After Ever Happy (The After Series)

by Anna Todd

  “I’m fine. If I find him and you’re with me, he will feel cornered, and it will make things worse,” I tell Kimberly for the second time.

  “Be careful, please. I don’t want to have to kill that kid, but, at this point, nothing is off the table.” She half smiles at me. “Wait, one more thing.” Kimberly raises a finger and rushes over to the coffee table in the center of the room. She digs through her purse and then waves me over to her.

  Kimberly, being Kimberly, brushes a shiny, colorless gloss across my lips and hands me a tube of mascara. She grins. “You want to look your best, right?”

  Despite the ache in my chest, I smile at her effort to help me look decent. Of course that is part of the equation to her.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, my cheeks are no longer red from crying. The puffiness around my eyes is less noticeable, thanks to concealer and a little shadow. My hair is brushed and somewhat controlled into large waves. Kimberly gave up after a few minutes, sighing, then saying that “beach waves” are in right now anyway. I don’t remember her changing me out of my T-shirt and into a tank top and cardigan, but she has transformed me from a zombie in a remarkably short time.

  “Promise me that you will call if you need me,” Kimberly insists. “Don’t think I won’t come looking for you.”

  I nod in agreement, knowing that she won’t hesitate. She hugs me twice more before giving me the keys to Christian’s rental, which Hardin left in the parking lot.

  When I get into the car, I plug my phone into the charger and roll the window all the way down. The car smells like Hardin, and the empty coffee cups from this morning are still in their holders, reminding me of the way he made love to me only hours ago. That was his goodbye to me—I realize now that part of me knew it then but just wasn’t ready to accept it. I didn’t want to admit the defeat that was skimming around the surface, waiting to encase me. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s almost five o’clock. I have less than two hours to find Hardin and convince him to come back home with me. The flight boards at eight thirty, but we have to arrive a bit before seven to go through security, just to be safe.

  Will I be flying home alone?

  I look at myself in the rearview mirror, facing that same girl who had to pull herself up off that bathroom floor. I acknowledge the sick feeling that tells me I’ll be on that airplane alone.

  I only know one place to look for him, and if he isn’t there, I have no idea what I will do. I start the car up, but pause with my hand on the gearshift. I can’t drive aimlessly around London with no money and nowhere to go.

  Desperate and worried, I try to call him again, and I nearly burst into happy tears when he picks up the phone.

  “Hellooo, who is this?” an unrecognizable male voice says. I pull the phone away to be sure I called the right number, but Hardin’s name is clear across the screen. “Hellooo,” the man says louder, drawing out the word again.

  “Uhm, hi. Is Hardin there?” My stomach twists; it knows that this guy is bad news although I don’t have a clue who he is.

  Laughter and multiple voices echo in the background; more than one of them are female voices. “Scott is . . . disposed at the moment,” the man tells me.

  Disposed?

  “It’s indisposed, you idiot,” a woman yells in the background, laughing.

  Oh God. “Where is he?” I can tell I’ve been put on speakerphone, the way the noise changes.

  “He’s busy,” another guy says. “Who’s this? You coming to the party? Is that why you called? I like your American accent, birdie, and if you’re a friend of Scott’s . . .”

  A party? At only five? I try to focus on that useless fact rather than the multiple female voices bursting through my phone and the fact that Hardin is “busy.”

  “Yeah,” my mouth answers before my brain agrees. “I need the address again.”

  My voice is shaky and unsure, but they don’t seem to notice.

  The man who answered the phone gives me an address, and I quickly type it into the navigation on my phone. It crashes twice, and I have to ask him to repeat himself, but he obliges and tells me to hurry, bragging proudly that there is more liquor there than I’ve ever seen in my life.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER I’m in the small lot adjoining a run-down brick building. The windows are large, and the three of them are covered in what looks like white tape or possibly garbage bags. The lot is full of cars; the BMW that I drove here sticks out like a sore thumb. The only car even close in resemblance is Hardin’s rental. It’s near the front, blocked in, meaning he’s been here longer than most of the others.

