Chapter 24: He’s is just like your father
Tessa parked on the curb and started walking up to the door. “Nice wheels,” a voice yelled.
Tessa turned around. “Nate. Hi.” She said, giving him a quick hug. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” he said. He kept hugging her, his arms tight around her shoulders.
“Okay,” she laughed, patting his back. He pulled back, his hands lingering on her arms. He was still Nate—same easy grin.
“Your mom told me that you were coming home today, so I figured I’d come greet you,” he said.
“Did she have you on speed dial the second I crossed the county line?” she said, pulling her keys from her bag.
“I mean, can you blame her? She knows a good thing when she sees it,” he said, winking.
She laughed, a dry, polite sound. “Right. How’s senior year?”
“Oh, you know me. Breaking hearts and taking names,” he joked, leaning against the porch rail.
“Oh, that’s you,” she said, smiling despite herself. The normalcy of him was a shallow comfort.
“Your mom told me about the internship. That’s really awesome.”
“Thank you,” Tessa replied, fitting the key into the lock. The metal was cold.
“And everything cool with the whole thing with your dad?” Nate said casually, picking at a splinter on the rail.
Tessa’s hand froze. She turned her head slowly. “What whole thing with my dad?”
Nate’s eyes went wide. He straightened up. “What? Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” She took a step toward him, the keys jangling in her unsteady hand. The morning’s fragile peace shattered.
“I don’t know, I thought that she would’ve—” He was cut off by his phone ringing, a shrill pop song that was horribly out of place. He looked at the screen. His face paled.
‘Carol’ lit up the display.
Tessa grabbed his phone. The plastic case was slick in her grip. “Are you kidding me? Why is she calling you?”
“I’m sorry, Tessa.”
She moved back two steps, her thumb jamming the green answer button.
Her mom’s voice, tinny and rushed, spilled out. “Sorry I got stuck at work—is she there yet?”
“Mom,” Tessa said, the word flat and hard.
“Carol, she knows!” Nate yelled toward the phone, wincing.
“Knows what?” Tessa demanded. Her free hand clenched into a fist at her side.
“Oh, Tessa’s with you. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Carol’s tone shifted into something light and falsely casual.
“What is going on with Dad?” Tessa’s voice was low, a controlled tremor running beneath it.
“Okay, that was rude.” Her mother’s defensiveness was instantaneous.
“I’m not—” Tessa breathed out, a sharp exhale that fogged in the cold air. “I’m just asking you about Dad.”
“Fine. Your father wanted to see you, but I chased him off. Why are you getting so worked up about it?”
“I’m not. I’m not getting worked up. I just don’t understand why you’d keep that a secret.” Tessa’s knuckles were white around the phone.
“And you never kept any secrets from me? Because I can think of a big one.” Carol deflected, her voice gaining an edge.
“I thought we got past this little hiccup once you got your heart broken.” Carol’s words were deliberate, surgical. “But I can tell by the sound of your voice that is not the case. This boy is not good for you, Tessa. He is just like your father.”
The comparison was a physical blow. Tessa saw Hardin’s face that morning—the raw, unguarded agony as he came apart. She heard the scratch of his pen, felt the ghost of his kiss on the porch.
“I’m hanging up,” Tessa said, her voice suddenly dead.
“No—” her mother began.
“This was a mistake.” The silence that followed was absolute and ringing.
She shoved the phone back into Nate’s chest. He fumbled to catch it. “I blew it,” he muttered, staring at Carol’s name on the screen. “I don’t know what happened.”
She turned and walked to her car, each step mechanical. The driver’s seat was still warm from her brief sit.
She started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Nate stood on the sidewalk, growing smaller in the mirror until he vanished.
The drive back was a blur of streaking asphalt and her own chaotic thoughts. Her mother’s words echoed, mixing with the memory of Hardin’s hands, his whispered pleas in the dark. The two men blurring into one terrible archetype in her mother’s narrative.
She parked haphazardly outside their building, the tires kissing the curb. She got out, pulling her suitcase from the back seat. The wheels clacked over the pavement.
She looked up, and he was there. Hardin was standing just outside the main doors, as if he’d been waiting in the same spot since she left. He was still in the black long-sleeve shirt and black jeans, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
He watched her, his ocean blue eyes tracking her every movement. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just waited, a dark silhouette against the grey brick.
Tessa’s suitcase wheel caught on a crack in the pavement, the jolt traveling up her arm. She didn’t break stride.
She walked faster, the distance dissolving until she stopped the suitcase just in front of him. She dropped the handle. It clattered to the concrete.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to bury her face in the space between his shoulder and jaw. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her tight against him, lifting her just an inch off the ground. They stood like that for a long minute, saying nothing. His hand moved in slow, steady circles on her shoulder blade, his fingers pressing into the tension she carried there.
