After (The After Series)

bra there is, the annoying voice in my head reminds me. To try to get such
thoughts out of my head, I rock harder against his lap, and he wraps his arms
around my back and pulls my body to his, our chests touching . . .
The door handle jingles. I push myself off Hardin’s lap and throw my shirt on,
the trance I was in immediately broken.
Steph steps through the door and stops short when she sees me and Hardin. As
she takes in the scene before her, her mouth forms an O.
I know my cheeks are bright red not only from the embarrassment but from
the way Hardin has made me feel.
“What the hell did I miss?” she gasps, staring at us both with a huge grin. I
swear her eyes are practically clapping with glee.

---

“Nothing much,” Hardin says and stands. He walks to the door and doesn’t
look back as he walks out of the room, where I’m left panting and Steph
laughing.
“What the actual hell was that!?” she asks me and then covers her face in
mock horror. But she’s too excited by the gossip and pops back quickly. “You
and Hardin . . . You and Hardin are like messing around?”
I turn and pretend to look through the stuff on my desk. “No! No way! We
aren’t messing around,” I tell her. Are we? No, we just happened to kiss, twice.
And he took my shirt off, and I was basically humping him—but we aren’t
messing around, like regularly. “I have a boyfriend, remember?”
She comes over to face me. “So . . . that doesn’t mean you can’t mess around
with Hardin—I just can’t believe it! I thought you guys hated each other. Well,
Hardin hates everyone. But I thought he hated you even more than his normal
hatred for people,” she says, then laughs. “When did this even . . . how did this
happen?”
I sit on her bed and run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. Well,
Saturday when you left the party I ended up in his room because this creep tried
to hit on me, and then I kissed Hardin. We promised to never speak of it again—
but then he came by today and he started messing with me, not in that way.” I
point at the bed, which only makes her smirk grow. “Like he was throwing my
stuff around and I pushed him and then somehow we ended up on the bed.”
It sounds so bad as I repeat it. I really am acting so out of character, just like
my mother said. I put my hands over my face. How could I do this to Noah—
again?
“Whoa, that sounds hot,” Steph says, and I roll my eyes.
“It’s not—it’s terrible and wrong. I love Noah, and Hardin is a jerk. I don’t
want to be another conquest of his.”
“You could learn a lot from Hardin . . . you know sexually.”
My mouth falls open. Is she serious? Is that something she would do . . . wait,
has she? Her and Hardin?
“No way, I don’t want to learn anything from Hardin. Or anyone besides
Noah,” I tell her. I can’t imagine Noah and I making out like that. My mind
replays Hardin’s words: You’re so sexy, Tess. Noah would never say something
like that—no one has ever called me sexy before. I feel my cheeks heat up as I
think about it. “Have you?” I ask a little sheepishly.
“With Hardin? No.” And something inside me feels better when she says that.
But then she continues. “Well . . . I haven’t had sex with him, but we had a little
fling when we first met, as embarrassing as that is to admit. But nothing came
from it; we were sort of friends with benefits for about a week.” She says it like

---

it’s no big deal, but I can’t help the jealousy that stirs inside me.
“Oh . . . benefits?” I ask. My mouth is completely dry and I find myself
suddenly annoyed by Steph.
“Yeah, nothing too big. Just like a few heavy makeout sessions, a grope here
and there. Nothing serious,” she says and my chest hurts. I’m not surprised
really, but I wish I wouldn’t have asked.
“Does Hardin have a lot of friends with benefits?” I don’t want to hear the
answer, but I can’t help asking.
She snorts and sits down on her bed across from me. “Yeah, he does. I mean,
not like hundreds, but he’s a pretty . . . active guy.”
I can tell she’s seen how I reacted and is trying to sugarcoat it for my sake. I
make the mental decision for what feels like the hundredth time to stay away
from him. I will not be anyone’s friends with benefits. Ever.
“He doesn’t do it to be mean or use girls; they pretty much throw themselves
at him, and he lets them know from the start that he doesn’t date,” she says. I
remember her telling me that before. But it’s not like he said that to me when
we . . .
“Why doesn’t he date?” Why can’t I stop asking these questions?
“I don’t know, really . . . Listen,” she says, her voice full of concern, “I think
you could have a lot of fun with Hardin, but I also think this could be dangerous
for you. Unless you know you will never develop any sort of feelings for him, I
would stay away. I have seen a lot of girls fall for him and it’s not pretty.”
“Oh, trust me, I do not have feelings for him. I don’t know what I was
thinking.” I laugh, and hope that it at least sounds genuine.
Steph nods. “Good. So, how much trouble did you get into with your mom
and Noah?”
I tell her all about my mother’s lecture, minus the part about me promising not
to be friends with her anymore. We spend the rest of the night talking about
classes, Tristan, and anything I can think of besides Hardin.

