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To me, faith means believing in something other than yourself. I don’t believe that any two people can possibly hold the same view on faith, whether their only faith is religion-based or not. I do believe in something higher—I was raised that way. My mother and I went to church every single Sunday, and most Wednesdays, too. I don’t go to church now, which I probably should do, but I’m still deciding how I feel about my religious faith now that I’m an adult and no longer obliged to do what my mother expects me to do.
When I think about faith, my mind doesn’t automatically go to religion. It probably should, but it just doesn’t. It goes to him; everything does. He is my every thought. I’m not entirely sure if that’s a good thing, but that’s the way it is, and I have faith that it will work out for us in the end. Yes, he’s difficult and overprotective, sometimes even controlling . . . okay, he’s often controlling, but I have faith in him, that he means well, no matter how frustrating his actions. My relationship with him tests me in ways that I never thought imaginable, but every second is worth it. I truly believe that one day his deep fear of losing me will dissolve and we will embrace our future together; that’s all I want. I know he wants it, too, though he would never say so. I have so much faith in that man that I will take every single tear, every single pointless argument . . . I’ll take it all just to be around to see him on the day when he’s able to have faith in himself.
Meanwhile, I have faith that one day Hardin will say what he feels openly and honestly, finally putting an end to his self-imposed exile from feeling things and dealing with them in the way that he should. That one day he will finally see that he isn’t a villain. He tries so hard to be one, but deep down he’s really a hero. He’s been my hero, my tormentor at times, but mostly my hero. He saved me from myself. I spent my life pretending to be someone I wasn’t, and Hardin has shown me that it’s okay to be myself. I’m no longer conforming to my mother’s idea of who I am and who I’m supposed to be becoming, and I thank him dearly for helping me to get to this point. I believe that one day he will see how truly incredible he is. He’s so incredibly perfectly imperfect, and I love him so much for that.
He may not show the heroism inside him the conventional way, but he tries, and that’s all I can ask for. I have faith that if he continues to try, he will finally allow himself to be happy. I will continue to have faith in him until he has it in himself.
I close the book and pinch the bridge of my nose in an attempt to control my emotions. Tessa believes in me for no damn reason. I’ll never understand why she wasted her time on me in the first place, but reading her unedited thoughts this way twists the knife in my chest, pulls it out, and then impales me with its blade once more.
The realization that Tessa is just like me both frightens and thrills me at the same time. Knowing that everything in her world revolves . . . revolved around me makes me happy, even giddy, but when I’m reminded that I fucking blew it, the happiness disappears just as fast as it came. I owe it to her and to myself to be better. I owe it to her to try to let go of my anger.
Oddly enough, I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders since my awkward conversation with my father. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that all the ugly, hurtful memories are forgiven, or that we’ll suddenly become pals, watching sports together on TV and shit, but I do hate him less than I did before. I’m more like my father than I care to admit. I’ve tried to leave Tessa for her own good, but I have yet to be strong enough to do it. So, in a way, he’s stronger than me. He actually left and didn’t come back. If I had a child with Tessa, and I knew I would fuck up their lives, I would want to leave, too.
Fuck that. The thought of having a child makes me nauseous. I would be the worst possible father, and Tessa really would be better off on her own. I can’t even show her love the way that I should, let alone a child.
“Enough of that,” I say out loud and sigh, rising to my feet. I walk into the kitchen and open a cabinet. The half-empty bottle of vodka on the shelf is calling my name, begging me to open it.
I really am a fucking drunk. I’m hovering over the kitchen counter with a fucking bottle of vodka in my hands. I twist the cap off and bring the bottle to my lips. Just one drink will cause the guilt to go away. With one drink I can force myself to pretend Tessa will be home soon. It’s worked before to numb the pain, and it will work again. One drink.
Just as I close my eyes and tilt my head back, I can see Tessa’s teary eyes flashing behind mine. I open my eyes, turn on the sink faucet, and pour the vodka down the drain.
Chapter fifty-eight
TESSA
Mouths are opening. Lips are moving without sounds. And the music is bouncing off of the walls, rattling my mind.
How long have I been standing here? When did I walk into the kitchen? I don’t remember.
“Hey.” Dan slides in front of me, and I shudder a little where I’m leaning against the counter. His face is a little off-kilter; I stare harder, trying to bring him into focus.
“Hey . . .” My reply comes soooo slow.
He smiles. “Are you okay?”
I nod. I think I do. “I feel weird, sort of,” I admit and scan the room for Zed. I hope he comes back soon.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, like I feel . . . odd. Like drunk, but slower, but then I have this energy at the same time.” I wave my hand in front of my face . . . I have three hands.
Dan laughs. “You must have had a lot to drink.”