“You okay,” he finally murmured into her hair, the word more breath than sound.
She nodded against his neck, her own breath hitching once. He set her down gently. He picked up her suitcase without a word, his other hand finding the small of her back. They headed up to their apartment.
The silence inside was a different quality, thick but not heavy. He locked the door behind them, the deadbolt sliding home with a definitive thunk. He leaned the suitcase against the wall.
“Do you want tea?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
“No.” She watched him stop, his back to her. “I just want to not think.”
He turned, his ocean eyes scanning her face. He nodded once. He went to the their room, sat, and held out a hand.
She took it. He pulled her down beside him, arranging her so her back was against his chest, his arms around her. They didn’t speak. He just held her, his chin resting on her head, watching the afternoon light fade through the window.
Later, in the deep well of night, Hardin lay in bed fast asleep. The dream hit him with the force of a physical blow.
He is small. The house is dark and full of wrong sounds. He hears a noise, a thump and a muffled cry. He wakes up. “Mommy?”
He goes downstairs with a flashlight, the beam shaking. The living room is a chaos of overturned shadows. His mom is on the floor. A guy has his hand over her mouth, the other on top of her, grabbing her wrist as she tries to fight them off.
She slips away from the guy’s hand. “Hardin! Get back upstairs now!” she yells, her voice raw with terror.
A man stands behind Hardin, grabbing his shoulders. The grip is iron, cold.
Hardin woke up breathing heavily, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat. He was sitting bolt upright against the headboard, the sheets tangled around his legs. He tried to breathe, but his lungs were sealed shut, the air whistling in a tight, useless trickle.
“Hey. Hey, hey.” Tessa was awake instantly, her voice sleep-rough with alarm.
She put her hand on his chest. He was shaking violently, each tremor rattling the headboard against the wall. His skin was slick with cold sweat.
She grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. His breathing was a series of heavy, desperate gasps, his eyes wide and unseeing, locked on some horror in the middle distance.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, her own fear making her voice thin. She searched his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Look at me. Just breathe. It’s okay.”
He blinked, a slow, shuddering movement. His gaze swam, then focused on her. The panicked rhythm of his chest began to stutter, the gasps lengthening into ragged draws of air. A tremor still ran through him, a live wire under his skin.
“It’s okay,” she whispered again, holding his gaze in the dark.
His hand came to her head, then down to her shoulder, his breathing still a ragged, unsteady rhythm against her palm. “It’s just a nightmare,” she said, her own voice steadier now, her hand moving to the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape.
He breathed out, a long, shuddering release that seemed to drain the tension from his shoulders. Tessa leaned in, kissing him softly. He kissed her back, his lips chapped and desperate, clinging to the anchor of her.
She laid down, pulling him down with her, guiding his head to rest against her chest. His ear pressed over her heartbeat. She rubbed patterns into his shoulder with her thumb, small, slow circles over the cotton of his shirt. His breathing deepened, syncing with hers, as they dozed off.
Tessa opened the door quietly the next morning, looking back at Hardin sleeping. The late sunlight cut across the bed, illuminating the dust motes and the peaceful, heavy line of his shoulder under the blanket.
Trish looked up at the noise, a cup of coffee in her hands. “Morning,” she said softly from the couch.
Tessa walked into the kitchen. “There’s tea, help yourself,” Trish said, pointing over to the coffee table near the couch.
“Thanks,” Tessa said, walking over to fix a cup. The apartment was still, holding its breath.
“Is he okay?” Trish asked, walking over. She kept her voice low, glancing toward the bedroom door.
“Hmm?” Tessa said, turning around with the tea bag in hand.
“The nightmares. I heard them last night,” Trish says, looking into the room where Hardin was sleeping in the bed. Her face was etched with a familiar, weary concern.
Tessa sat down on the couch, cradling the steaming mug. “Oh. He’s sleeping now,” she said, blowing gently on the surface of the tea. She looked at Trish. “How long have they been going on?”
Trish looked at her. She sat on the couch, the springs groaning softly. “Uhh, ever since he was eight.” She paused, her fingers tightening around her mug. “Um, he, uh, well—” she said, trying to find the right words.
“He told me,” Tessa cut her off, her voice quiet but firm.
Trish looked at her, her eyes widening slightly. A complex wave of relief and sorrow passed over her features. She placed her mug on the coffee table with a soft click. The sound seemed to anchor her.
“About that night and what he saw,” Tessa said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The assault.”
