in a moment of drunken insanity, I glance over to the door, expecting to see Hardin there with a deep scowl after hearing Landon's playful insult.

“You make me forget about everything.” My mouth releases the words before my mind can catch up.

“I'm glad.” My best friend smiles and grabs the blanket at the foot of the bed. He pulls it up over both of our bodies, and I close my eyes.

Minutes pass in silence, and my mind is putting up a fight as sleep tries to pull me under. Landon's breathing slows, and I have to keep my eyes closed and pretend that it's Hardin breathing next to me or my mind will never surrender.

Hardin's angry scowl and harsh words float through my hazy thoughts as I finally fall asleep:
You're a selfish bitch.