  When I reach the door of the building, I take a deep breath to gather my strength. The stranger on the phone said it was the second door on the third floor. The shady building doesn’t seem large enough to have three floors, but as I climb the stairs, I’m proven wrong. Loud voices and the thick smell of marijuana hit me before I even reach the top of the staircase on the second floor.

  Looking up, I have to wonder why Hardin would be here. Why would he come to this place to deal with his issues? As I reach the third floor, my heart is racing and my stomach is tied in knots as my mind flips through all of the possible things that could be happening behind the scarred and graffitied door number two.

  I shake my head, clearing all the doubts. Why am I so paranoid and nervous? This is Hardin I’m talking about, my Hardin. Even mad and withdrawn, beyond cruel words he would never do anything to purposely hurt me. He is going through a hard time with all of his family issues, and he just needs me to stomp in there and take him home with me. I’m psyching myself out and getting worked up for nothing.

  The door opens just before I reach up to knock, and a young guy wearing all black walks past me without stopping or closing the door behind him. Waves of smoke roll out into the hallway, and I have to fight the urge to cover my nose and mouth. I step across the threshold, coughing.

  And stop in my tracks at the sight in front of me.

  Shocked by the sight of a half-naked girl sitting on the floor, I look around the room and notice that nearly everyone is half-naked.

  “Lose the top,” a young guy with a beard says to a bleach-blond girl. She rolls her eyes but quickly disposes of her shirt, leaving her in only a bra and panties.

  Staring at the scene a little longer, I realize that they are playing some sort of card game that involves taking their clothes off. This realization is much better than the initial conclusion my mind went to, but only a little.

  I’m slightly relieved that Hardin isn’t in the group of increasingly naked cardplayers, and I scan the crowded living room but don’t see him.

  “You coming in, or what?” someone asks. I look around, searching for the source of the voice. “Close the door behind you and come in,” he says, stepping forward from behind someone at my left. “Have I met you before, Bambi?”

  He chuckles, and I shift uncomfortably as his bloodshot eyes rake over my body, staying too long on my chest to be considered anything but vulgar. I don’t like his chosen nickname for me, but I can’t seem to find a way to tell him my real name. Given the sound of his voice, I’m sure he’s the person that answered Hardin’s phone.

  I shake my head; all words have dissolved on my tongue.

  “Mark,” he introduces himself, reaching for my hand, but I flinch away. Mark . . . I instantly recognize the name from Hardin’s letter and other stories about him. He’s friendly enough, but I know how he really is. I know what he did to all those girls. “This is my flat. Who invited you?”

  At first I think he’s mad because of the question, but his face just reads bravado instead. His accent is thick, and he is attractive. Somewhat frightening, but attractive. His brown hair is sticking up at the front, and his facial hair is messy yet groomed, a “douche-bag, hipster look,” as Hardin calls it, but I find it decent. His arms are bare of any tattoos, but two piercings stick out below his bottom lip.

  “I’m . . . uhm . . .” I struggle to get a grip on my nerves.


  He laughs again and grabs hold of my hand. “Well, Bambi, let’s get you a drink to relax you.” He smiles. “You’re freaking me out.”

  As he leads me to the kitchen, I’m beginning to wonder if Hardin is even here. Maybe he dropped the car here and his phone before going someplace else. Maybe he’s in the car. Why didn’t I check it? I should probably go down and do that; he was so tired he just might be napping—

  Then my breath is knocked clear from my chest.

  If anyone were to ask me how I feel right now, I’m not sure what I would say. I don’t think I’d have an answer. There’s pain and heartache and panic and rejection, but at the same time I feel numb. I feel nothing and everything at once, and it’s the worst sensation I have ever felt.

