“No, I like everything you do,” I say softly.
“Yeah, I know, but is there something you’ve thought about doing before that we haven’t done?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t be embarrassed, baby—everyone has fantasies.”
“I don’t.” At least, I don’t think I do. I haven’t had any experience outside of Hardin, and I don’t know of anything else besides what we’ve done.
“You do,” he says with a smile. “We just have to find them.”
My stomach flutters, and I don’t know what to say.
But then my father’s voice breaks our conversation. “Tessie?” My first thought is that I’m relieved that his voice sounds like it’s coming from the living room and not the hallway.
Hardin and I both stand.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say.
He nods with a wicked grin and heads into the living room to join my father.
When I get into the bathroom, Hardin’s phone is sitting on the edge of the sink.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I immediately go to the call log, but it doesn’t show. All the calls have been cleared. Not a single one is shown on the screen. I try again, and then look at the text-message screen.
Nothing. He’s deleted everything.
Chapter seventeen
TESSA
Hardin and my father are both seated at the kitchen table when I emerge from the bathroom, Hardin’s phone in hand.
“I’m wilting away here, babe,” Hardin says when I reach them.
My father looks over sheepishly. “I could eat . . .” he begins, like he’s unsure.
I place my hands on the top of Hardin’s chair and he leans his head back, his damp hair touching my fingers. “Then I suggest you make yourself something to eat,” I say and place his phone in front of him.
He looks up at me with a completely neutral expression. “Okay . . .” he says and gets up and goes to the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I have my leftovers from Applebee’s.”
“Are you upset with me about taking him drinking today?” my father asks.
I look over at him and soften my tone. I could tell what my dad was like when I invited him in. “I’m not upset, but I don’t want it to become a regular thing.”
“It won’t. Besides, you’re moving,” he reminds me, and I look across the table at the man I’ve only known for two days now.
I don’t reply. Instead I join Hardin at the fridge and pull the freezer door open.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask him.
He looks at me with wary eyes, clearly trying to assess my mood. “Just some chicken or something . . . or we can order some takeout?”
I sigh. “Let’s just order something.” I don’t mean to be short with him, but my mind is whirling with possibilities of what was on his phone that he felt needed to be deleted.
Once ordering food becomes the plan, Hardin and my father begin bickering over Chinese or pizza. Hardin wants pizza, and he wins the argument by reminding my father who will be paying for it. For his part, my father doesn’t seem offended by Hardin’s digs. He just laughs or flips him off.
It’s a strange sight, really, to watch the two of them. After my father left, I would often daydream about him when I saw my friends with their fathers. I had created a vision of a man who resembled the man I grew up with, only older, and definitely not a homeless drunk. I had always thought of him carrying an attaché case stuffed with important documents, walking to his car in the morning, coffee mug in hand. I didn’t imagine he’d still be drinking, that he’d be ravaged by it like he’s been, and that he’d be without a place to live. I can’t picture my mother and this man being able to hold a conversation, let alone spending years married to each other.
“How did you and my mother meet?” I say, suddenly voicing my thoughts.
“In high school,” he answers.
Hardin grabs his phone and leaves the room to order the pizza. Either that or to call someone and then quickly delete the call log.
I sit at the kitchen table across from my father. “How long were you dating before you got married?” I ask.
“Only about two years. We got married young.”
I feel uncomfortable asking these questions, but I know I wouldn’t have any luck getting the answers from my mother. “Why?”
“You and your mom never talked about this?” he asks.
“No; we never talked about you. If I even tried to bring the subject up, she shut down,” I tell him, and watch his features transform from interest to shame.
“Oh.”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“No, I get it. I don’t blame her.” He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Hardin strolls back into the kitchen and sits down next to me. “To answer your question, we got married young because she got pregnant with you, and your grandparents hated me and tried to keep her away from me. So we got hitched.” He smiles, enjoying the memory.
“You got married to spite my grandparents?” I ask with a smile.
My grandparents, may they rest in peace, were a little . . . intense. Very intense. My childhood memories of them include being shushed at the dinner table for laughing and being told to take my shoes off before walking on their carpet. For birthdays, they would send an impersonal card with a ten-year savings bond inside—not an ideal gift for an eight-year-old.