Page 23 of What’s Left of Us

I don’t allow myself to look back as I leave his apartment, closing the door behind me.

“I take it the talk didn’t go well,” Hayden drawls from the round table.

“What talk?” I don’t look at her as I storm around the kitchen, taking out all the ingredients for fresh pasta. There’s nothing quite as therapeutic as punching dough.

“With Atlas?” She flips a page of her textbook. “I assumed that’s why you left at like five in the morning.”

“I left at seven.” I drop a bag of flour on the counter. Making pasta from scratch is far more time-consuming than it is difficult. There are only a couple of ingredients. Flour. Eggs. Salt. A little olive oil. Basil when I’m feeling fancy, which I’m currently not.

“She denies the time, but not the reason.”

I tear open the bag of flour, scoffing as a cloud of white dust puffs into the air. I should’ve put my pajamas back on. Instead, I’m wearing the same outfit—a fitted black tank top and red leggings—as I was at Atlas’s.

You dyed your hair blue. He sounded perfectly gutted, and I hate him for it.

I scoop a couple cups of flour onto the counter, ignoring Hayden’s blatant staring. I’m coated in a thin layer of flour now, but I don’t care. I’m going to be reckless and messy and pissed off for the rest of the day. All because this stupid guy can’t take a hint. He’s insisting on ruining my life, more than he already has.

“Jesus.”

I snap out of my daze. There’s flour all over the counter and down the front of my shirt. The eggs have already escaped the little well I made in the flour, and one yolk is getting dangerously close to the edge.

Worse, I’m crying. When the hell did I start crying?

“What happened?” Hayden speaks with the tone of someone facing a deranged grizzly bear.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I smear my hands over my cheeks, roughly wiping my tears and streaking flour down my face. Then I pull my shirt over my head. I don’t care that our blinds are open or that there are most definitely people walking on the sidewalk outside. Let them watch. Let them⁠—

“All right.” Hayden shoves away from the table and grabs me by the shoulders, hauling me toward our bathroom. The counter is littered with the makeup I used this morning. Because while I was too proud to put on a cute outfit (even though I definitely had one picked out), I wasn’t too proud to put on some foundation and mascara and lip gloss. Hayden points at the edge of the bathtub. “Sit.”

“I don’t need to sit.”

“You’re naked and trying to make pasta at…” She pauses to consult her phone. “Nine in the morning.”

“I’m not naked.” It’s true. I’m wearing a sports bra, which a glance in the mirror confirms is also covered with flour. “And you like my pasta.”

“Sit.” She clamps down on my shoulders, pushing until I stumble back against the tub. “Don’t make me call your mom.”

“God, Hayden.”

“You’re crying!”

“Barely!”

She plants her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a pair of cheer shorts and an oversized T-shirt that likely belongs to one of her recent hook-ups. Her mouth is set in a firm line, like she’s determined to fix whatever’s wrong in my head.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot in need of fixing.

“Sorry. I’m having a shit morning.”

“I know.” She unspools some toilet paper and holds it out to me. “Just tell me what’s going on, and I’ll let you go make naked pasta to your heart’s content.”

“We don’t…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” She takes the toilet paper back from me and starts dabbing my face. “At least let me clean you up.”

I take a few slow breaths, trying to control the ache in my chest. Hayden takes her time on my face, and eventually, the silence becomes too much for me to stay quiet. I’m pretty sure it’s part of her evil plan, but I’m too tired to contain myself.

“Atlas transferred here because of me. Because he thinks I’m a mess or something.”