Trish shook her head, taking in a sharp, unsteady breath. “He’s never told anyone that before.” She looked at Tessa, her eyes searching the younger woman’s face. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”
Trish looked up, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I just hoped he’d forget the whole thing, but the nightmares kicked in.” She wiped a tear that escaped down her cheek with the back of her hand. “Sorry. I took him to therapist after therapist, but nothing seemed to help.”
Tessa listened, her own tea forgotten, cooling between her palms.
“And then he started self-medicating with alcohol—” She wiped another tear, her composure cracking. “—but he told me that the nightmares went away when he started seeing you.”
Tessa smiled, a small, sad thing, and looked toward the bedroom where he was sleeping. “I didn’t know that,” she said, looking back at Trish.
Trish smiled back, a fragile expression. She looked at Tessa with a maternal curiosity that felt both gentle and probing. “May I ask, why does your mom hate him so much?”
Tessa’s gaze dropped to her mug. “Umm, Hardin’s your son,” she deflected, tracing the rim with her thumb.
“Yes, and I love him, but he is not without his challenges,” Trish said, her tone achingly honest. She didn’t let the deflection stand.
Tessa looked down, studying the swirling patterns in the tea leaves. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.
“You can tell me what happened between you two,” Trish said softly, her voice an invitation, not a demand.
Tessa breathed in, looking up. She met Trish’s patient gaze. The words felt lodged in her throat, she opened her mouth, then closed it. The image of Hardin last night—vulnerable, shaking, clinging to her heartbeat. She thought of the poetry he’d read to her, the careful way he’d cleaned her skin with a warm cloth. Then she thought of the bet. The cruel, calculated words he’d admitted to in a moment of spite. The two versions of him warred behind her eyes.
She breathed in. “He lied to me.”
Trish looked at her, her expression softening into one of weary understanding. “A big lie?” she says.
“A massive lie.” Tessa says, the words tasting like ash.
Trish looked at her, not with judgment, but with a deep, maternal curiosity. “Is he sorry?”
“He is.” Tessa says, nodding slowly. The truth of it settled in her bones.
Hardin woke up looking to see his mom and Tessa looking at each other from across the couch. “What’re you two gabbing on about?” he says, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, bringing his knees to his chest, the blanket pooling around his waist.
“Make sure you brush your teeth.” Trish says, a playful glint returning to her eyes.
He got up, heading to the bathroom with a grumble. The door clicked shut.
She laughs. “He used to give me such a hard time about brushing his teeth.” Trish says, standing up and stretching. The floorboard creaked under her weight.
“Mom, for the love of God, of course I’m gonna brush my teeth.” He called from behind the closed door, the sound of the faucet running.
Trish moved to the kitchen, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. She grabbed a cup, handing it to him as he emerged, his hair sticking up in chaotic waves. “Morning.” she says.
“Morning,” he says, taking the mug. His fingers brushed hers.
She pulled him down, kissing his cheek. He tolerated it for a second before pulling back. Trish headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Hardin walked to the couch, his movements loose with sleep.
“I love your mom,” Tessa says, watching him.
Hardin stops, putting his coffee down next to hers on the small table. The mugs clinked together. “She’s alright.” He says it like a reflex, but his eyes followed the closed bathroom door with a fondness he couldn’t hide.
He grabs something from his pocket, leaning behind her chair, his arm on the back of it. His scent—sleep and soap and him—enveloped her. He places it on the table between their coffees.
“Happy belated.” He says.
His face was carefully neutral, but his eyes were watching hers intently. “But you already got me a gift.” She says.
“True,” he concedes, a small smirk playing on his lips. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But you had to snoop around and open it without me, thus denying me the pleasure of watching you react to said gift.”
She picked up the card, the thick paper cool under her fingertips. She opened it, her eyes scanning the handwritten words inside. “Tessa’s perfect day,” she read aloud, her voice soft in the quiet room.
Love, H was scrawled at the bottom in his sharp script.
“What’s my perfect day?” she asked, looking up at him. A faint smile touched her lips.
“Well, that’s for you to decide.” He leaned a little lower, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm. “Whatever your wish or desire, I will agree without any snide remarks or tantrums.”
She smiled, closing the card with a soft snap. She held it against her chest.
“Your time starts in three, two, one,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her, a soft peck that tasted of coffee and promise.
The ice rink was a bubble of cold, bright noise in the middle of the city. The air smelled of frozen water and popcorn. Blades scraped and echoed under the high, vaulted ceiling.
They laced up their rentals in the crowded warmth of the benches. Hardin’s skates were a size too small. He scowled at the frayed laces, his long fingers fumbling with them.
“You good?” Tessa asked, already standing, gliding a little on the rubber mat.
“Peachy,” he muttered, yanking a knot tight.
