Page 32 of What’s Left of Us

“What is it?” I ask again, because I’m a masochist, maybe. Because now that I have this gift in my arms, the guilt feels suffocating. I’ll never forgive Atlas for what he did, but I didn’t need to be cruel. Especially not when he’s given me this missing relic. Not when he came all the way to Aberlena to check on me, misguided as he was.

“Nothing.” Quick again. He shoves it into his back pocket. Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

“It has my name on it. You were going to give it to me.” I hold out my hand, keeping the other firmly wrapped around the folder.

“Yeah, well.” That’s it. No further explanation.

And it’s fair. I get it. What I don’t get is why I can’t move my feet from the floor, why I suddenly feel frozen with an unfamiliar sensation coursing through me. Why this moment feels critical. Like one wrong move will change the trajectory of my entire life.

“Can I see it?” I ask. My hand hovers between us, palm up. “Please, Atlas?”

His eyes flutter shut, like my voice is causing him physical pain.

I count the seconds as I wait for him to open his eyes. When he does, he doesn’t speak. He fishes the envelope out of his pocket and places it in my hand, his warm fingers brushing mine. The envelope is heavier than I expect. Not a letter then, but something thick. Something that feels like…

I peer inside the envelope. Gasp. Hold it back to Atlas, pressing it to his chest when he doesn’t grab it.

“Why were you going to give me money?” My voice is too soft, too scared. I clear my throat roughly and try again. “What’s this for, Atlas? It’s not from Nat, right? You promise?”

Lord only knows where she would have gotten that much money. There has to be a thousand dollars in there. Maybe more.

“It was from me.” He shifts on his feet, and for the first time, it looks like he’s going to cry. I’ve seen many emotions from my ex-best-friend, but this tortured sadness is too much. I hate it. I want to scrub it from existence. Never have to feel the ebbing hurt again. “I know it doesn’t…I know it doesn’t change anything. I just thought, someone should finish her lists, you know? It felt like you should do it, but some of the stuff is expensive, and I figured…”

He trails off, swallowing, and I stare at his shoulders instead of his face. I can’t bear to meet his eyes, even as I feel their weight all the same.

“Nat will finish it,” I whisper. Pathetic, because I know as well as anyone it’s not true.

“Okay.” His voice is hoarse. He hasn’t moved to take the money.

“Take it, Atlas. Please.”

He does. As soon as the envelope is in his hand, we both step back and it becomes the slightest bit easier to breathe.

“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping he knows how much I mean it. “For the folder. For…the offer.”

“You’re welcome.” He speaks so quietly I can barely hear him. His next words are somehow even softer, only spoken once I’ve turned for the door. “I never meant to hurt you, Violet. I lost her too.”

I freeze. Tears prick my eyes, but I don’t let any more fall.

“You didn’t lose her.” I tilt my chin higher. Force a steady breath. “You chased her away.”

I don’t look back as I leave, too afraid of what I might see.

Chapter 13

age fourteen

The world spun. There was a ninety percent chance I was going to puke. I clung to the back of Atlas’s shirt, nails digging into his sides. He let out a raucous laugh, spinning faster, and I screeched in response. My legs flailed over his shoulder. My knee struck something—his jaw, maybe. He only laughed harder.

“Uncle!” I screamed. “Uncle! Uncle! I’m going to puke!”

Atlas staggered to a stop, keeping a tight hold over me. One hand was draped over my back, pinning me to his shoulder. The other lazily cupped my thigh. I blinked at the ground, only then realizing I’d closed my eyes at some point.

“Eighteen! Nice.” Phoebe sat on the edge of their treehouse, legs dangling over the ledge. She was up there with her new friend Rachel. They were in the school play together, and they’d been inseparable since school ended.

Nat wasn’t here, but I was doing my best not to think about that. She had convinced Mom and Dad to increase her tennis practice to four times a week. We both knew she wasn’t playing tennis at all.

“If you have to puke, aim for the ground.” Atlas made no move to put me down, even as he wobbled unsteadily on his feet. “This is a new shirt. My girlfriend says it makes my eyes pop.”