Page 30 of What’s Left of Us

“It’s probably something stupid.” I stare at my knuckles instead of her. “Like, an old T-shirt or maybe her retainer.”

“Why would Atlas have her retainer?”

“Well, his sister.”

“Why would his sister have her retainer?” Hayden laughs then grabs my nearest hand, prying it from the steering wheel. She shakes my fingers and waits until I look at her. “If it’s her retainer, we’ll take it and go home. If it's a T-shirt or a smelly sock or her secret stash of thirty million dollars, we’ll do the same thing. It doesn’t matter, right? It’s Nat’s, so we’re going to get it.”

I manage a nod. The tightness hasn’t eased in my chest, but it’s probably not going to. Stalling certainly won’t help. It’s just going to give me more time to dwell and spiral and⁠—

“Come on.” Hayden releases my hand and climbs out of the car. “Chop, chop, Violet. I don’t have all day. Unlike you, I have a very eventful life.”

She’s trying to make me laugh. Usually, it would work. It doesn’t now, but it’s at least enough to get my ass out of the car. I fidget with my hair and clothes as we walk through the building and take the elevator to the top level. There are only nine stories, but there’s something grating about the fact he just waltzed into my town and got set up in one of its nicest apartments.

“You have to stop.” Hayden grabs my hand, gently pulling it away from my hair. “You look hot.”

“I wasn’t⁠—”

“It’s okay. I’d be fussing too.” The elevator opens, and Hayden gestures for me to lead the way. I’m typically forgetful. If this were anyone else, I’d have to consult my texts from Derek to confirm the apartment number. As it is, I walk straight to apartment 907 and knock.

This time, Atlas is the one to open the door. He’s wearing a dark blue T-shirt that makes his eyes look otherworldly. He smells good. Whatever his cologne, I’d like to bathe in it. Preferably with him.

God. No. Stop it.

He smiles when he sees me, but it’s more tentative than it’s been. His hair is standing up in the back, like he’s just rolled out of bed. He must have been taking a nap. My fingers twitch, desperate to touch him, to smooth down that hair, to feel the short scruff on his unshaved jaw.

The facial hair is new.

“Violet.” He glances between me and Hayden. “Do you want to come in?”

“Oh hey, you’re back,” comes another voice. I tilt my head to peek around Atlas. His roommate is on the couch, legs spread with his elbows on his knees. From the sound of it, he’s playing that video game Derek likes. Yellow Light, I think it’s called. He presses a button before throwing his controller onto the coffee table. It’s no longer a cardboard box.

“New table?” I ask, nodding at the upgrade.

“Yeah, the other one was not nearly as sturdy as we hoped.” Atlas lets out a self-deprecating laugh. He steps back, opening the door wider, welcoming us inside. To Hayden, he adds, “It’s Hayden, right?”

I walk past Atlas and stop at the kitchen counter. A bag of mandarin oranges sits atop a pile of unsorted mail. When we were kids, Atlas could eat about six of them a day. It feels impossible he hasn’t shaken the habit.

“...her roommate.” Hayden sidles up next to me.

“Does she still snore?” Atlas asks, right as his roommate joins us at the counter. The roommate barks out a laugh, and my jaw falls so hard it almost breaks right off my face.

“Atlas.”

His eyes spark in challenge as he looks at me. They’re impossibly green. If I hadn’t known him since we were kids, I’d think they were contacts.

“Do not answer that,” I snap at Hayden. She rolls her lips together, barely holding back a smile.

“I’m Kolt, by the way.” The roommate starts peeling an orange, pausing to toss one to Atlas. He glances between me and Hayden. “Do you guys want one?”

“Where’s Nat’s stuff?” I ask, talking over Hayden as she confirms she does, in fact, want one.

Then it’s the three of them peeling their oranges and me, shifting irritably on my feet. By the way Atlas’s mouth quirks, he is well aware that I’m about to lose my shit. It’s too much. The familiarity. The teasing. The massive elephant parading around his living room.

I twist away from the counter and take off down the hall.

“Which one is yours?” I call over my shoulder. I don’t wait for his response before pushing open the first door. A bathroom. Minimally decorated. No rug. No hand towel. Only a bottle of soap that I’d bet my life savings (a whopping twelve hundred dollars) is empty.

“Hey!” Atlas reaches me just as I arrive at the next door. This one is already ajar, and it’s clearly Kolt’s. Workout clothes litter the floor. Several half-filled water bottles line every available surface: the window sill, the dresser, the desk. There’s a stack of books on the desk chair, and the bookstore receipt is draped over the top.