“Yes, I have. I have tried mentally to get over this, but I can’t. I can’t trust that this isn’t still part of your game. I can’t trust you won’t hurt me again.”
I plug my curling iron in and sigh. “I need to finish getting ready.”
When I turn the blow dryer back on, he disappears from the bathroom, and I hope he leaves. The small part of me that hopes he’s sitting on the bed when I come out is an idiot. She isn’t the rational part of me. She’s the naive, ridiculous girl who fell in love with a boy who is the furthest thing from what she needs. Hardin and I will never work, I know that. I just wish she did, too.
I curl and style my hair, making sure that it will cover Hardin’s mark on my neck. When I walk out of the bathroom to gather my clothes, Hardin is sitting on the bed, and that stupid girl rejoices a little. I grab my light red bra and panties out of my bag and slip them on without removing my towel. When I drop the towel, Hardin gasps, then tries to hide it with a cough.
As I slip a dress over my head, I feel like I’m being pulled toward him by an invisible string, but I fight it and grab my white dress out of the closet. I feel strangely comfortable around him right now, considering our situation. Why is this all so confusing and consuming? Why does it have to be so complicated? And most importantly why can’t I just get over him and move on?
“You really should go,” I say quietly.
“Do you need help?” he asks when I struggle with zipping the dress.
“No . . . I’m fine. I’ve got it.”
“Here.” He stands up to walk over to me. We are walking this fine line between love and hate, anger and calm. It’s strange and surely toxic for me.
I lift my hair, and he zips my dress, taking longer than he should. I feel my pulse quicken and scold myself for allowing him to help me.
“How did you find me?” I ask him just as soon as the thought enters my mind.
He shrugs like he didn’t just stalk me across the state. “I called Vance, of course.”
“He gave you my room number?” I’m not pleased at the idea.
“No, the front desk did.” He gives a little smirk. “I can be very persuasive.”
That the hotel would do that doesn’t make me feel any better. “We can’t do this . . . you know, you making jokes and acting all friendly,” I say and step into my black heels.
He grabs his pants and starts putting them on. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not good for either of us to be around the other.”
He smiles, those evil dimples coming out. “You know that’s not true,” he says casually and puts on his T-shirt.
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“Will you please just go?” I beg.
“You don’t mean that, I know you don’t. You knew what you were doing when you let me stay.”
“No, I didn’t,” I whine. “I was intoxicated. I didn’t know what I was doing at all last night, from kissing that guy to letting you in.”
Immediately, I snap my mouth shut. I did not just say that out loud. But by the way Hardin’s eyes pop and his jaw clenches, I know that I did. My headache multiplies by ten and I want to slap myself.
“Wh-wh-what? What did you . . . what did you just say?” he growls.
“Nothing . . . I . . .”
“You kissed someone? Who?” he asks, his voice strained as if he just ran a marathon.
“Someone at the club,” I admit.
“Are you serious?” he breathes. And when I nod, he explodes. “What the—what the actual fuck, Tessa? You kiss some guy at a fucking club, then have sex with me? Who are you?” He runs his hands over his face. If I know him as well as I think I do, he’s getting ready to break something.
“It just happened, and we aren’t even together.” I try to defend myself, but only make myself sound worse.
“Wow . . . you are unbelievable. My Tessa would never kiss a fucking stranger at a club!” he barks.
“There is no ‘your’ Tessa,” I tell him.
He just shakes his head no over and over and over again. Finally he stares deep into my eyes and says, “You know what? You’re right. And just to let you know, while you were kissing that guy? I was fucking Molly.”
Chapter nineteen
TESSA
I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly. I was fucking Molly.
Hardin’s words echo in my head over and over long after he’s slammed the door and marched out of my life forever. I try to calm myself down before having to go down to meeting everyone.
I should have known Hardin was toying with me, I should have known that he was still messing around with that skank. Hell, he was probably sleeping with her the whole time he was “dating” me. How could I be so stupid? I almost believed him last night when he said he loved me—I was thinking, why else would he drive all the way to Seattle? But the answer really is: because he’s Hardin and he does things like that to mess with me. He always has and always will. Confusing me is this guilt I feel for blurting out that I kissed that guy, and the way I basically blamed Hardin for last night when I know I wanted it just as much as he did. I just don’t want to admit that to him, or to myself, not really.
Thinking of him and Molly together makes my stomach churn. If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll vomit. Not only from my hangover but from Hardin’s confession. Molly, of all people . . . I despise her. I can picture her, with her stupid smirk, knowing that her sleeping with Hardin again would torture me.