Page 3 of What’s Left of Us

Spanish major, right?

Oh that’s wonderful, Rachel. Can you believe Phoebe’s getting married?

Mom’s always been good at small talk. I’m convinced she could do this for hours without taking a breath. Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to induce an out-of-body experience, but nothing’s working. I’m forced to remain in this moment, listening to Mom’s fake excitement for Rachel and Phoebe’s perfect lives.

When we arrive on the opposite side of the building, near a string of floor-to-ceiling windows, Rachel stops at a closed door. In the outside courtyard, there’s a line of white folding chairs and an intricate archway at the end of the grassy aisle. Dozens of guests are already outside, fanning themselves in their seats.

It isn’t until Rachel opens the door that I snap back to attention, that I accept where we’re going. Who I’m about to see.

“All right, we’re all here!” Rachel announces as we enter the cramped room. There are two couches and one large framed picture on the wall. A generic painting of wildflowers. There aren’t any windows in here. No other possible distractions. No way to ignore the fact I’m in the same room as Atlas Blake.

Fifteen other people too, but I barely notice them.

There is only him, leaned in the far corner, framed on either side by a bridesmaid. One short and curvy. The other tall and thin. Both prettier than I am. Not that it matters.

“Oh Violet!” Mrs. Blake beams as she gets up from the nearest couch, wrapping me in a tight hug. She’s always been aggressively affectionate, but I swear this hug is even more intense than I remember. She pulls back, just enough to look at me. “My goodness. That is quite the hair color. Don’t worry, dear, that’s what photoshop is for. Phoebe will just be so happy that you made it.”

“Was it optional?” It’s meant to be a joke, I swear, but the entire room grows awkwardly quiet. I swallow, struggling for something to say, when Mom jumps in, asking about Phoebe’s soon-to-be husband (an accountant named Todd, apparently).

As they chat, the room relaxes around us. I use all of my willpower to keep my attention locked on Mrs. Blake’s face. She’s going into excruciating detail of a last-minute flower fiasco, and despite the fact I couldn’t care less, I’m nodding along. Interjecting with oh that sucks and well that’s good in all the appropriate moments.

Because he’s looking at me. Atlas Blake hasn’t stopped looking at me since I walked into the room. He’s unabashedly staring at me, and there’s no way others haven’t noticed. I don’t care. I’ve yet to return his gaze, and I’m not going to. Not even a single glance.

Okay. Fine. One quick glance.

It’s a half-second of eye contact, maybe less. God, he’s handsome. Dark brown hair, shocking green eyes, a dusting of freckles over his nose. No, I can’t see his freckles from here. They’re barely-there freckles. Too faint to see unless you’re lying right beside him.

My attention is already back on Mrs. Blake, but all I can see is him. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t showing an ounce of emotion one way or the other. Maybe he’s only staring because the ghost of his past is at his sister’s wedding, not because he missed me. Not because he’s wondering how I’ve been, what I’ve been doing in the years since we last spoke.

“Here’s your bouquet, Violet.” Rachel materializes at my side, white roses in hand. As I take the bundle from her, I shift slightly, using her to block Atlas from view. It doesn’t work well. He’s too damn tall. Too broad to be concealed.

Tall and broad and tan. He’s wearing a suit. I’ve never seen him in a suit, and it’s infuriating how good he looks.

Don’t look again, I command myself. And for what it’s worth, I don’t. I listen to Mom and Mrs. Blake chatter about Phoebe and her accountant. I study the small bouquet in my hand. I think about all the tasks I need to complete before returning to college.

When Rachel’s phone beeps a few minutes later, I flinch. I’d disappeared so far into my own head that I didn’t realize the room is now mostly empty. Mom is gone. So is Mrs. Blake and a handful of others. Only ten of us remain. Five men. Five women.

“Show time, everyone!” Rachel squeals as she peers out the door, ensuring the coast is clear. With a grin back at us, she leads the way through the vacated building.

I follow her, arms crossed and eyes fixed straight ahead. Atlas is a shadow behind me. I don’t look to confirm, but I don’t need to. I can feel his presence. He’s only a step behind me, close enough I could spin around and touch him.

We exit through the front archway and round the building, stopping at the far corner. Voices filter from the courtyard, blurred by a soft piano melody. There are too many people here. It’s gross, suffocating. Paired with the ridiculous summer heat, this feels illegal. If I ever get married—doubtful—I’m inviting three people. Four, tops.

“Okay, everyone find your person.” Rachel grabs people by the shoulder before they have the chance to move, aggressively pairing them. For a brief, blissful moment, I look around. It’s a bit like a class project, when you’re supposed to find a partner, except you don’t have any friends in the class and you don’t know anyone and⁠—

“Violet, you’re with Atlas, of course.” Rachel grabs my arm, stationing me to the third position in line. My bare arm brushes against his suit coat.

Of course. Why ‘of course’? What does that even mean?

I stare straight ahead, glaring into the shoulder blades of the bridesmaid in front of me. Of course, I’m with Atlas. Because we were childhood friends, because we used to be inseparable, because my life fucking sucks. That’s why.

Phoebe comes from the front of the building, Mr. Blake at her side and Mrs. Blake holding her train off the ground. It’s an experience I’ll never have, even if I do get married. Stations temporarily forgotten, the other bridesmaids swarm Phoebe. She looks beautiful. Fluffy white dress. Stunning makeup. Perfectly curled hair. She’s wearing pale blue Converse, as if to say, look I’m different! No heels for me. I’m not like other brides.

As if anyone cares.

I’m not being fair. I’m being terrible, and I know it, but I don’t know how to stop.

When the music abruptly starts, everyone hurries back into place. Atlas hasn’t moved from my side, and he hasn’t stopped looking at me either. He’s not even being subtle about it. His head is turned toward me, chin tilted down.