Chapter 6: Changes
The phantom touch lingered on Tessa’s skin long after dawn bled through her blinds. She showered, the water scalding, trying to erase the feeling of his hand dipping beneath her waistband. It didn’t work. The memory was a stain. She went through her morning routine mechanically: coffee in the sterile communal kitchen, a blur of lecture notes in a sun-dappled hall, a lunch with Ariana where she picked at her salad and answered questions with a distracted hum. The world had a gauzy, unreal quality, as if she were moving through a film projected over the vivid, invasive truth of her dream.
“You’re quiet today,” Ariana observed, stabbing a cherry tomato.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Tessa replied, which wasn’t a lie.
By evening, the restlessness had become a physical itch under her skin. When Ariana suggested a party in Armery Woods, Tessa agreed too quickly, a desperate need to be somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t inside her own head.
The woods at night were a different creature. The gnarled oaks and maples, friendly by day, became snarled silhouettes against the indigo sky, their branches like cracks in a dome of twilight. The path was a tunnel of deeper darkness, their phone flashlights cutting weak cones through the damp, leafy air. The distant thump of bass guided them, a heartbeat leading them deeper into the forest’s throat. The smell of woodsmoke and spilled beer grew stronger, cutting through the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.
They broke into a clearing where a bonfire roared, sending sparks chasing the low-hanging branches. Shadows danced against the ring of trees, twisting the faces of the gathered students into grotesque, laughing masks. Cups glittered in hands, voices overlapped in a cacophonous buzz. And there, on a massive fallen log nearest the fire, was Hardin.
Molly was pressed against his side, her laughter sharp as she whispered something in his ear. His profile was etched in firelight, a smooth, impassive mask. He held a red cup loosely, nodding at something someone said, but his eyes were flat, distant. Tessa’s stomach tightened. She quickly looked away, her gaze scanning for a familiar anchor.
She found it in Landon, who waved from a log a safer distance from the blaze. Ariana pulled her over. “Saved you a spot,” Landon said, shifting to make room. He handed her a plastic cup. “It’s just soda. For now.”
“Thanks,” Tessa said, her voice feeling thin. She sat, the rough bark biting through her jeans. She took a sip, the sweetness cloying. Her eyes, against her will, dragged back to the fire.
Hardin was looking directly at her.
His gaze was a physical weight, cutting through the smoke and the chaos. The flatness was gone, replaced by an intense, unblinking focus that pinned her to the log. The roar of the party faded into a dull hum. For a stretched second, it was just that thread of awareness, taut and humming between them across the clearing. Heat flared up her neck. She broke the contact, looking down into her cup as if the answer to his stare lay in the dark liquid.
A ripple moved through the group near Hardin. Molly stood up, smoothing her skirt. She cast a long look at Hardin, who was now studiously ignoring everyone, before her eyes locked onto Tessa. A smile, all teeth, spread across her face. She weaved through the clusters of people with practiced grace.
“Well, hi,” Molly said, coming to a stop in front of Tessa. Her voice was sweet, syrup over broken glass. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She didn’t wait for a response. She simply moved past, selecting a log a few feet away, a deliberate placement that made her part of Tessa’s circle without being invited.
Molly arranged herself, drawing the attention of those nearby. “You know,” she announced, her voice lifting to carry, “it’s kinda dead. We should play a game.”
A few murmurs of agreement rose around her. Noah, standing nervously by the fire, nodded a little too eagerly.
Molly’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “Let’s play Suck and Blow.”
A collective laugh, mingled with groans, erupted.
But Molly was already explaining, her gaze sweeping over Tessa. “It’s simple. We pass a card around the circle—using only our mouths. You suck to hold it, blow to pass it. If you drop it, you kiss.” Her smile widened. “We’ll start… over here.” She pointed to a guy at the far end of her chosen log.
