After We Fell (37 page)

“I think you should talk to someone,” he suggests.

But his answer feels insufficient, and the anger flares back.
No shit I should talk to someone—you don't fucking say?
I wave my hand into the open space between us. “What are we doing right now? We're talking.”

“I'm referring to a professional,” he replies calmly. “You're holding on to a lot of anger from your childhood, and unless you find some way to let it go, or at least deal with it in a healthy way, I'm afraid you won't make any progress at all. I can't be the one to give you these tools; I caused you all this pain to begin with, and in your angrier moments you'd doubt what I had to say, even if it was helpful.”

“So coming here was a waste of my time, then? There's nothing you can do?” I knew I should've hit the bar. I could be on my second whiskey and Coke by now.

“It wasn't a
waste of time. It was a really big step in your efforts to become a better person.” He makes eye contact with me again, and I can literally taste the whiskey that I should be drinking right now instead of having this conversation. “She'll be so proud of you,” he adds.

Proud?
Why the hell would anyone be proud of me? Shocked that I'm here maybe, but proud . . . no.

“She called me a drunk,” I confess without thinking.

“Is she right?” he asks, concern clear on his face.

“I don't know. I don't think I am, but I don't know.”

“If you don't know if you're a drunk, you may want to find out the answer before it becomes too late.”

I study my father's face and can see real fear for me behind his eyes. He has the fear maybe I should have. “Why did you start drinking in the first place?” I probe. I've always wanted to know the answer to that question, but I've never really felt like I could ask.

He sighs, and his hand moves up to smooth his short hair. “Well, your mum and I weren't at the best place at the time, and the downward spiral started when I left one night and got drunk. By ‘drunk,' I mean I couldn't even walk home, but I found that I liked the way I felt, immobile or not. It numbed me to all the pain I was feeling, and it became a habit after that. I spent more time at that damned bar across the street than I did with you and her. It got to the point where I couldn't function without the liquor, but I wasn't really functioning
with
it either. It was a losing battle.”

I don't remember anything before my father became a drunk; I had always assumed he was like that since before I was born. “What was so painful that you were trying to escape?”

“That's not important. What's important is that I finally woke up one day and got sober.”

“After you left us,” I remind him.

“Yes, son, after I left you both. You both were better off without me. I was in no position to be a father or a husband. Your mum did an excellent job raising you—I wish she hadn't had to do it alone, but it turned out better than with me around.”

Anger churns and heats inside me, and I press my fingers into the armrests of the chair. “But you can be a husband to Karen, and a father to Landon.”

There, I said it. I have so much fucking resentment toward this man who was a drunk asshole my entire life—who fucked up my life—but who manages to remarry and take on a new son and new life. Not to mention he's rich now, and we didn't have shit while I was growing up. Karen and Landon have everything that my mum and I should have had.

“I know it seems that way, Hardin, but it's not true. I met Karen two years after I stopped drinking. Landon was already sixteen, and I wasn't trying to be a father figure to him. He didn't grow up with a man in the house either, so he was quick to embrace me. It wasn't my intention to have a new family and ‘replace' you—I could never replace you. You never wanted anything to do with me—and I don't blame you for that—but, son, I spent most of my life living in the dark—a blinding, desolate darkness. And Karen was my light, the way Tessa is for you.”

My heart nearly stops at the mention of Tessa. I was so lost in reliving my shitty childhood that I was able to stop thinking about her for a moment.

“I couldn't help but be happy and grateful that Karen came into my life, Landon included,” Ken continues. “I'd give anything to have a relationship with you the way I do with him; maybe one day that could happen.”

I can see that my father is out of breath after his long confession, and I'm left speechless. I've never had this type of conversation with him, or with anyone in my life but Tessa. She always seems to be the exception.

