After (The After Series)

hell does he think he is to stay out all night without even telling me?
Kimberly raises a brow at me when I walk past the donut table without
grabbing one, but I give her my best fake smile and walk to my office. My
morning passes in a daze. I read and reread the same pages over and over
without comprehending any of the words.
There is a knock on my door, and my heart stops. I desperately hope it’s
Hardin, regardless of how pissed I am at him. Instead it’s Kimberly.
“Do you want to go get lunch with me?” she asks sweetly.
I almost decline her offer, but sitting here obsessing over my boyfriend’s
whereabouts is not helping me one bit.
I smile. “Sure.”
We walk around the corner to a small cantina-style Mexican restaurant. By the
time we get inside we’re both shivering, and she asks to be seated close to a
heater. The small table we are given is directly underneath a heater, and we both
raise our hands in the air to warm up.
“This weather is unforgiving,” she says and prattles on about being cold and
already missing summer.
“I almost forgot how cold the winter is,” I tell her plainly. The seasons have
blended together, and I barely noticed fall slipping away.
“So . . . how are things with Mr. Bad Ass?” she asks with a laugh.
The server brings us chips and salsa, and my stomach growls. I am not
skipping my morning donut anymore.
“Well . . .” I debate whether to share my personal life with her. I don’t have
many friends. None, really, excluding Steph, whom I never see anymore.
Kimberly is at least ten years older than me and maybe she has some good
insight into the minds of men, something I certainly lack in. I stare at the ceiling
covered in strings of beer-bottle-shaped lights and take a deep breath.
“Well, I am actually not sure how things are at the moment. Yesterday things
were fine but then he stayed out last night. All night. It was our second night in
the apartment and he just never came home,” I explain.
“Wait . . . wait . . . back up. Okay, so you two live together?” She gapes.
“Yeah . . . as of Tuesday.” I try to smile.
“Okay, so then he just didn’t come home last night?”
“Nope. He said he had to do some work and go by the library, but then he
didn’t come home.”
“And you don’t think he’s hurt or anything, right?”
“No, I really don’t.” I feel as if I would somehow know if he wasn’t okay, like
we are tied together in some way that would immediately let me know if he was

---

hurt.
“He hasn’t called?”
“Nope. Or texted.” I frown.
“I would have his balls if I were you. This is unacceptable,” she proclaims.
The server stops by to say, “Your food will be out shortly,” and fills up my
water. I’m a little thankful for the small interruption, to give me a chance to
catch my breath after Kimberly’s harsh words.
And then she goes on, and when I realize she’s not judging me but sticking up
for me, I feel better. “I mean it—you have to make it clear that he can’t behave
this way; otherwise he will keep doing it. The problem with men is that they are
creatures of habit, and if you let this be his habit, you’ll never be able to break it.
He needs to know from the start that you won’t put up with this shit. He is lucky
to have you and he needs to get his shit together.”
Something about her pep talk gives me more confidence in my anger. I should
be pissed. I should “have his balls,” as Kimberly so subtly put it.
“How do I do that?” I ask and she laughs.
“Let him have it. Unless he has a damned good excuse, which I am sure he is
plotting right now, you let him have it the second he walks through that door.
You deserve to be respected, and if he isn’t respecting you, then you need to
either make him or kick him to the curb.”
“You make it sound so easy.” I laugh.
“Oh, it’s far from easy.” She laughs, then grows serious. “But it has to be
done.”
The rest of our lunch is filled with stories of her college life and how she has
had her fair share of terrible relationships. Her blond bob sways back and forth
as she shakes her head during almost every story. I find myself laughing so hard
I have to dab the corners of my eyes. The food is delicious and I am glad I came
out to lunch with her instead of sulking alone in my office.
On the way back to my office, Trevor spots me from near the restrooms and
comes over, smiling. “Hello, Tessa.”
“Hey, how are you?” I ask politely.
“I’m okay. It’s awfully cold out there,” he says and I nod. “You look lovely
today,” he adds and looks away. I get the feeling he didn’t mean to say that
aloud. I smile and thank him before he heads into the bathroom, obviously
embarrassed.
By the time I leave, I have gotten literally no work done so I take the
manuscript home with me in hopes of making up for my lack of motivation
today.
When I arrive back at the apartment, Hardin’s car still isn’t in the lot. My

