It’s just him and me.
And he now lookslivid.
Cameron
17
THE SILENCE OF THEkitchen is suffocating. Between my own anger and Atticus’s expression of indifference, my mind is reeling for something to say, for me tomove.
But to where? To him? Back upstairs with my friends?
And what the fuck did I just walk in on? Cassie with her hands where they shouldn’t be, and Atticus calling out to her so gently.
What, he can forgive Cassie but he can’t forgiveme?
How is he able to move on so quickly? Whether it be with someone else—namely, Cassie—or just past the point of hurting. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to breathe around the memory of his touch, the way he spoke to me.
How cruel is it to give me such a life and show me how beautiful it can be even with all the pain, only to rip away the one person who makes it bearable? Whomadeit beautiful?
Atticus doesn’t move, only watching me with steady, assessing eyes. As if I mean nothing; as if I am but the dirt crusting the bottom of his expensive leather loafers.
I rub at the back of my neck, attempting to gather my courage. If there is one thing I know, it’s that I don’t want to return to my friends. Not until we clear things up.
“What were you guys doing?” I ask, my voice small.
“I’m pretty sure that what I do stopped being your business a long time ago.”
I flinch at his words, unable to hold in the reaction. Something hot and unforgiving pulses deep inside of me, winding around my heart andsqueezing.
He’s right. I don’t deserve answers, but someday, I hope to earn his forgiveness.
“Atticus,” I call out, suddenly desperate for it. “Please. Tell me what I have to say, what I need to do for you to forgive me.”
He looks away, his sad hazel eyes studying the far cabinets without a lick of interest. He just… doesn’t want to see me.
“I can’t. Iwon’t. You… you took the worst parts of me and wielded them like you were born to hurt me; to turn them into knives and stick me with them.”
“No,” I whisper, too scared to move, to approach, in case he stops talking. Stops letting me in. “I never wanted that. I only meant to keep you. To—”
“Keep me?”he repeats. “That was how you intended to keep me? By taking the softest parts of me and exposing them? The parts that I only showed you so that you’d know… you’d know…”
Atticus sounds utterly destroyed. As if he’s balancing on the ledge of something horrific, and behind him is the memory of that night, coaxing him off the edge.
“I’d know what?” I press, pleading and terrified. “I’d knowwhat,Atticus? Please, I—”
Once more, I’m cut off. Atticus is in front of me, chest to chest, in seconds. He’s panting, each exhale feeding me his misery, the betrayal, thepain.
“No. You don’t get to demand anything from me. You don’t get to beg. Itrustedyou, Cameron. I was willing to give you all of me, to guide you and protect you. But that was before. Before I knew who you truly are.”
“And who am I truly?” I choke out, my eyes filling hot and fast. “Who do you see me as now that you hate me?”
Something in my words startles him, and Atticus tilts his head, studying me as he stares down into my eyes.
“Hate you?” he quotes. “I don’t… I don’thateyou.”
“Then please,” I plead, “tell me what to say, what to do. I never meant to hurt you. Icareabout you, Atticus.”
I was given an inch and took a mile. His momentary lapse in anger spurred me on, and now I’ve pushed too far.
