Page 27 of What’s Left of Us

Any chance I’m dead? Because I feel like I’m in Hell, but I don’t remember dying.

Hayden’s response comes almost immediately:

you seemed fine when you left this morning

unless you got hit by a car in the parking lot

do you think there’s cell reception in hell?

I try to muster even the smallest of smiles. Nothing. Zilch. My face is stuck in a twisted grimace of shock and disgust. It started when Atlas walked into my class—Advanced Functional Piano—fifteen minutes ago, and I’m certain it’ll last until the end of time.

I glare at the back of his head, three rows down from me. If I knew how to shoot a spitball, I might try it. Since I don’t, I spend the entire class ignoring my professor and wondering what I did in my past life to deserve this never-ending torture. Another text from Hayden comes through:

you’re really going to leave me hanging??

Atlas is here

yeah, i know

No, I mean HERE. Like, in my class.

what?! are u sure?

I’m looking at him right now.

do u think he was there last week?

As if I would have missed him. I don’t know how tall Atlas is, but he’s well over six foot. He’s easily the tallest person in this room, not to mention the hottest. A college athlete has no business being in Advanced Functional Piano. Atlas probably isn’t even in this class. I don’t know how he got my schedule, but he’s obviously found it and is using it to disrupt my final sliver of peace.

I shake my leg so hard the guy sitting next to me nudges me with his elbow. He glances pointedly at my leg, and I force myself to stop moving. I finally send a response:

There’s no way he’s a music major.

My mom would have told me. I’d worked hard to avoid news of Atlas over the years, but there’s no way she wouldn’t have mentioned our overlapping studies. Other things slipped out all the time. His college. His most-recent racing times. The last time he’d been home.

Another text from Hayden:

you also thought there was no way he’d be in aberlena sooooo

I’m still reading it when someone clears their throat. Loud and obnoxious…like a professor demanding attention. I flip my phone face-down on my desk like the guilty delinquent I am. Professor Rick is staring at me, and so is the entire class. It’s a small group, only nine of us, but that’s more than enough people to make me feel like an idiot.

Last week, Professor Rick told us to call him by his first name. He’d smiled at me when I explained my passion for music and my hopes of becoming an elementary school music teacher. He isn’t smiling now. I keep waiting for him to say something, but he only stares and stares, right along with the rest of the room.

“Sorry.” I fidget in my seat and force myself to meet his condescending glare.

“If you want to play on your phone instead of listening, that’s fine.” Professor Rick sits back on his desk and crosses his ankles. “Don’t forget you’re here to learn—you’re only hurting yourself.”

I force myself to nod. My face is on fire, and even once the lesson starts again, my insides feel like tangled yarn.

Most professors don’t care if people use their phone. The fact Professor Rick does is more proof that my life is a cosmic joke—and that, without a doubt—Atlas is making everything worse. He’s the reason I needed moral support anyway. He’s the reason I wasn’t paying attention in a class I’m genuinely interested in.

By the time the lecture ends, my blood feels six degrees too hot. I’m being burned from the inside out, and it’s destroying any rational thought. All I can think about is Atlas, Atlas, Atlas, and the way he’s wormed back into my life. Approaching me at Phoebe’s wedding. Changing schools. Showing up in my class.

I expect him to loiter outside the door for me, but by the time I slip outside (strategically with other students, to avoid a patronizing chat from Professor Rick), Atlas is already several paces ahead. He’s with one of the girls he’d been sitting near.

I recognize the smitten look on her face. It’s the same one I wore from ages ten to sixteen.

“Atlas!” I try to shout, but his name is barely above talking volume. The nerves are eating me again, clamping down on my vocal chords. I’m about to try again, louder this time, when he abruptly turns.