After We Fell (49 page)

I look around my office, worried about upsetting him. “I was just excited about my office, and I wanted you to see it. I hope you didn't think I was trying to be mean about it and brag. I'm sorry for—”

“No, I was just confused,” he coolly interjects, then goes silent.

After a few seconds, I say, “I won't send any more, I shouldn't even have sent those.” I lean my forehead against the office window and stare down at the streets of the city.

“Don't worry, it's fine . . . how is it there? Do you like the place?” Hardin's voice is somber, and I want to smooth away the frown that I know is marring his face right now.

“It's lovely here.”

He calls me out, I knew he would: “You didn't answer the question.”

“I like it here,” I say softly.

“You sound absolutely ecstatic.”

“I really do like it, I'm just . . . adjusting. That's all. What's happening back there?” I ask in order to keep the conversation going. I'm not ready to get off the phone with him just yet.

“Nothing,” he quickly responds.

“Is this awkward for you? I know you said you didn't want to talk on the phone, but you called me, so I was just—”

“No, it's not awkward,” he interrupts. “It's never awkward with us, and I only meant I don't think we should talk for hours every day if we aren't going to be together, because that doesn't make any sense and it's only going to torture me.”

“So you do want to talk to me, then?” I ask because I'm pathetic and I need to hear him say the words.

“Yes, of course I do.”

A car horn honks in the background, and I think he must be driving. “So what, then? We're going to chat on the phone, like friends?” he asks, no anger in his voice at all, only curiosity.

“I don't know, maybe we could try that?” This separation feels so different from the last; this time we separated on good terms, and it wasn't a clean break. I'm not ready to decide if a clean break from Hardin is what I actually need, so I push the thought back, file it away, and promise to visit it later.

“It won't work.”

“I don't want us to ignore one another and not speak again, but I haven't changed my mind about the space thing,” I tell him.

“Fine, tell me about Seattle, then,” he finally says into the receiver.

A
fter I spend half an afternoon on the phone with Hardin and getting close to no actual work done, my first day at the new office is over, and I wait patiently for Trevor just outside my door.

Hardin was so calm earlier, and he sounded so clear, as if he was focused on something. Standing here in the corridor, I can't contain my happiness that we're still communicating; it's so much better now that we're no longer avoiding each other. Deep down, I know that it won't continue to be this easy, talking this way, teasing myself with small doses of Hardin when in reality I want him, all of him, all the time. I want him here with me, holding me, kissing me, making me laugh.

This must be what denial feels like.

I'm fine with that for now. It feels pretty good, compared to my other option: sadness.

I sigh and rest my head against the wall as I continue to wait. I'm beginning to wish that I hadn't asked Trevor if he was free after work. I'd rather be at Kimberly's house, talking on the phone to Hardin. I wish he had just come here; he could be the one meeting me instead. He could have an office close to mine; he could come by my office multiple times a day, and in between those times, I could make excuses to go to his. I'm sure Christian would give Hardin a job if he wanted one. He's made it clear that he wanted Hardin to work for him again a couple of times.

We could spend our lunch hour together, maybe
even re-create some of the memories we shared at the old office. I begin picturing Hardin behind me, me bent down over the top of my desk, my hair wrapped tightly around his fist—

“Sorry I'm a little late, my meeting ran over.” Trevor interrupts my reverie, and I jump in both surprise and embarrassment.

“Oh, um, it's okay. I was just”—I tuck my hair behind my ear and swallow—“waiting.”

If only he knew what I was thinking; thank goodness he doesn't have a clue. I'm not sure where those thoughts even came from.

He inclines his head the other way, peering down the empty hallway. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

We make small talk as we walk through the building. Nearly everyone has left for the day, leaving the office quiet. Trevor tells me about his brother's new job in Ohio and how he went shopping for a new suit to wear to our coworker Krystal's wedding next month. Idly, I wonder just how many suits Trevor owns.

Once we get to our cars, I follow Trevor's BMW as he drives through the crowded city, and we finally arrive in the small neighborhood of Ballard. According to the blogs I was reading before my move, it's one of the hippest neighborhoods in Seattle. Coffee shops, vegan restaurants, and hipster bars line the narrow streets. I pull my car into the parking garage beneath Trevor's building and laugh to myself while remembering that he offered to help me find an apartment in this pricey place.

Trevor smiles, gesturing to his suit. “I just need to change, obviously.”

Once we get to his apartment and he wanders off, I nosily glance around his expansive living room. Pictures of family and articles clipped from newspapers and magazines fill the frames on his mantel; an intricate display piece made from melted and molded wine bottles takes up the entire coffee table. Not a trace
of dust has been allowed to collect in any of the corners. I'm impressed.

“Ready!” Trevor announces, stepping out of his bedroom and zipping up a red sweatshirt. It always catches me off guard to see him dressed so casually—it's such a vast difference from how he looks normally.

After walking two blocks from his building, both of us are shivering and shaking.

“Are you hungry, Tessa? We can grab something to eat.” White puffs of cold air follow his words.

I nod eagerly. My stomach growls in hunger, reminding me of just how insufficient a package of peanut butter crackers is for lunch.

I tell Trevor to choose a restaurant he likes, and we end up at a small Italian grill only feet away from where we were just walking. The sweet smell of garlic fills my senses, and my mouth waters as we're escorted to a small booth in the back.

Y
ou look much more . . .
hygienic
now,” I tell Richard as he steps out of the bathroom wiping his freshly shaven face with a white towel.

“I haven't shaved my face in months,” he responds, rubbing the smooth skin on his chin.

“You don't say.” I roll my eyes, and he grants me half a smile.

“Thanks again for letting me stay here . . .” His deep voice trails off.

