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.
God, I am never drinking again, I remind myself as I sit back down on the floor.
After a few minutes of silence Hardin finally speaks up. “Can I ask you a question?”
The look on his face tells me I should say no but the room’s still not feeling entirely solid, and I think maybe talking will help me focus, so I say, “Sure.”
“What do you want to do after college?”
I look up at him with new eyes. That is literally the last thing I thought he would ask. I assumed he would ask why I’m a virgin, or why I don’t drink.
“Well, I want to be an author or a publisher, whichever comes first.” I probably shouldn’t be honest with him; he will just make fun of me. But when he doesn’t say anything back, I start feeling brave and ask him the same question, earning an eye roll from him but no answer.
Finally I ask, “Are those your books?” even though it’s probably futile.
“They are,” he mumbles.
“Which is your favorite?”
“I don’t play favorites.”
I sigh and pick at a small fray on my jeans.
“Does Mr. Rogers know you’re at a party again?”
“Mr. Rogers?” I look back up at him. I don’t get it.
“Your boyfriend. He is the biggest tool I have ever seen.”
“Don’t talk about him like that, he is . . . he is . . . nice,” I stutter. When Hardin laughs, I stand up. He doesn’t know Noah at all. “You could only dream of being as nice as he is,” I