by Anna Todd
“I do.” I nod at him. “But why do you have to tell Landon?”
Hardin runs his hand over his hair, and his eyes concentrate on reading my expression. I get the feeling that I’m missing something here.
“Answer me,” I say, using his own words back at him.
“He’s babysitting your dad.”
“Why?” Why would my father need a babysitter?
“Your dad’s trying to get sober, that’s why. And I’m not stupid enough to leave him at that apartment by himself.”
“You have liquor there, don’t you?”
“No, I tossed it. Just drop this, okay?” His tone is no longer gentle; it’s urgent, and he’s clearly on edge.
“I’m not going to just drop it. Is there something that I should know? Because I feel like I’m being left out of the loop here, again.” I cross my arms over my chest and he takes a deep, dramatic breath, his eyes closing with the gesture.
“Yes, there is something that you don’t know about, but I’m begging you to just trust me, okay?”
“How bad?” I ask; the possibilities terrify me.
“Just trust me, okay?”
“Trust you to do what?”
“Trust that I will take care of all of this shit so that by the time I tell you what happened, it won’t matter anymore. You have enough shit going on right now; please, just trust me on this. Let me do this for you, and let it go,” he urges.
The initial paranoia and panic that always come with these types of situations flutter through me, and I’m moments away from snatching Hardin’s phone from him and calling Landon myself. The look on Hardin’s face, though, stops me. He’s pleading for me to trust him on this, trust that he’ll be able to fix whatever it is that’s going on; and to tell the truth, as much as I want to know, I don’t think I can handle another problem on my already full plate.
“Okay.” I sigh.
His brows furrow, and he cocks his head to the side. “Really?” He’s astounded by how easy it was to persuade me to back off, I’m sure.
“Yes. I’ll do my best not to worry about the situation with my dad as long as you can promise me that it’s better for me not to know.”
He nods. “I promise.”
I believe him, mostly.
“Fine.” I finalize the agreement with the word and try my best to push my obsessive need to know what’s happening to the back of my mind. I need to trust Hardin with this. I need to trust him of my own resolve. If I can’t trust him with this, how can I entertain a future for us at all?
I sigh, and Hardin smiles at my acquiescence.
chapter
one hundred and two
TESSA
Looks like I’ll be filling out these thank-you cards to the guests who made last night’s club opening such a big success,” Kimberly says with a wry grin and a wave of an envelope when I enter the kitchen. “What are the two of you planning for today?”
A look at the stack of cards she’s already addressed, and the pile she’s still working on, makes me wonder just how many businesses Christian has invested in, if all those people she’s writing to were “partners” of some sort. The size of this house alone has to mean he has more enterprises going on than just Vance Publishing and a single jazz club.
“I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out when Hardin gets out of the shower,” I tell her, and slide a fresh stack of small envelopes across the granite countertop.
I had to force Hardin into the bathroom to take a shower alone; he was still irritated with me for locking him out of the bathroom while I took mine. No matter how many times I tried to explain to him how awkward I’d feel if the Vances knew we were showering together in their home, he’d give me a weird little look and argue that we’d done much worse in their house than shower together over the past twelve hours.
I stood my ground despite his pleading. The events in the gym were motivated by pure lust and were entirely unplanned. The love we made in my bedroom isn’t an issue, because it’s my bedroom for now, and I’m an adult having consensual sex with my . . . whatever it is that Hardin is to me right now. The shower thing, however, makes me feel differently.
Being the stubborn man he is, Hardin still didn’t agree, which led to me asking him to get me a glass of water from the kitchen. I pouted, and he fell for it. The moment he left the room, I jetted down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind me and ignoring his annoyed demands for me to let him in.
“You should make him take you sightseeing,” Kimberly tells me. “Maybe throwing yourselves into the culture of the city will help him with his decision to move here with you.”
This kind of weighty conversation is not something that I want to deal with right now. “So . . . Sasha seemed nice,” I say, to not-so-covertly move the conversation away from my relationship issues.
Kimberly snorts. “Sasha? Nice? Not so much.”
“She knows that Max is married, doesn’t she?”
“Of course she does.” She licks her lips. “But does she care? No, not at all. She likes his money and the expensive jewelry that comes along with seeing him. She could care less about his wife and daughter.” The disapproval in Kim’s voice is heavy, and I’m relieved to find that we’re in agreement on this subject.
“Max is a jerk, but I’m still surprised that he’d have the nerve to bring her around other people. I mean, doesn’t he care if Denise or Lillian find out about her?”
“I suspect that Denise already knows. With a guy like Max, there have been plenty of other Sashas over the years, and poor Lillian already despises her father, so it wouldn’t make any difference if she knew.”
“That’s so sad; they’ve been married since college, right?” I don’t know how much Kimberly knows about Max and his family, but given her gossiping ways, I’m sure it’s not nothing.
“They married right out of college—it was quite the scandal.” Kimberly’s eyes light up with the thrill of spilling such a juicy story to my unknowing ears. “Apparently, Max was set to marry someone else, some woman whose family was close with his. It was basically a business deal. Max’s father came from old money; I think that’s at least part of why Max is such an asshole. Denise was heartbroken when he told her of his plan to marry another woman.” Kimberly speaks as if she was actually present at the time all this was happening, instead of just passing along gossip. Maybe, though, that’s what gossips always feel like?
