Page 17 of What’s Left of Us

“Do you think he’s here because of you?”

“I doubt it.” I shrug. “Still sucks. I’m going to see him everywhere. And he’s so…”

“Hot?” Hayden suggests, and I can almost hear her smile.

“Don’t remind me.” I open my eyes, just to glare at her.

“You should talk to him.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Maybe if you did, he could fix whatever went down between you two.”

I sit up, then stand. I can feel Hayden’s gaze on me, but I don’t meet it. I only offer her my hand, pulling her up once she takes it.

“Some things can’t be fixed.”

“Yeah, I know.” She makes a strange sound, and when I look over, I’m shocked to see she’s crying. Slow, silent tears stream down her cheeks.

“You haven’t told me why you took off.” I squeeze her fingers. “Was it because I lied?”

Hayden laughs. She wipes her face with the back of her knuckles, looking more angry than sad now. She gives me a tight-lipped smile, so forced it seems painful.

“No, it wasn’t that. It was just…familiar, that’s all.” She drops my hand and starts walking in the direction of our house. I match her pace, and we walk, carrying our shoes between us. “The look on his face. The guilt.”

“Some asshole broke your heart too?” I say it like a joke, desperate to ease the unpleasant tension, as if my heart isn’t truly and completely broken. As if I’m not a little haunted by the look on Atlas’s face too.

“No, I’m the asshole in my story.” Hayden stares blankly ahead. “I know what it’s like to look at the person you love most and know you’ve done irreparable damage.”

“I don’t believe that at all.” I try to grab her hand again, but she only shakes her head, stepping farther away. “Hayden, you’re not an asshole. Whatever you’ve done⁠—”

“It can’t be fixed. Ever.” She clears her throat roughly. “I can’t talk about it anymore. And to be clear, I’m completely on board with hating Atlas if that’s what you want. I was just thrown in the moment. That’s all.”

Tell me, I want to beg. Tell me what you hate about yourself, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.

But I’m a hypocrite. I’ve told Hayden the bare minimum about Atlas. I never told her how serious our relationship once felt. I didn’t tell her that he was the only boy I’ve ever loved. And I definitely didn’t tell her how he betrayed me, ruined my life, all because he could.

Chapter 8

age twelve

Iwas twelve the first time Nat accused me of having a crush on Atlas. Truthfully, my crush started sometime between my tenth and eleventh birthday, so I was proud of myself for playing it cool for that long. The problem was, with each and every year, my feelings for Atlas seemed to double. I was convinced it had to stop at some point. I couldn’t possibly like this boy more than I already did. But then he’d do something terrible, like tell me I was good at the keyboard, and I’d melt into a puddle of hormones and adoration.

“Have you kissed him?” Nat asked me one night. We were sitting in my bedroom, and we were growing dangerously near bedtime. Once that came, Nat would be forced to return to her own room. We used to sleep in the same bed every night, but Dad had recently decided we were too old. I cried when he told us at dinner.

Mom tried to reason with him, which led to a vicious argument, as things so often did with Dad. After he’d stormed out of the house, I asked Mom why he was so mean. She said I’d understand when I was older, and I hoped more than anything that she was wrong.

“Have you?” Nat pressed, and I blinked at her.

“Who?” I asked. Then, “I haven’t kissed anyone ever.”

“I meant Atlas, obviously.”

My whole body tensed, and my gaze darted to the open doorway. Mom would tease me relentlessly if she overheard a conversation like this. I didn’t even want to think of what Dad would say. He’d freak out, that was for sure. He’d probably think I was having sex with Atlas, and I’d be forbidden from ever talking to my best friend again.

“Be quiet,” I hissed. Minutes ago, Nat had been telling me her sophomore-year bucket list items. She was sprawled out on her stomach, decorating the list with different color gel pens. I was propped against my bed frame, scrolling endlessly on my phone. I’d just gotten it for my birthday, and I imagined it was only a matter of time before Dad started limiting my access, like he did to Nat.

“Atlas doesn’t like me that way.” I glanced around my room. This conversation desperately required distraction. I couldn’t meet Nat’s eye, or I was going to combust from mortification.

I grabbed the ukulele I’d gotten for Christmas off the floor and started to strum. I was terrible at it, especially pressing the right strings, but I planned to get better over the next year or two. Maybe, if I got good enough, I’d go on one of those singing competitions. Atlas told me I could win any one of them.

“Why do you say that?” Nat always framed conversations like this. Mom once said she would be a good therapist, but Dad was quick to shoot down the idea. Those people are scam artists, Shannon, he’d said. Nat’s going to do something useful with her time. Aren’t you, Nat?