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“I knew it.” He’s trying not to cry, but failing. I cringe and look away from the tears on his cheeks. “I knew. How could I not have? You looked just like him, and as each year passed, your mum would cry a little harder, she would sneak off with him a little more. I knew. I didn’t want to admit it because you were all that I had. I didn’t have your mum; I never really did. Since I met her, she was his. You were all I had, and as I allowed my anger to take over, I ruined that, too.” He stops to catch his breath, and I sit in confused silence. “You would have been better off with him, I know you would have been, but I loved you—I still love you as if you are my own flesh—and I can only hope that you will let me stay in your life.”
He’s still crying; too many tears roll down his face, and I find myself feeling for him. Some of the weight on my chest has lifted, and I can feel years of anger dissolving inside me. I don’t know what this feeling is; it’s strong and it’s freeing. By the time he looks up at me, I don’t even feel like myself. I’m not myself—that’s the only explanation for why my arms are touching his shoulders and wrapping around his back to comfort him.
As I do so, I feel him shake, and then he really begins sobbing with his whole body.
Chapter forty-seven
TESSA
The drive was just about as terrible as I had anticipated. The road never seemed to want to end; each yellow line was one of his smiles, one of his scowls. Every endless line of traffic seemed to be mocking every mistake I’ve ever made, and each car on the road was yet another stranger, another person with his or her own problems. I felt alone, too alone, in my small car as I drove farther and farther from where I wanted to be.
Am I foolish to even fight this? Could I possibly be strong enough to fight the current this time? Do I even want to?
What are the chances that this one time, out of what feels like hundreds of times, will be so different? Is he just using the words I’ve always wanted to hear out of desperation because he knows how detached I’ve become?
My head feels like a two-thousand-page novel full of deep thoughts, mindless chatter, and a bunch of crap questions that I don’t know the answers to.
When I’d pulled up in front of Kimberly and Christian’s house only minutes ago, the tension in my shoulders was nearly unbearable. I could literally feel the muscles underneath my skin tightening to the point of snapping, and as I stand in the living room now, waiting for Kimberly to come down, that tension only continues to grow.
Smith descends the stairs and crinkles his nose in disgust. “She said she will be down when she’s done rubbing my dad’s leg.”
I can’t help but laugh at the dimpled little boy. “Okay. Thank you.” He didn’t say a word when he opened the door for me minutes ago. He just looked me up and down and waved me inside with a small smile. I was impressed by the smile, small or not.
He sits down on the edge of the couch without a word. He focuses on a gadget in his hand while I focus on him. Hardin’s little brother. It’s such a weird idea that this adorable little boy who seems to dislike me for some reason has been Hardin’s biological brother all along. It makes sense in a way; he was always so curious about Hardin and seemed to enjoy his company when most people don’t.
He turns, catching me staring at him. “Where’s your Hardin?”
Your Hardin. It feels like every single time he asks that question, my Hardin is far away. Farther than ever, this time. “He’s—”
Then Kimberly enters the room, barreling toward me with outstretched arms. Of course she would be wearing heels and makeup. I suppose the outside world is still revolving even though mine has stopped.
“Tessa!” she screeches, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and squeezing so tight that I let out a cough. “Gah! It’s been too long!” She squeezes one more time before pulling back and dragging me by the arm into the kitchen.
“How is everything?” I ask and climb up on the same stool I always seem to find myself on.
She stands in front of the breakfast bar and runs her hands through her shoulder-length, blond hair, pulling it back and tying it into a messy bun on top of her head. “Well, we all survived that damned trip to London.” She grimaces, and I do the same. “Barely, but we did.”
“How is Mr. Vance’s leg?”
“Mr. Vance?” She laughs. “No, you’re not reverting to that because of all that weirdness. I’d say you can go ahead and say Christian, or Vance. His leg is healing; luckily the fire mostly caught his clothes, not skin.” A frown takes over her face, and a shiver rakes her shoulders.
“Is he in trouble? Legal trouble?” I ask, trying not to be pushy.
“Not really. He fabricated a story about a group of punks who broke in there and vandalized the house before burning it. It’s now an arson case with no leads.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She brushes her hands on her dress and looks back to me. “How are you, though, Tessa? I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. I should have called you more—I’ve just been busy and trying to figure all this out.” Kimberly reaches across the granite and places her hand over mine. “Though that’s not really a good excuse . . .”
“No, no. Don’t apologize. You’ve had so much going on, and I haven’t been the best company anyway. If you had called, I might not have even been able to answer it—I’ve been going out of my mind, literally.” I try to laugh, but even I catch how false and dry the awkward noise comes out.
