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After We Collided (After, #2) by Anna Todd Read Online (FREE)

“We could always run to the store and get you some clothes? I have some in my trunk that I could wear,” I tell her. I can’t believe I’m going through all this shit to go ice skating.

“Okay.” She beams. “The trunk full of clothes comes in handy! Actually . . . Why do you keep those clothes in there, anyway? You’ve never told me.”

“It was just a habit. When I’d stay with girls . . . I mean, when I would be out all night, I’d need different clothes in the morning, and I never had them, so I just started keeping them in my trunk. It’s pretty convenient,” I explain.

Her lips are pursed slightly, and I know I shouldn’t have mentioned the other girls, even if they were before her. I wish she knew how it was then, how I would fuck them with no emotion. It wasn’t the same. I didn’t touch them the way I do her, I didn’t study every inch of their bodies, I didn’t revel in their shallow breathing and try to match mine to theirs, I didn’t desperately wait for them to say they loved me while I moved in and out of them.

I didn’t let them touch me in our sleep; if I even stayed in the same bed as them, it was because I was too drunk to move. It wasn’t anything like it is with her, and if she knew that, maybe knowing about them wouldn’t bother her. If I were her, I . . . Thoughts of Tessa fucking anyone else cloud my mind and make me nauseous.

“Hardin?” she says quietly, bringing me back to reality.


“Did you hear me?”

“No . . . sorry. What did you say?”

“You passed Target already.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. I’ll turn around.” I pull into the next parking lot and turn the car around. Tessa has an obsession with Target that I’ll never understand. It’s just like M&S back in London, only more expensive, and the employees are annoying as shit in their stupid red polos and khaki pants. But she always tells me, Target has great quality and a lot to choose from. I can’t say she’s wrong, but “big box stores” are still one of the things in America that make me feel most like the foreigner that I am.

“I’ll just run inside and get something,” Tessa says when I park the car.

“Are you sure? I can come.” I want to go with her, but I can’t insist on my presence, not tonight.

“If you want to . . .”

“I do,” I answer before she can finish.

WITHIN TEN MINUTES she has her basket nearly full of crap. She ended up getting a gigantic sweatshirt and some sort of spandex pants—she swears they’re not spandex, that they’re leggings, but damn if they don’t look like spandex to me. I try to stop picturing her in them as she grabs gloves, a scarf, and a hat. She acts like we’re going to fucking Antarctica; then again, it is pretty damn cold outside.