Page 21 of What’s Left of Us

“Um, nothing?” I planted my hands on my hips, even as I was tempted to wrap my arms around myself. Atlas was seeing me in a bikini for the first time, and he wasn’t blushing or looking flustered like I secretly hoped he would. It was because I was flat-chested. Obviously. Embarrassment flooded through me, making every inch of me feel like it was on fire.

“I thought you went home.” His tone was dismissive. Sharp.

“Just to change.” I match my tone to his. “I was going to tan with Phoebe and Nat, but you ruined that.”

“Well, they’re inside now.”

“Yeah, I know. Because you got them all wet.”

Chase stood at my side now, holding his refilled water gun between both hands. He looked between the two of us, one eyebrow raised.

“Why aren’t you with them?” Atlas demanded, and that, more than anything, made me stiffen.

Because I’m with you, I wanted to say. Because Phoebe is Nat’s and you are mine and we are best friends and you don’t even know this guy and you already like him better than me.

I didn’t say anything. I just stared, my mind moving too slowly to be of any use.

“C’mon man,” Chase said. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tugged me playfully into his side. “Let her play. She can be on my team. You and Ryan can⁠—”

“No.” Atlas worked his jaw as he stared at Chase. He stepped closer, nearly a head taller despite being younger. He was glaring now, mouth puckered. “She’s not playing.”

“Screw you, Atlas.” I shoved away from Chase, only to shoot him an apologetic grimace. It wasn’t his fault Atlas was being a jerk, after all. “Thanks for trying to help. Atlas is an asshole.”

The word tasted like ash on my tongue, and Atlas’s jaw slackened. Recently he’d been teasing me about not cursing. Apparently he didn’t like it when I did either.

Before Atlas said another word, I took off around his house, not slowing until I was safely tucked inside my own.

Chapter 9

now

Iam a trembling mess of nerves and unbridled wrath. Let the record show, Violet Preston is typically a sane woman. I get good grades. I pay my rent a few days early. I call my mom at least once a week. Sure, I occasionally dye my hair blue and abandon weddings partway through, but I’m rational where it counts. And you know what, even the hair and wedding fiascos weren’t my fault. Not really. They were his.

I knock hard enough to shake the door. Derek better have the right address. I’m so worked up at this point, I have to argue with someone. If Atlas doesn’t live here, then the owner of this apartment is in for a rude awakening.

“Jesus, I’m coming!” a man yells.

I hate that I instantly know it’s not Atlas. The voice isn’t quite deep enough, and the man’s words come too fast. Atlas has always been a slow talker. I know because I had to restrain myself from finishing sentences for him in middle school. By high school, I found the quirk endearing.

The door swings open, revealing one of the men from the party. He’d been with Atlas. The shortest of the four men, and up close, he’s a bit terrifying. Buzzed hair, intense expression. He’s handsome though. My height, maybe an inch taller, but significantly wider. He is muscles on top of muscles, and at the moment, most of those muscles are exposed. He’s wearing a pair of shorts—the kind runners wear—and a pair of tennis shoes. No shirt. No socks either, though hopefully I just can’t see them.

“You here for Atlas?” He looks me over twice, not crudely, but clearly checking me out.

“Yes.” It comes out more like a bark than an answer. My entire body feels hot with rage, but I can’t resist asking, “How did you know?”

“Well, you’re not here for me.”

He looks over me again, smirking before he steps back. He leaves the door ajar as he disappears deeper into the apartment. He didn’t tell me to come in, but I enter anyway, shutting the door behind me. Despite being stupidly expensive, the apartment is pretty basic. Where Hayden and I spent hours hanging pictures and matching colors, it’s clear these guys did the bare minimum. They’ve got a brown couch, a square dining table, and a large cardboard box for a coffee table. Their TV is on the floor with a game console off to the side.

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. Typical.

“Violet.”

I turn back toward the kitchen. Atlas stands at the end of the hallway. His roommate has disappeared, which is probably for the best. Atlas is about to be eviscerated, and I’m guessing he’d prefer no witnesses.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s not wearing a shirt either. Maybe that’s a rule in their apartment. All abdominal muscles must be on full display. He’s not wearing running shorts though. Just plain black basketball shorts and bare feet. His brown hair is tousled, like he’s freshly rolled out of bed.