. . . excited.
Not excited, exactly, but happy. I can’t remember the last time I received a birthday gift from anyone, even my mum. I made it a point at a young age to despise birthdays, and I was such an asshole over whatever ridiculous gift my mum would buy me that she just stopped buying them before I was sixteen.
My father would send some shitty card with a check inside every year, but I’d get a kick out of burning the damn thing. I even took a piss on the one that arrived on my seventeenth birthday. When I finally get the box open, there are multiple things inside.
First is a tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice, which, when I take it in my hands, prompts Tessa to walk over and grab it from me.
“This is stupid . . . just ignore this one,” she says, but obviously that’s the last thing I’m going to do.
“Why? Give it back to me,” I demand, holding my hand out.
When I stand to my feet, she seems to remember that she obviously isn’t going to win this battle, so she places the book back in my hands. As I skim through the pages, I notice bright yellow markings throughout the entire thing.
“You know how you told me about highlighting Tolstoy?” she asks, her cheeks as red as they’ve ever been.
“Yeah?”
“Well . . . I sort of did that, too,” she admits, and her eyes meet mine.
“Really?” I ask her and open to a page that’s nearly covered in markings.
“Yeah. Mostly this book, though; you don’t have to reread or anything. I just thought . . . I’m terrible at giving gifts, I really am.”
She’s not, though. I would love to see the words in her favorite novel that remind her of me. This is the best gift anyone could have possibly given me. These are the simple things, the things that give me hope that somehow we can make this work, the fact that both of us were doing the same thing, reading Jane Austen, when neither of us was aware of the other.
“You’re not,” I tell her and sit back on the bed.
I tuck the novel under my leg to keep her from trying to take it from me again. A low chuckle leaves my mouth when another item from the box is revealed.
“What’s this for?” I ask with a grin, holding up the leather binder.
“Your work, that thing you use, is tearing at the seams and it’s so unorganized. See, this one has tabs for each week—or subject, you can decide.” She smiles.
This gift is humorous because I always take note of the way she cringes when I shove papers into my old binder. I refuse to let her organize it for me despite her multiple attempts, and I know that drives her insane. I don’t want her to see what’s inside.
“Thanks.” I laugh.
“That one wasn’t really a birthday gift. I got it a while ago and I was going to just toss your old one, but I never found an opportunity,” she admits with a laugh.
“That’s because I kept it by my side. I knew what you were up to,” I tease. The small bag is left to open, and once again I’m laughing at her choice.
Kickboxing is the first word I catch on the small ticket.
“It’s a week’s worth of kickboxing at the gym by our . . . your apartment.” She smiles, clearly proud of her witty gift.
“And why do you think I’d be interested in kickboxing?”
“You know why.”
To let out some of my anger is the obvious reason she got this. “I’ve never done it before.”
“It could be fun,” she says.
“Not as fun as kicking the shit out of someone without padding,” I tell her, and she frowns.
“I’m teasing,” I say and grab the CD that’s still left in the bag. My inner asshole wants to tease her for buying a CD when I could easily download the album. I’ll enjoy hearing her hum along to it; I’m assuming it’s the second one by the Fray.
I’m sure she already knows each word to every song and she’ll be delighted to explain the meaning of them to me as we drive and listen.
Chapter one hundred and seventeen
TESSA
Stay with me tonight?” Hardin asked, his eyes scanning my face. I nod eagerly.
So now that he’s pulling his shirt over his head, I grab at it greedily and bring it to my chest. He watches me as I change, but stays silent. Our relationship is so confusing—it always is—but now especially. At the moment, I’m not sure who holds the upper hand. Earlier I was upset with him for standing me up on his birthday, but now I’m pretty convinced he had nothing to do with that, so I’m back where I was days ago when he so sweetly took me ice skating.
He was so upset with me over Zed, but now I can barely tell how he felt, given the smiles and sarcastic humor he keeps throwing at me. Maybe his anger is overpowered by the fact that he missed me and he’s happy that I’m no longer upset with him? I don’t know the reasoning, but I know better than to question it. I do wish he’d let me talk about Seattle. How will he react? I don’t even want to tell him, but I know that I have to. Will he be happy for me? I don’t think so; actually, I know he won’t be.
“Come here.” He coaxes me onto his chest as he lies back on the bed. His hand finds the remote to the television on the wall, and he flicks through channel after channel before pausing on some sort of historical documentary.
“How was it seeing your mom?” I ask him a few minutes later.
He doesn’t respond, and when I look up at his face, he’s fast asleep.
IT’S HOT. WAY TOO HOT, when I come back to consciousness. Hardin is lying on top of me, nearly all his weight pinning me down to the mattress. I’m on my back and Hardin’s on his front, his head on my chest; one of his arms is wrapped around my waist and the other stretched across the space next to him. I’ve missed sleeping this way and even waking up sweating from Hardin’s body blanketing mine. When I glance at the clock, I see that it’s seven twenty—my alarm is set to go off in ten minutes. I don’t want to wake Hardin, he looks so serene; a soft smile plays on his sleeping lips. He usually frowns, even in his sleep.