“Stare much?”
I jump slightly at Hardin’s words. In turn, I’m granted a smirk and a warm hand wrapped around mine.
Just then, Kimberly rushes through the living room and into the foyer, followed by Smith, calling, “Wait! Smith wants to ask you something.” She looks down at her soon-to-be stepson with a loving smile. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
The blond boy looks directly at Hardin. “Can you take a picture for my school thing?”
“What?” Hardin’s face slightly pales, and he looks at me. I know how he feels about being photographed.
“It’s sort of a collage he’s doing. He said he wants your picture, too,” Kimberly tells Hardin, and I look over to him, pleading with him not to deny the boy who clearly idolizes him.
“Um, sure?” Hardin shifts on his heels and looks at Smith. “Can Tessa be in the picture, too?”
Smith shrugs. “I guess so.”
I smile at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Hardin shoots me a he-likes-me-more-than-you-and-I don’t-even-have-to-try look, and I discreetly elbow him as we walk into the living room. I pull the beanie from my head and use the band on my wrist to pull my hair back for the picture. Hardin’s beauty is so unforced and natural; all he has to do is stand there with his uncomfortable frown on his face, and he looks perfect.
“I’ll take it quickly,” Kimberly says.
Hardin moves closer to me and lazily hooks his arm around my waist. I give my best smile while he attempts to smile without showing his teeth. I nudge him, and his smile brightens just in time for Kimberly to take the shot.
“Thank you.” I can see that she’s genuinely pleased.
“Let’s go,” Hardin says, and I nod, giving Smith a small wave before following Hardin through the foyer to the front door.
“That was so nice of you,” I tell him.
“Whatever.” He smiles and covers my mouth with his. I hear the small click of a camera and pull away from him to find Kimberly with the camera again held to her face. Hardin turns his head to hide in my hair, and she takes another shot.
“Enough, shit.” He groans and drags me out the door. “What is with this family and their videos and pictures,” he rambles on, and I close the heavy door behind me.
“Videos?” I ask.
“Never mind.”
The cold air whips around us, and I quickly put my hair down and pull my hat back over my head.
“We’ll take your car and get an oil change first,” Hardin says over the howling wind. I dig into the front pockets of my coat to retrieve my keys to give to him, but he shakes his head and dangles his key chain in front of my face. It’s now furnished with one key bearing a familiar green band.
“You didn’t take your key back when you left all your gifts,” he says.
“Oh . . .” My mind fills with the memory of leaving my most precious possessions in a pile on the bed we once shared. “I’d like those things back soon, if that’s okay.”
Hardin climbs into the car without another glance my way, mumbling over his shoulder, “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Once we’re inside the car, Hardin turns the heat all the way up and reaches across to grab my hand. He rests both of our hands on my thigh, and his fingers trace a thoughtful pattern over my wrist, where the bracelet would normally rest.
“I hate that you left it there . . . It should be here.” He presses against the base of my wrist.
“I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. I miss that bracelet every day; my e-reader, too. I want the letter he wrote me back as well. I want to be able to read it over and over.
“Maybe you can bring them when you come back next weekend?” I ask, hopeful.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, but his eyes stay focused on the road.
“Why are we getting an oil change, anyway?” I ask him. We finally make it out of the long driveway and turn onto the residential road.
“You need one.” He gestures toward the small sticker on the windshield.
“Okay . . .”
“What?” He glowers at me.
“Nothing. It’s just an odd thing to do, to take someone’s car to get an oil change.”
“I’ve been the only one taking your car for an oil change for months; why would it surprise you now?”
He’s right; he’s always the one to take my care for any type of maintenance it may need, and sometimes I suspect he’s being paranoid and has things fixed or replaced that don’t need to be.
“I don’t know. I guess I forget that we were a normal couple sometimes,” I admit, fidgeting in my seat.
“Explain.”
“It’s hard to remember the small, normal things like oil changes or the time you let me braid your hair.” I smile at the memory. “When we always seem to be going through some sort of crisis.”
“First of all . . .”—he smirks—“don’t ever mention that hair-braiding fiasco again. You know damned well that the only reason I let that happen was because you bribed me with head and cookies.” He gently squeezes my thigh, and a rush of heat flares under my skin. “Second, I guess you’re right in a way. It would be nice if your memories of me weren’t tainted by my constant habit of fucking everything up.”
“It’s not only you; we both made mistakes,” I correct him. Hardin’s mistakes usually caused much more damage than mine, but I’m not innocent either. We need to stop blaming ourselves or each other and try to reach some sort of middle ground—together. That can’t happen if Hardin continues to beat himself up over every mistake he’s made in the past. He has to find a way to forgive himself . . . so he can move on and be the person I know he really wants to be.