{"product_id":"harder-isbn-9780804177030","title":"Harder","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY \u003ci\u003eLIBRARY JOURNAL\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Robin York’s provocative new novel, two young ex-lovers find themselves together again in the shadow of tragedy—and an intense, undeniable attraction. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Caroline still dreams about West. His warm skin, his taut muscles, his hand sliding down her stomach. Then she wakes up and she’s back to reality: West is gone. And before he left, he broke her heart.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then, out of the blue, West calls in crisis. A tragedy has hit his family—a family that’s already a fractured mess. Caroline knows what she has to do. Without discussion, without stopping to think, she’s on a plane, flying to his side to support him in any way he needs.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They’re together again, but things are totally different. West looks edgy, angry at the world. Caroline doesn’t fit in. She should be back in Iowa, finalizing her civil suit against the ex-boyfriend who posted their explicit pictures on a revenge porn website. But here she is. Deeply into West, wrapped up in him, in love with him. \u003ci\u003eStill\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They fought the odds once. Losing each other was hard. But finding their way back to each other couldn’t be harder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“York’s beautiful prose and vivid descriptions enhance the realism and impact of Caroline and West’s story. \u003ci\u003eDeeper\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e are sensual and profoundly moving. The books are told in first-person from both Caroline’s and West’s POVs, and I sat on the emotional roller coaster right beside them as West learns to hold tight to Caroline and embrace life to the fullest. . . . They are books I will cherish.”\u003cb\u003e—Lea Franczak, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[York] again brings exquisite writing to contemporary New Adult romance with \u003ci\u003eHarder, \u003c\/i\u003ethe sequel to her much-acclaimed \u003ci\u003eDeeper\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . As with all this author’s work, the prose itself is on a higher plane than readers of New Adult have come to expect. With searing metaphor and visceral descriptions of love and all its attendant pains, \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e will be loved by many . . . and talked about by everyone.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Part two of Caroline and West’s story will really evoke emotions from readers, once they get past the steam factor included in this powerful novel.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bursting with chemistry, emotion, and heart, Caroline and West’s story will take your breath away!”\u003cb\u003e—Katy Evans, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the REAL series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Robin York writes exceptionally real characters in achingly real situations. \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e had a hold on my heart and didn’t let go until the very end.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Cora Carmack\u003c\/b\u003e“[Robin] York’s beautiful prose and vivid descriptions enhance the realism and impact of Caroline and West’s story. \u003ci\u003eDeeper\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e are sensual and profoundly moving. The books are told in first-person from both Caroline’s and West’s POVs, and I sat on the emotional roller coaster right beside them as West learns to hold tight to Caroline and embrace life to the fullest. . . . They are books I will cherish.”\u003cb\u003e—Lea Franczak, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[York] again brings exquisite writing to contemporary New Adult romance with \u003ci\u003eHarder, \u003c\/i\u003ethe sequel to her much-acclaimed \u003ci\u003eDeeper\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . As with all this author’s work, the prose itself is on a higher plane than readers of New Adult have come to expect. With searing metaphor and visceral descriptions of love and all its attendant pains, \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e will be loved by many . . . and talked about by everyone.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Part two of Caroline and West’s story will really evoke emotions from readers, once they get past the steam factor included in this powerful novel.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bursting with chemistry, emotion, and heart, Caroline and West’s story will take your breath away!”\u003cb\u003e—Katy Evans, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the REAL series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Robin York writes exceptionally real characters in achingly real situations. \u003ci\u003eHarder\u003c\/i\u003e had a hold on my heart and didn’t let go until the very end.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Cora Carmack\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRobin York \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of \u003ci\u003eDeeper\u003c\/i\u003e. She\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003egrew up at a college, went to college, signed on for some more college, and then married a university professor. She still isn’t sure why it didn’t occur to her to write New Adult sooner. Writing as Ruthie Knox, she is a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of contemporary romance, including RITA-nominated \u003ci\u003eAbout Last Night \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Room at the Inn\u003c\/i\u003e. She moonlights as a mother, makes killer salted caramels, and sorts out thorny plot problems while running, hiking, or riding her bike.\u003cmeta http-equiv=\"Content-Type\" content=\"text\/html; charset=utf-8\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003cb\u003eWest\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWhen I had to say goodbye at the airport, I thought, \u003ci\u003eThis is the last time.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe last time you get to kiss her. The last time you get to touch her.