  Leaning against the counter with a joint between his lips and a bottle of liquor in one hand is Hardin. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. What stole my breath is the woman sitting on the counter behind him, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, her body around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Scott! Give me the damn vodka. I need to make my new friend Bambi here a drink,” Mark yells.

  Hardin’s bloodshot eyes turn to Mark, and Hardin smiles nastily, a dark look that I have never before seen from him. As he turns from Mark to me, to find out who Bambi is, I’m close enough to see his dilated pupils blow out, instantly wiping away that foreign expression.

  “What . . . what are you . . .” He fumbles the words. His eyes follow down my arm and somehow grow even larger as he takes in the sight of Mark’s hand over mine. Pure rage fills Hardin’s face, and I pull my hand away.

  “You two know each other?” my party host asks.

  I don’t respond. Rather, my eyes narrow in on the woman whose legs are still wrapped around Hardin’s waist. He still hasn’t made any move to remove her from him. She’s wearing only panties and a T-shirt. A plain black T-shirt.

  Hardin is wearing his black sweatshirt, but I don’t see the familiar peek of a faded T-shirt collar underneath. This random girl is oblivious of the tension, focused only on the joint she just pulled from Hardin’s mouth. She even smiles at me, a clueless, obviously intoxicated smile.

  I have been rendered silent. Stunned to even imagine that I know this person now before me. I don’t think I could speak even if I wanted to. I know Hardin is in a dark place right now, but seeing him like this, high and drunk and with another woman, is too much for me. It’s too fucking much, and all I can think of doing is getting as far away as possible.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Mark laughs and pulls the bottle of liquor from Hardin’s hand.

  Hardin still hasn’t spoken either. He’s just staring at me like I’m a ghost, like I’m an already-forgotten memory that he never expected to have to revisit.

  I turn on my heel and push through anyone who gets in my path on my way out of hell. When I make it down one flight of stairs, I lean against the wall and slide down it, out of breath. My ears are ringing and the weight of the last five minutes is crashing down on me—I don’t know how I will make it out of this building.

  I listen in vain for the sound of boots slamming against the steel stairs, and each silent minute cuts deeper than the last. He didn’t even come after me. He let me see him that way and didn’t bother to chase after me with an explanation.

  I don’t have any more tears to give him, not today; but it turns out that crying without tears is much more painful than with, and impossible to control. After all this, all the fights, all the laughs, all the time spent together, this is how he chooses to end it? This is how he tosses me to the side? He has so little respect for me that he’s getting high and letting that other woman touch him and wear his clothing after doing God knows what with her?

  I can’t even allow myself to indulge that thought—it will cripple me. I know what I saw, but knowing and accepting are two different things.

  I am good at making excuses for his behavior. I have mastered that talent in the long months of our relationship, and I have been loyal to those excuses to a fault. But now there is no excuse. Even the pain he feels from the betrayal of his mother and Christian doesn’t give him a pass to hurt me this way. I have done nothing to him to warrant what he’s doing right now. My only mistake was trying to be there for him and putting up with his displaced anger for far too long.

  The humiliation and pain is transforming into anger the longer I sit in this empty staircase. It’s a heavy, thick, overbearing fucking anger—and I’m done making excuses for him. I’m done letting him do this shit and letting it go with just a simple apology and promise to change.

  No. Hell no.

  I’m not going out without a fight. I refuse to walk away and let him think it’s okay to treat people this way. He obviously has no regard for himself, or for me right now, and as the angry thoughts fill my head, I can’t stop my feet from pounding back up those shitty stairs and back into that hellhole of an apartment.

  Pushing open the door so that it slams into someone, I make my way back to the kitchen. My anger surges further when I find Hardin still in the same exact spot, the exact same whore still attached to his back.

  “No one, man. She’s just some random . . .” he’s saying to Mark.

