by Anna Todd
When I near the place, it’s three in the damn morning, and Tessa, Vance, and Kimberly are all on my shit list. Maybe I should smash all three of their phones, since they obviously have forgotten how to answer the fucking things.
As I reach the gate, I begin to panic, even more than I already have been. What if they decided to close their security gate? What If they changed the code?
Do I even remember the fucking code? Of course not. Will they answer when I call to ask the code? Of course not.
What if they aren’t answering because something happened to Tessa and they took her to the hospital and she isn’t okay and they don’t have service and . . .
But then I see the gate is open, and I’m a little annoyed by that, too. Why wouldn’t Tessa turn on the security system when she’s here alone?
As I drive up the winding road, I see that hers is the only car parked in front of the massive house. Good to know that Vance is here when I need him . . . Some fucking friend he is. Father, not friend. Fuck—right now he’s neither, really.
When I step out of my car and approach the front door, my anger and anxiety grow. The way she was talking, the way she sounded . . . it was like she wasn’t in control of her own actions.
The door is unlocked—of course it is—and I make my way through the living room and down the hall. Hands shaking, I push the door to her bedroom open, and my chest tightens when I find her bed empty. It’s not only empty, it’s untouched—perfectly made, the corners folded in that way that’s impossible to re-create. I’ve tried it—it’s impossible to make a bed like Tessa can.
“Tessa!” I call as I walk into the bathroom across the hall. I keep my eyes closed as I turn the light on. Not hearing anything, I open my eyes.
Nothing.
My breath is released in a heavy pant, and I move to the next room. Where the fuck is she?
“Tess!” I yell again, louder this time.
After searching nearly the entire fucking mansion, I can barely breathe. Where is she? The only rooms left are Vance’s bedroom and a locked room upstairs. I’m not sure if I want to open that door . . .
I’ll check the patio and yard, and if she’s not there, I have no fucking clue what I will do.
“Theresa! Where the hell are you? This isn’t funny, I swear—” I stop yelling as I take in the curled-up ball on the patio lounge chair.
Approaching, I see that Tessa’s knees are tucked up to her stomach and her arms are wrapped around her chest, as if she fell asleep while trying to hold herself together.
All of my anger is dissolved when I kneel down beside her. I push her blond hair away from her face and will myself not to burst into fucking hysterics now that I know she’s okay. Fuck, I was so worried about her.
With my pulse racing, I lean into her and run my thumb along her bottom lip. I don’t know why I did that, actually; it just sort of happened, but I sure as hell don’t regret it when her eyes flutter open and she groans.
“Why are you outside?” I ask, my voice loud and strained.
She winces, clearly put off by the volume of my words.
Why aren’t you inside? I’ve been worried fucking sick for you, going over every possible scenario in my head for hours now, I want to say.
“Thank God you were asleep” comes out instead. “I’ve been calling you, I was worried about you.”
She sits up, holding her neck as if her head might fall off. “Hardin?”
“Yes, Hardin.”
She squints in the dark and rubs her neck. When she moves to stand, an empty bottle of wine falls to the concrete patio and cracks in half.
“Sorry,” she apologizes, bending down to try to pick up the broken glass.
I gently push her hand away and wrap my fingers around hers. “Don’t touch that. I’ll get it later. Let’s get inside.” I help her stand.
“How’d . . . you get . . . here?” Her speech is stunted, and I don’t even want to know how much wine she drank after the line went dead. I saw at least four empty bottles in the kitchen.
“I drove, how else?”
“All the way here? What time is it?”
My eyes follow down her body, her body that’s covered in only a T-shirt. My T-shirt.
She notices my stare and begins to tug at the ends of the shirt to cover her bare thighs. “I only w-wear it . . .” She trails off, stuttering. “I’m only wearing it now, just once,” she says, making little to no sense at all.
“It’s fine, I want you to wear it. Let’s get inside.”
“I like it out here,” she quietly says, staring off into the darkness.
“It’s too cold. We’re going inside.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. “Okay, okay, if you want to stay out here, that’s okay. But I’m staying with you,” I say, redirecting my demand.
She nods and leans against the railing; her knees are shaking and her face is colorless.
“What happened tonight?”
She stays silent, still staring.
After a moment she turns to me. “Don’t you ever feel like your life has turned into one big joke?”
“Daily.” I shrug, unsure where the hell this conversation is going, but hating the sadness behind her eyes. Even in the dark the sadness burns low, blue and deep, haunting those bright eyes that I love so much.
“Well, me, too.”
“No, you are the positive one here. The happy one. I’m the cynical asshole, not you.”
“It’s exhausting being happy, you know?”
“Not really.” I take a step closer to her. “I’m not really the poster child for sunshine and happiness, in case you haven’t noticed,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, and I’m granted a half-drunk, half-amused smile.
I wish she would just tell me what is going on with her lately. I don’t know how much I can do for her, but this is my fault—all of this is my fault. The unhappiness inside her is my burden to bear, not hers.
