Chapter 15 (1/2)

I’m so lost in the world of Catherine and Heathcliff that when the door opens, I don’t hear it.

“What part of ‘No One Comes Into My Room’ did you not understand?” Hardin booms. His angry expression scares me, but somehow humors me at the same time.

“S-sorry. I . . .”

“Get out,” he spits, and I glare at him. The vodka is still fresh in my system, too fresh to let Hardin yell at me.

“You don’t have to be such a jerk!” My voice comes out much louder than I had intended.

“You’re in my room, again, after I told you not to be. So get out!” he yells, stepping closer to me.

And with Hardin looming in front of me, mad, seething with scorn and making it seem like I’m the worst person on earth to him, something inside me snaps. Any composure I had snaps in half, and I ask the question that’s been at the front of my brain without my wanting to acknowledge it.

“Why don’t you like me?” I demand, staring up at him.

It’s a fair question, but, to be honest, I don’t really think my already wounded ego can take the answer.

Chapter seventeen

Hardin glares at me. It’s aggressive. But unsure. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I don’t know . . . because I have been nothing but nice to you, and you’ve been nothing but rude to me.” And then I add, “And here I actually thought at one point we could be friends,” which sounds so stupid that I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers while I wait for his answer.

“Us? Friends?” He laughs and throws up his hands. “Isn’t it obvious why we can’t be friends?”

“Not to me.”

“Well, for starters you’re too uptight—you probably grew up in some perfect little model home that looks like every other house on the block. Your parents probably bought you everything you ever asked for, and you never had to want for anything. With your stupid pleated skirts, I mean, honestly, who dresses like that at eighteen?”

My mouth falls open. “You know nothing about me, you condescending jerk! My life is nothing like that! My alcoholic dad left us when I was ten, and my mother worked her ass off to make sure I could go to college. I got my own job as soon I turned sixteen to help with bills, and I happen to like my clothes—sorry if I don’t dress like a slut like all the girls around you! For someone who tries too hard to stand out and be different, you sure are judgmental about people who are different from you!” I scream and feel the tears well up in my eyes.

I turn around so he won’t get to remember me like this, and I notice that he’s balling his fists. Like he gets to be angry about this.

“You know what, I don’t want to be friends with you anyway, Hardin,” I tell him and reach for the door handle. The vodka, which had made me brave, is also making me feel the sadness of this situation, of our yelling.