The game began amidst laughter and exaggerated difficulty. A queen of hearts was produced, its edges already damp. It moved from mouth to mouth, a fluttering, clumsy progress. Someone dropped it and the crowd whooped. Tessa watched, her muscles tense. The card was getting closer, a damp paper virus traveling on a wave of cheap beer breath.
The damp cardboard taste of the card reached the guy next to her, a lanky student named Zed she vaguely recognized from the library. He sucked on it with exaggerated effort, his cheeks hollowing, then turned his head toward Tessa. His eyes, glazed with drink, held a mean sparkle. Instead of leaning in for her to suck it away, he puckered his lips and blew.
The Queen of Hearts fluttered, landing sticky-side down on Tessa’s thigh.
A few people laughed. Zed grinned, sloppy and triumphant. “Guess we know what that means,” he said, leaning into her space. His breath smelled like whiskey and rot.
Hardin was watching. Tessa saw it in her periphery. He’d gone preternaturally still on his log, the fire casting jumping shadows across the rigid line of his shoulders. His fists were clenched on his knees, the knuckles pale islands in the dark ink of his tattoos. His jaw was a hard knot, a muscle ticking near his ear.
“She said no.” Ariana whispered, giving Tessa’s arm a supportive squeeze.
“relax, it’s just a game.” Zed leaned in.
But Tessa was frozen, staring at the card on her jeans. The laughter around her sounded distant, warped. She reached a numb hand to pick it up.
Hardin moved.
It wasn’t a walk; it was a violent, fluid uncoiling. He crossed the clearing in five long strides, the crowd parting for him instinctively. He didn’t say a word. His hand shot out, shoving Zed hard in the center of the chest. The force sent Zed sprawling off the log onto the bed of damp leaves with a heavy thump.
Before Zed could even process the fall, Hardin was on him.
He dropped his knees onto Zed’s torso, a move born of pure street instinct, and drove a fist into his face. The sound was a sickening, wet crack. The party’s noise died, replaced by gasps and a single scream. Zed bucked, managed to flip them, and landed a wild, solid punch to Hardin’s cheekbone.
Landon was already there, his frame muscling between the thrashing bodies. He hooked his arms under Zed’s shoulders and hauled him back, pinning his arms. “Enough! Jesus, enough!”
Hardin staggered to his feet. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. A thin line of blood was already seeping from the corner of his split lip, black in the firelight. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, smearing it across his skin. His eyes, wild and dark, found Tessa’s across the chaos.
He stared at her. The fury in his gaze was naked, but beneath it was something else—a desperate, fractured pain that made her breath catch. Everyone was yelling his name, a discordant chorus of shock and alarm.
He turned his back on all of them.
He just walked away, disappearing into the tangled blackness of the woods without a backward glance. The crackling fire and the stunned silence of the crowd were all that was left.
The walk back to the dorm was a silent, cold blur. Ariana talked, her voice a nervous stream of words about the madness, the violence, asking if Tessa was okay. Tessa just nodded, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her thigh still felt the phantom wet spot where the card had landed. Her mind replayed the crack of fist on bone on a loop.
Back in their room, Ariana crashed quickly, exhaustion from the adrenaline dump pulling her under. Tessa lay stiffly in her bed, staring at the same ceiling cracks she’d traced after her dream.
But this was no dream. She saw the absolute stillness that had possessed Hardin before he’d exploded. She felt the terrifying intensity of his final look—accusatory, possessive, utterly lost.
She replayed the push, the sickening punch, the way Landon had pulled Zed away. She replayed the calm, predatory walk into the dark. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the blood on his lip, a vivid red against his pale skin. Her body thrummed with a leftover, jangling energy, part fear, part something else she couldn’t name.
The quiet of the room was absolute. Ariana’s soft breathing only emphasized the noise in Tessa’s own head—a chaotic roar of cracking branches, fire pop, and that silent, searing stare. She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket over her head, but it didn’t help. The darkness behind her eyelids was just a screen for the film to play again.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand, a frantic buzzing against the wood. She fumbled for it, the screen’s blue light harsh in the pitch-black room. LANDON, it read. The clock glowed 2:17 AM.
