I wander back into the living room, and James snatches my phone from my hand. “Give me some of whatever you’re on!”
I’m quick to take it back before he can get a glance at the picture.
“Touchy, touchy,” James mocks me as I change the background. No need to fuel these fuckers.
“I invited Janine,” Mark says, sharing a laugh with James.
“I don’t know why you two are laughing.” I point to Mark. “She’s your sister.” Then I point at James. “And you fucked her, too.” Not like this is surprising; Mark’s sister is known for fucking every single one of her little brother’s friends.
“Fuck you, man!” James takes another hit from the bong and passes it to me.
Tessa would fucking kill me. She would be so disappointed; she doesn’t approve of me drinking, let alone smoking pot.
“Hit it or pass it,” Mark urges.
“If Janine is coming over, you’ll need it. She’s still hot as fuck,” James tells me, earning a glare from Mark and a laugh from me.
Hours pass this way, smoking, dwelling, drinking, dwelling, smoking, and before I know it, the place is full of people, including the girl in question.
Chapter thirteen
TESSA
I may not have much, but I still have a little pride, and I would rather face Hardin by myself and have this conversation one-on-one. I know exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to tell me that I am too good for him and that he is no good for me. He’s going to say something hurtful, and I will try to convince him otherwise.
I know Kimberly must think I’m a fool for chasing after him after his cold dismissal, but I love him, and this is what you do when you love someone: you fight for him—you chase after him when you know he needs you. You help him fight the battle against himself, and you never give up on him, even when he gives up on himself.
“I’m fine. If I find him and you’re with me, he will feel cornered, and it will make things worse,” I tell Kimberly for the second time.
“Be careful, please. I don’t want to have to kill that kid, but, at this point, nothing is off the table.” She half smiles at me. “Wait, one more thing.” Kimberly raises a finger and rushes over to the coffee table in the center of the room. She digs through her purse and then waves me over to her.
Kimberly, being Kimberly, brushes a shiny, colorless gloss across my lips and hands me a tube of mascara. She grins. “You want to look your best, right?”
Despite the ache in my chest, I smile at her effort to help me look decent. Of course that is part of the equation to her.
TEN MINUTES LATER, my cheeks are no longer red from crying. The puffiness around my eyes is less noticeable, thanks to concealer and a little shadow. My hair is brushed and somewhat controlled into large waves. Kimberly gave up after a few minutes, sighing, then saying that “beach waves” are in right now anyway. I don’t remember her changing me out of my T-shirt and into a tank top and cardigan, but she has transformed me from a zombie in a remarkably short time.
“Promise me that you will call if you need me,” Kimberly insists. “Don’t think I won’t come looking for you.”
I nod in agreement, knowing that she won’t hesitate. She hugs me twice more before giving me the keys to Christian’s rental, which Hardin left in the parking lot.
When I get into the car, I plug my phone into the charger and roll the window all the way down. The car smells like Hardin, and the empty coffee cups from this morning are still in their holders, reminding me of the way he made love to me only hours ago. That was his goodbye to me—I realize now that part of me knew it then but just wasn’t ready to accept it. I didn’t want to admit the defeat that was skimming around the surface, waiting to encase me. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s almost five o’clock. I have less than two hours to find Hardin and convince him to come back home with me. The flight boards at eight thirty, but we have to arrive a bit before seven to go through security, just to be safe.
Will I be flying home alone?
I look at myself in the rearview mirror, facing that same girl who had to pull herself up off that bathroom floor. I acknowledge the sick feeling that tells me I’ll be on that airplane alone.
I only know one place to look for him, and if he isn’t there, I have no idea what I will do. I start the car up, but pause with my hand on the gearshift. I can’t drive aimlessly around London with no money and nowhere to go.
Desperate and worried, I try to call him again, and I nearly burst into happy tears when he picks up the phone.
“Hellooo, who is this?” an unrecognizable male voice says. I pull the phone away to be sure I called the right number, but Hardin’s name is clear across the screen. “Hellooo,” the man says louder, drawing out the word again.
“Uhm, hi. Is Hardin there?” My stomach twists; it knows that this guy is bad news although I don’t have a clue who he is.
Laughter and multiple voices echo in the background; more than one of them are female voices. “Scott is . . . disposed at the moment,” the man tells me.
Disposed?
“It’s indisposed, you idiot,” a woman yells in the background, laughing.
Oh God. “Where is he?” I can tell I’ve been put on speakerphone, the way the noise changes.
“He’s busy,” another guy says. “Who’s this? You coming to the party? Is that why you called? I like your American accent, birdie, and if you’re a friend of Scott’s . . .”
A party? At only five? I try to focus on that useless fact rather than the multiple female voices bursting through my phone and the fact that Hardin is “busy.”