After We Fell - Chapter 233

“Not completely, but yes,” he answers as if he can read my mind.

I play the story line through my head, trying to see some connection to Hardin’s mother’s affair, but the only thing I can come up with has to do with Hardin himself and his beliefs about marriage. That causes me to shiver again.

“I didn’t plan to ever marry, and I still don’t, so no, it didn’t change anything,” he coldly responds.

I ignore the pain in my chest and focus on him. “Okay.” I run the cloth down one arm, then the other, and when I look up, his eyes are closed.

“Whose story do you suppose we’ll have?” he asks, taking the cloth from my hand.

“I don’t know,” I answer him honestly. I’d love nothing more than to know the answer to this question.

“Me neither.” He pours more body wash onto the cloth and runs it across my chest.

“Couldn’t we make our own story?” I look up into his troubled eyes.

“I don’t think we can. You know this is going to end one of two ways,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

I know he’s hurt and I know he’s angry, but I don’t want Trish’s mistakes to affect our relationship and I can see Hardin making comparisons behind the green of his eyes.

I try to take the conversation in another direction. “What is it about all of this that bothers you the most? It’s that the wedding is tomorrow . . . well, today,” I correct myself. It’s almost 4 a.m. now, and the wedding is, or was, supposed to start at two this afternoon. What happened after we left the house? Did Mike come back to talk to Trish, or did Christian and Trish finish what they started?

“I don’t know.” He sighs, dragging the cloth down my stomach and across my hips. “I don’t really give a fuck about that wedding. I guess I just feel like they’re both fucking liars.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“My mum is the one who’ll be sorry. She’s the one who sold her fucking house and cheated the night before her damn wedding.” His touch becomes rough as his anger builds.

I stay quiet but remove the cloth from his hands and hang it on the rack behind me.

“And Vance, what kind of fucking asshole has an affair with the ex-wife of his best friend? My father and Christian Vance have known each other since they were kids.” Hardin’s tone is bitter—threatening, even. “I should call my father and see if he knows what a backstabbing whore—”

I reach my hand and cover his mouth before he can finish the harsh words. “She’s still your mother,” I softly remind him. I know he’s angry, but he shouldn’t call her names.

I remove my hand from his mouth so he can speak. “I don’t give a fuck that she’s my mother, and I don’t give a fuck about Vance either. And the joke’s going to be on him, because when I tell Kimberly about them and you quit your job, he’ll be fucked,” Hardin proudly declares, as if this would be the best form of revenge.

“You will not tell Kimberly.” I look into his eyes, pleading. “If Christian doesn’t tell her himself, then I will, but you will not embarrass her or harass her about it. I understand that you’re angry at your mother and at Christian, but Kimberly is innocent here, and I don’t want her to be hurt,” I say firmly.

“Fine. You will quit, though,” he says while turning his body around to rinse the foamy shampoo from his hair.

Sighing, I reach for the shampoo bottle in Hardin’s hand but he pulls it away.

“I’m serious, you aren’t working for him anymore.”

I understand his anger, but this isn’t the time to discuss my job. “We’ll talk about it later,” I tell him and finally manage to get the bottle into my hands. The water is growing colder by the minute, and I’d like to wash my hair.

“No!” He jerks it back. I’m trying to stay calm and be as gentle as possible with him, but he’s making it difficult.

“I can’t just quit my internship; it’s not that simple. I’d have to inform the university, fill out a bunch of paperwork, and give a solid explanation of what happened. Then I would have to add classes to my schedule in the middle of the semester to make up for the credits I was receiving from Vance Publishing, and since the deadline for financial aid has already passed, I’d have to pay out of pocket. I can’t simply just quit. I’ll try to figure something out, but I need a little time, please.” I give up on washing my hair.

“Tessa, I literally couldn’t give less than a fuck about you having to file some paperwork; this is my family,” he says, and I immediately feel guilty.

He’s right, isn’t he? I honestly don’t know, but his busted lip and bruised nose make me feel that way. “I know, I’m sorry. I just need to find another internship first, that’s all I’m asking.” Why am I asking? “I mean saying . . . that’s what I’m saying . . . that I need a little time. I’m already going to have to move into a hotel as it is . . .” The anxiety I feel at the prospect of being homeless, jobless, and once again friendless is taking me over.

“You won’t be able to find another internship anyway, not a paying one,” he harshly reminds me. I knew that already, but I was trying to force myself into believing that I had a slight chance.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I need some time. This is all such a mess.” I step out of the shower and reach for a towel.

“Well, you don’t have much time to figure it out. You should just move back to central Washington with me.” His words stop me in my tracks.