“Hello?” she whispered, her voice raspy from disuse.
“Tessa? It’s Landon.” His voice was tight, strained. “I’m sorry to call so late. Can you come over? To my dad’s place. It’s… it’s Hardin.”
A cold clarity washed over her, sharpening the edges of the night. “Is he hurt?”
“Just… can you come? Please.”
“I’m on my way.”
The drive was a tunnel of amber streetlights and her own shallow breath. She replayed Landon’s tense tone, the unspoken chaos humming through the line. She parked on the quiet, tree-lined street and walked up to the modern house, its windows mostly dark. The front door was unlocked.
She pushed it open and stepped into the foyer. The silence was heavy, wrong. Then she smelled it—the sharp, peaty scent of spilled whiskey.
She moved toward the kitchen light spilling into the hall. The scene stopped her in the doorway. A wooden chair lay on its side on the tile floor, one leg splintered. A crystal vase was shattered on the table, a pool of water and mangled lilies spreading around the shards. Landon stood with his back to the sink, shoulders slumped.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Hey,” he said, his voice hollow. “Thanks for coming.”
Tessa’s eyes scanned the wreckage again. “What happened?”
Landon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “He just… lost it. He got back here, already in a state. It started about his father, some phone call. He was raging. Then…” Landon looked at her, his brown eyes full of a weary apology. “Then your name came up. He just slammed the chair down and threw the vase. He won’t talk to me. He’s just shut down. I figured… maybe he’d talk to you.”
A shiver traced Tessa’s spine. “Where is he?”
Landon nodded toward the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. “Outside.”
The night air was cool and damp, a contrast to the charged ruin of the kitchen. Submerged lights gave the swimming pool a ghostly, blue-green glow. Hardin sat at the very edge, his feet dangling over the water, still wearing the same clothes from the woods.
In his right hand was a half-full glass of amber liquid. An open bottle of whiskey sat on the concrete beside him. He was perfectly still, staring into the vibrating, liquid light of the pool.
She walked closer, her footsteps silent on the wet concrete. The water reflected rippling lines across his face and the prominent bruise now blooming on his cheekbone from Zed’s punch. The cut on his lip was a dark, swollen line.
He didn’t move as she approached, but his shoulders tensed, a slight tightening of the muscles under his thin shirt. The only sound was the low hum of the pool filter and the distant, mournful cry of a train.
Her shoe scuffed on the wet concrete.
Hardin heard her and looked up. Seeing Tessa, his gaze softened, the defensive storm in his blue eyes momentarily stilling. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice roughened by smoke and shouting.
She stopped a few feet away, hugging herself against the chill. “I was worried about you.”
He looked down at the glass in his hand, then back up at her, a bitter twist on his mouth. The bruise on his cheek was a deep, ugly purple in the sub-aquatic light.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” she said, nodding at the glass.
Hardin lifted it, watching the liquid swirl. “I don’t,” he said. His eyes found hers again, hollow. “I didn’t. But what does it matter?”
Tessa glanced back toward the house, the lighted kitchen window framing the unseen wreckage. “You made a real mess in there.” She looked back at him, searching for the boy who’d laughed over stolen chips.
“I was celebrating,” he said, the words flat and heavy. He looked away, out over the black water. “Didn’t you hear? Dear old dad is getting married.”
The statement hung in the damp air. He took a slow sip, his throat working as he swallowed.
“You should see the poor dump my mum lives in back in London,” he added, almost to himself. He drank the rest of the glass in one go, wincing as the alcohol burned the cut on his lip.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Tessa asked, her voice firmer than she felt.
Hardin’s expression closed. He leaned forward, grabbed the nearly full whiskey bottle from the concrete by its neck, and held it up. He looked at her, his eyes challenging, bleak. Then he opened his hand.
