Page 35 of What’s Left of Us

Atlas glances at me as we walk into the building and navigate to a back stairwell. Every other time I’ve been here, I’ve taken the elevator. Atlas would opt to walk nine flights of stairs instead. I don’t entirely mind. I’m able to study him as he leads the way. It’s one of the few times I can actually look at him without him knowing.

So I admire the broad stretch of his shoulders. He’s wearing a thin white T-shirt that’s damp at the collar. Simple black shorts and a pair of waterproof slides. His brown hair is wet and tousled, but there’s also clearly gel in it.

He never used to bother with stuff like that. I wonder when he started. I wonder if women prefer his hair combed and styled over his old messy look. Some childish, territorial part of me wants to rough my fingers through his hair until it looks like it used to.

By the time we reach the ninth floor, I think I’ve memorized every visible contour of his body. The thick muscles of his back. The protruding veins on his forearms. The visible calluses on his fingertips.

I wonder if those are from weightlifting at the gym or whether he still plays the guitar.

“Are you okay?” Atlas asks as we exit the stairwell. It takes me a moment to understand why he’s asking.

“I’m not breathing that hard.”

“You sound like you’re dying.” He stops at 907 and digs his key out of his pocket. With a sideways glance at me, he grins. “We could’ve taken the elevator.”

“Now you offer.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the wall beside his door. “Also, unlike some people, I have better things to do than exercise sixteen hours a day.”

“Yeah?” He strides into his apartment, and I try not to dwell on the fact he holds the door for me. “Like what?”

There’s a rawness to his question that settles uncomfortably beneath my ribs. This isn’t polite small talk or vague curiosity. It’s desperate. Hungry. Loud.

“Well, I’m a double major. Education and music. I think you already knew that.” I force a steady breath between my lips. My every instinct urges me to tell him to fuck off, to remind him that we’re not friends. That he lost that privilege. It’s only the blue folder tucked beneath my arm that stops me.

I’m here for a reason, and I’m determined to see it through. Even if I decide it’s a bad idea after all, even if I ultimately bail, I need to at least try. Actually try.

“You still writing music?”

I nod. Swallow again.

“Your roommate didn’t have to leave,” I say, instead of what I should say. It’s time for me to bring up the reason I’m here, even though Atlas doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush either. I’ve got the folder on full display, but he hasn’t so much as looked at it since we entered the building.

“Yeah, I know.” Atlas walks to the living room and starts tidying the mess on the coffee table. “He assumed we’re hooking up.”

Thank god Atlas isn’t looking at me. My face is a thousand degrees, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Why would he think that?” I ask carefully. When really, what I want to ask is: would you want to?

“That’s how Kolt’s mind operates.” Atlas turns back toward me, juggling a mess of wrappers, empty plastic water bottles, and a bowl stained with the distinct orange of SpaghettiO remnants. He gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, he’s a slob.”

“The SpaghettiOs were you. You don’t have to lie.” I’m teasing him. I’m bringing up a shared past—a knowledge of his favorite food in high school. I’m doing all the things I’ve decidedly not done in years.

And it’s clear Atlas notices.

His eyes light, just for a second. He quickly turns away, tossing the garbage and placing the bowl in the sink. He even takes the time to rinse it out, but it doesn’t matter. There’s blush on his cheeks when he faces me again.

“The SpaghettiOs were mine,” he acknowledges. He leans back against the fridge. We’re separated by the island counter and a few feet on top of that. We are considerably farther apart than we were at Phoebe’s wedding, and yet, he feels dangerously close.

Focus, I chastise myself. You’re here to make amends.

“I looked through her lists.” I hold the folder between us like a shield. With a stiff breath, I force myself to look Atlas in the eyes. The vivid green is endless and intoxicating. I need to be careful. As soon as I escape his closeness, I should make another list. A strategy to not get caught up in that smolder.

“And?” he asks after nearly a minute passes. I blink. It takes me a second to remember what I was talking about.

Right. The lists.

“She checked a few things off all of them, except the last one.” I remove her final list from the folder and place it on the counter between us. Atlas steps forward to look over it. “I decided you were right. We should finish it for her.”

He stiffens, hands braced on either side of the paper. Those dangerous eyes are back on me, but I don’t dare meet them. I’m too scared of what I’ll see.