Chapter 8 The Real Andrew Harding #4
It’s the last Sunday of September, and she’s spending it surrounded by Shauna and Bree, friends since Montclair High, who text like nothing’s changed since high school, who remember the old Elle, pre-Roger, pre-mess.
The girls who saw the worst of it and held her through tears, held her hair back, held her drinks when she needed to take a piss. And now they’re watching Elle beam with a high you can’t fake, like her future isn’t lying in ashes, like she’s got it all figured out.
Bree leans forward, eyes wide. “Wait—you sayin’ he’s your man? Andrew Harding?” She shakes her head. “Girl, be serious.”
“He’s like a fuckin’ boomerang,” Elle says, flipping her phone in her hand. “I toss a text, he lands on the porch, feral for me, not even actin’ like he’s not obsessed.” She smirks. “Swears he’s not fuckin’ anyone else.”
Bree and Shauna glance at each other, then laugh into their wine.
Elle knows how it sounds, her saying she’s got Andrew Harding.
No one will believe her unless they see them together.
So she sends out the text:
Miss you. Mostly your tongue. And your cock.
But sure, you too, I guess. So come over. I’m lonely.
“Wanna meet the legend himself?” She hits send. “‘Cause you’re about to.” One appearance is all she needs. She won’t have to say a word. Bree and Shauna’ll run their mouths, and by this time tomorrow? Everyone will know who locked down Andrew Harding, making Elle legend-status.
Every guy’ll want to know what she has between her thighs that made Andrew Harding tap out. And every girl will wonder what she’s got that they don’t.
“He got you thinking this is exclusive? Sis, I love you, but come on.” Shauna peaks her brow. “You sure he’s not just your designated night shift? ‘Cause this got booty call written all over it.”
Okay, so he still hasn’t kissed her, hasn’t called her his, will only show up, go down, and only thrust inside her twice.
But when he does, he eats her like a man obsessed, talks filthy when he’s buried inside her. Once, he let her fall asleep in his arms. She woke up in her bed to a sweet text:
You passed out on me. Didn’t wanna wake you so carried you inside.
Hope you had good dreams, sweetheart.
One time he kissed the inside of her knee without thinking. Another time he tucked her hair behind her ear. And mostly, he lets her break his rules—two so far.
If this isn’t exclusive, it’s the closest thing he’s ever had to it.
Time slips by. Twenty minutes, then thirty.
One bottle's down, another's sweating on the table.
Elle doesn’t check her phone again until the hour mark hits. But when she does, there's no response.
Bree sits up fast. “Oh, you going to that birthday dinner thing for Roger Saturday?”
“Yeah,” Elle says, the mood changing. “Roger’s mom’s throwing the whole candlelight spaghetti affair in the city. Thought I should show face. You know, pay respects. Mourn with meatballs.”
Elle doesn’t want to go. She’s tired of pretending to grieve a boy she packed away in her past. But Roger’s mom invited Andrew too, and he might show. And if he does, and they walk in together, that would solidify their relationship for everyone. That’s confirmation. Validation.
She hates herself for needing it.
Shauna peers over with the nosy-kid look in her eyes.
Bree tucks her feet under her on the daybed. “So uh… isn’t Andrew going too?”
Elle tips her head, tracing the rim of her glass. “Yeah.”
“You plan on sittin’ next to your dead boyfriend’s mom with his friend’s hand on your thigh?” Shauna sets down her glass, leaning back with a smirk as if she’s picturing it.
“I don’t know, Shauna,” Elle mutters, eyes on her phone, checking her notifications. “But I said I’d go. And Andrew’s the only reason I think I can.”
She’s thinking of sending another text, when Shauna talks around her lit cigarette, “What’s the matter, Elle? Boomerang get lost?”
“You that desperate to meet him?” Elle asks with a cocked brow, blacking out her screen. “When he gets here, I’ll let him know you’re a huge fan.”
She takes another sip, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue.
It’s not until midnight rolls around when Elle hears the rusted squeak of the gate latch.
By this time, the Prosecco’s warm, second bottle’s nearly dry. Bree’s sprawled out across the swing bench with her ankles over Shauna’s lap, all three of them laughing, but Elle stops the second she hears the sound.
She sits up straighter, chin lifted, peering over the porch railing as if she hasn’t been checking her phone every five minutes.
Shauna and Bree are laughing about some highschool memory when the sound of boots interrupts them.
Andrew appears at the bottom of the stairs—jaw tight, chain out, white tee clinging. He takes one glance at the scene, the empty wine bottles, the bare legs, Shauna grinning sideways, Bree with her phone raised in front of her face.
He stops, frozen solid. His eyes lock on Elle. Then they drop.