The bottle dropped, shattering on the hard edge of the pool coping. Glass and amber liquid exploded, some skittering into the water, most pooling at their feet in a dangerous, glittering constellation. The sharp, sour smell intensified. Tessa took a quick step back, her heart jolting.
Hardin stared down at his empty hands, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He seemed stunned by his own action.
Without thinking, Tessa moved. She bent down, carefully avoiding the largest puddles, and began picking up the bigger, safer-looking shards of glass.
“Don’t,” Hardin said, his voice cracking. He started to stand up. “I can get it.”
“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” she said, her fingers closing around a large piece. A searing, white-hot line of pain shot across her fingertip. She gasped, snatching her hand back. A dark bead of blood welled instantly from a clean slice along her index finger.
He was there in an instant. He dropped to his knees in front of her, the glass crunching under his jeans. He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm but not hard, and pulled her hand into the light. He examined the cut, his brow furrowed. The anger was gone, replaced by a frantic, hyper-focused clarity.
Tessa looked at him, at his bent head, the mess of his brown hair, the startling tenderness of his thumb stroking the unhurt skin of her wrist. He looked up at her.
His eyes were a chaotic sea of regret, fear, and a desperate, unasked question. The pool lights wavered in them.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and rough. He stood, pulling her gently to her feet, his hand not letting go of hers.
He led her inside, his grip on her hand unyielding but careful, avoiding her injured finger. The kitchen was a silent testament to his rage, the shattered vase glinting like ice in the overhead light. He didn’t pause, walking them straight down the hall to the bathroom.
He flicked the switch, the bright light harsh after the dark poolside. Still holding her wrist, he turned on the tap with his free hand, testing the water with his fingers. He adjusted the temperature, his movements deliberate. He soaked a clean washcloth under the stream, wringing it out until it was just damp, neither too cold nor too hot.
Without a word, he guided her back down the hall, past the wreckage, to a closed door. He pushed it open. His room was dark, walls lined with bookshelves, clothes strewn across a chair. It smelled like him—cigarette smoke, old paper, and something earthy. He nudged her toward the edge of the unmade bed.
"Sit," he said, his voice low.
She sat. The mattress dipped under her weight. He sat beside her, the space between them charged but fragile. Gently, he took her hand again, his touch surprisingly soft. He pressed the warm, damp cloth against the cut on her finger. The sting was immediate, then faded into a dull throb.
She watched his bowed head, the intense focus he gave to this small task. His thumb brushed her knuckle, a slow, absent rhythm. He looked up at her, the ocean blue of his eyes stormy with remorse.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words rough, like they’d been dragged over gravel. "For how I treated you. At the café. After."
Tessa looked away, her gaze landing on a stack of poetry books beside his bed. "If you were embarrassed to be seen with me back there, and that's how you feel—"
"That's not how I felt." His interruption was sharp, immediate. His fingers tightened slightly around hers, not hurting, but insisting. "Look at me."
She dragged her eyes back to his. The defiance she expected wasn't there. Just a raw, unsettling honesty.
"I'm a mess," he whispered, the admission leaving him like a breath he’d been holding for years.
The fight left her shoulders. She saw the boy from the lake, the one who’d laughed over stolen chips, buried under the anger and the shattered glass. "I think that we're both a mess," she said softly.
A faint, pained smile touched his bruised mouth. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up, a question held in the silence between them. The air grew thick, humming with the things they weren't saying. She saw his gaze flicker, the dark centers of his eyes widening.
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
She leaned in, too, closing the space. Their lips met, a tentative press at first, testing. The warmth of the cloth was forgotten. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. The kiss deepened, tasting of whiskey and copper and something desperately sweet. It was nothing like the frantic, watery kiss in the lake. This was slow, searching, an apology and a question all in one.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching hers. He didn't smile. He just looked, as if memorizing her face in this exact light. Then he kissed her again, and this time, there was no hesitation at all.