Page 34 of What’s Left of Us

I trail my finger down the list, stopping at number seven. There’s a question mark at the end, like she couldn’t decide whether that one was a good idea. If I’d known she was doing these, if she would have shown me this back in our final August, I would have told her number seven was a great idea. I like numbers one, three, and four too. Two is fine. Number six is the best—if only she’d actually followed through with it.

I press my thumb against five, hard enough I accidentally crinkle the paper. Stupid number five. It’s not crossed off, but it definitely could have been. From what I learned in those final months before she left, my sister had done a lot of stuff she’d never done before. Maybe, if she hadn’t, she’d be here.

I don’t mean to look back at number seven, but I do. Her wording stirs something in my gut. She should have just said Phoebe. It’s not like she was ever close with Atlas or his parents. She meant Phoebe, right? So why not just say that?

It helps, I suppose, if I’m going to take on this list for myself. Without Atlas’s blood money, obviously. I may be a pathetically poor college student, any past riches long dissolved, but I’m sure I can scrounge up enough money for a music festival and a road trip. The rest I can do for free.

In fact, I can already mark number six off my list.

No, I decide. I should think of some variation. Shayna was Nat’s best friend at the end and also her worst influence. I should think of something that's terrible for me. Something that I know is bad but can’t seem to quit.

I stare out the window, trying to sort through my racing thoughts. Our neighborhood is quiet today. There’s nothing to watch, nothing to distract myself from the list in my hands.

I don’t have to do anything at all, obviously. It was Atlas’s idea to complete Nat’s list, not mine. I don’t owe Atlas a damn thing, least of all something to do with my sister.

And yet…

I place the list on top of the closed folder. Find a couple of pens and a blank piece of paper. I consider writing directly on Nat’s list, but that feels blasphemous, like doodling on a rare piece of art. I jot down her list, word-for-word, then make a few changes.

I swallow. I don’t know where my edit of number six came from, only that it feels right. If someone asked me what my greatest weakness was a few months ago, I would have told them something stupid, like “math” or “playing doubles”. Maybe it was the look on Atlas’s face when I told him I never wanted to see him again. Or maybe it’s the heavy weight that’s followed me ever since I left his apartment.

Maybe, deep down, I know I’m not being fair. And maybe, it hurts me as much as it clearly hurts him.

I make a change to number seven.

7. Reconnect with the Atlas Blakes (?)

I’m glad Hayden isn’t here to see this. The version of me that exists in Aberlena is vastly different from the version I left in my hometown. Right now, I’m regressing. I’m standing in front of Atlas’s apartment, hands sweating so much I put Nat’s list back in its folder to keep from staining it. With the folder tucked under my arm, I shift on my feet and give myself the best pep talk I can manage.

I can always change my mind.

He might not be interested anyway.

This isn’t nearly as big of a deal as I’m making it.

Nat wanted to reconnect with the Blakes too. She won’t hate me for mending things with Atlas.

Right?

“Violet?”

My shoulders hike up toward my ears. Oh god. The only person worse to witness my panic than Hayden is Atlas. But of course that’s who’s crossing the parking lot. His roommate Kolt is at his side, and they’re both wearing branded gear for Aberlena’s swim team. From the way they radiate the stench of chlorine, they’re either returning from practice or they had a meet this morning.

“Oh, hey.” I move Nat’s folder back to my hands and hug it to my chest. “I was, uh, just coming to see you.”

I hold the folder up by way of explanation.

“Everything okay?” Atlas slows his movements, coming to a stop in front of me. Kolt rocks back on his heels and looks between us, eyebrows raised. When he nudges Atlas with his elbow, in the least subtle gesture of all time, he doesn’t get a response.

“I forgot my water bottle at the pool,” Kolt announces loudly. He’s already walking backward, carrying a very not-forgotten water bottle in his right hand. It’s plastic, just like all the other ones in his bedroom. I resist an eye roll, but Atlas doesn’t.

“You don’t have⁠—”

“Just text me,” Kolt cuts him off. He turns and jogs toward a junky red truck in the far-back corner of the lot. It’s right next to a swanky black truck that I would guess is Atlas’s. It’s not what he drove in high school, but it’s the type of vehicle he’d pick. Sleek and expensive, but cool too.

“You want to come inside?” Atlas hitches his thumb over his shoulder at the main door. I eye it warily, my stomach so tangled with nerves I can’t think straight.

“Sure.” I sound more confident than I feel, and that soothes my anxiety. If I sound confident, I’m one step away from being confident.