---

anger returns, and I call him and cuss him out on his voicemail, which
surprisingly makes me feel a little better. I make myself a quick dinner and get
my things ready for tomorrow.
I can’t believe it’s only two days until the wedding. What if he doesn’t come
back before then? He will. Won’t he? I look around the apartment. As charming
as it is, it seems to have lost some of its glow in Hardin’s absence.
Somehow I manage to get a good amount of work done and am just putting
everything away when the door opens. Hardin stumbles through the living room
and into the bedroom without saying a word. I hear him toss his boots onto the
floor and curse at himself, most likely for falling over. I go over what Kimberly
said at lunch today and gather all my thoughts, pushing my anger to its head.
“Where the hell were you?” I yell as I enter the room. Hardin has his shirt off
and is removing his pants.
“Good to see you, too,” he slurs.
“Are you drunk?” I gape.
“Maybe,” he answers, and tosses his pants onto the floor.
I huff and pick them up, throwing them at him. “We have a hamper for a
reason.” I glare and he laughs.
He is laughing. Laughing at me.
“You have some nerve, Hardin! You stay out all night and most of the day
today without even calling me, and then you stumble in here drunk and make fun
of me?” I scream.
“Stop yelling. I have a killer headache,” he groans and lies on the bed.
“Do you think this is funny? Is this some sort of game to you? If you aren’t
going to take our relationship seriously, then why did you ask me to move in
with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now. You’re overreacting; now, come
over here and let me make you happy.” His eyes are bloodshot from the amount
of alcohol he consumed. He holds his arms out for me with a stupid drunken grin
on his perfect face.
“No, Hardin,” I say sternly. “I’m serious. You can’t just stay out all night and
not even offer me an explanation.”
“Jesus. Would you chill the fuck out? You’re not my mother. Stop fighting
with me and come here,” he repeats.
“Get out,” I snap.
“Excuse me?” He sits up. Now I have his attention.
“You heard me, get out. I will not be that girl who sits at home all night
waiting on her boyfriend to come home. I expected you to at least come up with
a good excuse—but you haven’t even tried! I’m not going to give in this time,

---

Hardin. I always forgive you way too easily. Not this time. So either explain
yourself or get the hell out.” I cross my arms, proud of myself for not giving in
to him.
“In case you forgot, I am the one paying the bills here, so if anyone is going to
leave, it will be you,” he says with a blank stare.
I glance down at his hands on his knees; his knuckles are yet again busted and
covered in dried blood.
My mind is still trying to come up with a response when I ask, “Did you get in
a fight again?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, Hardin! It does matter. Is that what you were doing all night? Fighting
people? You didn’t even have to work, did you? Or is that your job, beating up
people?”
“What? No, that’s not my job. You know what my job is. I did work, then I
got distracted,” he says and swipes his hand over his face.
“By?”
“Nothing. Jesus,” he groans. “You are always on my case.”
“I’m always on your case? What did you expect to happen when you stumbled
in here after being gone all night and day! I need answers, Hardin—I am sick of
you not giving me them.” He ignores me and pulls a shirt over his head. “I was
worried all day; you could have at least called me. I was a mess today while you
were out drinking and doing God knows what. You are messing with my
internship, and that is not okay.”
“Your internship? You mean the one that my father got you?” he says with his
foul mouth.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Just saying.” He shrugs.
How is this the same person who just two nights go was whispering how
much he loves me into my ear while he thought I was asleep?
“I’m not even going to respond to that, because I know that’s what you want.
You want a fight and I won’t give you one.” I grab one of my T-shirts and stalk
out of the room. Before I exit, I turn back to him. “But let me make this clear: if
you don’t get your shit together—like now—I’m gone.”
I head to the couch and lie down, grateful for another space to be where he
isn’t. I allow a few tears to fall before wiping my face and picking up Hardin’s
old copy of Wuthering Heights. No matter how bad I want to go back in there
and make him explain everything to me—where he was, who he was with, why
he got into a fight, and with whom—I force myself to stay on the couch because
that will bother him much more.

---

Though probably not half as much as the level of control he has over parts of
my life is bothering me.

