Chapter 103 (1/2)

Hardin doesn’t respond but stands up and walks past me. I came here to yell at him for being such an idiot and tell him how I feel, and he’s making it very hard—I knew he would.

“Where are you going?” I ask, following him like a lost puppy.

“Home. Well, I’m going to call Emma and see if she will come back and pick me up.”

“She left you here?” I don’t like her at all.

“No. Well, technically, but I told her to.”

“Let me take you,” I say and grab his jacket. He shrugs me off, and I want to slap him. My anger is returning and I am more pissed-off than before. The tables have turned; our . . . whatever this is has shifted. I am usually the one running from him.

“Stop walking away from me!” I yell and he turns around, eyes blazing. “I said let me take you home!” I scream.

He almost smiles but frowns instead and sighs. “Fine. Where’s your car?”

HARDIN’S SCENT IMMEDIATELY fills the car, only now there is a hint of metal mixed in; it’s still my favorite smell in the entire world. I turn the heat on and rub my arms to warm up.

“Why did you come here?” he asks as I pull out of the parking lot.

“To find you.” I try to remember everything I had planned to say, but my mind is blank and all I can think about is kissing his busted mouth.

“For what reason?” he asks quietly.

“To talk to you, we have so much to talk about.” I feel like crying and laughing at the same time and I have no idea why.

“I thought you said we didn’t have anything to talk about,” he says and turns to look out the window with a coolness I suddenly find beyond irritating.

“Do you love me?” The words come out rushed and strangled. I had not planned on saying them.

His head snaps to the side to look at me. “What?” His tone is one of shock.

“Do you?” I repeat, worrying that my heart might pop right out of my chest.

He focuses forward. “You are not seriously asking me this while we are driving down the street.”

“What does it matter where or when I am asking, just tell me,” I practically beg.

“I . . . I don’t know . . . No, I don’t.” He looks around, almost like he needs to escape. “And you can’t just ask someone if they love you when they are trapped in a car with you—what the hell is wrong with you?” he says loudly.

Ouch. “Okay,” is all I can manage to say.

“Why do you even want to know?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I’m confused now, so confused, and my plan to talk out our problems has crashed and burned in front of me, along with any dignity I still held.

“Tell me why you asked me that, now,” he demands.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shout back.