are so pink and full, and my head plays an image of Hardin leaning over to kiss me and my pulse begins to race.
What the hell? Why am I thinking about him like that? I am never drinking again.
Minutes later, the room begins to spin and I feel dizzy. My feet lead me upstairs to the bathroom and I sit in front of the toilet, expecting to throw up. Nothing happens. I groan and pull myself up. I am ready to go back to the dorms, but I know Steph won’t be ready for hours. I shouldn’t have come here. Again.
Before I can stop myself, my hand is turning the knob on the only room I’m somewhat familiar with in this oversize house. Hardin’s bedroom door opens without a problem. He claims to always lock his door, but he’s proving otherwise. It looks the same as before, only this time the room is moving around beneath my unsteady feet. Wuthering Heights is missing from where it was on the shelf, but I find it on the bedside table, next to Pride and Prejudice. Hardin’s comments about the novel replay in my mind. He has obviously read it before—and understood it—which is rare for our age group, and for a boy especially. Maybe he had to read it for class before, that’s why. But why is this copy of Wuthering Heights out? I grab it and sit on the bed, opening the book halfway through. My eyes scan the pages and the room stops spinning.
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.