“Your father had the right to know what he has caused.”

She doesn’t get it! She still doesn’t understand. My head is going to explode any moment; I can feel the pressure building in my neck. “Hardin is trying his hardest for me, but until now he’s never known any better,” I tell her.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look at me.

“That’s it, then? You’re going to take the second option?” I ask.

She stares at me, silent, the wheels of her mind turning and turning behind her heavily shaded eyes. She has no color left in her cheeks, despite the rosy blush she clearly swept across her cheekbones before she arrived. At last she mutters, “I’ll try to respect your relationship. I will try.”

“Thank you,” I say, but really I don’t know what to make of this . . . truce with my mother. I’m not naive enough to believe what she’s promised until she proves it, but it still feels pretty good to have one of the heavy stones lifted from my back.

“What will you do about your father?” We both stand; she towers over me in her four-inch heels.

“I don’t know.” I’ve been too distracted by the topic of Hardin to focus on my father.

“You should make him leave; he has no business being here clouding your mind and filling it with lies.”

“He’s done no such thing,” I fire back. Every time I believe we’ve made any type of progress, she uses her sharp heel to kick me back down.

“He has! He has strangers showing up here, shaking him down for money! Hardin told me all of it.”

Why would he do that? I understand his concern, but my mother hasn’t helped the situation one bit. “I’m not going to kick him out. This isn’t my place, and he has nowhere else to go.”

My mother’s eyes close, and she shakes her head at me for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. “You have to stop trying to fix people, Theresa. You will spend your entire life doing it, but then you’ll have nothing left of yourself, even if you succeed in changing them.”

“Tessa?” Hardin’s voice calls from outside the bedroom. He opens the door before I respond, and his eyes immediately scan my face for signs of distress.

“You okay?” he asks, ignoring my mother’s presence completely.

“Yeah.” I gravitate toward him but avoid throwing my arms around him, for my mother’s sake. The poor woman has already been dragged through twenty years of memories.

“I was just leaving.” My mother runs her palms down her dress, stopping at the hem and then repeating the action, a frown settling on her face.

“Good,” Hardin rudely remarks, quick to protect me.

I look up at him, my eyes pleading with him for silence. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t say another word as my mother strides by us and marches down the hall. The obnoxious clicking of her heels sends me into a full migraine.

I take his hand and follow in silence. My father attempts to speak to my mother, but she brushes him off.

“You didn’t wear a coat?” he unexpectedly asks her.

Just as puzzled as I am, she mumbles “no” and turns to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow . . . Answer this time?” It’s a question instead of a demand, which is some sort of progress.

“Yes.” I nod.

She doesn’t say goodbye. I knew she wouldn’t.

“That woman drives me flippin’ crazy!” my father shouts when the door closes, his hands flying into the air in exasperation.

“We’re going to bed. If anyone else knocks at the damn door, don’t answer it,” Hardin grumbles and leads me back to the bedroom.

I’m beyond exhausted. I can barely stand on my feet.

“What did she say?” Hardin lifts his sweatshirt over his head and tosses it at me. I detect a flicker of uncertainty as he waits for me to collect it from the floor.

Despite the greasy butter and blood smeared on the black fabric, I gladly remove my own shirt, along with my bra, and pull it over my head. I breathe in the familiar scent of him, which aides in calming my nerves. “More than she’s said in my entire life,” I admit. My mind is still reeling.

“Did any of it change your mind?” He looks at me, panic and fear filling his eyes. I get the feeling my father must have had a similar talk with him, and wonder if my father holds the same grudge against my mother as she holds against him or if he admits that he’s to blame for the turmoil in both of their lives.

“No.” I pull my loose pants down my legs and place them on the chair.

“You’re sure? Aren’t you worried that we’re repeating their—” Hardin begins.

“No, we are not. We’re nothing like them.” I stop him. I don’t want anyone else getting into his head, not tonight.

Hardin doesn’t look convinced, but I force myself not to focus on that right now.

“What do you want me to do about your dad? Kick him out?” he asks. He moves to sit on the bed with his back against the headboard while I grab his dirty jeans and socks from the floor. Hardin’s arms lift to rest behind his head, fully displaying his toned, inked body.

“No, don’t kick him out. Please.” I crawl into bed, and he pulls me onto his lap.

“I won’t,” he assures me. “Not tonight, at least.” I look up for a smile, but there isn’t one.

“I’m so confused,” I groan into his chest.

“I can help with that.” He lifts his pelvis, and l’m forced forward, using my palms to steady myself against his exposed chest.

I roll my eyes. “Of course you can. Every problem looks like a nail when your first tool of choice is a hammer.”

He smiles wickedly. “Are you saying you need to get nailed?”

Before I can bemoan his bad joke, he takes my chin between his long, busted fingers, and I find myself shifting my hips, rubbing against him. I’m vaguely aware of my period; I know Hardin certainly doesn’t mind it.

“You need sleep, baby; it would be wrong to fuck you right now,” he says softly.

I shamelessly pout. “No, it wouldn’t,” I say and slide my palms down his stomach.

“Oh no, you don’t.” He stops me.

I need a distraction, and Hardin is the perfect fix. “You started it,” I whine. I sound desperate, because I am.

“I know, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll take you in the car tomorrow.” His fingers slip under the sweatshirt and begin to draw unknown shapes across my bare back. “And if you’re a good girl, I’ll even bend you over the desk at my father’s house, just the way you like,” he says into my ear.

My breathing hitches, and I playfully swat at him, and he laughs. His laugh is almost as distracting as sex would be. Almost.

“Besides, we don’t want to make a mess in here tonight, do we? With your father out there? He’ll probably see the blood on the sheets and assume I’ve killed you.” He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Do not start that,” I warn him. His cheesy menstrual jokes are not welcome right now.

“Ahh, baby, don’t be like that.” He pinches my behind, and I yelp, sliding further into his lap, “Go with the flow.” He grins.

“You’ve used that one before.” I smile back.

“Well, excuse me for not being original. I like to recycle my jokes about once a month.”

I groan and try to roll off him, but he stops me and nuzzles my neck.

“You’re disgusting,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m just an old bloody rag, I suppose.” He laughs and presses his lips to mine.

I roll my eyes. “Speaking of bloody rags, let me see your hand.” I reach behind my back and gently grab him by the wrist. His middle finger is the worst, a thick gash spreads from knuckle to knuckle. “You should get this looked at, if it doesn’t begin to heal tomorrow.”

“I’m fine.”

“This one, too.” I run the pad of my index finger over the mangled skin on his ring finger.

“Stop fussing, woman, go to sleep,” he grumbles.

I nod in agreement and drift off to the sound of him complaining about my father eating his Frosted Flakes again.