She takes a sip of water before continuing. “Anyway, after graduation, Max rebelled against his father and literally left the woman waiting at the altar. On the very day of the wedding, he showed up at Trish and Ken’s place in his tuxedo and waited outside the door until Denise came out. That same night, the five of them bribed a pastor, using a fancy bottle of scotch and the little bit of cash in their pockets. Denise and Max were married just before midnight, and she was pregnant with Lillian a few weeks later.”
My brain has a hard time picturing Max as a lovesick young man, rushing through the streets of London in a tuxedo, tracking down the woman he loved. The same woman that he now repeatedly betrays by hopping into bed with the likes of Sasha.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but was Christian’s . . .” I’m unsure what to call her. “I mean, Smith’s mother, was she . . .”
With an understanding smile, Kimberly ends my awkward fumbling. “Rose came along many years later. Christian was always the fifth wheel with the two couples. Once he and Ken stopped speaking and Christian came to America . . . that’s when Christian met Rose.”
“How long were they married?” I search Kimberly’s face for signs of discomfort. I don’t want to intrude, but I can’t help being fascinated by the history of this group of friends. I hope that Kimberly knows me well enough by now not to be surprised by how many questions I’m prone to ask.
“Only two years. They’d only been dating a few months before she got sick.” Her voice cracks, and she swallows, tears brimming in her eyes. “He married her anyway . . . She was
taken down the aisle . . . in a wheelchair . . . by her father, who insisted on doing it. Halfway to the altar, Christian stepped down and pushed her the rest of the way.” Kimberly breaks into sobs, and I brush away the tears that are falling from my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a wan smile. “I haven’t told this story in a long time, and it just makes me so emotional.” She reaches across the countertop to pull a wad of tissues from a box and passes one to me. “Just thinking about it always shows me that behind his smart mouth and brilliant mind, there is an incredible loving man.”
She looks at me, then down at the stacks of envelopes. “Shit, I got tears on the cards!” she exclaims, recovering quickly.
I want to ask her more questions about Rose and Smith, Ken and Trish in their college days, but I don’t want to push her.
“He loved Rose, and she healed him, even in her dying days. He only loved one woman his entire life, and she finally broke him of that.”
The story, as lovely as it is, only confuses me further. Who was this woman that Christian loved, and why did he need healing after this?
Kimberly blows her nose and looks up. I turn to the doorway, where Hardin awkwardly glances back and forth between Kimberly and me, taking in the scene unfolding in the kitchen.
“Well, I obviously showed up at the wrong time,” he says.
I can’t help but smile at how we must look, crying for no apparent reason, two massive stacks of cards and envelopes sitting in front of us on the countertop.
Hardin’s hair is wet from his shower, and his face is freshly shaven. He looks incredible in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing nothing on his feet except socks, and his expression is wary as he silently beckons me to him.
“Should I expect you two for dinner tonight?” Kimberly asks as I cross the room to stand at Hardin’s side.
“Yes,” I respond at the same time that Hardin says “No.”
Kim laughs and shakes her head. “Well, text me when you two come to an agreement.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, as Hardin and I reach the front door, Christian suddenly pops out from a side room, sporting a huge grin. “It’s freezing outside. Where’s your coat, boy?”
“First off, I don’t need a coat. Second, don’t call me boy.” Hardin rolls his eyes.
Christian pulls a heavy navy-blue pea coat from the rack next to the door. “Here, wear this. It’s like a damn heater in and of itself.”
“Hell no,” Hardin scoffs, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t be an idiot; it’s twenty degrees outside. Your lady may need you to keep her warm,” Christian teases, and Hardin’s eyes assess my thick purple sweater, purple coat, and purple beanie, which he hasn’t stopped teasing me about since I pushed it onto my head. I wore this same outfit the night that he took me ice skating, and he teased me then, too. Some things never change.
“Fine,” Hardin grumbles and pushes his long arms into the coat. I’m not surprised to find that he pulls off the look; even the large bronze buttons that line the front of the jacket somehow assume a masculine edge when mixed with Hardin’s simple style. His new jeans, which I have grown really fond of, and his plain black T-shirt, black boots, and now this coat, make him look like he was plucked straight from the pages of a magazine. It’s simply not fair the way he looks so effortlessly perfect.
“Stare much?”
I jump slightly at Hardin’s words. In turn, I’m granted a smirk and a warm hand wrapped around mine.
Just then, Kimberly rushes through the living room and into the foyer, followed by Smith, calling, “Wait! Smith wants to ask you something.” She looks down at her soon-to-be stepson with a loving smile. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
The blond boy looks directly at Hardin. “Can you take a picture for my school thing?”
“What?” Hardin’s face slightly pales, and he looks at me. I know how he feels about being photographed.
“It’s sort of a collage he’s doing. He said he wants your picture, too,” Kimberly tells Hardin, and I look over to him, pleading with him not to deny the boy who clearly idolizes him.
