Chapter 11

“Hardin, no!” I yell and grab his arm. The brick falls to the ground and skids across the concrete.

“Fuck this.” He tries to reach for it, but I stand in front of him. “Fuck all of this! Fuck this street! Fuck this bar and that fucking house! Fuck everyone!”

He stumbles again and walks into the street. “If you won’t let me destroy that house . . .” His voice trails off, and I pull my shoes from my feet and follow him across the street and into the front yard of his childhood home.

Chapter six

TESSA

I trip over my bare feet while rushing behind Hardin into the front yard of the house where he spent his painful childhood. One of my knees lands on the grass, but I quickly steady myself and get back on my feet. The front screen door is pulled open, and I hear Hardin fumbling with the doorknob for a moment before he pounds his fist against the wood in frustration.

“Hardin, please. Let’s just go to the hotel,” I try to convince him as I approach.

Ignoring my presence completely, he bends down to grab something from beside the porch. I assume it’s a spare key but am quickly proven wrong when a fist-size rock is pushed through the glass pane on the center of the door. Hardin snakes his arm through, thankfully avoiding the sharp ridges of the broken glass, and unlocks the door.

I look around the quiet street, but nothing seems amiss. No one is outside to notice our disruption, and no lights have flickered on at the sound of the breaking glass. I pray that Trish and Mike aren’t staying next door at Mike’s house tonight, that they’ve gone off to some fancy hotel for the night, given that neither of them are well-off enough to go on an extravagant honeymoon.

“Hardin.” I’m walking on water here, trying my hardest to keep from sinking under. One slipup, and we both will drown.

“This fucking house has been nothing but a tormentor of mine,” he grumbles, stumbling over his boots. He catches himself on the arm of a small couch before he falls. I survey the living room, and I’m grateful that most of the furnishings have been packed into boxes or have already been removed from the house in preparation for the demolition following Trish’s move.

He narrows his eyes and focuses on the couch. “This couch here”—he presses his fingers against his forehead before finishing—“that’s where it happened, you know? That exact same fucking couch.”

I knew he wasn’t in his head, but his saying that confirms it. I remember him telling me months ago that he’d destroyed that couch—“the piece of shit was easy to shred,” he bragged.

I look at the couch before us, the newness of it evident by the stiff cushions and unmarked fabric. My stomach turns. Both over the memory and the thought of what this mood of Hardin’s is building up to.

His eyes close momentarily. “Maybe one of my fucking fathers could have thought to buy a new one.”

“I’m so sorry. I know this is so much for you right now.” I try to comfort him, but he continues to ignore me.

He opens his eyes and walks into the kitchen, and I follow a few feet behind. “Where is it . . .” he mumbles and drops to his knees to look inside the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “Gotcha.” He holds up a bottle of clear liquor. I don’t want to ask whose liquor it was—or is—and how it got there in the first place. Given the thin layer of dust that appears on Hardin’s black T-shirt when he rubs the bottle against the fabric, I’d say it’s been hiding in there for at least a few months.

I follow him as he returns to the living room, unsure of what he will do next.

“I know you’re upset and you are completely justified to be angry.” I stand in front of him in a desperate attempt to gain his attention. He refuses to even glance down at me. “But can we please go back to the hotel?” I reach for his hand, but he pulls away. “We can talk, and you can sober up, please. Or you can go to sleep, whatever you want, but please, we need to leave here.”

Hardin ducks around me and walks to the couch, pointing. “She was here . . .” He points to the couch with the bottle of liquor. My eyes prick with tears, but I swallow them down. “And no one came to fucking stop it. Neither of those fuckups.” He spits and twists the top off the full bottle. He presses the bottle to his lips and tips his head back, gulping the liquor down.

“Enough!” I shout, stepping closer to him. I’m fully prepared to yank that bottle right from his hands and shatter it against the kitchen tile. Anything so he doesn’t drink it. I don’t know how much more alcohol his body can stand before he passes out.

Hardin takes another swig before stopping. He uses the back of his hand to wipe the excess liquor from his mouth and chin. He grins and looks at me for the first time since we entered this house. “Why? You want some?”

“No—yes, actually, I do,” I lie.

“Too bad, Tessie. There isn’t enough to share,” he slurs, holding up the large bottle. I cringe at the use of my father’s nickname for me. It has to be over a liter of whatever liquor it is; the label is worn and half-torn. I wonder how long ago he hid it there—was it during those worst eleven days of my entire life? “I bet you’re loving this.”

I take a step back and try to think of a plan of action. I don’t have many options right now, and I’m becoming a little frightened. I know he would never physically hurt me, but I don’t know how he’ll treat himself—and I’m not emotionally prepared for another lashing from him. I’ve gotten too used to the somewhat controlled Hardin that I have been graced with lately: sarcastic and moody, but no longer hateful. The gleam in his bloodshot eyes is all too familiar to me, and I can see the malice brewing behind them.