“You did it, not me.”
“Stop being so cold to me. You’ve done a lot of things to me, too,” I snap.
Anger returns to his face, and he storms away from me, yelling over his shoulder, “You know what? I’ve done a lot of things, but you kissed someone right in front of me!”
“Oh, you mean like the night you had Molly on your lap and kissed her in front of me?”
He spins around quickly. “We weren’t together then.”
“Maybe not to you, but I thought we were.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter, Tessa.”
“So you’re saying that you aren’t going to let this go, then?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying, but you are getting on my nerves.”
“I think you should go to bed,” I suggest. Despite the glimpses of understanding that have appeared in the last few minutes, it’s clear that he has his mind set on being cruel.
“I think you shouldn’t tell me what to do.”
“I know you’re angry and hurt, but you can’t talk to me that way. It’s not right and I won’t put up with it. Drunk or not.”
“I am not hurt.” He glares at me. Hardin and his pride.
“You just said you were.”
“No, I didn’t, don’t tell me what I said.”
“Okay, okay.” I throw my hands up, giving in. I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to pull the pin on the grenade that is Hardin. He walks over to the key rack and takes his key chain off while he stumbles to grab his boots. “What are you doing?” I rush over to him.
“Leaving, what does it look like?”
“You aren’t leaving. You have been drinking. A lot.” I reach for his keys, but he slips them into his pocket.
“I don’t give a shit, I need more to drink.”
“No! You don’t. You had enough—and you broke the bottle.” I try to reach for his pocket, but he grabs ahold of my wrist like he has done countless times.
This time is different because he’s so angry, and for a second I begin to worry. “Let go,” I challenge him.
“Don’t try to stop me from leaving and I’ll let go.” He doesn’t let up, and I try to appear unaffected.
“Hardin . . . you’re going to hurt me.”
His eyes meet mine, and he lets go quickly. When he raises a hand, I flinch and slink back away from him, but he’s only running it through his hair, I see.
His eyes flash with panic. “You thought I was going to hit you?” he nearly whispers, and I back away farther.
“I . . . I don’t know, you’re so angry, and you’re scaring me.” I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but this is the easiest way to get him back to reality.
“You should know I wouldn’t hurt you. No matter how drunk I am, I wouldn’t fucking touch you.” He glares at me.
“For someone who hates your father so much, you sure as hell don’t have a problem acting like him,” I spit.
“Fuck you—I’m nothing like him!” he shouts.
“Yes, you are! You’re drunk, you left me at that party, and you broke half our decorations in the living room—including my favorite lamp! You are acting like him . . . the old him.”
“Yeah, well, you’re acting like your mum. A spoiled snobby little—” he sneers and I gasp.
“Who are you?” I ask and shake my head. I walk away, not wanting to hear any more from him, and I know if we continue to argue while he’s this drunk, it will not end well. He’s taken his disrespect to a whole new level.
“Tessa . . . I’m . . .” he begins.
“Don’t.” I turn and spit before continuing to the bedroom. I can take his rude comments, I can take him yelling at me—because, hell, I dish it out right back to him—but we both need distance before one of us says something even worse.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says and follows me.
I close the bedroom door and lock it behind me. I slide my back down its smooth surface until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. Maybe we can’t make this work. Maybe he’s too angry and I’m too irrational. I push him too far and he does the same to me.
No, that isn’t true. We are good for each other because we push each other. Despite all the fights and tension between us, there’s passion. So much passion that it nearly drowns me, pulling me under. And he’s the only light, the only one to save me regardless of whether he’s the one dooming me.
Hardin taps the wood softly. “Tess, open the door.”
“Just go to sleep, please,” I cry.
“Dammit, Tessa! Open this door now. I’m sorry, okay?” he shouts and begins to pound at the door.
Praying that he won’t bust through the door, I force myself up off the floor and pad over to the dresser to dig through my bottom drawer. When I see the white of the paper, relief washes over me, and I go into the closet and close myself in there. As I begin reading Hardin’s note to me, the pounding at the door is drowned out to the point of no longer existing. The ache in my chest dissolves along with my headache. Nothing exists except this letter, these perfect words from my imperfect Hardin.
I read it over and over until my tears stop along with the noise from the hall. I desperately hope that he didn’t leave, but I’m not going out there to find out. My heart and my eyes are too heavy. I need to lie down.
Taking the letter with me, I drag my body to the bed, still wearing my dress. Eventually sleep comes to me, and I am free to dream of the Hardin that scribbled these words on a sheet of paper in a hotel room.