She lifts her arm to rest it on the wooden plank in front of her but misses and stumbles, nearly smacking face-first into the umbrella attached to a patio table.
I wrap my hand around her elbow to steady her, and she begins to lean into me. “Could we go inside now? You need to sleep off all the wine you’ve had.”
“I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“That’s probably because it’s more like you passed out than fell asleep.” I point to the broken wine bottle a few feet away.
“Don’t try and scold me,” she snaps, and backs away.
“I’m not.” My hands rise in innocence, and I want to scream because of the irony of this whole fucking situation. Tessa’s the drunk one, and I’m the sober voice of reason.
“I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I can’t think.” I watch as she lowers herself to the ground and brings her knees to her chest again. She raises her head to look up at me. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll be completely honest?”
“I’ll try.”
She seems to be okay with that, and I sit down on the edge of the chair closest to where she is on the ground. I’m slightly afraid of what she wants to talk about, but I need to know what’s going on with her, so I wait with my mouth shut for her to speak.
“Sometimes I feel like everyone else gets what I want,” she mumbles, embarrassed.
Tessa would feel guilty for saying the way she feels . . .
I can barely make out her words when she says, “It’s not that I’m not happy for them . . .” But I can all-too-clearly see the tears gathering in her eyes.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the hell she’s talking about, though Kimberly and Vance’s engagement pops into my mind. “Is this about Kimberly and Vance? Because if it is, you shouldn’t want what they have. He’s a liar and a cheater and . . .” I stop before finishing the sentence with something horrible.
“He loves her. So much, though,” Tessa murmurs. Her fingers trace patterns against the
concrete under her.
“I love you more,” I say without thinking.
My words have the opposite effect from what I hoped, and Tessa whimpers. Literally whimpers, and wraps her arms around her knees.
“It’s true. I do.”
“You only love me sometimes,” she says, as if that is the one thing she knows for sure in this world.
“Bullshit. You know that’s not true.”
“It feels that way,” she whispers, looking out toward the sea. I wish it were daylight so the view could possibly help soothe her, since I’m obviously not doing a good job at that.
“I know. I know it might feel that way.” I can admit that’s how she probably experiences it now.
“You’ll love someone all the time, later.”
What? “What are you talking about?”
“The next time, you’ll love her all the time.”
In this moment, I have a strange vision of me thinking back to this exact moment fifty years from now, reliving all over again the sharp pain that accompanies her words. The feeling is overwhelming, and it’s so obvious—it’s never been more obvious.
She has given up on me. On us.
“There isn’t a next time!” I can’t help the way my voice is rising, the way my blood is burning just beneath the surface, threatening to rip me open right here on this damn patio.
“There is. I’m your Trish.”
What is she going on about? I know she’s drunk, but what does my mum have to do with this?
“Your Trish. It’s me. You’ll have a Karen, too, and she can give you a baby.” Tessa wipes under her eyes, and I slide off the chair to kneel next to her on the ground.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re wrong.” My arms wrap around her shoulders just as she begins to sob.
I can’t make out her words but I hear “. . . baby . . . Karen . . . Trish . . . Ken.”
Damn Kimberly for keeping so much wine in the house.
“I don’t know what Karen or Trish or any other name you’ll throw out there has to do with us.”
She pushes against my shoulders, but I tighten my grip on her. She may not want me, but right now she needs me. “You’re Tessa, and I’m Hardin. End of—”
“Karen’s pregnant.” Tessa sobs into my chest. “She’s having a baby.”
“So?” I move my cast-covered hand up and down her back, unsure what to say or do with this version of Tessa.
“I went to the doctor,” she cries, and I freeze.
Holy fucking shit.
“And?” I try not to panic.
She doesn’t answer in an actual language. Her response comes out in some form of a drunken cry, and I take a moment to try to think clearly. She’s obviously not pregnant; if she were, she wouldn’t be drinking. I know Tessa, and I know she would never, ever, do something like that. She’s obsessed with the idea of being a mother one day; she wouldn’t endanger her unborn child.
She lets me hold her while she calms herself down.
“Would you want to?” Tessa asks, minutes later. Her body is still heaving in my arms, but the tears have stopped.
“What?”
“Have a baby?” She rubs at her eyes and I flinch.
“Uhm, no.” I shake my head. “I don’t want a baby with you.”
Her eyes close, and she whimpers again. I replay the words in my head and realize how they sounded. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want kids—you know that.”
She sniffles and nods, still quiet. “Your Karen can give you a baby,” she says, her eyes still closed, and leans her head against my chest.
I’m still as confused as ever. I draw a connection to Karen and my father, but I don’t want to entertain the idea that Tessa thinks she’s my beginning, not my ending.
I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her from the ground, saying, “All right, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
She doesn’t fight me this time. “It’s true. You said it once,” she mumbles and wraps her thighs around my waist, making it easier to carry her through the sliding door and down the hallway.
“Said what?”
“ ‘There can be no happy end to it,’ ” she quotes my previous words.