I don't know what to say to him. I don't forgive him for fucking up my life and choosing liquor over my mum, but I meant what I said about trying to forgive him. If I don't, I'll never be able to be normal. Really, I'm not even sure I'll ever be able to be “normal” anyway, but I want to be able to go a week without breaking something, or someone.

The humiliation on Tessa's face when I told her to leave the apartment is clear in my mind. But instead of fighting it like I always do, I embrace it. I need to be reminded of what I did to her—no more hiding from the consequences of my actions.

“You haven't said anything,” my dad says, interrupting my thoughts. The image of Tessa's face begins to fade, and though I try to hang on to it, it slips away. The only comfort I have is in knowing that it'll be back to haunt me soon enough.

“I don't really know what the hell to say. This has been a lot for me; I don't know what to think,” I admit. The honesty in my words terrifies me, and I wait for him to make shit awkward.

But he doesn't. He just nods in agreement and stands to his feet. “Karen is making a late dinner, if you want to stay.”

“No, I'll pass,” I groan. I want to go home. The only problem with home is that Tessa isn't there. And that's my own damn fault.

I RAN INTO LANDON
in the hallway as I was leaving, but I ignored him and left before he could try to force his unsolicited advice on me. I should've asked him where Tessa was; I'm desperate to know. But I also know myself and that I'd show up wherever she is and try to convince her to leave with me. I need to be with her, wherever she is. Listening to my dad's explanation of why he was such a shitty father to me was a step in the right direction, but I'm not miraculously going to be able to stop being a controlling bastard all of a sudden. And if Tessa is somewhere that I don't want her to be—like with Zed, for example . . .

Is she with Zed? Holy shit, would she be with him?
I don't think so, but it's not like I've given her the option of having many friends. And if she isn't with Landon . . .

No, she's not with Zed. She's just not.

I continue to convince myself of this as I ride the elevator up to our apartment. Half of me hopes that whoever the asshole was that broke into our apartment is back now; I could really use an outlet for my mounting anger.

A chill runs down my back and over my entire body. What if Tessa had been home alone when the intruder broke in? The image of her flushed, tearstained face from my nightmares flashes in front of me, and my body goes rigid. If anyone ever tried to hurt her, it would be the last thing they ever fucking did.

I'm such a fucking hypocrite! Here I am, threatening to kill someone for hurting her when that's all I seem capable of doing.

After grabbing some water and looking around the empty apartment for a few minutes, I start to get antsy. To keep myself busy, I sort through Tessa's book collection. She left too many behind, and I know it killed her to do so. Just more evidence of how toxic I am.

A leather notebook hidden between two different editions of
Emma
catches my eye, and I run my fingers along the clasp. Pulling it out, I sift through the pages to find that Tessa's handwriting fills each page. Is this some sort of diary that I didn't know she was keeping?

Introduction to World Religion
is written neatly on the first page. I sit down on the bed with the book in my hands and begin to read.

L
ogan calls to me from the other side of the kitchen, but when it's clear I can't hear him, he walks over to me. “It was cool of you to come. I wasn't sure if you were going to!” he says with a big smile.

“I wouldn't miss my own going-away party,” I say, tilting the red cup in my shaky hands as a sort of toast.

“I've missed you around here; no one has choked Molly in a while.” He laughs and tips his head back, pouring clear liquor straight from the bottle down his throat. He swallows it down, blinks, then clears his throat, shaking his head in a way that makes me cringe at the thought of how bad that had to burn.

“You'll always be my hero for that,” he teases and offers the bottle to me.

I shake my head and hold up the half-empty cup in my hand. “I'm sure it won't be long until someone else comes along and does it again.” I take a moment to smile at the thought.

“Uh-oh! Speak of the devil,” Logan says, his eyes focused behind me.

I don't want to turn around. “Why?” I quietly groan, leaning one elbow on the counter. When Logan playfully offers me the bottle again, I accept it.

“Drink up.” He smiles and walks away, leaving me with the bottle.

