Chapter 19 (1/2)

By the time I reach my dorm, my legs and feet hurt and I actually sigh in relief as I turn the knob.

But then I nearly have a heart attack at the sight of Hardin sitting on my bed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I half scream when I finally regain my composure.

“Where were you?” he asks calmly. “I drove around trying to find you for almost two hours.”

What? “What? Why?” As in, if he was going to do that, why didn’t he just offer to take me home earlier? More importantly, why didn’t I ask him to as soon as I found out he hadn’t been drinking?

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be walking around at night, alone.”

And because I can no longer read his expressions, and because Steph is who-knows-where and I’m alone here with him, the person who seems to be the real danger to me, all I can do is laugh. It’s a wild laugh, ragged and not really me. And it’s definitely not because I find this funny, but because I’m too drained to do anything else.

Hardin furrows his brows, frowning at me, which only makes me laugh harder.

“Get out, Hardin—just get out!”

Hardin looks at me and runs his hands through his hair. Which is at least something; in the little time that I have known this frustrating man that is Hardin Scott, I have learned that he does that when he is either stressed or uncomfortable. Right now I hope it’s both.

“Theresa, I’m—” he begins, but his words are cut off by a terrible pounding on the door, and screaming: “Theresa! Theresa Young, you open this door!”

My mother. It’s my mother. At 6 a.m., when a boy is in my room.

Immediately I spring into action, as I always do when faced with her anger. “Oh my God, Hardin, get in the closet,” I whisper-hiss and grab his arm, yanking him up off the bed and surprising us both with my strength.

He looks down at me, amused. “I am not hiding in the closet. You’re eighteen.”

He says it—and I know he’s right—but he doesn’t know my mother. I groan in frustration and she pounds again. The defiance with which his arms are crossed over his chest tells me I’m not moving him, so I check the mirror, wiping at the bags under my eyes, and grab my toothpaste, smearing a little on my tongue to conceal the smell of vodka even beyond my coffee breath. Maybe all three scents will confuse her nose or something.

I’m all ready with a pleasant face and greeting on my lips when I open the door, but it’s then that I see my mother hasn’t come alone. Noah is standing at her side—of course he is. She looks furious. And he looks . . . concerned? Hurt?

“Hey. What are you guys doing here?” I say to them, but my mother pushes by me and goes straight for Hardin. Noah slips silently into the room, letting her take the lead.