Page 14 of What’s Left of Us

“I asked what you were wearing tonight.” Hayden twists her computer toward me, where she has a collage on the screen. Like the complete maniac she is, Hayden has a picture of every single clothing item she owns. That way, when she’s trying to pick an outfit, she can easily toggle them on her computer. She’s convinced this is a better system than simply walking to her closet.

“Tonight?” I echo dumbly.

“Don’t you dare.” She picks up another pillow, this one white and fluffy and in the shape of a heart. “I will actually murder you.”

“With a pillow?” My lips tick.

“You promised we’d go out tonight.” She raises her arm slightly, ready to throw.

Fuck. I did promise that.

“You forgot!” She chucks the pillow. It gets closer this time, hitting the stool to my left before bouncing onto the hardwood. “You promised, Violet Elizabeth!”

I close my eyes for a brief, blissful moment. I let myself picture the peaceful night I’d imagined. Curled up in my bed, two bags of popcorn, because one is never quite enough, watching The Office until I fell asleep.

That sounds far better than bar hopping and being Hayden’s designated less-hot best friend. She’d throw another pillow at me if she knew that’s how I felt, but it’s the truth. Hayden is magnetic and beautiful and charming, and I simply do not compare. I’ll never admit that, and not because I don’t want her to know my insecurities. It’s because she’d try to dull her sparkle to help me shine, and that’s the last thing I want.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, trying to sound chipper. I’m not sure I succeed, but I at least haven’t said no, so Hayden grins at me.

“We’ll start at Luther’s, of course.” That’s where we begin every night out, so I’m not surprised. Hayden's smile deepens to a smirk. “And then, we’ll be meeting up with Derek and a few of his friends. I’ve already confirmed your husband will be there. I got more deets on him, by the way. Atlas Blake. He’s a swimmer. There’s more, but I’m only telling you if⁠—”

“No men!” I blurt, my voice pitching. I can feel my heart in my throat, pounding so fast I might choke on it. “No men. I’m not ready, and I…I’ll go if we don’t do that.”

Hayden’s eyebrow arcs, and her expression fades into disappointment.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, one thousand percent. Sorry for wasting your time. I just—I’m not ready.”

She watches me for a long moment, lips downturned. When she speaks, her voice is so quiet, so full of concern it twists my gut. “Is this about Jonathan?”

More than you know, I think sourly. Before I can muster a response, Hayden claps her hands together decisively.

“Actually, you’re right. No men needed.” She wriggles her phone from her back pocket. “I’ll tell Derek not to invite him.”

My “thanks” is barely a whisper.

“Tonight is going to be fun,” she says as she finishes her text. She looks back down at her computer. “Now go pick out your outfit. You already bailed last week, and you promised me this week. So⁠—”

“All right, all right,” I interrupt. I need to go to my room anyway. Not to pick out an outfit, but to lay on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.

Atlas Blake is here.

I’ve known it from the second she mentioned him, but now I can’t pretend otherwise. There’s no way there’s another Atlas Blake that’s hot and kind and a swimmer, with the best green eyes Hayden (or anyone) has ever seen. I just don’t understand why he’s here, or how I’ve missed the memo.

Maybe that’s why he was asking about Aberlena, I realize. At the wedding. Maybe he’d been trying to tell me.

Soon, my ceiling has no texture, no details. Everything has blurred into an endless expanse of white, until I’m convinced I’m hallucinating. It’s another hour, maybe two, before I peel myself out of bed and attempt to be productive. It’s a complete wash. Eventually, Hayden has to come into my room, fix my hair, and help with my makeup.

“This is going to be fun,” she announces from behind me. She’s just finished curling my hair. Whenever I attempt it, I look a bit like a poodle. Hayden makes me look like I could be in a shampoo commercial.

I force my lips into a smile.

Hayden spritzes hair spray on the bottom of my curls, the sticky residue tickling my exposed lower back. I’m wearing a pair of white jeans and a deep red crop top. It’s my favorite, the one that makes my boobs look more like a D cup than their true C.

I try not to dwell on the fact I searched fifteen minutes for this shirt, specifically because it’s red.

That color was made for you, Atlas declared when we were sixteen. You should trademark it. It’s a waste on anyone else.