After (The After Series)

Is that Hardin on the phone? I stand up and walk toward the kitchen as Zed
hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“No one important,” he assures me and leads me back to the couch. “I am
really glad we are getting to know each other; you’re different from the rest of
the girls here,” he says sweetly.
“Me, too,” I tell him. “Do you know Emma?” I can’t help but ask.
“Yeah, her girlfriend is Nate’s cousin.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yeah, they have been together awhile. Emma’s pretty cool.”
So Hardin wasn’t there with her, not in that way at least. Maybe he actually
came there to try to talk to me again, instead of trying to hurt me with another
girl.
I look over to Zed just as he leans in to kiss me. His lips are cool from his
drink and taste like vodka. His hands are careful and smooth against my arms,
then my waist. Hardin’s heartbroken face from earlier pops into my mind, the
way he begged for one more chance and I didn’t believe him, the way he
watched me drive away, the outburst in class about Catherine and Heathcliff, the
way he always shows up when I don’t want him to, the way he never tells his
mother that he loves her, the way he said he loved me in front of everyone, the
hurtful way he took it back, the way he breaks things when he’s angry, the way
he came to his father’s house tonight even though he hates it there, and the way
he asked his friends what to wear to the wedding—it all makes perfect sense, but
no sense, at the same time.
Hardin loves me. In his own damaged way, he does love me. The realization
of this hits me like a truck.
“What?” Zed says and pulls away from our kiss.
“What?” I repeat his word.
“You just said Hardin.”
“No, I didn’t,” I defend.
“Yes, yes, you did.” He stands up and steps away from the couch.
“I have to go . . . I am sorry,” I say and grab my purse and rush out of the door
before he can say anything else.

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chapter sixty-six
I
take a second to think about what I am doing. I left Zed to go find Hardin, but I
really need to think about what will happen next. Hardin will either say terrible
things to me, curse at me, and make me leave, or he will admit that he has
feelings for me and that all these games he has been playing are just his way of
not being able to deal with and express his feelings in a normal way. If the first
scenario happens, and I mostly expect it to, I will be in no worse a state than I
am in now. But, if it’s the second, am I ready to forgive him for all the terrible
things he has said and done to me? If we both admit the way we feel about each
other, will everything change? Will he change? Is he capable of caring for me the
way I need him to, and, if so, am I capable of putting up with his mood swings?
The problem is, I can’t answer any of these questions on my own, not a single
one. I hate the way he clouds my thoughts and makes me feel unsure about
myself. I hate not knowing what he will do or say.
I pull up to the damned fraternity house that I have spent way too much time
in. I hate this house. I hate a lot of things right now, and my anger toward Hardin
is almost to its boiling point. I park at the curb and rush up the steps and into the
crowded house. I head straight for the old couch Hardin is usually perched on,
but, not spotting his mop of hair, I duck behind a heavyset guy before Steph or
anyone else can spot me.
Rushing up the stairs to his room, I bang my fist against the door, annoyed
that once again he has it locked.
“Hardin! It’s me, open the door!” I yell desperately and continue to pound, but

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there’s no answer. Where the hell is he? I don’t want to call him to find out, even
though that is obviously easier, but I’m angry and I feel like I need to stay angry
so I can say what I mean—what I need to say—and not feel bad about it.
I call Landon to see if Hardin is at his father’s, but he isn’t. The only other
place that I know to look is the bonfire, but I doubt he would still be there. Still,
I don’t have any other options right now.
So I drive back to the stadium and park my car, repeating the angry words I
have saved for Hardin over and over to make sure I don’t forget anything in case
he actually is here. Approaching the field, I can see that almost everyone has left
already and the fire is almost out. I walk around and squint in the dying light and
stare at couples to see if they are Hardin and Emma, without luck.
Just as I decide to stop looking, I finally do see Hardin leaning against the
fence by the goalpost. He is alone, and doesn’t seem to notice me walking
toward him as he takes a seat on the grass, wiping his mouth. When he removes
his hand, it looks red. Is he bleeding?
Suddenly Hardin’s head snaps up as if he can sense my presence, and, yes, the
corner of his mouth is bleeding and the shadow of a bruise is already forming on
his cheek.
“What the hell—” I say and kneel down in front of him. “What happened to
you?” I ask.
He looks up at me and his eyes are so haunted, my anger dissolves like sugar
on my tongue.
“Why do you care? Where’s your date?” he growls.
I click my tongue gently and move his hand away from his mouth, examining
his busted lip. He jerks away from me but I bite my tongue. “Tell me what
happened,” I demand.
He sighs and runs his hand over his hair. His knuckles are busted and bloody.
The cut on his index finger looks deep and very painful.
“Did you get in a fight?”
“What gave you that idea?” he snaps.
“With who? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I am fine, now leave me alone.”
“I came here to find you,” I tell him and stand up, wiping the dead grass off
my jeans.
“Okay. And you found me, so go.”
“You don’t have to be such an asshole,” I say. “I think you should go home
and get cleaned up. You might need stitches on that knuckle.”
Hardin doesn’t respond but stands up and walks past me. I came here to yell at
him for being such an idiot and tell him how I feel, and he’s making it very hard

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—I knew he would.
“Where are you going?” I ask, following him like a lost puppy.
“Home. Well, I’m going to call Emma and see if she will come back and pick
me up.”
“She left you here?” I don’t like her at all.
“No. Well, technically, but I told her to.”
“Let me take you,” I say and grab his jacket. He shrugs me off, and I want to
slap him. My anger is returning and I am more pissed-off than before. The tables
have turned; our . . . whatever this is has shifted. I am usually the one running
from him.