---

chapter ninety
I
put down my book and check the time on my phone. It’s a little after midnight,
so I should try to force myself to go to sleep. He already tried to get me to come
to bed earlier, saying he couldn’t sleep without me, but I stuck to my guns and
ignored him until he left.
I’m just about to drift into sleep when I hear Hardin scream, “No!!” I jump off
the couch without thinking and rush to our bedroom. He is thrashing in the thick
blanket and covered in sweat.
“Hardin, wake up,” I say gently and shake his shoulder, moving a soaked curl
from his forehead with my other hand.
His eyes snap open—they are full of terror.
“It’s okay . . . shh . . . it was just a nightmare.” I do my best to soothe him. My
fingers play in his hair and then brush over his cheek. He is shaking as I climb
into bed behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I feel him relax as I
press my face against his clammy skin.
“Please. Stay with me,” he begs. I sigh and stay quiet, tightening my grip
around him. “Thank you,” he whispers, and within minutes he is asleep again.
THE WATER DOESN’T SEEM
to get hot enough to relax my tense muscles no
matter how high I turn it up. I am exhausted from the lack of sleep last night and
the frustration that comes from dealing with Hardin. He was asleep when I got
into the shower, and I pray he stays that way until I leave for my internship.
Unfortunately, my prayers go unanswered, and he is standing by the kitchen

---

counter when I get out of the bathroom.
“You look beautiful today,” he says calmly.
I roll my eyes and walk past him to grab a cup of coffee before I have to leave.
“So you aren’t speaking to me, then?”
“Not right now, no. I have to go to work and I don’t have the energy to do this
with you,” I snap.
“But you . . . you came to bed with me,” he pouts.
“Yeah, only because you were screaming and shaking. That doesn’t mean you
are forgiven. I need an explanation for everything, all the secrets, all the fights—
even the nightmares—or I’m done,” I surprise him and myself by saying.
He groans and runs his hands through his hair. “Tessa . . . it’s not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is, actually. I trusted you enough to give up my relationship with my
mother and move in with you so soon; you should trust me enough to tell me
what is going on.”
“You won’t understand. I know you won’t,” he says.
“Try me.”
“I . . . I can’t,” he stutters.
“Then I can’t be with you. I’m sorry, but I have given you a lot of chances and
you keep—” I begin.
“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare try and leave me.” His tone is angry, but his
eyes are hurt.
“Then give me some answers. What is it that you think I wouldn’t understand?
About your nightmares?” I ask.
“Tell me you aren’t going to leave me,” he pleads.
Standing my ground with Hardin is proving to be much harder than I
imagined, especially when he looks so broken.
“I have to go. I am already running late,” I tell him and go to the bedroom to
get dressed as quickly as I can. Part of me is happy that he doesn’t follow me,
but part of me wishes he would.
He is still standing in the kitchen, shirtless, and gripping his coffee mug with
white and busted knuckles when I leave.
I mull over everything Hardin said this morning. What could I possibly not
understand? I would never judge him for something that causes him to have
nightmares. I hope that is what he was talking about, but I can’t ignore the
feeling that I am missing something very obvious here.
I feel guilty and tense almost all day, but Kimberly emails me the links to one
too many funny YouTube videos for my sour mood to last. By lunch, I almost
forget the problem at home.
I’m sorry for everything, please come home after work,
Hardin texts while Kimberly and I

---

eat from a muffin basket someone sent Mr. Vance.
“Is that him?” she asks.
“Yeah . . .” I tell her. “I stood up to him, but I feel terrible, for some reason. I
know I am right, but you should have seen him this morning.”
“Good. Hopefully he learns his lesson. Did he tell you where he was?” she
asks.
“Nope. That’s the problem.” I groan and eat another muffin.
Please answer me, Tessa. I love you,
he sends minutes later.
“Just answer the poor guy.” Kimberly smiles and I nod.
I will be home,
I respond.
Why is it so hard for me to hold my ground with him? Mr. Vance lets
everyone go a little after three, so I decide to stop by a salon and get my hair
trimmed and a manicure for the wedding tomorrow. I hope Hardin and I can
work this out before the wedding, because the last thing I want to do is take an
already angry Hardin to his father’s wedding.
By the time I get home it’s almost six o’clock and I have multiple texts from
Hardin, which I have ignored. When I get to our door I take a deep breath to
mentally prepare for what is to come. Either we will end up screaming at each
other, which will lead to one of us leaving, or we will actually talk through it and
work it out. Hardin is pacing back and forth across the cement floor when I
enter. His eyes shoot up to my figure in the doorway, and he looks relieved.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says and steps toward me.
“Where else would I go?” I say in response and walk past him into the
bedroom.
“I . . . well, I made dinner for you,” he says.
He is totally unrecognizable right now. His hair is down across his forehead
instead of pushed up and back like it normally is. He is wearing a gray hooded
sweatshirt and black sweats and he seems nervous, worried, and almost . . .
afraid?
“Oh . . . why?” I can’t help but ask. I change into sweats of my own, and
Hardin’s face falls farther when I don’t put on the shirt of his that he has clearly
laid on the dresser for me.
“Because I am an asshole,” he answers.
“Yeah . . . you are,” I say and walk back into the kitchen. The meal looks
much more appetizing than I thought it would, even though I’m not sure what it
is; some sort of chicken pasta, I think.
“It’s chicken Florentine.” He answers my thoughts.
“Hmm.”
“You don’t have to . . .” His voice is small. This is such a different scene than