He stood up, his legs immediately unsure. The world tilted on the thin blades. He grabbed the barrier for support, the metal vibrating under his grip.
Tessa took his hand, her grip firm and sure. “Just lean on me.”
They stepped onto the ice. A jolt of unstable terror shot up Hardin’s spine. His ankles wobbled violently. He clenched her hand like a lifeline.
They pushed off, Tessa smooth and steady, Hardin a study in rigid, precarious motion. They held hands, their linked fingers the only anchor he had.
“Isn’t this nice?” she said, a laugh in her voice. “I’ve always wanted to go ice skating.”
“Yeah, it’s great, I’m loving—” He was cut off as his left blade skidded out from under him.
He landed on the ice with a solid, bone-jarring thud. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He groaned, a low, pained sound.
“Are you okay?” Tessa was beside him instantly, crouching down. Her blue eyes were wide with concern.
“Yeah. Just a tad rusty.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the cold seeping through his jeans.
“Well, when was the last time you skated?” she asked, offering a hand.
He looked at her hand, then her face. His pride warred with the blunt truth. He sighed, the vapor clouding in the chill air. “I’ve never skated before.” He admitted it, half-expecting her to laugh.
Tessa’s gaze drifted over his shoulder. A little girl, no more than four, whizzed past them on bright pink skates. She was pushing a plastic walker shaped like a penguin for balance.
Tessa looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. “Do you want me to get you a walker?”
He followed her gaze. His expression flattened. “Fuck no.”
She helped him up. He tried to stand, grabbing her shoulders for balance and nearly pulling them both down again. His fingers dug into her coat.
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice steadying him. She planted her feet, acting as his pillar.
He steadied himself, his face a mask of intense concentration. His jaw was clenched.
“Are you okay?” she asked again, softer now.
“Yep,” he grunted, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall. He willed his legs to stop trembling.
They began to move again, slower this time. He moved with the stiff, careful grace of a newborn giraffe. Every shift of his weight was a calculated risk.
“Do you wanna stop?” she asked, watching him struggle.
“No, we’re here to have—” He was cut off again, his feet shooting out from under him. He landed hard on his backside, the impact a loud, wet smack against the ice.
She gasped, looking down at him sprawled on the polished surface. “Hardin, I have a better idea.” Her smile was a mixture of pity and genuine amusement.
He just groaned, staring up at the fluorescent lights.
The yoga studio smelled of sandalwood and warm bodies. Hardin looked around, his expression flat. He was the only guy there.
He looked forward. Just in front of him was Tessa on a purple mat. She rolled her shoulders back, completely at ease in her loose tank top and leggings.
The instructor’s voice was a calm drone. “And for our last pose, forward fold.” Everyone bent at the waist, arching their backs.
Hardin looked at Tessa as she folded over, the fabric of her pants stretching. “Did anyone ever tell you, you have the most amazing bum,” he said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet room.
“Stop,” she laughed, her voice muffled from between her knees.
The instructor clapped her hands once. “Wonderful. Now, please find a partner for our next sequence.”
Tessa straightened up, glancing at Hardin with wide eyes. She leaned toward the instructor. “Sorry, is this beginners yoga?”
“No,” the instructor said brightly. “That was at ten-thirty. This is acro yoga.”
Tessa shot Hardin a panicked look. He just shrugged, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Everyone in the room quickly paired off.
Hardin and Tessa watched the people next to them. A woman lay flat on her back, her feet pointed straight up. Another woman placed her feet on the first’s stomach, then was lifted smoothly into the air, her body forming a straight line.
“We are not doing that,” Tessa whispered.
“We’re doing something,” he murmured back.
The instructor guided them to start back-to-back, their hands interlocked behind them. They leaned against each other, relying on the mutual counterbalance. Hardin crunched forward slightly, testing the limit.
Tessa smiled, feeling his strength solid against her spine. It was a precarious, trusting geometry.
“Now, the base will lift and turn the flyer,” the instructor called out.
Before Tessa could process it, Hardin’s hands tightened on hers. In one fluid, surprisingly graceful motion, he lifted and turned her around to face him, her feet coming off the ground just for a second.
He set her down gently, his hands going to her waist. He tickled her side, his fingers finding the sensitive spot just above her hip bone.
She yelped, then laughed, a full, unguarded sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. She swatted at his hands, but he held on, his laughter mixing with hers.
His ocean eyes were clear, the storm from last night nowhere to be seen. For a moment, they were just two people laughing in a sunlit room, the complicated weight of their past locked outside the door.
She caught her breath, her hands resting on his forearms. His own laughter subsided into a warm, quiet smile that transformed his face. The simple joy of it felt foreign and necessary, a stitch pulling a tear closed.