“Look how that’s turning out,” he says cynically.

“You were literally just apologizing for lashing out at me two minutes ago, and now you’re threatening to end our relationship if I go to Seattle without you?” I gape while he nods slowly. “So let me get this straight: you offered to marry me if I don’t go, but if I do go, you’re breaking up with me?” I wasn’t prepared to bring up his offer, but I couldn’t stop the words from coming.

“Marry you?” His mouth falls open and his eyes narrow. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it. “What—”

“You said that if I chose you, you’d marry me. I know you were drunk, but I thought maybe—”

“You thought what? That I would marry you?” As he speaks these words, all of the air in the car disappears, and breathing proves harder and harder as the seconds pass in silence.

I will not cry in front of this boy. “No, I knew you wouldn’t, I just—”

“Then why bring it up? You know how drunk I was and desperate for you to stay—I would have said anything.”

My heart sinks at his words, at the scorn in his voice. Like he’s blaming me for believing the bullshit that comes out of his mouth. I knew insulting me would be his reaction, but a small part of me—the part that still had faith in his love for me—led me to believe that maybe he meant his proposal.

This is déjà vu. I once sat here, in this car seat, while he mocked me and laughed at me for thinking we would begin a relationship. The fact that I’m just as hurt now, actually a lot more hurt than I was then, makes me want to scream.

I don’t, though. I sit there, quiet and embarrassed, just like I always do when Hardin does what he always does.

“I love you. I love you more than anything, Tessa, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, okay?”

“Well, you’re doing an amazing job,” I snap and bite down on the inside of my cheek. “I’m going inside.”

He sighs and opens his car door at the same time as I open mine. Going around to the back, he opens the trunk. I’d offer to help him carry the bags, but I really don’t feel like interacting with him, and he’d just insist on doing it himself anyway. Because more than anything, Hardin wants to be an island.

We walk through the complex in silence, and the only noise in the elevator is the whir of the machinery pulling us upward.

When we get to our place, Hardin puts his key in the lock, then asks me, “Did you forget to lock the door?”

At first I don’t realize what he’s asked, but then I recover and reply, “No, you locked it. I remember.” I watched him lock the door before we left; I remember how he rolled his eyes and made a joke about me taking too long to get ready.

“That’s weird,” he says, and steps inside. His eyes scan the room like he’s searching for something.

“Do you think—” I start.

“Someone was in here,” he answers, becoming instantly alert as he presses his mouth into a hard line.

I begin to panic. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look like anything is missing.” I walk toward the hallway but he quickly pulls me back.

“Don’t go in there until I look around,” he commands.

I want to tell him to stay put, that I will check, but it’s silly, really: the idea of me protecting him, when in reality he’d be the one protecting me. I nod, and a chill creeps down my spine. What if someone really is inside? Who would come into our apartment when we aren’t here and not steal the giant flat-screen television I can still see hanging on the wall in the living room?

Hardin disappears into our bedroom, and I hold my breath until I hear his voice again.

“It’s clear.” He reappears from the bedroom, and I let out a deep breath.

“Are you sure someone was here?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why they didn’t take anything . . .”

“Me either.” My eyes scan the room, and I notice the difference. The small stack of books on the nightstand next to Hardin’s side of the bed has been moved. I especially remember the highlighted book I gave him being on top, because it made me smile knowing that he was reading it over again.

“It was your fucking dad!” he suddenly shouts.

“What?” If I’m honest, the thought was already planted in my mind, but I didn’t want to be the one say it.

“It had to be him! Who else would know we were gone and come into our home but not steal shit? Only him, that stupid, drunk motherfucker!”

“Hardin!”

“Call him, right now,” he demands.

I reach for my phone in my back pocket but then freeze. “He doesn’t have a phone.”

Hardin throws his hands up like it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard. “Oh yeah, of course not. He’s fucking broke and homeless.”

“Stop it,” I say with a glare. “Just because you think it may have been him doesn’t mean you can say things like that in front of me!”

“Fine.” He lowers his arms and makes a sweeping gesture to escort me out. “Let’s go find him, then.”

I walk over to our landline. “No! We should just call the police and report it, not go on a manhunt for my father.”

“Call the police and say what? That your drug-addict father broke into our apartment but didn’t steal anything?”

I stop in my tracks and turn to face him. I can practically feel my temper flaring through my eyes. “Drug addict?”

He blinks rapidly and takes a step toward me. “I meant drunk . . .” He doesn’t look at me. He’s lying.

“Tell me why you said drug addict,” I demand.

He shakes his head, running his hands over his hair. He looks at me, then down at the floor. “It’s just an assumption, okay?”

“And why would you assume that?” My eyes burn and my throat aches at the thought. Hardin and his brilliant assumptions.

“I don’t know, maybe because that guy who showed up to pick him up looked like your everyday meth addict.” He looks up at me with softness in his eyes. “Did you see the guy’s arms?”

I remember the man scratching his forearms, but he was wearing long sleeves. “My father is not a drug addict . . .” I say slowly, unsure if I believe the words that are coming out of my mouth, but knowing that I’m not ready to face the possibility.

“You don’t even know him. I wasn’t even going to say anything.” He steps toward me again, but I back away.

My bottom lip trembles, and I can’t look at him any longer. “You don’t know him either. And if you weren’t going to say anything, then why did you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

My headache has now intensified, and I’m so exhausted that I feel like I could pass out at any moment. “What was the point of saying it, then?”

“I said it because it just came out, and he broke into our fucking apartment.”

“You don’t know that.” He wouldn’t. Would he?

“Fine, Tessa, you go ahead and pretend that your dad—who, may I remind you, is a drunk—is perfectly innocent here.”

His nerve is outstanding, as always. He is calling my father out for drinking? Hardin Scott is calling someone out for their drinking, when he gets so drunk that he can barely remember anything the next day?

“You’re a drunk, too!” I say and then instantly cover my mouth.

“What did you say?” Any trace of sympathy drops from his face. He eyes me like a predator, starts circling me.

I feel bad, but I can see he’s just trying to scare me into staying quiet. He’s so unaware of himself and how he is. “If you think about it, you are. You only drink when you’re upset or angry; you don’t know when to stop drinking; and you’re a mean drunk. You break things and get into fights—”

“I’m not a fucking drunk. I had stopped drinking altogether until you came along.”

“You can’t blame me for everything, Hardin.” I ignore the way my mind is reminding me that I, too, have been turning to wine when I’m upset or angry.

“I’m not blaming you for the drinking, Tessa,” he says pretty loudly.

“Two more days and neither of us will have to worry about any of this!” I stalk out into the living room, and he follows.