---

usual, and for the first time since I met him I feel like I have the upper hand.
“No, it looks good. I’m just surprised,” I tell him and take a bite. It tastes even
better than it looks.
“Your hair looks nice,” he says. My thoughts travel back to the last time I had
a haircut and Hardin was the only one to notice.
“I need answers,” I remind him.
He lets out a hard breath. “I know, and I am going to give them to you.”
I take another bite to hide my satisfaction with myself for holding my ground
with him.
“First, I want you to know that no one—I mean no one, except my mother and
father—knows this,” he says and picks at the scabs on his knuckles.
I nod and take another bite.
“Okay . . . well, here goes,” he says nervously before continuing. “One night,
when I was around seven, my father was out at the bar across the street from our
home. He went there almost every night and everyone knew him there, which is
why it was a terrible idea for him to piss anyone off there. This night, he did just
that. He started a fight with some soldiers who were just as plastered as him and
he ended up smashing a beer bottle over one of their heads.”
I have no idea where this is going, but I know it won’t be pleasant.
“Keep eating, please . . .” he begs and I nod and try not to stare at him as he
continues.
“He left the bar, and they came across the road to our house, to pay him back
for smashing the guy’s face, I guess. The problem was that he didn’t come home
—they just thought he did, and my mum was asleep on the couch, waiting up for
my dad.” His green eyes meet mine. “Sort of how you were last night.”
“Hardin . . .” I whisper and grab his hand across the table.
“So when they found my mum first . . .” He trails off and stares at the wall for
what feels like forever. “When I heard her screaming, I came downstairs and
tried to get them off her. Her nightgown was ripped open and she just kept
screaming for me to go . . . she was trying to keep me from seeing what they
were doing to her, but I couldn’t just leave, you know?”
When he blinks back a tear, my heart breaks for the seven-year-old boy who
had to watch those horrendous things happen to his mother. I climb onto his lap
on the chair and put my face against his neck.
“Long story short, I tried to fight them off, but it didn’t do any good. By the
time my father stumbled through the door, I had put an entire box of Band-Aids
all over her body to try to . . . I don’t know . . . fix her or something. How stupid
is that?” he asks into my hair.
I look up at him and he frowns. “Don’t cry . . .” he whispers, but I can’t help

---

it. I never imagined his nightmares were from something so terrible.
“I’m sorry I made you tell me,” I sob.
“No . . . baby, it’s okay. It actually felt good to tell someone,” he assures me.
“As good as it can feel.”
He pets my hair and winds part of it around his finger, lost in thought. “After
that, I would only sleep downstairs on the couch, so if someone came in . . . they
would get to me first. Then the nightmares came . . . and they just kind of stuck.
I went to a few therapists once my father left, but nothing seemed to help, until
you.” He gives me a weak smile. “I’m sorry I was out all night. I don’t want to
be that guy. I don’t want to be him,” he says and hugs me tighter.
Now that I have a few more pieces of the puzzle that is Hardin, I can
understand him more. And just as suddenly as my mood has shifted about him,
my opinion of Ken has changed just as drastically. I know people change, and he
obviously has improved himself from the kind of man he used to be, but I can’t
help the anger bubbling inside me. Hardin is the way he is because of his father,
because of the drinking, the negligence, and the terrible night that his father
provoked an attack against his wife and son, and then wasn’t there to protect
them. I didn’t get all the answers I wanted, but I got much more than I ever
expected.
“I won’t do it again . . . I swear . . . Just please tell me you won’t leave
me . . .” he mutters.
Every ounce of anger and entitlement I felt has evaporated. “I won’t leave
you, Hardin. I won’t leave you.” And because he looks at me like he needs to
hear it, I say it a few more times.
“I love you, Tessa, more than anything,” he says and wipes my tears.