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis is the last time you’re ever going to see her face.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eAnd then, after I turned and left, \u003ci\u003eThat was it. It’s over.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI guess I went to the gate. I must have boarded a plane. Someone sat next to me, but I don’t remember if it was a man or a woman, what they looked like. What I do remember is thinking everything would have to get easier from that point forward, because nothing could be harder than walking away from Caroline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIt almost makes me laugh now, if you can call it laughter when it comes with the salt-copper taste of blood at the top of your throat. If it’s still a smile when you have to swallow and swallow around it, unable to get rid of the bitter flavor of your mistakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI went home to Silt thinking I was heading into some kind of Wild West showdown. I’d call my dad out onto the public street at high noon and we’d draw our pistols. I’d fire straight and true and take him down, and then . . . well, that was the part I had to avoid thinking about. That was the part where the screen starts to go dark, the edges drawing in around a black-bordered circle that shrinks until it’s the size of a quarter, a nickel, a pinhole, nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eNothing. That was where I would live after I drove my dad out of my life once and for all. Inside that blackness where the pinhole used to be, where the light had disappeared from, I’d pitch a tent, pull a blanket around me, and endure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI was the sheriff, right? And he was the bad guy. But after I took him down, my reward would be an eternity of nothing I wanted. Maybe a gold star to pin on my shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI was so sure I was the fucking sheriff, it almost makes me laugh, because what happened when I got home was that everything sucked in a completely different way from how I thought it would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI did the impossible and walked away from Caroline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eAfter that, everything in my life that was hard got harder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003cb\u003eCaroline\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWhen West’s ringtone starts playing in my darkened  bedroom, it slips into my subconscious, and I have one of those last-second-before-you-wake-up dreams that’s pure sensation—his skin warm against me everywhere, his weight and smell, the muscles in his thighs against the backs of mine, his hand sliding down my stomach. All of that, slow and melting and \u003ci\u003eWest,\u003c\/i\u003e until the song finally manages to pierce through the haze of my sleep and pinch me awake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI fight my way from under the sheet, turned on and pissed off because I know how this goes. The rock in my stomach, the day ahead during which I’ll try and fail to shake that flood of sense-memory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’m going to have to live through it, and then I’m going to lose it, every good memory I have of West, \u003ci\u003eagain,\u003c\/i\u003e when what I want is to drop back into that dream and live there instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIt sucks. It \u003ci\u003esucks,\u003c\/i\u003e and I’m so distracted by the suckage that I’m picking up the phone and swiping at the screen with my thumb before I completely register what’s going on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest’s ringtone. West is calling me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest is calling me at one a.m. when I haven’t heard from him in two and a half months.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eIf he’s drunk-dialing me, I’m going to fly to Oregon and kick him in the nuts.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThat’s what I’m thinking when I put the phone to my ear—but it’s not how I feel. I wish it were. I wish I could say \u003ci\u003eHello?\u003c\/i\u003e and hear West say \u003ci\u003eHey,\u003c\/i\u003e and not feel . . . I don’t even know. Plugged in. Lit up. \u003ci\u003eJuiced\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI stand in my dark bedroom, aware in every centimeter of my skin that he’s breathing on the other end of the phone, somewhere on the far side of the country.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI have too many memories that start this way. Too  many conversations where I told myself I wouldn’t and then I did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI have this enormous burden of longing and pain, so  heavy I can hear it in my voice when I snap, “What do you want?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“My dad’s dead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eMy head clears in an instant, my attention sharpening to a point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“He got shot,” West says, “and it’s . . . it’s a fucking mess, Caro. I know this is—I shouldn’t ask you. I can’t ask you, but I just need to tell you because I can’t fucking—” A crackling whooshing noise interrupts him, the kind of interference that fills your whole head with white sound. I just stand there, waiting for his voice to come back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’m pushing the phone so hard against my ear, my breath shallow and fast, aware with the kind of clarity I’ve only found in moments of crisis that it doesn’t even matter. Whatever he says next. It doesn’t matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe thing I never understood before West was that there are some people who, when it comes to them, reason and logic are never going to be in charge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe left me. He hurt me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eBut I stand there in the dark, holding the phone, and I know that in a few hours I’ll be on a plane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eSILT\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003cb\u003eCaroline\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI emerge from baggage claim in Eugene to the sight of West leaning against a dirty black truck. The first thing I think is, \u003ci\u003eHe cut his hair.