“I have my leftovers from Applebee’s.”

“Are you upset with me about taking him drinking today?” my father asks.

I look over at him and soften my tone. I could tell what my dad was like when I invited him in. “I’m not upset, but I don’t want it to become a regular thing.”

“It won’t. Besides, you’re moving,” he reminds me, and I look across the table at the man I’ve only known for two days now.

I don’t reply. Instead I join Hardin at the fridge and pull the freezer door open.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask him.

He looks at me with wary eyes, clearly trying to assess my mood. “Just some chicken or something . . . or we can order some takeout?”

I sigh. “Let’s just order something.” I don’t mean to be short with him, but my mind is whirling with possibilities of what was on his phone that he felt needed to be deleted.

Once ordering food becomes the plan, Hardin and my father begin bickering over Chinese or pizza. Hardin wants pizza, and he wins the argument by reminding my father who will be paying for it. For his part, my father doesn’t seem offended by Hardin’s digs. He just laughs or flips him off.

It’s a strange sight, really, to watch the two of them. After my father left, I would often daydream about him when I saw my friends with their fathers. I had created a vision of a man who resembled the man I grew up with, only older, and definitely not a homeless drunk. I had always thought of him carrying an attaché case stuffed with important documents, walking to his car in the morning, coffee mug in hand. I didn’t imagine he’d still be drinking, that he’d be ravaged by it like he’s been, and that he’d be without a place to live. I can’t picture my mother and this man being able to hold a conversation, let alone spending years married to each other.

“How did you and my mother meet?” I say, suddenly voicing my thoughts.

“In high school,” he answers.

Hardin grabs his phone and leaves the room to order the pizza. Either that or to call someone and then quickly delete the call log.

I sit at the kitchen table across from my father. “How long were you dating before you got married?” I ask.

“Only about two years. We got married young.”

I feel uncomfortable asking these questions, but I know I wouldn’t have any luck getting the answers from my mother. “Why?”

“You and your mom never talked about this?” he asks.

“No; we never talked about you. If I even tried to bring the subject up, she shut down,” I tell him, and watch his features transform from interest to shame.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.

“No, I get it. I don’t blame her.” He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Hardin strolls back into the kitchen and sits down next to me. “To answer your question, we got married young because she got pregnant with you, and your grandparents hated me and tried to keep her away from me. So we got hitched.” He smiles, enjoying the memory.

“You got married to spite my grandparents?” I ask with a smile.

My grandparents, may they rest in peace, were a little . . . intense. Very intense. My childhood memories of them include being shushed at the dinner table for laughing and being told to take my shoes off before walking on their carpet. For birthdays, they would send an impersonal card with a ten-year savings bond inside—not an ideal gift for an eight-year-old.

My mother was essentially a clone of my grandmother, only slightly less poised. She tried, though; my mother spends her days and nights trying to be as perfect as she remembers her own mother being.

Or, I suddenly think, as perfect as she imagines her being.

My father laughs. “In a way, yes, to piss them off. But your mother always wanted to be married. She practically dragged me to the altar.” He laughs again, and Hardin looks at me before laughing as well.

I scowl at him, knowing he’s concocting some snarky comment about me forcing him into marriage.

I turn back to my dad. “Were you against marriage?” I ask.

“No. I don’t remember, really; all I know is I was scared as hell to have a baby at nineteen.”

“And rightfully so. We can see how that worked out for you,” Hardin remarks.

I shoot him a glare, but my father only rolls his eyes at him.

“It’s not something I recommend, but there are a lot of young parents that can handle it.” He lifts his hands up in resignation. “I just wasn’t one of them.”

“Oh,” I say. I can’t imagine being a parent at my age.

He smiles, clearly open to giving me what answers he can. “Any more questions, Tessie?”

“No . . . I think that’s all,” I say. I don’t exactly feel comfortable around him, though in a strange way I feel more comfortable than I would if my mother were sitting here instead of him.

“If you think of any more, you can ask me. Until then, do you mind if I take another shower before dinner comes?”

“Of course not. Go ahead,” I say.

It seems like he’s been here longer than two days. So much has happened since he appeared—Hardin’s expulsion/nonexpulsion, Zed’s appearance in the parking lot, my lunch with Steph and Molly, the ever-disappearing call log—just too much. This overstressful, constantly growing pile of issues in my life doesn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon.

“What’s wrong?” Hardin asks when my father disappears down the hall.

“Nothing.” I stand up and take a few steps before he stops me by touching my waist and turning me around to face him.

“I know you better than that. Tell me what’s wrong,” he softly demands, placing both hands on my hips.

I look him dead in the eyes. “You.”

“I . . . what? Talk,” he demands.

“You’re acting weird, and you deleted your text messages and calls.”

His features twist in annoyance, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you be looking through my phone, anyway?”

“Because you’re acting suspicious, and—”

“So you go through my shit? Didn’t I tell you before not to do that?”

The look of indignation on his face is so brazen, looks so practiced, that my blood gets boiling. “I know I shouldn’t be going through your things—but you shouldn’t give me a reason to. And if you don’t have anything to hide, why would you care? I wouldn’t mind if you looked through my phone. I have nothing to hide.” I dig mine out of my pocket and hold it out. Then I start to worry that maybe I didn’t delete the text from Zed on there and I panic, until Hardin waves it away like my trust is a gnat.

“You’re just making up excuses for how psychotic you are,” he says, his words burning me.

I don’t have anything to say. Well, actually, I have a lot to say to him, but no words come from my mouth. I push his hands from my hips and storm off. He said he knows me well enough to sense when something’s wrong with me. Well, I know him well enough to sense when he’s close to being caught at something. Whether it be a small lie or a bet for my virginity, the same thing happens each time: first he acts suspicious, then when I bring it up to him he gets angry and defensive, and finally he spits harsh words at me.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he bellows from behind me.

“Don’t follow me,” I say and disappear into the bedroom.

But he appears in the doorway a second later. “I don’t like you going through my shit.”

“I don’t like feeling like I have to.”

He closes the door and leans his back against it. “You don’t have to; I deleted that stuff because . . . it was an accident. It’s nothing for you to be all worked up over.”

“Worked up? You mean ‘psychotic’?”

He sighs. “I didn’t really mean that.”

“Then stop saying things you don’t mean. Because then I can’t tell what’s true and what’s not.”

“Then stop going through my shit. Because then I can’t tell if I should trust you or not.”