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I feel a little bit like prey here, with the way the slow perusal of his ocean blue eyes rake over me. It makes me feel nervous because there’s no expression on his face, no scents that he’s giving off, nothing to let me know how he’s feeling.
Absent, sure. But is he angry? Hurt? Disappointed?
There’s no indication to how he’s feeling aside from the energy in the air making me feel like I’m an inconvenience.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he just raises one eyebrow.
“Would you be?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That was a stupid question.”
He doesn’t refute the negative statement and, whilst hurtful, it’s my own fault.
“Micah and I are going to have a bath,” I say quietly. His nostrils flare, and I don’t know if that’s because I’m talking about doing something with someone else, something we’ve not yet done together, or if he’s annoyed for a different reason. “Would you like to join us?”
“No.”
I blink in surprise at the sharp tone and wait for him to elaborate or say anything else but he doesn’t speak. Okay. He’s definitely not ready to open up.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask.
“No,” Atticus says, and now he’s the one to give me a fake smile. “Go and enjoy your bath with Micah, Nora.”
The hurt that hits me when he calls me Nora rather than little queen is something I never expected to feel. It’s startling, the depth of my pain.
Have I damaged us so badly that we can’t recover?
I never imagined I’d be alive to have to deal with the repercussions of my actions. I never thought I’d have to apologise, to soothe the pain. And it kills me right now, to be seeing him this way.
Atticus either doesn’t notice my upset, or doesn’t care, though, as he continues shutting me down. “I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”
“Please, could we talk?” I can’t take the pleading tone out of my voice here. I really, really don’t feel comfortable leaving him right now.
I know I’m the suicidal one. I’m the one at risk of hurting myself. But I think back to those nights where they all took turns staying with me day after day, they just sat there by my side, and were there.
Atticus was the one who helped me finally voice how tough things were. Maybe that’s why he’s taken my suicide attempt the hardest.
But maybe… I think back to when I was doing the jigsaw with Micah, and how Devoss came in in that frenzied state as he demanded to talk to Atticus.
Then, when Atticus called me up to his office, his behaviour was off. He was tense, anxious, even.
And I ignored that because he delivered the news about David, and I lost sight of everything else. I got so wrapped up in my own shit that I missed when he was struggling.
Atticus doesn’t ever struggle—not in the time I’ve known him, and not by the accounts of the others.
But something has rattled him.
“What’s wrong?” Atticus demands, panic enters his gaze. “Nora, please—”
“Are you okay?” I interject, and Atty frowns. “No, I’m not talking about the suicide attempt.” I step closer to him, gently placing my hand on his arm, and he looks down at it with a confused look on his face before meeting my eyes once more.
“I was too caught up in myself,” I say quietly. That seems to be a trend of mine, something I’m going to be changing, if I do decide to stick this alive business out. “But you seem off. What happened with Voss earlier?”
“Pride business,” Atticus says firmly.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms in front of my chest. The minimal cleavage I have—some would call them pancakes—adjusts ever so slightly, but he doesn’t even blink.
Slightly rude.