He exhales through his nose, cursing under his breath, turning, and walking right back toward the gate.
“Hey—” Elle calls, but he’s already through it and on the other side.
Bree giggles into her glass. “Harding said, ‘Not tonight, sweetheart.’”
Elle’s up so fast the bottle tips, and Prosecco spills across the wooden boards.
She runs down the porch barefoot, feet slapping the steps, until she's right behind him. “Andrew, what the hell was that?”
He’s halfway down the block, keys spinning around his finger like he’s holding back a fist. “Ain’t that the million-dollar fuckin’ question,” he mutters, catching the keys in his hand. “What. The hell. Was that? Puttin’ on a show, huh? Actin’ like you fuckin’ own me.”
“You serious right now?” Elle jogs up next to him. “You pissed about that? You just made me look stupid in front of them.”
He doesn’t stop or turn, shaking his head like she blew it.
“So you’ll eat me out on my porch but can’t stand next to me in front of two girls I’ve known since I was fourteen?” She sees his Honda ten feet out. He’s ten seconds from being gone. “Andrew. Hey—stop. Can you talk to me instead of walking away?”
Desperate, her hand flies out, catching his shoulder hard enough to twist him around, his feet stuttering on the pavement. “Andrew—wait—”
He won’t. He shrugs her off and keeps walking.
So she forces him, yanking him back and spinning him around fast, hard, reckless. His chest hits hers, and it makes her desperate. She grabs his face and kisses him before he can speak, before he can leave.
He doesn’t kiss her back at first. But he doesn’t pull away either.
But then his hand shoots up, fingers wrapping around her jaw as he steps in, chest crashing into hers. His breath’s uneven as he kisses her like he’s telling her to shut the fuck up with his mouth, as if he’s pissed she pulled this shit, and pissed he fell for it again.
His chest slams into her hand, rising wild.
His heart’s not racing. It’s thrashing.
He tastes like nerves. Like rain. Like rage pressed into lust.
She melts, lips parting wider, pulling him closer with her mouth.
He kisses her harder for half a beat longer.
Then he rips away from her mouth, jaw flexing.
His eyes are two wet, angry fists.
But the emotion only lasts for a second before he kills it.
He turns, his boots hitting the concrete hard. One step, then two, and he opens the driver side door, climbs in, slams it shut, windows rattling.
The engine growls to life, tail lights blink red.
And in seconds, he’s gone.
// SIX DAYS GO BY //
U ghosting me now?
Andrew
Talk to me please
Come on
Idk if you’re scared but you don’t have to be
You showing face at Roger’s thing or what?
You’re acting real mature
Six days for her pride to rot into obsession.
The kiss plays on repeat ‘til it frays at the seams, making her question if it ever happened. But she remembers the look in his eyes. Elle’s never been good at giving up, not when it comes to him, and not when there’s a shot she might be the only one who ever got close.
It’s his face that won’t leave her—the shine in his eyes, lips still wet from the kiss, breath all busted up. She doesn’t know if it was heartbreak or hunger or panic, but the kiss cracked him open, and she’s not letting him bury it.
It’s the reason she’s outside his house, engine running.
Roger’s birthday dinner’s the last thread to him she’s got.
It’s the only chance to see and talk to him.
She knows he’s going, and Elle tells herself he’s showing up for her. She’s not delusional, just hopeful that the kiss stuck deep in him too.
She curled her hair, same way she did the night he wrapped a lock around his finger, and she’s wearing the navy dress.
The same shade as his eyes when they’re tired or turned on.
She skipped the panties, planning to grab his hand during tiramisu and guide it under the table, under her dress, so he can slide his fingertips through her.
She wants him to remember what she feels like, a taste in case he forgot.
It was a half-hour drive from Bloomfield to Union City.
She argued with herself the whole way—knuckles white on the wheel, heart revving louder than the engine.
She lost service at the Tunnel ramp, got stuck behind some asshole doing forty on Route 3, and by the time she hit Park Ave, her nerves were fried and spun raw by every imagined version of how this could crash and burn.
She knows it’s a bold move, pulling up on the curb uninvited, not even sure if he's here. But she’s not walking into the dinner as if he didn’t break the third Harding rule and kiss her back.
She knows he isn't leaving from the hotel or the bar.
She called to make sure. So she'll wait until she can't wait any longer. Until the last second.
She needs to get to him first.
Before the pasta bowls. Before the toasts. Before Roger’s mother cries.
Twenty-three minutes go by waiting outside his house.
She’s fidgeted in the seat, checked her phone, checked herself in the visor mirror, window’s cracked, radio’s off, pulse hasn’t calmed since Exit 153.