After We Fell (After 3)

She slowly shakes her head from side to side. I know she was expecting me to give in to her, to agree that Hardin and I could never work. She was wrong.

“You cannot give me that type of ultimatum.”

“Yes, I can. I need as much support as possible, and I am beyond exhausted with battling against the world.”

“If you feel as if you’re battling alone, perhaps it’s time to change sides.” She raises an accusatory brow at me. I stand again.

“I’m not battling alone, stop doing that. Stop it,” I hiss. I’m trying my best to be patient with her, but my resolve is wearing as thin, as this night is long.

“I’m never going to like him,” my mother says, and I know she means every word.

“You don’t have to like him, but you won’t be spreading our business to anyone else, including my father. That was incredibly wrong of you to tell him about the bet, and not in the least justified.”

“Your father had the right to know what he has caused.”

She doesn’t get it! She still doesn’t understand. My head is going to explode any moment; I can feel the pressure building in my neck. “Hardin is trying his hardest for me, but until now he’s never known any better,” I tell her.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look at me.

“That’s it, then? You’re going to take the second option?” I ask.

She stares at me, silent, the wheels of her mind turning and turning behind her heavily shaded eyes. She has no color left in her cheeks, despite the rosy blush she clearly swept across her cheekbones before she arrived. At last she mutters, “I’ll try to respect your relationship. I will try.”

“Thank you,” I say, but really I don’t know what to make of this . . . truce with my mother. I’m not naive enough to believe what she’s promised until she proves it, but it still feels pretty good to have one of the heavy stones lifted from my back.

“What will you do about your father?” We both stand; she towers over me in her four-inch heels.

“I don’t know.” I’ve been too distracted by the topic of Hardin to focus on my father.

“You should make him leave; he has no business being here clouding your mind and filling it with lies.”

“He’s done no such thing,” I fire back. Every time I believe we’ve made any type of progress, she uses her sharp heel to kick me back down.

“He has! He has strangers showing up here, shaking him down for money! Hardin told me all of it.”

Why would he do that? I understand his concern, but my mother hasn’t helped the situation one bit. “I’m not going to kick him out. This isn’t my place, and he has nowhere else to go.”

My mother’s eyes close, and she shakes her head at me for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. “You have to stop trying to fix people, Theresa. You will spend your entire life doing it, but then you’ll have nothing left of yourself, even if you succeed in changing them.”

“Tessa?” Hardin’s voice calls from outside the bedroom. He opens the door before I respond, and his eyes immediately scan my face for signs of distress.

“You okay?” he asks, ignoring my mother’s presence completely.

“Yeah.” I gravitate toward him but avoid throwing my arms around him, for my mother’s sake. The poor woman has already been dragged through twenty years of memories.

“I was just leaving.” My mother runs her palms down her dress, stopping at the hem and then repeating the action, a frown settling on her face.

“Good,” Hardin rudely remarks, quick to protect me.

I look up at him, my eyes pleading with him for silence. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t say another word as my mother strides by us and marches down the hall. The obnoxious clicking of her heels sends me into a full migraine.

I take his hand and follow in silence. My father attempts to speak to my mother, but she brushes him off.

“You didn’t wear a coat?” he unexpectedly asks her.

Just as puzzled as I am, she mumbles “no” and turns to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow . . . Answer this time?” It’s a question instead of a demand, which is some sort of progress.

“Yes.” I nod.

She doesn’t say goodbye. I knew she wouldn’t.

“That woman drives me flippin’ crazy!” my father shouts when the door closes, his hands flying into the air in exasperation.

“We’re going to bed. If anyone else knocks at the damn door, don’t answer it,” Hardin grumbles and leads me back to the bedroom.

I’m beyond exhausted. I can barely stand on my feet.

“What did she say?” Hardin lifts his sweatshirt over his head and tosses it at me. I detect a flicker of uncertainty as he waits for me to collect it from the floor.

Despite the greasy butter and blood smeared on the black fabric, I gladly remove my own shirt, along with my bra, and pull it over my head. I breathe in the familiar scent of him, which aides in calming my nerves. “More than she’s said in my entire life,” I admit. My mind is still reeling.

“Did any of it change your mind?” He looks at me, panic and fear filling his eyes. I get the feeling my father must have had a similar talk with him, and wonder if my father holds the same grudge against my mother as she holds against him or if he admits that he’s to blame for the turmoil in both of their lives.

“No.” I pull my loose pants down my legs and place them on the chair.

“You’re sure? Aren’t you worried that we’re repeating their—” Hardin begins.