After We Fell (35 page)

Hardin stares at me. His eyes are bloodshot, his hands are shaking, and I know he's about to lose it. “Go on, Tessa! Tell me that you're leaving me. Better yet, don't. Just pack your shit and get out.”

“Stop trying to hold yourself together,” I tell him, angry, but also pleading inside. “You're trying not to break, but you know you want to. If you'd just let yourself show me how you really feel—”

“You know nothing of how I really feel.
Leave!
” His voice catches at the end, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and tell him I would never leave him.

But I can't.

“All you have to do is tell me. Please, Hardin, just tell me that you'll try, really try this time.” I'm begging him; I don't know what else to do. I don't want to leave him, even though I know I have to.

He stands there, only a few feet away from me, and I can see him shutting down. Every glimmer of light that my Hardin holds is
disappearing slowly, burning out into darkness, and taking the man I love further and further away from me. When he finally tears his eyes away from me and crosses his arms in front of his chest, I can see the way that he's gone now; I've lost him.

“I don't want to try anymore. I am who I am, and if that's not good enough, then you know where the door is.”

“That's what you want, then? You're not even willing to try? If I leave, this time it'll be for good. I know you don't believe me because I always say it—but it's true. Just tell me you're only acting this way because you're panicking over me going to Seattle.”

Staring at the wall behind me, he simply says, “I'm sure you can find somewhere to stay until Monday.”

When I don't respond, he turns on his heel and leaves the room. I stand in place, shocked that he hasn't came back to put up more of a fight. Minutes pass before I finally pick up the pieces of me that he has shattered and pack my bags for the last time.

M
y mouth keeps saying shit that my mind doesn't want it to say, but it's like I have absolutely no control over it. Obviously I don't want her to leave. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her hair. I want to tell her that I'll do anything for her, that I'll change for her and love her until I die. Instead, I walk out and leave her standing alone.

I hear her rustling around the bedroom. I know I should go in there and stop her from packing, but what's the point, really? She's leaving Monday, anyway; she may as well leave now. I'm still astounded that she brought up trying a long-distance relationship. It would never work, her being hours away from me, only calling once or twice a day, not sleeping in the same bed. I couldn't do it.

At least if our relationship is terminated, I won't feel guilty for drinking and doing whatever the hell I choose to do . . . But who am I kidding—it's not even that I want to do anything else. I'd rather sit on the couch and have her force me to watch
Friends
over and over than spend one minute doing something without her.

Moments later, Tessa appears in the hallway dragging two suitcases behind her. Her purse is slung over her shoulder, and her face is pale. “I don't think I forgot anything except some books, but I'll just get new copies,” she says in a low, shaky voice.

This is it—this is the moment I've feared since the day I met this girl. She's leaving me, and here I am, doing nothing to stop her. I can't stop her; she was always meant to do things greater
than me, be with someone better than me. I knew that from the start. I was just hoping that somehow I would be wrong, as always.

Instead of all that, I simply say, “Okay.”

“Okay.” She gulps and squares her shoulders. When she reaches the door, she raises her arm to grab her keys from the hook, and her purse slides down her shoulder. I don't know what's wrong with me; I should stop her, or help her, but I can't.

Tessa looks back at me. “Well, that's it, then. All the fighting, the crying, the lovemaking, the laughs—everything—it was all for nothing,” she says softly. No anger tints her words. Just a blank . . . blank neutrality.

I nod, unable to speak. If I
could
speak, I would make this one hundred times harder on both of us. I know it.

She shakes her head and opens the door, holding it open with her foot so she can drag the suitcases behind her.

Once she's through the door, she looks over at me and says so quietly that it's barely audible, “I will always love you. I hope you know that.”

Stop talking, Tessa. Please.

“And someone else will, too, hopefully as much as I do.”

“Shh,” I gently coax. I can't listen to this.

“You won't always be alone. I know I said that, but if you just get some help or something, learn to control your anger, you could find some—”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and step to the doorway. “Go, just go,” I say, and shut the door in her face. Even through its thick wood, I can hear her sharp intake of breath.

I just slammed the door in her face—
what the fuck is wrong with me?

I begin to panic, and let the pain course through me. I held it for so long, barely controlled, until she walked away. My fingers go to my hair, my knees hit the concrete floor, and I simply don't know what to do with myself. I'm officially the world's largest fuckup, and there's
nothing I can do about it. It sounds so simple: just go to Seattle with her and live happily ever after, but it's not that damn simple. Everything will be different there: she'll be absorbed in her internship and new classes; she'll make new friends, experience new things—better things—and forget about me. She won't need me anymore. I wipe at the tears pooling in my eyes.

What?
For the first time I realize just how selfish I am. “Make new friends”? What's so bad about her making new friends and experiencing new things? I would be there, right next to her, experiencing them, too. Why did I go to such lengths to keep her from Seattle instead of embracing this opportunity for her? This opportunity to prove that I could be part of something she wanted. That's all she asked of me, and I couldn't fucking deliver.

If I call her right now, she'll turn the car around and I can pack my shit and find us somewhere, anywhere, to live in Seattle . . .

No, she won't, she won't turn around. She gave me the chance to stop her, and I didn't even try. She even tried to make me feel better while I was watching every ounce of faith she had in me die right in front of my eyes. I should have been comforting her, but instead I slammed the door in her face.

You won't always be alone,
she said. She's wrong: I will be, but she won't. She'll find someone to love her the way that I couldn't. No one will ever love that girl more than me, but perhaps they can show her how it
feels
to be loved, how it feels to have someone love you despite all the shit you put them through, the way she was always there for me, always.