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe second thing I think is, \u003ci\u003eMaybe he did it for her.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIf there is a her. I’ve never been able to accept that there is, despite what West said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIf she exists, she’s not here. I am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest looks scary. Stubble covers his scalp, a dark shadow that throws the shapes of his face into relief: jawline, cheekbones, eye sockets, protruding brow, jutting chin, scowling mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe muscles in his crossed arms belong to a brawler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe West who left me in Des Moines more than four months ago was a guy, sometimes a boy, but this person who’s waiting for me is a big, hard, mean-looking man, and when he glances in my direction, I freeze. Mid-step. I’m wearing a white cardigan over a new green top that cost too much. Designer jeans. Impractical flats. Ridiculous clothes for August, because it’s always cold when you’re flying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI wanted to look nice, but I got it wrong. I got everything wrong, and yet I think nothing I’ve done is as wrong as whatever is wrong with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe straightens and steps forward. I start moving again. I have to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Hey,” I say when we meet a few feet from his truck. I try on a smile. “You made it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe doesn’t smile in return. “So did you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Sorry you had to pick me up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’d texted right before I boarded the first flight to tell him I was coming. I didn’t want to give him a chance to say no, so I just gave him my flight number and announced when I’d  get in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWhen the plane landed in Minneapolis, I had three texts and a voice mail from him, all of them variations on the theme of Turn your ass around and go home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI waited until I was boarding for Portland to text him again. I’ll get a rental car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWalking off the jet bridge, I got his reply. I’ll pick you up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eSince that was the outcome I’d been angling for, I said, Okay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIt doesn’t feel okay, though. Not even close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest wears cargo shorts and a red polo with a landscaping company’s logo. He’s tan—a deep, even, golden brown—and he smells strongly of something I don’t recognize, fresh and resinous as the inside of our cedar closet after my dad sanded it down. “Did you come from work?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Yeah. I had to take off early.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Sorry. You should’ve let me rent a car.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest reaches out his hand. For an instant I think he’s going to pull me into his body, and something like a collision happens inside my torso—half of me slamming on the brakes, the other half flying forward to crash into my restraint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHis fingers knock mine off the handle of my suitcase, and the next thing I know he’s heading for the truck with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI stand frozen, gawping at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eGet your act together, Caroline. You can’t freak out every time he moves in your direction.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe opens the passenger-side door to stow my bag in the back of the cab. The truck is huge, the front right side violently crumpled. I hope he wasn’t driving when that happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eBy the time he emerges, I’m comparing the musculature of his back to what his shoulders felt like under my hands the last time I saw him. The shape of his calves is the same. He’s West, and he’s not-West.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe steps aside to let me in. I have to climb up to the seat. The sweltering cab smells of stale tobacco. I leave my sweater on. Even though I’m too hot, I feel weird about any form of disrobing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI turn to grab the door handle and discover him still there, blocking me with his body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThat’s when I figure it out. It’s not his hair or his tan or his muscles that make him seem different: it’s his eyes. His expression is civil, but his eyes look like he wants to rip the world open and tear out its entrails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“You need to eat?” he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI don’t think the simmering cynical hatred I hear in his voice is directed at me. I’m pretty sure it’s directed at \u003ci\u003eeverything.\u003c\/i\u003e But it sends a shiver of apprehension through me, because I’ve never heard West sound like that before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“No, I’m good. I had dinner in Portland.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“It’s almost three hours back to Silt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“I’m good,” I repeat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe’s staring at me. I press my lips together to keep from apologizing. \u003ci\u003eSorry I came when you called me. Sorry I needed a ride from the airport. Sorry I’m here, sorry you don’t love me anymore, sorry your abusive asshole dad is dead.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eMy own father didn’t want me to come. At all. I had to quit my job a few weeks early and hand over almost everything I’d earned as a dental receptionist this summer to pay for the plane ticket—a move Dad called “boneheaded.