I’m so lost in the world of Catherine and Heathcliff that when the door opens, I don’t hear it.

“What part of ‘No One Comes Into My Room’ did you not understand?” Hardin booms. His angry expression scares me, but somehow humors me at the same time.

“S-sorry. I . . .”

“Get out,” he spits, and I glare at him. The vodka is still fresh in my system, too fresh to let Hardin yell at me.

“You don’t have to be such a jerk!” My voice comes out much louder than I had intended.

“You’re in my room, again, after I told you not to be. So get out!” he yells, stepping closer to me.

And with Hardin looming in front of me, mad, seething with scorn and making it seem like I’m the worst person on earth to him, something inside me snaps. Any composure I had snaps in half, and I ask the question that’s been at the front of my brain without my wanting to acknowledge it.

“Why don’t you like me?” I demand, staring up at him.

It’s a fair question, but, to be honest, I don’t really think my already wounded ego can take the answer.

Chapter seventeen

Hardin glares at me. It’s aggressive. But unsure. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I don’t know . . . because I have been nothing but nice to you, and you’ve been nothing but rude to me.” And then I add, “And here I actually thought at one point we could be friends,” which sounds so stupid that I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers while I wait for his answer.

“Us? Friends?” He laughs and throws up his hands. “Isn’t it obvious why we can’t be friends?”

“Not to me.”

“Well, for starters you’re too uptight—you probably grew up in some perfect little model home that looks like every other house on the block. Your parents probably bought you everything you ever asked for, and you never had to want for anything. With your stupid pleated skirts, I mean, honestly, who dresses like that at eighteen?”

My mouth falls open. “You know nothing about me, you condescending jerk! My life is nothing like that! My alcoholic dad left us when I was ten, and my mother worked her ass off to make sure I could go to college. I got my own job as soon I turned sixteen to help with bills, and I happen to like my clothes—sorry if I don’t dress like a slut like all the girls around you! For someone who tries too hard to stand out and be different, you sure are judgmental about people who are different from you!” I scream and feel the tears well up in my eyes.

I turn around so he won’t get to remember me like this, and I notice that he’s balling his fists. Like he gets to be angry about this.

“You know what, I don’t want to be friends with you anyway, Hardin,” I tell him and reach for the door handle. The vodka, which had made me brave, is also making me feel the sadness of this situation, of our yelling.

“Where are you going?” he asks. So unpredictable. So moody.

“To the bus stop so I can go back to my room and never, ever come back here again. I am done trying to be friends with any of you.”

“It’s too late to take the bus alone.”

I spin around to face him. “You are not seriously trying to act like you care if something happened to me.” I laugh. I can’t keep up with his changes in tone.

“I’m not saying I do . . . I’m just warning you. It’s a bad idea.”

“Well, Hardin, I don’t have any other options. Everyone is drunk—including myself.”

And then the tears come. I am beyond humiliated that Hardin, of all people, is seeing me cry. Again.

“Do you always cry at parties?” he asks and ducks his head a little, but with a small smile.

“Apparently, whenever you’re at them. And since these are the only ones I’ve ever been to . . .” I reach the door again and open it.

“Theresa,” he says so soft that I almost don’t hear him. His face is unreadable. The room starts to spin again and I grab on to the dresser next to his door. “You okay?” he asks. I nod even though I feel nauseous. “Why don’t you just sit down for a few minutes, then you can go to the bus station.”

“I thought no one was allowed in your room,” I state, then sit on the floor.

I hiccup and he immediately warns, “If you throw up in my room . . .”

“I think I just need some water,” I say and move to stand up.

“Here,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me down and handing me his red cup.

I roll my eyes and push it away. “I said water, not beer.”

“It is water. I don’t drink,” he says.

A noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh escapes me. There is no way Hardin doesn’t drink. “Hilarious. You’re not going to sit here and babysit, are you?” I really just want to be alone in my pathetic state, and my buzz is wearing off, so I’m starting to feel guilty for yelling at Hardin. “You bring out the worst in me,” I murmur aloud, not quite meaning to.

“That’s harsh,” he says, his tone serious. “And yes, I am going to sit here and babysit you. You are drunk for the first time in your life, and you have a habit of touching my things when I’m not around.” He goes and takes a seat on his bed, kicking his legs up. I get up and grab the cup of water. Taking a big drink, I can taste a hint of mint on the rim and can’t help but think about how Hardin’s mouth would taste. But then the water hits the alcohol in my stomach and I don’t feel so hot.