And she deserves to have that. Thinking about the fact that getting what she deserves means being with someone else makes it hard for me to breathe. But this is the way it should be. I should have let her go a long time ago instead of sinking my claws further into her and making her waste her time on me.

I'm divided. Half of me knows she'll come back to me tonight,
maybe tomorrow, and forgive me. But the other half of me knows she really is done trying to fix me.

SOMETIME LATER,
I pull myself up from the floor and pad into the bedroom. When I get there, I nearly collapse again. The bracelet I had made for her sits on top of a piece of paper, alongside her e-reader and a copy of
Wuthering Heights
. I pick up the bracelet, twirl the infinity heart charm between my fingers, and look at the matching tattoo on my wrist.

Why would she leave this here?
It was a gift from me to her, at a time when I was desperate to show my love for her. I needed her love and forgiveness, and she gave it to me. To my horror, the piece of paper under the bracelet is the handwritten letter that I wrote her. As I unfold it and read it over, my chest is slowly ripped open and its contents are tossed onto the hard floor. Memories flood my fucked-up mind: the first time I told her that I loved her, then took it back; the date with the blond girl that I tried to replace her with; the way I felt when I saw her standing in the doorway after reading the letter. I continue reading.

You love me when you shouldn't, and I need you. I have always needed you and always will. When you left me just last week it nearly killed me, I was lost. So completely lost without you. I went on a date with someone last week. I wasn't going to tell you, but I can't stand to chance losing you again.

My fingers tremble, and I nearly tear the flimsy paper trying to hold it still enough to read.

I know you can do better than me. I'm not romantic, I won't ever write you poetry or sing you a song.

I'm not even kind.

I can't promise that I won't hurt you again, but I can swear that I will love you until the day that I die. I'm a terrible person, and I don't deserve you, but I hope that you'll allow me the chance to restore your faith in me. I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you, and I understand if you can't forgive me.

She did forgive me, though. She's always forgiven me for my wrongs, but not this time. I was supposed to be restoring her faith in me, yet I continued to hurt her over and over again. My hands work quickly, tearing the pathetic confession into pieces. Falling, they swirl around before settling into a scattered pattern on the cold concrete.

See—I destroy everything!
I know how much that damn thing meant to her, and I turned it into a pile of shit.

“No! No, no, no!” I scurry to the ground and frantically try to gather the pieces and restore the page. But there are too many little bits—none of them line up, and I keep dropping them back onto the floor and watching them float here and there. This must be how she felt trying to put me back together. I stand and kick my boot at the pile of scraps I've gathered before quickly bending down and picking them up again and putting them in a pile on the desk. Covering them with a book so they can't blow away, I see I've grabbed
Pride and Prejudice
, of fucking course.

I lie back on the bed and wait for the sound of the door clicking open, signaling her return.

I must wait there for hours and hours, but the click never comes.

I
lie to Steph. I don't want to tell anyone about my relationship problems, especially right now, when I haven't had a chance to process what just happened. And that's exactly why I called Steph: Landon is too close to the situation, and I don't want to trouble him again. I have no other options, which is what happens when you have exactly one friend and they happen to be your boyfriend's stepbrother.

Well, ex-boyfriend, now . . .

So when Steph sounds concerned on the phone, I tell her, “No, no. I'm fine. I just . . . Hardin is . . . he's out of town with his father, and he locked me out, so I need somewhere to stay until he comes home Monday.”

“Sounds like Hardin,” she says, and I feel relieved that my lie has worked. “Okay, come on over. Same room as before—it'll be just like old times!” she goes on cheerily, and I try to muster a little laugh.

Great. Old times.

“I'm supposed to be going to the mall with Tristan later, but you can hang out here if you want, or come along. It's up to you.”

“I have a lot to do to get ready for Seattle, so I'll just hang around the room, if that's all right.”

“Sure, sure.” Then she adds, “I hope you're ready for your party tomorrow night!”

“Party?” I question.

Oh yeah
 . . . the party. I've been so preoccupied with
everything that I forgot about the party Steph planned for my going away. As with Hardin's “birthday party,” I'm pretty sure his crew would be hanging out and drinking regardless of whether I showed up or not, but she seems like she really wants me to go, and since I'm asking her this big favor, I want to be nice.

“One last time, come on! I know Hardin probably said no, but—”

“Hardin doesn't decide what I do,” I remind her, and she laughs.

“I know! I'm just saying, we won't ever see each other again. I'm moving and so are you,” she whines.

“Okay, let me think about it. I'm on my way over now,” I say. But instead of heading straight to her dorm, I drive around a bit. I have to make sure I'll be able to hold myself together in front of her; no crying at all.
No crying. No crying.
I bite down on my cheek again to stop myself from giving in to the tears.

Luckily I'm used to the pain by now. I'm practically numb to it.

By the time I get to Steph's room, she's in the process of getting dressed. She's pulling a red dress down over some black fishnet stockings when she opens the door with a smile.

“I've missed you!” she squeals and pulls me in for a hug.

I nearly lose it, but I hold firm. “I missed you, too, even though it hasn't been that long.” I smile and she nods. It feels like ages ago that Hardin and I met her at the tattoo shop, not a mere week.

“Guess so. It seems like it, though.” She grabs a pair of knee-high boots from her closet and sits down on the bed. “I shouldn't be gone too long. Make yourself at home . . . but don't clean anything!” she says, noticing the way my eyes are scanning the messy room.

“I wasn't going to!” I lie.

“You so were! And you probably still will.” She laughs, and I try
to force myself to do the same. It doesn't work, and I end up making a noise between a snort and a cough, though fortunately she doesn't call me out on it.