Page 41 of What’s Left of Us

She’s no more than said the words when my phone buzzes. I steal another glance at Atlas before looking at my phone. Those two girls are circling like vultures, easing around the court until they’re in his line of vision. If he notices, I can’t tell.

My phone buzzes with a message from The Traitor:

I’m on the court.

Yeah, I think sourly. I know. I’m busy watching you like a stalker from my getaway driver’s car.

“If you don’t get out, I will,” Hayden threatens. “And I will suggest the skins-versus-shirts idea. So⁠—”

“He ruined my life,” I say sharply. Hayden’s brows lift, but I plow ahead. “He doesn’t deserve to be a part of it anymore. But I… I’m worried this is a bad idea, that he’ll get the wrong impression and end up hurt. He’d deserve it, but I don’t want…”

I trail off. Swallow hard against the growing lump in my throat.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant to hurt you either.” Hayden presses her hand over mine.

I close my eyes. It’s not what I wanted her to say. It’s definitely not what I need to hear.

Maybe Atlas didn’t mean to hurt me. Maybe he didn’t even mean to hurt Nat. But he did. Isn’t that what matters? And whether or not I mean to hurt him now, won’t it only matter if I do?

“I’ll text you when I’m done.” I pull my hand from hers and open the door. When I’m halfway out of the car, Hayden grabs her snack collection from the backseat. She tosses her keys onto the dash and settles against her window. I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing?”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere.” Hayden doesn’t so much as look at me. She opens a mini bag of Cheetos. “My show’s about to start.”

“I was afraid you weren’t going to come,” Atlas says as I cross the street. He’s smiling wide enough that I can see both rows of teeth for a second. It used to be my favorite smile, and I’d be lying if it didn’t stir warmth in my chest now. His looks have always been damn-near flawless. Even the arguably imperfect traits—the slightly stick-out ears and that scar on his brow—are beautiful. It’s genuinely unfair that he’s only gotten better looking since we broke up.

“I thought about it.”

“You were sitting there for a while.” He nods toward Hayden’s car. The windows, tragically, are not as tinted as I thought. I can see Hayden’s outline perfectly, which means Atlas could see me sitting in there, watching him. When I look back at him, he’s still grinning. “Is she going to come play?”

“Um, no. I think she’s just going to watch.”

“Yeah?” Atlas’s brow quirks. “Why’s that? Is she hoping to catch an infamous Violet tantrum?”

“I’ve evolved,” I remind him. I steal the basketball from under his arm, my knuckles brushing against his shirt. Heat radiates off him, and despite the late summer weather, I want to step closer. To feel his heat pressed against me. I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear these ridiculous thoughts too. “Okay. Let’s play.”

“What’s the rush, Vi?” Atlas easily sneaks the ball out of my hands and walks away, dribbling lazily. As he moves, he remains turned toward me, eyes crinkled with his smile. “Nat’s list wants you to learn a sport, not just play it.”

“I already know how to play,” I argue. Hands on hips, I follow Atlas to the center of the court. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and he hasn’t missed a beat in his rhythmic dribbling. Something tells me if I tried to steal the ball again, he’d effortlessly evade me.

“The first thing you’ll want to learn is how to dribble,” he says. He switches hands, does some fancy move. As much as I want to roll my eyes—he is clearly showing off—I can’t bring myself to. I’m too fascinated, tracking his fluid and quick movements. Despite his height, he’s graceful, easily trading the ball from one hand to the other.

I’m openly gaping at him when he abruptly stops, holding the ball out to me with one hand. He might be showing off, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s able to do it.

“You’re good at that,” I say stupidly. When I take the ball, our fingers brush, and I swear, there’s something animalistic waking inside of me. It wants me to get closer. To press my chest against his, to wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.

My mind understands the reality of our situation, but my hormones don’t. They’re begging me to climb this man like a tree, to kiss him like I used to. After so many years of missing Atlas, my body doesn’t understand why I’m not doing something about it now that he’s right in front of me.

“I have a lot of practice.” He nods toward the ball. “Go ahead and try it. Only one hand.”

“I know how to dribble.” Not well, obviously, but enough that I’m not going to dribble with both hands like a five year old.

I walk aimlessly around the court, dribbling while Atlas watches. Occasionally I bounce it too hard or not hard enough and my rhythm gets wonky, but it’s simple enough to get it back on track. Like with the ukulele, it’s easier not to look at my hand.

“You can say it,” I call over my shoulder as I dribble toward the opposite hoop. I turn slowly at the end of the court before grinning at him. “I’m a natural.”

He barks out a laugh.

“You used to practice all those hours on your driveway hoop,” I drawl, dribbling faster. I widen my pattern, attempting criss-cross designs in front of me. I look ridiculous, I’m sure, but I don’t stop. I don’t even try to hide my smile. “And here I come, out-performing you on my first try.”