“Why do people say that?” I pry, my curiosity and unsensible, slight protectiveness kicking into overdrive.
“Well,” Michael begins. “The one time hedidcome into town in the past few years, it has been rumored that a granny from the grocery store tried to hug him or something. The guy freakedout, and his older brother got super defensive for him. It was weird. Like, she’s an old lady? Get over it.”
Thatiskind of weird, looking from the outside in. But having lived in the castle for over a month now, seeing how he won’t even let his family touch him when his ‘symptoms’ get bad, I understand him. And Atticus… he’s so concerned for Atlas that it doesn’t surprise me that he’d freak out.
“They’re not weird,” I finally supply. “They’re actually really nice. Especially the youngest, she’s adorable.”
“You should take us to see the castle sometime,” Cassie says casually, giving me a soft smile.
I don’t respond to that; that’s not something I can do.
But Cameron grins, almost as if he’s happy with my original response, his fingers fiddling with the silverware on the table. “Guess you struck gold with your job, then, Julian.”
“Yeah,” I say, my mind still stuck on the Chastain kids. “I guess I did.”
An hour and a half later, we’ve all eaten dinner. I’ve learned some interesting things about the group, such as the fact that Michael and Kimberly are brother and sister, and Hailey actually works at the bookstore where I met them.
Kimberly, Cameron, and Cassie are all in their early twenties, around my age.
As we’re all getting up to leave, Michael claps a hand over my shoulder. “Come hang out again soon, Julian. I’m sure you get tired of hanging out in that big castle every weekend. Unless you’re working on weekends too?”
“I’m not,” I respond, chuckling.
“Here,” Cassie says, extending her phone to me. “Give me your number. That way, we can all hang out again. We’re even throwing a Christmas party on the twenty-ninth.”
She’s smiling softly, her eyes warm and inviting as she peers up at me. Something hot swarms in my lower stomach, and I grin as I take the phone from her and punch in my number.
“Here,” I respond, handing it back after sending myself a message. “I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” is all she says, and then she’s trailing behind everyone else as they leave the diner and head in the opposite direction from my truck.
I may not have gotten laid today, but I have a feeling Cassie just might be interested in giving me my opportunity another day.
Atlas
7
MY LEGS STAY SNUGGLYtucked under my ass where I sit on the large, oversized chaise in the library. An original copy ofWhere the Wild Things Areby Maurice Sendak sits open, cradled on my lap as I skim the pages for the millionth time.
Atticus used to read this to me when I was younger—maybe around Abigail’s age—and I’ve loved it ever since, so much so that my father hunted down one of the first editions and spent over $26,000 on it.
It was a gift I received on my eighteenth birthday, just hours before that first night. That first night when my dreams turned dark and swampy, and I felt it—that inexplicable pleasure, the pain, the fear, and the confusion that had me shaking and crying when I woke.
And now, two years later, the fear has faded into the background and has become a lingering anxiety. But the pleasure? The pain? They’ve combined into one, and into something that I chase with my guilt heavy on my shoulders.
I am no longer confused. Sure, I’m unsure what is causing my condition, and I’m unsure when thiscurewill appear, butI’m no longer in a constant state of desensitizing confusion that depresses me. I’ve just… accepted it, I guess?
I will gladly accept the cure if and when it comes to me, and I will wish for it sincerely, but until that happens? I will drown in this pleasure, in this pain. And then I will beg for forgiveness.
Though I do find my symptoms to be quite annoying. The heated skin, the insatiable desire. Theneed.
When it gets bad, I feel trapped in a body on fire. I feel like a demon on the verge of damnation, and my dying wish is to get fuckedhard.
I want to be free of this curse, of this condition, but—Lord forgive me—I can’t help but enjoy it sometimes.
The door to the library opens, and my mother floats in, wearing one of her many silk lounge dresses. It’s just after dinner, and she’s carrying a medium-sized white box with a lacy, baby-blue bow wrapped around it.
“It’s not Christmas for a few more days, Momma,” I say with a soft smile, shifting slightly when she gracefully settles onto the chaise and places the box between us.