Molly comes into my line of vision and lifts her red cup to me in greeting. “As sad as I am that you're moving away,” she says, her voice deceptively soft and sweet, “I'm glad I won't have to see you again.
I'll miss Hardin, though . . . the things that boy can do with his tongue . . .”

I roll my eyes at her while I try to think of a comeback but fail. Jealousy runs like ice through my veins, and I contemplate choking her again, right here, right now.

“Oh, go away,” I eventually say, and she laughs. It's a hideous noise, really.

“Oh, come on, Tessa. I was your first enemy at college—that counts for something, right?” She winks and bumps her hip into mine as she walks past me.

This party was a terrible idea; I knew better than to come to this place, especially without Hardin. Steph has disappeared, and while Logan was nice enough to keep me company for a minute, he's since found a more available girl to occupy himself with. When I first see the girl, she's in profile, and she looks preppy and wholesome, but when she turns and I glimpse her from the front, I'm shocked to see that the other half of her face is full of tattoos.
Ouch.
I begin to wonder if they're actually permanent as I pour a little more liquor into my cup. I plan to nurse this drink all night and sip it very slowly. Otherwise the facade that I've been struggling to hold up will crumble and fall, and I'll end up being that annoying drunk girl who cries every time someone looks at her.

I force myself to walk a slow lap around the house in search of Steph's crimson hair, but she's nowhere to be found. When I finally spot Nate's familiar face, I see he, too, is working on some girl, and I don't want to interrupt. I feel so out of place here. Not just because I don't exactly fit in with this crowd, but because I have this feeling that even though this party was labeled as our “going-away party,” I don't get the sense that anyone here actually cares if Hardin and I disappear. Perhaps they'd show more interest if Hardin had actually come along with me; he
is
their friend, after all.

After sitting alone at the kitchen counter for nearly an hour, I finally hear Steph's voice exclaim, “There you are!” By this point I've eaten an entire bowl of pretzels, and I'm up to two drinks. I've been debating whether to call a cab or not, but now that Steph has finally surfaced again, I'll try to hang in a little longer. Tristan, Molly, and Dan are behind her, and I do my best to keep a neutral expression.

I miss Hardin.

“I thought you left or something!” I call over the music, distracting myself from thoughts of how wrong it feels to be here without Hardin. For the past hour, I'd been battling myself to stay away from his old bedroom upstairs; I want to go in there so badly, to hide from the uncomfortable mass of people, to reminisce . . . I don't know. I keep finding my gaze gravitating toward the stairs, and it's killing me slowly.

“No way! I got you a drink.” Steph smiles and takes the cup that's already in my hand. She replaces it with an identical one filled with pink liquid. “Cherry vodka sour, duh!” she squeals at my confusion, and I force an awkward laugh out while I raise the cup to my lips.

“To your last party with us!” Steph cheers, and multiple strangers lift their cups in the air. Molly looks away as I tilt my head back and allow the sweet cherry flavoring to flood my mouth.

“Talk about good timing,” Molly says to Steph, and I turn around quickly. I can't decide if I want the person who's just arrived to be Hardin or not, but my dilemma is settled for me when Zed walks into the kitchen dressed in all black.

My mouth falls open slightly, and I turn back to Steph. “You said he wouldn't be here.” The last thing I need right now is another reminder of the mess I've made of my life. I said my goodbyes to Zed already, and I'm not prepared to reopen the wounds that came from being friends with him.

“Sorry,”
she says with a shrug. “He just showed up. I didn't know.” She leans into Tristan.

I give her a look emboldened by alcohol. “Are you sure this party is even for me?” I know I sound ungrateful, but the fact that Steph has invited Zed and Molly really bothers me. If Hardin had come, he'd have lost it for sure when Zed entered the kitchen.

“Of course it is! Look, I'm sorry he's here. I'll tell him to stay away from you,” she assures me and begins to walk toward Zed, but I grab her arm.

“No, don't. I don't want to be mean. It's fine.”