---

chapter twenty-three
T
he next day Landon and I meet at the coffeehouse before class to compare
notes for Sociology. It took me an hour to get all my notes in order after Hardin’s
annoying stunt yesterday. I want to tell Landon about it but I don’t want him to
think badly of me, especially now that I know about his mom and Hardin’s dad.
Landon must know a ton about Hardin, and I have to keep reminding myself not
to ask questions about him. Besides, I don’t care what Hardin does.
The day flies by and finally it’s time for Literature. Per usual, Hardin is in the
seat next to mine, but today he doesn’t seem inclined to look my way at all.
“Today will be our last day on Pride and Prejudice,” the professor informs us.
“I hope you all have enjoyed it, and since you’ve all read the ending, it feels
fitting to base today’s discussion on Austen’s use of foreshadowing. Let me ask:
as a reader, did you expect her and Darcy to become a couple in the end?”
Several people murmur or randomly flip through their books like it’ll provide
an immediate answer for them, but only Landon and I raise our hands, as always.
“Miss Young,” the professor calls on me.
“Well, the first time I read the novel, I was on the edge of my seat about
whether or not they would end up together. Even now—and I have read it at least
ten times—I still feel anxious during the beginning of their relationship. Mr.
Darcy is so cruel and says such hateful things about Elizabeth and her family
that I never know if she can forgive him, let alone love him.” Landon nods at my
answer, and I smile.
“That’s a load,” a voice cuts through the stillness. Hardin’s voice.

---

“Mr. Scott? Would you like to add something?” the professor asks, clearly
surprised at Hardin’s participation.
“Sure. I said that’s a load. Women want what they can’t have. Mr. Darcy’s
rude attitude is what drew Elizabeth to him, so it was obvious they would end up
together,” Hardin says, then picks at his fingernails as if he isn’t the slightest bit
interested in the discussion.
“That isn’t true, about women wanting what they can’t have. Mr. Darcy was
only mean to her because he was too proud to admit he loved her. Once he
stopped his hateful act, she saw that he really loved her,” I say, much louder than
I intended.
Much louder. I look around the room and find everyone is staring at me and
Hardin.
Hardin exhales. “I don’t know what kind of guys you normally go for, but I
think that if he loved her, he wouldn’t have been mean to her. The only reason he
even ended up asking for her hand in marriage was because she wouldn’t stop
throwing herself at him,” he says with emphasis, and my heart drops. But finally
we’re getting at what he’s really thinking.
“She did not throw herself at him! He manipulated her into thinking he was
kind and took advantage of her weakness!” I scream, and then the room really,
truly goes silent. Hardin’s face is flushed with anger, and I can’t imagine mine
looks much different.
“He ‘manipulated’ her? Try again, she is . . . I mean, she was so bored with
her boring life that she had to find excitement somewhere—so she certainly was
throwing herself at him!” he yells back, his hand gripping the desk.
“Well, maybe if he wasn’t such a manwhore, he could have stopped it after the
first time instead of showing up to her room!” After the words leave my mouth, I
know that we’ve been exposed, and snickers and gasps are heard throughout the
room.
“Okay, lively discussion. I think that’s probably enough on that topic for
today . . .” the professor begins, but I grab my bag and run out of the room.
From somewhere behind me in the halls, I hear Hardin’s angry voice yell,
“You don’t get to run this time, Theresa!”
I get outside and am crossing the green lawn, about to reach the corner of the
block, when he grabs my arm and I jerk away.
“Why do you always touch me like that? Grab my arm again and I will slap
you!” I scream. I surprise myself at my harsh words, but I’ve had enough of his
crap.
He grabs my arm again, but I can’t manage to follow through on my promise.
“What do you want, Hardin? To tell me how desperate I am? To laugh at me for

---

letting you get to me again? I am so sick of this game with you—I won’t play it
any longer. I have a boyfriend who loves me, and you are a terrible person. You
really should see a doctor and get some medication for your mood swings! I
can’t keep up with you. One second you’re nice, then you’re hateful. I want
nothing to do with you, so do yourself a favor and find another girl to play your
games, because I’m done!”
“I really do bring out the worst in you, don’t I?” he asks.
I turn away and attempt to shift my focus to the busy sidewalk next to us. A
few confused students’ eyes linger on Hardin and me for a beat too long. When I
face him again, he’s running his fingers across a small hole at the bottom of his
worn black T-shirt.
I expect him to be smiling or laughing, but he’s not. If I didn’t know any
better I would think he was . . . hurt? But I do know better and I know he
couldn’t care less. “I’m not trying to play games with you,” he says and runs his
hand over his head.
“Then what are you doing—because your mood swings give me a headache,”
I snap. A small crowd has gathered around us, and I want to curl into a ball and
disappear. But I have to know what he will say next.