Page 36 of What’s Left of Us

“We?” he finally asks.

“Yeah.” I stare at the list instead of him and tap my finger next to number seven. “Reconnecting with the Blakes is on here. So I figured that could be step one.”

I swallow and look up at him. His expression is so much worse than I feared. It goes beyond hope, beyond confusion. He’s looking at me like he’s desperate for me, like he’d jump out the nearest window if I asked him to. If he thought it would undo the destruction he caused.

“I don’t know if I can ever be your friend again,” I admit quickly, the words tasting foul as I speak them. “I’ll never forgive you. And obviously, we’ll never go back to what we were.”

It might be a weird clarification to make after all these years. I’m sure he’s moved on, that he’s got a girlfriend. If he doesn’t, he will soon enough. He hasn’t said anything that indicates he’s hoping for us to get back together. It feels imperative to speak the words anyway. To say them out loud, for both of us to hear them.

This time, Atlas doesn’t flinch. It’s a relief and a gut punch, all at once.

“I know,” he says softly. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Thank you, for letting me do this with you.”

I nod, unable to form a single word. He looks over me, gaze quietly assessing.

“Wait here.” He leaves the kitchen, returning moments later with the white envelope. He holds it toward me from across the counter.

“Oh, no, you don’t⁠—”

“Take the money, Violet.”

I don’t. I stare at it, at the overstuffed envelope with more money than we’ll realistically need.

“You could just use it as we go.”

“Take the money,” he repeats. “That way, when you inevitably decide you don’t want me involved, you can finish the list. Take it, Violet. Please.”

My eyes burn as I take the envelope from him. It feels heavier than it did yesterday, though I’m sure that’s only my imagination. My guilt. Everything terrible comes back to Atlas, but when I’m around him, I can’t help but feel like I’m the monster. Like I’ve hurt him as badly as he hurt me.

When I leave, I hold the folder in one hand and the envelope in the other. I stroke my thumb over my name as I walk. I can feel the sharp lines of his handwriting, and when I close my eyes, I can almost hear my name in his voice.

Chapter 15

now

I’m here early. When I left my apartment, it seemed like a good idea. I could get my food, find a table I liked, and orient myself before having to face Atlas. Now, I feel stupid. I’ve only given myself extra time to worry and overthink and spiral, all while sitting alone in the middle of a busy cafeteria. People probably think I don’t have friends.

My phone buzzes. I shove my tray to the side and read Hayden’s message.

should be home around seven. want to get pizza?

Sure.

Also, I’m about to meet with Atlas because we’re going to do Nat’s list together. Don’t worry, I already told him we probably won’t be friends again and that we definitely won’t ever be more than friends.

It sounds childish, but I send it anyway.

The little typing bubbles pop up beneath my message. I roll my lips together as I wait and wait and wait for her reply. The bubbles abruptly disappear, replaced with a giant, grinning picture of Hayden. She’s calling me, and I’m debating whether to answer when a tray knocks against mine. Atlas slides into the seat across from me.

Sorry, I’ll call you later!

“How long have you been here?” Atlas asks, barely holding back a smile. He looks good today, of course. He always looks good. His dark hair is carefully tousled, and he’s wearing a navy shirt. He’s cleanly shaven, and I decide that’s why my attention keeps snagging on his lips.

“Only a couple minutes.” I grab the folder from the bench and place it on the table. Rather than meeting his knowing gaze, I take out my edited version of Nat’s final list. “Thanks for meeting me, by the way. I figured this would be easier to coordinate in person.”

I slide the list between us, and he silently looks over my revisions. Even before he’s finished, my cheeks flare with heat. I’m exposing too much, needlessly embarrassing myself. Number six, stop running. Who even says that? But creating an updated version, where I put some other task for number six, felt ingenuous. Worse, it felt like running, the exact thing I’m supposed to be resolving.

Thankfully, Atlas doesn’t comment on number six at all. Instead, he taps his name, written on the seventh line.