---

chapter ninety-one
W
e haven’t moved from our spot in the chair for at least thirty minutes, when
finally Hardin lifts his head from my chest and says, “Can I eat now?”
“Yes.” I give him a weak smile and start to climb off his lap, but he pulls me
back.
“I didn’t say for you to move. Just slide my plate over.” He smiles.
I slide his plate over and reach for mine across the small table. I am still
reeling from this new information and now I feel a little uneasy about going to
the wedding in the morning.
Sensing Hardin doesn’t want to discuss his confession further, I take a bite off
my plate and say, “You are a much better cook than I expected. Having shown
your hand, I expect you’ll cook for me more often.”
“We will see,” he says with his mouth full and we eat the rest of the meal in a
comfortable silence.
Later, when I’m loading the dishwasher, he walks up behind me and asks,
“Are you still mad?”
“Not exactly,” I tell him. “I am still not happy about you being out all night,
and I do want to know who you fought, and why.” He opens his mouth to speak,
but I stop him. “But not tonight.” I don’t think either of us can handle any more
tonight.
“Okay,” he says softly. Worry flashes in his eyes but I choose to let it go.
“Oh, and I didn’t appreciate you throwing my internship in my face, either.
That really hurt my feelings.”

---

“I know. That’s why I said it,” he answers, a little too honestly.
“I know. That’s exactly why I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do it again, okay?” I tell him and he nods. “I’m exhausted,” I groan in
a small attempt to change the subject.
“Me, too; let’s lie down for the rest of the evening. I got the cable turned on.”
“I was supposed to be doing that.” I scowl at him.
He rolls his eyes and sits next to me on the bed. “You can just give me the
money for it . . .”
I stare at the wall. “What time are we leaving here tomorrow for the
wedding?”
“Whenever we feel like it.”
“It starts at three, so I think we should be there by two,” I say.
“An hour early?” he whines and I nod. “I don’t know why you insist—” he
says but is cut off by my phone ringing.
The look on Hardin’s face as he leans over and grabs it tells me immediately
who it is. “Why is he calling?” he huffs.
“I don’t know, Hardin, but I think I should answer.” I grab the phone from his
hand.
“Noah?” My voice is soft and shaky as Hardin’s glower burns a hole through
the apartment.
“Hey, Tessa, I’m sorry to call you on a Friday night but . . . well . . .” He
sounds panicked.
“What?” I push, since he always takes longer than necessary to explain
stressful situations.
When I look over to Hardin he mouths, “Speaker.”
I give him an are-you-kidding look, but end up putting Noah on speaker
anyway so Hardin can eavesdrop.
“Your mom got a call from the dorm supervisor about your final bill being
paid for the room, so she knows you moved out. I told her I have no idea where
you live now, which is the truth, but she refused to believe me. And so she’s
coming there.”
“Coming here? To campus?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know, but she said she’s going to find you, and she’s
being irrational and is really pissed-off. I just wanted to warn you, you know,
that she’s coming.”
“I can’t believe her!” I shout into the phone, but then thank Noah before
hanging up.
I lie back on the bed. “Great . . . What an excellent way to spend tonight.”

---

Hardin leans on one elbow next to me. “She won’t be able to find you. No one
knows where we live,” he assures me and smooths my bangs off my forehead.
“She may not find me, but she sure will pester Steph and ask every single
person she sees in the dorm and make a huge scene.” I cover my face with my
hands. “I should just go over there.”
“Or you could call her and give her our address and let her come here. On
your territory, so you have the upper hand,” he suggests.
“You’re okay with that?” My hands move from my face.
“Of course. She’s your mother, Tessa.”
I look at him quizzically, given the rift between him and his dad. But when I
see he’s serious, I’m reminded that he’s willing to work on things with his
parents, so I should be that brave, too. “I’ll call her,” I say.
I look at the phone for a while before taking a deep breath and hitting her
number. She’s terse on the phone, speaking very quickly. I can tell she’s saving
all her hateful energy for when she sees me in person. I don’t give her any details
about the apartment or tell her that I live here; I only tell her the address where I
am and get off the phone as fast as I can.
Instinctively, I jump out of bed and begin to straighten up our place.
“The apartment is already clean. We have barely touched anything,” Hardin
says.
“I know,” I say. “But it makes me feel better.”
After I fold and put away the few items of clothing that were on the floor, I
light a candle in the living room and wait at the table with Hardin for my mother
to show. I shouldn’t be as nervous as I am—I’m an adult and I make my own
choices—but I know her and how badly she’s going to lose it. I am already
overly emotional from the brief glimpse into Hardin’s past I was granted an hour
ago, and I don’t know if I have it in me to go to battle with her tonight. I look
over at the clock and see it’s already eight. Hopefully she won’t stay long, and
Hardin and I can get to bed early and just hold each other while we each try to
deal with our family legacies.
“Do you want me to stay out here with you or give you two some time to
discuss everything?” Hardin asks after a bit.
“I think we should have a little time one-on-one,” I say. As much as I want
him by my side, I know that his presence will antagonize her.
“Wait . . . I just remembered something Noah said. He said the final bill for
my dorm was paid.” I look at him questioningly.
“Yeah . . . so?”
“You paid it, didn’t you!” I half-shout. Despite my energy, it’s not really out of
anger, just surprise and annoyance.