“It's not permanent, so don't thank me. I'm still not cool with this whole situation.” I take another bite of the pizza I ordered for myself . . . and ended up sharing with Richard. I need to find a way to take some of the pressure off of Tessa. She has too much going on lately, and if I can help her in any way by handling this mess with her father, I will.

“I know it. I'm surprised you haven't thrown me out yet,” he says with a laugh. As if that's something to make a joke about. I stare at him. His eyes look too large for his face, with dark rings showing through his white skin.

I sigh. “So am I,” I admit with annoyance.

Richard quivers while I stare at him—not from intimidation, but from a lack of whatever the hell drug it is that he's used to taking.

I want to know if he brought any drugs into our apartment while he was staying here just last week. However, if I ask him and he says yes, I'll lose my temper and he'll be out of my apartment
within seconds. For Tessa's sake, and for mine, I rise to my feet and leave the living room with my empty plate in hand. The stack of dirty dishes in the sink has managed to double in size, and loading the dishwasher is the last thing I want to do at the moment.

“Do the dishes as payment!” I call to Richard.

I hear his deep laughter from the hallway, and he walks into the kitchen just as I reach the bedroom door and close it.

I want to call Tessa again, just to hear her voice. I want to know about the rest of her day . . . What does she plan to do after work? Did she stare at her phone with a stupid-ass grin on her face after we hung up earlier, like I did?

Probably not.

I now know that all my past sins are finally catching up to me—that's why Tessa was given to me. A merciless punishment disguised as a beautiful reward. Having her for months just to have her taken from me, yet still dangling in front of my face by means of casual phone calls. I don't know how much longer it will be until I succumb to my fate and finally allow myself to break out of this denial.

Denial, that's exactly what this is.

It doesn't have to be, though. I can change the outcome of all this. I can be who she needs me to be without dragging her down to my hell again.

Fuck this, I'm calling her.

Her phone rings and rings, yet she doesn't pick up. It's almost six—she should be done with work and back at her place. Where the hell else would she go? While debating whether or not to call Christian, I push my feet into my gym shoes, lazily tie them, and shove my arms through my jacket.

I know she'll be upset—
beyond
mad, surely—if I call him, but I've already called her six times, and she hasn't answered once.
I groan and run my fingers over my unwashed hair. This giving-each-other-space shit is really fucking irritating me.

“I'm going out,” I tell my unwanted houseguest. He nods, unable to speak due to the handful of potato chips that he's shoveling into his mouth. At least the sink is free of dishes now.

Where the fuck am I even supposed to go?

Within minutes, my car is parked in the lot behind the small gym. I don't know what being here will accomplish or if this shit will help me, but right now I'm growing more and more irritated at Tessa, and all I can think about doing is cussing her out or driving to Seattle to find her. I don't need to do either of those things . . . they'd only make things worse.

B
y the time my plate is clear, I'm practically twitching in my seat. The moment we ordered our meals I realized that I left my phone in my car, and it's driving me more insane than it should. No one really calls me much. However, I can't help but think that maybe Hardin has, or at least sent me a text message. I'm trying my best to listen to Trevor while he talks about an article in the
Times
he read, trying not to think of Hardin and the possibility that he may have called, but I can't help it. I'm distracted during the entire dinner and am positive that Trevor notices; he's just too kind to call me out on it.

“Don't you agree?” Trevor's voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I scramble through the last few seconds of conversation, trying to remember what he could be talking about. The article was about health care . . . I think.

“Yeah, I do,” I lie. I have no clue if I agree or not, but I do wish the server would hurry and bring our check.

As if on cue, the young man places a small booklet on our table, and Trevor hastily pulls out his wallet.

“I can . . .” I begin.

But he slides several bills inside, and the server disappears back into the restaurant kitchen. “It's on me.”

I quietly thank him and glance at the large stone clock hanging just above the door. It's past seven; we've been in the restaurant for over an hour. I let out a breath of relief when Trevor says, “Well,” claps his hands, and stands.

On the way back to his place, we pass a small coffee shop, and Trevor raises his brow, a silent invitation.

“Maybe another night this week?” I offer with a smile.

“Sounds like a plan.” The corner of his mouth rises into his famous half smile, and we continue the trek to his building.

With a quick goodbye and a friendly hug, I climb into my car and immediately reach for my phone. I'm frazzled with anxiety and desperation, but I shove those feelings back into the darkness. Nine missed calls, every single one from Hardin.

I call him back immediately, only to get his voicemail. The drive from Trevor's apartment to Kimberly's house is long and tedious. The traffic in Seattle is terrible, bumper-to-bumper and noisy. Honking horns, small cars whipping from lane to lane—it's pretty overwhelming, and by the time I pull into the driveway, I have a massive headache.

When I step through the front door, I see Kimberly seated on the white leather couch, a glass of wine in her hand. “How was your day?” she asks and leans over to place her drink onto the glass table in front of her.

“Good. But the traffic in this city is
unreal
,” I groan and plop down on the crimson chair next to the window. “My head is killing me.”

“Yeah, it is. Have some wine for your headache.” She stands up and walks across the living room.

Before I can protest, she pours the bubbling white wine into a long-stemmed glass and brings it to me. Taking a little sip, I find it's cool and crisp, sweet on my tongue.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile and take bigger sip.

“So . . . you were with Trevor, right?” Kimberly is so nosy . . . in the sweetest way.

“Yes, we had a friendly dinner. As friends,” I say innocently.

“Maybe you could try answering again and use the word
‘friend' a few more times,” she teases, and I can't help but laugh.

“I'm just trying to make it clear that we're only . . . uh . . . friends.”