  I can barely see straight I’m so angry. Before he can register me, I grab the bottle of vodka from Hardin’s hand and throw it against the wall. It shatters, and the room falls silent. I feel detached from my body; I’m watching an angry, outrageous version of myself losing her mind, and I can’t stop her.

  “What the fuck, Bambi?” Mark shouts.

  I turn to him. “My name is Tessa!” I yell.

  Hardin’s eyes close, and I watch, waiting for him to speak up, to say anything.

  “Well, Tessa. You didn’t have to break the vodka!” Mark sarcastically replies. He’s too high to even care about the mess I made; apparently his only issue is the liquor spilt.

  “I learned how to smash bottles against walls from the best.” I glare at Hardin.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend now,” the skank latched onto Hardin says.

  I look back and forth between Mark and the woman. There is an obvious resemblance . . . and I’ve read that letter too many damn times to not know who she is.

  “Leave it to Scott to bring a crazy-ass American chick into my flat, throwing bottles and shit,” Mark says, clearly amused.

  “Don’t,” Hardin says, stepping toward us.

  I give him my best poker face. My chest is rising and falling with deep, panicked breaths, but my face is a mask, a front devoid of any emotion. Just like his.

  “Who is this chick?” Mark asks Hardin as if I were not standing there.

  Hardin dismisses me again by saying, “I already told you,” not even having the balls to look at me while degrading me in front of a room full of people.

  But I’ve had enough. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I scream. “You think you can slum it here and smoke pot all day long to forget about your problems?”

  I know how crazy I’m acting, but, for once, I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of me. I don’t give him a chance to answer before I continue. “You are so selfish! You think pushing me away and closing yourself off is good for me? You know damn well how this goes by now! You can’t last without me—you’ll just be miserable, and so will I. You aren’t doing me any good by hurting me, yet I find you like this?”

  “You don’t know what you’re even talking about,” Hardin says, his voice low and intimidating.

  “I don’t?” I throw my hands up. “She’s wearing your fucking shirt!” I scream, and point at the fucking whore, who hops down from the counter, tugging at the hem of Hardin’s shirt to cover her thighs. She’s much smaller than me and the shirt looks gigantic on her. The image will be burned into my memory until my last day, I know it will. I can feel it burning into me now, my entire body is burning, on fire with rage, and in this moment of pure, raw, fucking anger . . . i
t all clicks.

  Everything makes sense to me now. My earlier thoughts regarding love and not giving up on the one you love couldn’t be further from the truth. I was wrong this entire time. When you love people, you don’t let them destroy you along with themselves, you don’t allow them to drag you through the mud. You try to help them, try to save them, but the moment that your love is one-sided or selfish, if you keep trying, you are a fool.

  If I loved him, I wouldn’t let him ruin me, too.

  I have tried and tried with Hardin. I have given him chance after chance after chance, and this time I thought everything would be fine. I actually thought this would work. I thought if I loved him enough, if I only tried harder, it could work and we could be happy.

  “Why are you even here?” he asks, interrupting my epiphany.

  “What? You thought I would let you get away with being a coward?” Behind the pain, the anger begins to sizzle. I’m terrified for its departure, but I almost welcome the resolve as it settles over me. For the last seven months, I have been weakened by Hardin’s words and this cycle of rejection, but now I see our volatile relationship for what it is.

  Inevitable.

  It’s always been inevitable, and I can’t believe that it took me all this time to see that, to accept it.

  “I’ll give you one last chance to leave with me now and go back home, but if I walk out of this door without you, that will be it.”

  His silence and the smug look in his impaired eyes pushes me further over the edge.

  “Thought so.” I’m not even yelling anymore. There is no point. He isn’t listening. He never has. “You know what? You can have all of this, you can drink and smoke your fucking life away”—I step closer, stopping only a few feet from him—“but this is all you will ever have. So I hope you enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “I will,” he responds, cutting through me. Again.

  “So, if she isn’t your girlfriend . . .” Mark says to Hardin, reminding me that we aren’t alone in the room.