However, I feel for him. He has been through so much, and his father is the root of all his problems—the nightmares, the anger, the lack of respect for women. He never had anyone to teach him how to be a man.
When Hardin puts his hand on my thigh, I don’t move it. My head is pounding, and I cannot believe the way everything escalated so quickly.
“Hardin, we have to talk about what just happened,” Trish says after a few minutes.
“No, we don’t,” he responds.
“Yes, we do. You were way out of line.”
“I was out of line? How can you forget everything he has done?”
“I have not forgotten anything, Hardin. I have chosen to forgive him; I cannot hold on to anger for him. But violence is always out of line. And even short of that, that type of anger will consume you—it will take over your life if you let it. If you hold on to it, it will destroy you. I do not want to live that way. I want to be happy, Hardin, and forgiving your father makes it much easier for me to be happy.”
Her strength never ceases to amaze me, and Hardin’s stubbornness doesn’t either. He refuses to forgive his father for his past mistakes, yet he’s quick to ask for my forgiveness at every turn. Hardin never forgives himself either, though. Irony at its finest.
“Well, I don’t want to forgive him. I thought I could, but not after today.”
“He didn’t do anything to you today,” Trish scolds him. “You provoked him about his drinking for no good reason.”
Hardin removes his hand from my skin, leaving a smudge of blood behind. “He doesn’t get a free pass, Mum.”
“This isn’t about free passes. Ask yourself this: What do you get out of being so angry with him? What does that get you besides bloody hands and a lonely life?”
Hardin doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring straight ahead.
“Exactly,” she says, and the rest of the ride is silent.
When we get back to the apartment, I head straight for the bedroom.
“You owe her an apology, Hardin,” I hear Trish say somewhere behind me.
I pull my ruined sweater off and let it fall onto the floor. I slip my shoes off and push my hair from my face, tucking the strands behind my ears. Seconds later Hardin opens the bedroom door; his eyes go to the red-stained fabric on the floor, then up to my face.
He stands in front of me and takes my hands in his, his eyes pleading. “I’m so sorry, Tess. I didn’t mean to push you like that.”
“You really shouldn’t have done that. Not today.”
“I know . . . are you hurt?” he asks, wiping his wounded hands against his black jeans.
“No.” If he had physically hurt me, we would have much bigger problems.
“I’m so sorry. I was in a rage. I thought you were Landon . . .”
“I don’t like when you get that way, so angry.” My eyes pool with tears as I recall Hardin’s hand being cut open.
“I know, baby.” He bends his knees slightly so he’s eye level with me. “I would never hurt you purposely. You know that, don’t you?” His thumb traces over my temple, and I nod slowly. I do know that he would never hurt me, physically at least. I have always known that.
“Why did you comment on his drinking in the first place? Things were going great,” I say.
“Because he was acting like nothing happened. He was being this fucking pretentious prick, and my mum was just going along with it. Someone had to stand up for her.” His voice is soft, confused, the polar opposite of how it was thirty minutes ago when he was screaming in his father’s face.
My heart aches again; this was his way of defending his mother. The wrong way, but to Hardin it’s his instinct. He pushes his hair from his forehead, blood staining his skin.
“Try to consider how he feels—he has to live with that guilt forever, Hardin, and you don’t make it any easier. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be angry, because that’s a natural reaction, but you of all people should be more forgiving.”
“I—”
“And you have to stop with the violence. You can’t just go around beating people up every time you get pissed off. It’s not right, and I don’t like it at all.”
“I know.” He looks down at the concrete floor.
I sigh and take his hands in mine. “We need to get you cleaned up; your knuckles are still bleeding.” I lead him to the bathroom to clean his wounds for what feels like the thousandth time since I met him.
Chapter forty-eight
TESSA
Hardin doesn’t even wince as I clean his wounds. I dip the towel back into the sink full of water, attempting to dilute the blood from the white fabric. He looks up at me as I stand over him. He’s seated on the edge of the bathtub, and I stand between his legs. He holds his hands up once more.
“We need to get something to put on your thumb,” I tell him as I twist the towel to wring out the excess water.
“It’ll be fine,” he says.
“No, look how deep it is,” I scold him. “The skin is already mostly scar tissue, and you just keep tearing it back open.”
He doesn’t say anything; he just studies my face. “What?” I ask him.
I drain the pink water and wait for him to respond. “Nothing . . .” he lies.
“Tell me.”
“I just can’t believe you put up with my shit,” he says.
“Me, either.” I smile. I watch as a frown takes over his face. “It’s worth it, though,” I add, meaning it. He smiles, and I bring my hand to his face, running the pad of my thumb over the pit of his dimple.