Chapter 69

The idea of torturing him further isn’t appealing, but he does need to really think about everything he’s done. “I guess so . . .”

“I think he needs to know that there are consequences for bad choices.” She gets a twinkle in her eye. “How about I make us dinner, and then you can put Hardin out of his misery?”

I’m happy to have her humor and guidance to bring me out of my sad confusion over Hardin’s past. I’m willing to move beyond this, or at least try, but he needs to know this type of thing is not okay, and I need to know if there are any more demons from his past that are waiting to railroad me.

“What would you like?”

“Anything is fine. I can help,” I offer, but she shakes her head.

“You just relax, as much as you can. You’ve had a long day, what with everything from Hardin . . . and your mum.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah . . . she’s difficult.”

She smiles and opens the refrigerator. “?‘Difficult’? I was going to use another word, but she is your mother . . .”

“She’s sort of a B-word,” I say, not wanting to say the real word in front of Trish.

“Oh yeah, she’s a bitch. I’ll say it for you.” She laughs, and I join in.

TRISH COOKS CHICKEN TACOS for dinner, and we make small talk about Christmas, the weather, and everything else except what is actually on my mind: Hardin.

Eventually, I feel like it’s literally killing me not to call him and tell him to come home now.

“Do you think he’s ‘stirred’ long enough?” I say, not admitting that I’ve been counting the minutes.

“No, but it’s not my choice,” his mother says.

“I have to.”

I leave the kitchen to call Hardin. When he answers, the surprise in his voice is evident. “Tessa?”

“Hardin, we still have a lot to discuss, but I would like it if you could come home so we can talk.”

“Already? Yeah—yeah, of course!” He rushes the words. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Okay,” I say and hang up. I don’t have much time to go over everything in my head before he arrives. I need to stand my ground and make sure that he knows what he did is wrong but that I love him anyway.

I pace back and forth across the chilled concrete floor, waiting. After what seems like an hour, the front door opens, and I listen as his boots thud down the small hallway.

When he opens the bedroom door, my heart breaks for the thousandth time.

His eyes are swollen and bloodshot. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over and places a small object in my hand. Paper?

I look up at him as he closes my fist around the folded-up paper. “Read it before you make up your mind,” he says softly. Then, with a swift kiss to my temple, he goes into the living room.

Chapter forty-three

TESSA

As I unfold the paper, my eyes widen in surprise. The entirety of the sheet is covered with black scribbles, front and back. It’s a letter—a handwritten letter from Hardin.

I’m almost afraid to read it . . . but I know that I must.

Tess,

Since I’m not good with words when trying to relate my inner life, I may have stolen some from Mr. Darcy, whom you fancy so much. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten: and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice . . .

I know that I’ve done so many fucked-up things to you, and that I in no way deserve you, but I’m asking—no, begging—you to please look past the things that I have done. I know I ask too much of you, always, and I’m sorry for that. If I could take it all back, I would. I know you are angry and disappointed by my actions, and that kills me. Instead of making excuses for the way I am, I’m going to tell you about me, the me that you never knew. I’m starting with the shit I remember—I’m sure there is more, but I swear not to purposely hide anything else from you from this day forth. When I was around nine, I stole my neighbor’s bike and broke the wheel, then lied about it. That same year I threw a baseball through the living room window and lied about it. You know about my mother and the soldiers. My father left shortly after, and I was glad when he did.

I didn’t have many friends because I was an asshole. I picked on kids in my year, a lot. Every day, basically. I was a dick to my mum—that was the last year I told her I love her. The teasing and being a dick to everyone continued until now, so I can’t name all the instances, but just know it was a lot. Around thirteen, me and some friends broke into the drugstore down the road from my house and stole a bunch of random shit. I don’t know why we did it, but when one of my friends got caught, I threatened him to make him take the blame for it, and he did. I smoked my first cigarette when I was thirteen. It tasted like shit, and I coughed for ten minutes. I never smoked again until I started smoking pot, but I’ll get to that.

When I was fourteen I lost my virginity to my friend Mark’s older sister. She was a whore and seventeen at the time. It was an awkward experience, but I liked it. She slept with all of our friends, not just me. After I had sex the first time I didn’t do it again until I was fifteen, but after that I couldn’t stop. I would hook up with random girls at parties. I always lied about my age, and the girls were easy. None of them cared about me, and I didn’t give a fuck about them. I started smoking pot this same year and did it often. I started drinking around this time—me and my friends would steal liquor from their parents or from anywhere else we could. I started fighting a lot, too. I got my ass beat a few times, but most of the time I won. I was always so fucking angry—always—and it felt good to hurt someone else. I would pick fights with people all the time for fun. The worst one was with this boy named Tucker who came from a poor family. He wore the oldest, rattiest clothes, and I fucking tortured him for it. I would mark on his shirt with a pen just to prove how many times he wore it without washing it. Fucked up, I know.