After Ever Happy (After 4)

When I step out of my car and approach the front door, my anger and anxiety grow. The way she was talking, the way she sounded . . . it was like she wasn’t in control of her own actions.

The door is unlocked—of course it is—and I make my way through the living room and down the hall. Hands shaking, I push the door to her bedroom open, and my chest tightens when I find her bed empty. It’s not only empty, it’s untouched—perfectly made, the corners folded in that way that’s impossible to re-create. I’ve tried it—it’s impossible to make a bed like Tessa can.

“Tessa!” I call as I walk into the bathroom across the hall. I keep my eyes closed as I turn the light on. Not hearing anything, I open my eyes.

Nothing.

My breath is released in a heavy pant, and I move to the next room. Where the fuck is she?

“Tess!” I yell again, louder this time.

After searching nearly the entire fucking mansion, I can barely breathe. Where is she? The only rooms left are Vance’s bedroom and a locked room upstairs. I’m not sure if I want to open that door . . .

I’ll check the patio and yard, and if she’s not there, I have no fucking clue what I will do.

“Theresa! Where the hell are you? This isn’t funny, I swear—” I stop yelling as I take in the curled-up ball on the patio lounge chair.

Approaching, I see that Tessa’s knees are tucked up to her stomach and her arms are wrapped around her chest, as if she fell asleep while trying to hold herself together.

All of my anger is dissolved when I kneel down beside her. I push her blond hair away from her face and will myself not to burst into fucking hysterics now that I know she’s okay. Fuck, I was so worried about her.

With my pulse racing, I lean into her and run my thumb along her bottom lip. I don’t know why I did that, actually; it just sort of happened, but I sure as hell don’t regret it when her eyes flutter open and she groans.

“Why are you outside?” I ask, my voice loud and strained.

She winces, clearly put off by the volume of my words.

Why aren’t you inside? I’ve been worried fucking sick for you, going over every possible scenario in my head for hours now, I want to say.

“Thank God you were asleep” comes out instead. “I’ve been calling you, I was worried about you.”

She sits up, holding her neck as if her head might fall off. “Hardin?”

“Yes, Hardin.”

She squints in the dark and rubs her neck. When she moves to stand, an empty bottle of wine falls to the concrete patio and cracks in half.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, bending down to try to pick up the broken glass.

I gently push her hand away and wrap my fingers around hers. “Don’t touch that. I’ll get it later. Let’s get inside.” I help her stand.

“How’d . . . you get . . . here?” Her speech is stunted, and I don’t even want to know how much wine she drank after the line went dead. I saw at least four empty bottles in the kitchen.

“I drove, how else?”

“All the way here? What time is it?”

My eyes follow down her body, her body that’s covered in only a T-shirt. My T-shirt.

She notices my stare and begins to tug at the ends of the shirt to cover her bare thighs. “I only w-wear it . . .” She trails off, stuttering. “I’m only wearing it now, just once,” she says, making little to no sense at all.

“It’s fine, I want you to wear it. Let’s get inside.”

“I like it out here,” she quietly says, staring off into the darkness.

“It’s too cold. We’re going inside.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. “Okay, okay, if you want to stay out here, that’s okay. But I’m staying with you,” I say, redirecting my demand.

She nods and leans against the railing; her knees are shaking and her face is colorless.

“What happened tonight?”

She stays silent, still staring.

After a moment she turns to me. “Don’t you ever feel like your life has turned into one big joke?”

“Daily.” I shrug, unsure where the hell this conversation is going, but hating the sadness behind her eyes. Even in the dark the sadness burns low, blue and deep, haunting those bright eyes that I love so much.

“Well, me, too.”

“No, you are the positive one here. The happy one. I’m the cynical asshole, not you.”

“It’s exhausting being happy, you know?”

“Not really.” I take a step closer to her. “I’m not really the poster child for sunshine and happiness, in case you haven’t noticed,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, and I’m granted a half-drunk, half-amused smile.

I wish she would just tell me what is going on with her lately. I don’t know how much I can do for her, but this is my fault—all of this is my fault. The unhappiness inside her is my burden to bear, not hers.

She lifts her arm to rest it on the wooden plank in front of her but misses and stumbles, nearly smacking face-first into the umbrella attached to a patio table.

I wrap my hand around her elbow to steady her, and she begins to lean into me. “Could we go inside now? You need to sleep off all the wine you’ve had.”

“I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“That’s probably because it’s more like you passed out than fell asleep.” I point to the broken wine bottle a few feet away.

“Don’t try and scold me,” she snaps, and backs away.

“I’m not.” My hands rise in innocence, and I want to scream because of the irony of this whole fucking situation. Tessa’s the drunk one, and I’m the sober voice of reason.