Fucking Hemingway and his shitty outlook on life. “That was a stupid thing for me to say. I didn’t mean it,” I promise her.
“ ‘I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?’ ” she quotes the bastard again. Leave it to Tessa to have perfect recall while she’s too drunk to even stand.
“Shh, we can quote Hemingway when you’re sober.”
“ ‘All things truly wicked start from innocence,’ ” she says against my neck, arms tightening across my back as I push her bedroom door open.
I used to love that line, as I never understood the meaning. I thought I did, but it’s not until now, when I’m living the fucking meaning, that I actually get it.
My mind growing heavy with guilt, I gently lay her on the bed and toss the pillows to the floor, leaving one for her head. “Scoot up,” I softly command.
She doesn’t have her eyes open and I can tell she’s close to sleep, finally. I leave the light off, hoping she will sleep the rest of the night.
“Stayinggg?” she says, drawing the word out.
“Do you want me to stay? I can sleep in another room,” I offer, even though I don’t want to. She’s so off, so detached from herself, that I’m almost afraid to leave her alone.
“Mhmm,” she mumbles, reaching for the blanket. She tugs at the corner and huffs in frustration when she can’t get the fabric loose enough to cover herself.
After I help cover her, I take my shoes off and climb into the bed with her. While I’m debating how much space to leave between our bodies, she wraps a bare thigh around my waist, pulling me closer.
I can breathe. Finally, I can fucking breathe.
“I was scared you weren’t going to be okay,” I admit into the silence of the dark room.
“Me, too,” she agrees in a broken voice.
I push my arm under her head, and she shifts her hips, turning into me and tightening her leg around my body.
I don’t know where to go from here; I don’t know what I did to her that made her this way.
Yes—yes, I do. I treated her like shit and took advantage of her kindness. I used up chance after chance, like the supply would never end. I took the trust she gave me and ripped it up like it meant nothing and threw it in her face every time I felt like I wasn’t good enough for her.
If I would have just accepted her love from the beginning, accepted her trust and cherished the life she tried to breathe into me, she wouldn’t be this way now. She wouldn’t be lying next to me drunk and upset, defeated and destroyed by me.
She fixed me; she glued the tiny fragments of my fucked-up soul into something impossible, something almost attractive even. She made me into something—she made me normal almost—but with each drop of glue she used on me, she lost that drop of herself, and me being the piece of shit I am, didn’t have anything to offer her.
Everything that I feared would happen has happened, and no matter how much I tried to prevent it, I see now that I made it worse. I changed her and ruined her, just the way I promised I would all those months ago.
It seems insane.
“I’m truly sorry that I ruined you,” I whisper into her hair as her breathing begins to show signs of sleep.
“Me, too,” she breathes, and regret fills in the little spaces between us as she drifts off.
chapter fifty-three
TESSA
Buzzing. All I can hear is constant buzzing, and my head feels as if it will explode at any moment. And it’s hot. Too hot. Hardin’s weight is heavy; his cast is pressing down on my stomach, and I have to pee.
Hardin.
I lift his arm and wiggle, literally, out from under his body. The first thing I do is grab his phone off the nightstand to stop the buzzing. Text messages and calls from
Christian fill the screen. I reply with a simple We are fine and turn his phone to silent before walking to the bathroom.
My heart is heavy in my chest, and the remnants of last night’s alcohol abuse are swimming through my veins. I shouldn’t have had that much wine; I should have stopped after the first bottle. Or second. Or third.
I don’t remember falling asleep, and I can’t remember how Hardin came to be here. A muddled memory of his voice through the phone surfaces, but it’s hard to make out, and I’m not fully convinced it actually happened. But he’s here now, asleep in my bed, so I suppose the details don’t really matter.
I lean my hip against the sink and turn on the cold water. I splash some across my face, like they do in the movies, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t wake me up or clear my thoughts; it only makes yesterday’s mascara bleed even farther down my face.
“Tessa?” Hardin’s voice calls.
I shut the faucet off and meet him in the hallway.
“Hey,” I say, avoiding his eyes.
“Why are you up? You just fell asleep two hours ago.”
“I couldn’t sleep, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, hating the awkward tension I feel in his presence.
“How are you feeling? You drank a lot last night.”
I follow him back into the bedroom and close the door behind me. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I climb back under the covers. I don’t feel like facing the day right now; that’s okay, though, since the sun hasn’t even decided to come out yet.
“I have a headache,” I admit.
“I’m sure—you were throwing up half the night, baby.”
I cringe while remembering Hardin holding my hair back, rubbing his hand across my shoulders to comfort me while I emptied my stomach into the toilet.
Dr. West’s voice delivering bad news, the worst news, pushes through my aching head. Did I drunkenly share the news with Hardin? Oh no. I hope not.
“What . . . what did I say last night?” I ask, treading lightly.
He exhales and runs his hand through his hair. “You were going on about Karen and my mum. I don’t even want to know what that meant.” He grimaces, and I assume it matches my own expression.