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe doesn’t trust West, and worse, he doesn’t trust \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e when it comes to West. Which means we argue whenever the subject comes up. We fought like cats and dogs at breakfast this morning when Dad realized he wasn’t going to be able to talk me out of this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eTo make matters worse, we’re close to being ready to file the petition in my civil suit against Nate, my ex-boyfriend, for infringing my privacy and inflicting emotional distress. Dad wants me close at hand so we can read through the complaint together four thousand more times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe’s a judge by profession, a single parent of three daughters, and a fretful micromanager by nature. Which makes him, in this situation, kind of unbearable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI reminded him that poring endlessly over documents is what he paid our lawyer a zillion-dollar retainer for, but Dad says this is a learning experience for me. If I want to be a lawyer myself, I ought to pay attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI \u003ci\u003eam\u003c\/i\u003e paying attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’m trying, at least. It got hard to pay attention right around the time West told me he was seeing someone else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWhen he called me last night, all other thoughts flew out of my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe upcoming trial is important. Keeping my employment commitments is important. But West is \u003ci\u003emore\u003c\/i\u003e important. I’m not going to abandon him when he needs me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“You don’t have to make a big fuss,” I say. “I’m just here to help.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWithout another word, he slams the door and gets behind the wheel, and we’re on our way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI thought Eugene was a city, but after we leave the airport we’re instantly in the middle of nowhere, and that’s where we stay. It’s so green, it makes me thirsty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eWest turns right, heading toward the mountains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eIt’s nearly seven, so we won’t get to Silt until ten. I don’t know where I’m staying tonight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’m going to be sitting in this truck with West in the dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI take off my sweater. West fiddles with the air conditioner, reaches across me to redirect a vent, and suddenly it’s blasting in my face. My sweat-clammy skin goes cold, goose bumps and instantaneous hard nipples.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe turns the fan down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“You’re doing landscaping?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Yeah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Do you like it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe look he gives me reminds me of my sister Janelle’s cat. Janelle used to squirt it between the eyes with a water gun to keep it from jumping on her countertops, and it would glare back at her with exactly that expression of incredulous disdain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e“Sorry,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThen I try to count up how many times I’ve apologized since I walked out of the airport.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eToo many. I’m letting him get to me when I promised myself on the plane I wouldn’t let \u003ci\u003eanything\u003c\/i\u003e get to me. This is a convoluted situation. Someone’s dead, guns are involved, West was torn up enough to call me—my job is to be unflappable. I’m not going to get mad at him or act heartbroken. I’m not going to moon around or cry or throw myself on him in a fit of lust. I’ll just be here, on his side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’ll do that because I promised him I would when he left Iowa. I made him swear to call me, and I told him he could count on me to be his friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eHe called. Here I am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eAfter marinating in tobacco-scented silence for a while, I find myself scanning West all over again, looking for similarities instead of differences. His ears are still too small. The scar hasn’t vanished from his eyebrow, and the other one tilts up same as always. His mouth is the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eAlways, for me, it was his mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe scent coming off him is like a hot day in the deep woods—like a fresh-cut Christmas tree—but it’s not quite either of those. On the seat between us, there’s a pair of work gloves he must have tossed there. I want to pick them up, put them on, wiggle my fingers around. Instead, I look at his thigh. His faded shorts, speckled with minuscule pieces of clinging bark. His kneecap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI look at his arm from the curve of his shoulder to the banded edge of his sleeve where the polo shirt cuts across his biceps. He doesn’t have a tan line. He must work with his shirt off, and the thought is more than I know what to do with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eThe last time I saw him, we were kissing at the airport, holding each other, saying goodbye. Even though I know everything’s different now, it doesn’t entirely \u003ci\u003efeel\u003c\/i\u003e different. It’s cruel that it’s possible for him to have told me what he did and for me to still be sitting here, soaking him up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp class=\"\"\u003eI’m not over him. I’ve tried to reason myself into it, but I’m learning reason doesn’t have anything to do with love, and West has always made me softer than I wanted to be, weaker than was good for me.Caroline \u0026amp; West, Book 2\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302339236069,"sku":"NP9780804177030","price":14.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780804177030.jpg?v=1767728713","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/harder-isbn-9780804177030","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}