---

“So . . .” He shrugs.
“Hardin! You have got to stop spending money on me; it makes me
uncomfortable.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is. It wasn’t that much,” he argues.
“What are you like secretly rich or something? Are you selling drugs?”
“No, I just saved up a lot of money and don’t really spend it. I lived entirely
for free last year while I worked, so my paychecks just kept piling up. I never
really had anything to spend money on . . . but now I do.” He smiles wide. “And
I like spending it on you, so don’t fight me over it.”
“You’re lucky my mother is on her way and I only have it in me to go to war
with one of you,” I tease and he lets out a long chuckle that fades until we’re just
sitting, holding hands and waiting.
A few minutes later there is a knock . . . well, a pounding at the door.
Hardin stands. “I’ll be right in the other room. I love you.” He gives me a
swift kiss before exiting.
I fill my lungs with the deepest breath I can manage and open the door. My
mother looks eerily perfect, as always. Not a single smudge mars her heavily
made-up eyes, her red lipstick is smooth and silky, her blond hair is neatly piled
almost in a halo around her head.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing moving out of that dorm without
telling me!” she shouts without introduction and pushes past me into the
apartment.
“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” I counter, then focus on breathing in
and out to stay as calm as I can.
She spins back to glare at me. “Excuse me? How did I not give you a choice?”
“You threatened to not help me pay for my dorm,” I remind her and cross my
arms.
“So, I gave you a choice, but you made the wrong one,” she snaps.
“No, you’re the one who’s wrong here.”
“Listen to you! Look at you. You aren’t the same Tessa that I dropped off at
college three months ago.” She waves her arms to gesture up and down my body.
“You are defying me, even yelling at me! You have some nerve! I have done
everything for you, and here you are . . . throwing it all away.”
“I am not throwing anything away! I have an excellent internship that pays me
very well; I have a car, and a four-point-oh grade point average. What more
could you possibly want from me?” I shout back.
Her eyes light up from the challenge, and her voice is full of venom as she
says, “Well, for starters, you could have at least changed your clothes before I
came. Honestly, Tessa, you look like hell.” As I look down at my pajamas, she

---

switches to a new criticism. “And what is this . . . you wear makeup now? Who
are you? You’re not my Theresa, that is for certain. My Theresa wouldn’t be
hanging out in some devil worshipper’s apartment in her pajamas on a Friday
night.”
“Do not speak about him that way,” I say through my teeth. “I have already
warned you.”
My mother squints her eyes and cackles. Her head falls back in laughter, and I
fight the urge to smack her across her perfectly painted-on face. I immediately
cringe at my violent thoughts, but she’s pushing me too far.
“And another thing,” I say slowly, calmly, to make sure I deliver the
pronouncement just so. “This isn’t just his apartment. It is our apartment.”
And just like that, I get her to stop laughing.

---

chapter ninety-two
T
his woman I’ve lived with values her sense of control so much that there are
few times I’ve managed to surprise her, let alone stun her. But here, I have really,
truly stunned my mother. Her posture is erect and her face has fallen.
“What did you just say?” she asks slowly.
“You heard me. This is our apartment—as in, we both live here.” I put my
hands on my hips for dramatic effect.
“There is no way that you live here. You can’t afford a place like this!” she
scoffs.
“Would you like to see our lease? Because I have a copy.”
“This whole situation is even worse than I thought . . .” she says, then shifts
her eyes to stare behind me, as if I’m not even worth looking at while she
calculates her formula for my life. “I knew you were being foolish by messing
around with that . . . that boy. But you are just plain stupid for moving in with
him! You don’t even know him! You haven’t met his parents—aren’t you
embarrassed to be seen in public with him?”
My anger boils over. I glance at the wall, trying to gather some composure,
but it’s too much and before I can stop myself, I am in her face. “How dare you
come into my home and insult him! I know him better than anyone, and he
knows me better than you ever could! And I have actually met his family, his
father at least. You want to know who his father is? He’s the goddamn