By the time I get home it’s almost six o’clock and I have multiple texts from Hardin, which I have ignored. When I get to our door I take a deep breath to mentally prepare for what is to come. Either we will end up screaming at each other, which will lead to one of us leaving, or we will actually talk through it and work it out. Hardin is pacing back and forth across the cement floor when I enter. His eyes shoot up to my figure in the doorway, and he looks relieved.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says and steps toward me.

“Where else would I go?” I say in response and walk past him into the bedroom.

“I . . . well, I made dinner for you,” he says.

He is totally unrecognizable right now. His hair is down across his forehead instead of pushed up and back like it normally is. He is wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and black sweats and he seems nervous, worried, and almost . . . afraid?

“Oh . . . why?” I can’t help but ask. I change into sweats of my own, and Hardin’s face falls farther when I don’t put on the shirt of his that he has clearly laid on the dresser for me.

“Because I am an asshole,” he answers.

“Yeah . . . you are,” I say and walk back into the kitchen. The meal looks much more appetizing than I thought it would, even though I’m not sure what it is; some sort of chicken pasta, I think.

“It’s chicken Florentine.” He answers my thoughts.

“Hmm.”

“You don’t have to . . .” His voice is small. This is such a different scene than usual, and for the first time since I met him I feel like I have the upper hand.

“No, it looks good. I’m just surprised,” I tell him and take a bite. It tastes even better than it looks.

“Your hair looks nice,” he says. My thoughts travel back to the last time I had a haircut and Hardin was the only one to notice.

“I need answers,” I remind him.

He lets out a hard breath. “I know, and I am going to give them to you.”

I take another bite to hide my satisfaction with myself for holding my ground with him.

“First, I want you to know that no one—I mean no one, except my mother and father—knows this,” he says and picks at the scabs on his knuckles.

I nod and take another bite.

“Okay . . . well, here goes,” he says nervously before continuing. “One night, when I was around seven, my father was out at the bar across the street from our home. He went there almost every night and everyone knew him there, which is why it was a terrible idea for him to piss anyone off there. This night, he did just that. He started a fight with some soldiers who were just as plastered as him and he ended up smashing a beer bottle over one of their heads.”

I have no idea where this is going, but I know it won’t be pleasant.

“Keep eating, please . . .” he begs and I nod and try not to stare at him as he continues.

“He left the bar, and they came across the road to our house, to pay him back for smashing the guy’s face, I guess. The problem was that he didn’t come home—they just thought he did, and my mum was asleep on the couch, waiting up for my dad.” His green eyes meet mine. “Sort of how you were last night.”

“Hardin . . .” I whisper and grab his hand across the table.

“So when they found my mum first . . .” He trails off and stares at the wall for what feels like forever. “When I heard her screaming, I came downstairs and tried to get them off her. Her nightgown was ripped open and she just kept screaming for me to go . . . she was trying to keep me from seeing what they were doing to her, but I couldn’t just leave, you know?”

When he blinks back a tear, my heart breaks for the seven-year-old boy who had to watch those horrendous things happen to his mother. I climb onto his lap on the chair and put my face against his neck.

“Long story short, I tried to fight them off, but it didn’t do any good. By the time my father stumbled through the door, I had put an entire box of Band-Aids all over her body to try to . . . I don’t know . . . fix her or something. How stupid is that?” he asks into my hair.

I look up at him and he frowns. “Don’t cry . . .” he whispers, but I can’t help it. I never imagined his nightmares were from something so terrible.

“I’m sorry I made you tell me,” I sob.

“No . . . baby, it’s okay. It actually felt good to tell someone,” he assures me. “As good as it can feel.”

He pets my hair and winds part of it around his finger, lost in thought. “After that, I would only sleep downstairs on the couch, so if someone came in . . . they would get to me first. Then the nightmares came . . . and they just kind of stuck. I went to a few therapists once my father left, but nothing seemed to help, until you.” He gives me a weak smile. “I’m sorry I was out all night. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be him,” he says and hugs me tighter.

Now that I have a few more pieces of the puzzle that is Hardin, I can understand him more. And just as suddenly as my mood has shifted about him, my opinion of Ken has changed just as drastically. I know people change, and he obviously has improved himself from the kind of man he used to be, but I can’t help the anger bubbling inside me. Hardin is the way he is because of his father, because of the drinking, the negligence, and the terrible night that his father provoked an attack against his wife and son, and then wasn’t there to protect them. I didn’t get all the answers I wanted, but I got much more than I ever expected.