“Um, sure?” Hardin shifts on his heels and looks at Smith. “Can Tessa be in the picture, too?”
Smith shrugs. “I guess so.”
I smile at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Hardin shoots me a he-likes-me-more-than-you-and-I don’t-even-have-to-try look, and I discreetly elbow him as we walk into the living room. I pull the beanie from my head and use the band on my wrist to pull my hair back for the picture. Hardin’s beauty is so unforced and natural; all he has to do is stand there with his uncomfortable frown on his face, and he looks perfect.
“I’ll take it quickly,” Kimberly says.
Hardin moves closer to me and lazily hooks his arm around my waist. I give my best smile while he attempts to smile without showing his teeth. I nudge him, and his smile brightens just in time for Kimberly to take the shot.
“Thank you.” I can see that she’s genuinely pleased.
“Let’s go,” Hardin says, and I nod, giving Smith a small wave before following Hardin through the foyer to the front door.
“That was so nice of you,” I tell him.
“Whatever.” He smiles and covers my mouth with his. I hear the small click of a camera and pull away from him to find Kimberly with the camera again held to her face. Hardin turns his head to hide in my hair, and she takes another shot.
“Enough, shit.” He groans and drags me out the door. “What is with this family and their videos and pictures,” he rambles on, and I close the heavy door behind me.
“Videos?” I ask.
“Never mind.”
The cold air whips around us, and I quickly put my hair down and pull my hat back over my head.
“We’ll take your car and get an oil change first,” Hardin says over the howling wind. I dig into the front pockets of my coat to retrieve my keys to give to him, but he shakes his head and dangles his key chain in front of my face. It’s now furnished with one key bearing a familiar green band.
“You didn’t take your key back when you left all your gifts,” he says.
“Oh . . .” My mind fills with the memory of leaving my most precious possessions in a pile on the bed we once shared. “I’d like those things back soon, if that’s okay.”
Hardin climbs into the car without another glance my way, mumbling over his shoulder, “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Once we’re inside the car, Hardin turns the heat all the way up and reaches across to grab my hand. He rests both of our hands on my thigh, and his fingers trace a thoughtful pattern over my wrist, where the bracelet would normally rest.
“I hate that you left it there . . . It should be here.” He presses against the base of my wrist.
“I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. I miss that bracelet every day; my e-reader, too. I want the letter he wrote me back as well. I want to be able to read it over and over.
“Maybe you can bring them when you come back next weekend?” I ask, hopeful.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, but his eyes stay focused on the road.
“Why are we getting an oil change, anyway?” I ask him. We finally make it out of the long driveway and turn onto the residential road.
“You need one.” He gestures toward the small sticker on the windshield.
“Okay . . .”
“What?” He glowers at me.
“Nothing. It’s just an odd thing to do, to take someone’s car to get an oil change.”
“I’ve been the only one taking your car for an oil change for months; why would it surprise you now?”
He’s right; he’s always the one to take my care for any type of maintenance it may need, and sometimes I suspect he’s being paranoid and has things fixed or replaced that don’t need to be.
“I don’t know. I guess I forget that we were a normal couple sometimes,” I admit, fidgeting in my seat.
“Explain.”
“It’s hard to remember
the small, normal things like oil changes or the time you let me braid your hair.” I smile at the memory. “When we always seem to be going through some sort of crisis.”
“First of all . . .”—he smirks—“don’t ever mention that hair-braiding fiasco again. You know damned well that the only reason I let that happen was because you bribed me with head and cookies.” He gently squeezes my thigh, and a rush of heat flares under my skin. “Second, I guess you’re right in a way. It would be nice if your memories of me weren’t tainted by my constant habit of fucking everything up.”
“It’s not only you; we both made mistakes,” I correct him. Hardin’s mistakes usually caused much more damage than mine, but I’m not innocent either. We need to stop blaming ourselves or each other and try to reach some sort of middle ground—together. That can’t happen if Hardin continues to beat himself up over every mistake he’s made in the past. He has to find a way to forgive himself . . . so he can move on and be the person I know he really wants to be.
“You didn’t,” he retorts, fighting back.
“Instead of the two of us going back and forth over who made mistakes and who didn’t, let’s decide what we’re going to do with our day after the oil change.”
“You’ll get an iPhone,” he says.
“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want an iPhone . . . ?” I grumble. My phone is slow, yes, but iPhones are expensive and complicated—two things I can’t afford to add to my life right now.
“Everyone wants an iPhone. You’re just one of those people who don’t want to give in to the trend.” He looks over at me, and I see his dimples pucker evilly. “That’s why you were still wearing floor-length skirts in college.” Finding himself absolutely hilarious, he fills the car with his laughter.
I playfully scowl at his overused dig. “I can’t afford one right now anyway. I have to save my money for an apartment and groceries. You know, the necessities.” I roll my eyes, but smile back at him to soften the blow.
“Imagine the things we could do if you had an iPhone, too. There’d be even more ways for us to communicate, and you know I’d get it for you, so don’t mention the money again.”
