After We Collided (After, #2) by Anna Todd Read Online (FREE)
“Leaving, what does it look like?”
“You aren’t leaving. You have been drinking. A lot.” I reach for his keys, but he slips them into his pocket.
“I don’t give a shit, I need more to drink.”
“No! You don’t. You had enough—and you broke the bottle.” I try to reach for his pocket, but he grabs ahold of my wrist like he has done countless times.
This time is different because he’s so angry, and for a second I begin to worry. “Let go,” I challenge him.
“Don’t try to stop me from leaving and I’ll let go.” He doesn’t let up, and I try to appear unaffected.
“Hardin . . . you’re going to hurt me.”
His eyes meet mine, and he lets go quickly. When he raises a hand, I flinch and slink back away from him, but he’s only running it through his hair, I see.
His eyes flash with panic. “You thought I was going to hit you?” he nearly whispers, and I back away farther.
“I . . . I don’t know, you’re so angry, and you’re scaring me.” I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but this is the easiest way to get him back to reality.
“You should know I wouldn’t hurt you. No matter how drunk I am, I wouldn’t fucking touch you.” He glares at me.
“For someone who hates your father so much, you sure as hell don’t have a problem acting like him,” I spit.
“Fuck you—I’m nothing like him!” he shouts.
“Yes, you are! You’re drunk, you left me at that party, and you broke half our decorations in the living room—including my favorite lamp! You are acting like him . . . the old him.”
“Yeah, well, you’re acting like your mum. A spoiled snobby little—” he sneers and I gasp.
“Who are you?” I ask and shake my head. I walk away, not wanting to hear any more from him, and I know if we continue to argue while he’s this drunk, it will not end well. He’s taken his disrespect to a whole new level.
“Tessa . . . I’m . . .” he begins.
“Don’t.” I turn and spit before continuing to the bedroom. I can take his rude comments, I can take him yelling at me—because, hell, I dish it out right back to him—but we both need distance before one of us says something even worse.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says and follows me.
I close the bedroom door and lock it behind me. I slide my back down its smooth surface until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. Maybe we can’t make this work. Maybe he’s too angry and I’m too irrational. I push him too far and he does the same to me.
No, that isn’t true. We are good for each other because we push each other. Despite all the fights and tension between us, there’s passion. So much passion that it nearly drowns me, pulling me under. And he’s the only light, the only one to save me regardless of whether he’s the one dooming me.