After We Fell (After 3)
Page 127“You probably are,” she jokes.
“Nope, that’s one of the very few things I’m not into, believe it or not,” I say with a smile. “I will never share you, baby. Not even with your father.”
I can’t help but laugh as she makes a sound of disgust.
“You’re sick!”
“Sure am,” I fire back, and she giggles. The wine has made her adventurous and heightened her sense of humor. Me? Well, I have no damn excuse for this ridiculous grin on my face.
“I need to take a shower; I’m standing here with come all over me.” I step put of my boxers.
“Me, too,” she says. “Not the part about being covered with . . . you know, but I’m pretty messy and in need of a shower, too.”
“Okay . . . so I guess we should get off . . .”
“Ha ha,” I tease. But then I rush out my “Have a good night, Tessa.”
“You, too,” she says, lingering on the line, and I end the call before she can.
Hot water cascades down my body. I still haven’t fully recovered from her touching herself while we were on the phone. It’s not only a huge fucking turn-on; it’s . . . more than that. It shows that she still trusts me, she still trusts me enough to expose herself to me. Lost in my thoughts, I push the hard bar of soap across my tattooed skin. It’s hard to imagine that only two weeks ago, we stood in this shower together . . .
“I think this one is my favorite.” She touched a tattoo and peered up at me through wet lashes.
“Why is that? I hate that one.” I glanced down at her small fingers trailing over the large flower etched near my elbow.
“I don’t know; it’s sort of beautiful the way you have a flower surrounded by all of this darkness.” Her finger moved over the haunting design of a withered skull just below.
“I never thought of it that way.” I pressed my thumb under her chin to bring her eyes to mine. “You always see the light in me . . . How is that possible when there isn’t any?”
“I hope you’re right,” I whispered into the stream of water, so quietly that she didn’t hear me.
The memory haunts me, replaying as I try to wash it away. It’s not that I don’t want to remember her, because I do. Tessa is my every thought—she always is. It’s only the memories and times when she gave me too much praise, when she tried to convince me that I’m better than I really am, that drive me mad.
I wish I could see myself the way she sees me. I wish I could believe her when she says that I’m good for her. But how can that be true when I’m so fucked up?
It means a lot to me, Hardin, she said only minutes ago.
Maybe if I keep doing what I’m doing now and stay away from shit that could get me in trouble, I can continue to do things that mean a lot to her. I can make her happy instead of miserable, and maybe, just maybe, I could see some of the light in myself that she claims to see.
Maybe there is hope for us after all.
Chapter eighty-one
I can’t help the anxiety that fills me as I drive through the campus. The WCU Seattle campus is not as small as Ken had made it out to be, and all the roads in Seattle seem intent on curving and going up and down hills.
I prepared as best I could to ensure that everything would go as planned today. I left two hours early to be sure to make it to my first class on time. Half of that time was spent sitting in traffic, listening to talk radio. I’d never understood that whole fad until this morning, when a distraught woman called in and told the story of her best friend betraying her by sleeping with her husband. And the two of them running off together, taking her cat, Mazzy, with them. Through her tears, she held on to a certain amount of her dignity . . . Well, about as much as someone calling in to a radio station to relate her own tale of woe possibly could. I found myself sucked right into her dramatic story, and in the end I got the sense that even she knew she was better off without that guy.
By the time I stop by the administration building and retrieve my student identification card and parking pass, I have only thirty minutes before my class. My nerves are stretched to the limit, and I can’t shake my anxiety over possibly being late to my first class. Luckily, I find the student parking lot easily, and it’s near to where my class is, so I make it with fifteen minutes to spare.
As I take my seat in the front row, I can’t help but feel a sense of loneliness. There was no meeting Landon at the coffee shop before class, and he’s not in the seat next to mine now as I sit in this classroom remembering my first half year of college.
The classroom fills with students, and I begin to regret my decision when I notice that besides me and one other female, the entire class is guys. I thought I’d sandwich this course—which I didn’t really want to take—between some others this semester, but overall I just wish I hadn’t decided to take political science at all.
A handsome boy with light brown skin sits down in the empty chair next to me, and I try not to stare at him. His white button-up shirt is crisp and perfectly ironed at the seams, and he’s wearing a tie. He looks like a politician, bright white smile and all.
He notices me looking at him and grins. “Can I help you with something?” he asks, his voice full of both authority and charm.