“No. It’s about the same,” I say.

“Oh.”

I rinse my hair one last time and give a little prayer that the shower water will rehydrate me out of a hangover.

“I didn’t mean to take advantage of you, I swear it,” he says as I turn the shower off. I grab a towel off of the small rack and wrap it around me. He is leaning in the doorway in only his boxers, his chest and neck littered with red spots of his own.

I’m never drinking again.

“Tessa, I know you’re probably angry, but we have a lot to talk about.”

“No, we don’t. I was drunk and called you. You came here, and we had sex. What else is there to talk about?” I’m trying to stay as calm as I can. I don’t want him to know the effect that he has on me. That last night had on me.

Then I notice the raw skin on his knuckles. “What happened to your hands?” I ask. “Oh my God, Hardin—you beat Trevor up, didn’t you!” I yell, then wince from the shooting pain in my head.

“What? No, I didn’t.” He raises his hands in defense.

“Then who?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. We have more important things to talk about.”

“No, we don’t. Nothing has changed.” I open my makeup bag and pull out the concealer. I begin applying it to my neck generously while Hardin stands behind me silently.

“This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have even called you,” I finally say, annoyed when the third layer of concealer doesn’t cover the spot.

“It wasn’t a mistake, you obviously missed me. That’s why you called.”

“What? No, I called because . . . because it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re lying.”

He knows me too well. “You know what? It doesn’t matter why I called,” I snap. “You didn’t have to come here.” I grab the eyeliner and begin applying it, thick.

“Yes, I did. You were drunk and God knows what could have happened.”

“Oh, like what? I could have slept with someone who I shouldn’t have?”

His cheeks flare. I know I am being harsh, but he should have known better than to sleep with me when I was so drunk. I rake my hairbrush through my wet hair.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, if you remember,” he says equally harshly.

I remember, I remember climbing onto his lap and grinding myself against him. I remember demanding he have sex with me or leave. I remember him telling me no and to stop. I’m humiliated and horrified at my behavior, but maybe worst of all, I am reminded of the first time I kissed him and he claimed I’d thrown myself at him.

Anger boils inside me and I throw my brush against the counter with a loud clatter. “Don’t you dare try to blame this all on me, you could have said no!” I shout.

“I did! Repeatedly!” he shouts back.

“I had no idea what was going on, and you know it!” I half lie. I knew what I wanted; I’m just not willing to admit it.

But he begins repeating my dirty words from last night—“?‘You just taste so good!’?” “?‘Talk to me like you used to!’?” “?‘You’re the only one, Hardin!’?”—and it pushes me over the edge.

“Get out! Get out now!” I yell and go grab my phone to check the time.

“You weren’t telling me to get out last night,” he says cruelly.

I turn to face him. “I was doing just fine before you even came here. Trevor was here,” I say, because I know how mad it will make him.

But he surprises me by laughing. “Oh, please, you and I both know Trevor isn’t enough for you. You wanted me, only me. You still do,” he scoffs.

“I was drunk, Hardin! Why would I want you when I can have him?” I instantly regret the words.

Hardin’s eyes flash with either pain or jealousy, and I take a step toward him.

“Don’t,” he says, holding his arm out. “You know what—that’s fine. He can fucking have you! I don’t even know why I came here. I should have known you would act like this!”

I try to keep my voice down before someone calls in a complaint, but I’m not sure I’m able to pull that off. “Are you kidding me? You come here and take advantage of me and have the nerve to insult me?”

“Take advantage of you? You took advantage of me, Tessa! You know that I can’t say no to you—and you kept pushing and pushing!”

I know he’s right, but now I’m pissed off and humiliated by my aggressive behavior last night. “It doesn’t matter who took advantage of who—all that matters is that you are leaving and not coming around me again,” I say with finality, then turn the blow dryer on to muffle his comeback. Within seconds, he’s ripped the blow-dryer cord—and nearly the outlet—from the wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell and plug it back in. “You could have broken that!”

Hardin’s so infuriating—what the hell was I thinking, calling him?

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me about all of this,” he huffs.

Ignoring the pain in my chest, I tell him, “I already told you, we have nothing to talk about. You hurt me, and I can’t forgive you. End of story.” As much as I try to fight it, deep down I love having him here. Even if we’re fighting and yelling at each other, I’ve missed him so much.

“You haven’t even tried to forgive me,” he says, his voice much softer.