Chapter 71 (1/2)

I know it’s probably too late for this, especially now that you know all of the fucked-up shit I’ve done. I can only pray that you will love me the same after reading this. If not, that’s okay. I will understand. I know you can do better than me. I’m not romantic, I won’t ever write you poetry or sing you a song.

I’m not even kind.

I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again, but I can swear that I will love you until the day that I die. I’m a terrible person, and I don’t deserve you, but I hope that you will allow me the chance to restore your faith in me. I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you, and I understand if you can’t forgive me.

Sorry. This letter wasn’t supposed to be this long. I guess I’ve fucked up more than I thought.

I love you. Always.

Hardin.

I SIT AND STARE at the paper in a daze, then reread it twice. I had no idea what I expected, but this was not it. How can he say he isn’t romantic? The charm bracelet on my wrist and this beautiful, somewhat disturbing, but mostly beautiful letter shows otherwise. He even used the first paragraph of Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth.

Now that he’s bared himself to me, I can’t help but love him more. He has done a lot of things that I would never do, terrible things that hurt many people—but the thing that matters most to me is that he doesn’t do them anymore. He hasn’t always done the right thing, but I can’t ignore all the effort he’s made to show me that he’s changing, trying to change. That he loves me. I hate to admit it, but there is a sort of poetry to him never caring for anyone except me.

I stare at the letter a little longer until there is a knock at the bedroom door. Folding the sheet up, I put it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I don’t want Hardin to try to make me throw it away or tear it up now that I’ve read it.

“Come in,” I say and walk over to the door to meet him.

He opens the door, already staring at the ground. “Did you . . .”

“I did . . .” I reach up and lift his chin to look at me, the way he usually does to me.

His bloodshot eyes are so wide and sad. “It was stupid . . . I knew I shouldn’t have . . .” he begins.

“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t stupid at all.” I move my hand from under his chin, but he keeps his red eyes on mine. “Hardin, it was everything that I’ve been wanting you to say to me for so long.”

“I’m sorry that I took so long, and that I wrote it down . . . It was just easier. I’m not good at saying things.” The red of his weary eyes is beautiful against the vibrant green of his irises.

“I know you aren’t.”

“Did you . . . should we talk about it? Do you need more time, now that you know how fucked up I truly am?” He frowns and looks at the floor again.

“You aren’t. You were . . . You’ve done a lot of things . . . bad things, Hardin.” He nods in agreement; I can’t stand to see him feel so bad about himself, even with his history. “But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You’ve done bad things, but you aren’t a bad person anymore.”

He looks up. “What?”