Page 47 of What’s Left of Us

I bark out laughter, and to my horror, I accidentally snort. Atlas’s whole face lights up as he looks over at me.

“I’ve missed that,” he says. Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, I hear his I missed you in the quiet that follows.

And though I’m too proud to say it, I allow the words to drift through my mind.

I missed you too, Atlas Blake.

Chapter 20

now

Atlas wasn’t kidding when he said he found a place on the beach. Mark’s Bed & Breakfast is the type of place I didn’t know still existed. It’s not listed on any of the common rental sites, as he was proud to inform me. He had a friend who had an uncle who once stayed here. Apparently, reservations are only accepted via phone, so Atlas called early last week. It seems like a lot of work for one weekend getaway, and that warms my chest with all sorts of pesky emotions I don’t want to acknowledge.

As Atlas collects our bags from the back—he insists on carrying them—I stare up at the two-story beach cottage. It’s right next to the ocean. I can hear the waves crashing against the shore from here, and flickers of blue are visible between Mark’s B&B and the neighboring house. Aside from the sign proclaiming this place a bed and breakfast, it looks like an ordinary—but perfect—house. White shake siding. Blue shutters. Hand-crafted wood furniture on a wrap-around porch. A small tree heavy with dying cherries.

Inside, we meet the owner, a man whose name is not Mark but Steve. The interior is decorated with ocean blues and sandy browns, making it feel like we’re on the beach. The living room is open and light, filtering sun through the slatted shades.

Steve shows us to our rooms—separate, obviously. The coastal theme from downstairs is in my room, too. A blue bedspread, overstuffed white pillows, a massive picture of Haystack Rock above an antique dresser. My window looks out toward the ocean, and when I open it, a salty breeze surrounds me.

After standing with my eyes shut for longer than I should, I close the window and change into a white sundress. It’s not particularly warm today, but wearing leggings and a sweatshirt to the beach feels blasphemous. I want to walk with my toes in the sand and feel the wind on my bare skin. I evaluate my appearance in a mirror that hangs on the back of the door. The dress is a bit wrinkled from traveling in the bottom of my backpack, but my cleavage looks good enough I’m confident Atlas won’t notice.

And yeah, okay, I intentionally packed a dress with a low-cut neckline to make sure my boobs look good. Maybe I do want Atlas to notice just how much I’ve evolved in the past five years.

Sue me.

I’m slipping into a pair of black braided sandals when a knock comes at my door. My stomach flips, the way it did when I was sixteen and convinced Atlas was the love of my life. Despite my determination to squash the feeling, it stays, even as I step into the hallway.

Atlas is in the same outfit as before—a T-shirt and basketball shorts—but he’s styled his hair. It was messy in the car, partly from running his hand through it too many times, partly from rolling down the windows once we hit the coast.

I wish I could at least pretend not to be affected. Instead, I feel a sharp heat crawl up the sides of my neck.

“Ready?” He steps out of the way as I shut my bedroom door, taking a second to lock it. I’ve never stayed in a place like this. I’ve only ever been in an AirBnB, with the whole house to myself or in a hotel with room cards. There’s something idyllic about this place. Locking my door with a simple brass key, walking past the homey decor, passing the shared bathrooms.

“I wonder how many people are here,” I say, nodding at the remaining doors. Mark’s has eight bedrooms from what I can tell. Mine and Atlas’s are at the very end, facing the beach. I wonder if he paid extra for that, or if it’s just a happy coincidence.

“Probably a couple, but I doubt they’re all full. It’s the off-season.” He extends his palm for me. For one long, breath-catching moment, I think he’s offering me his hand.

And for one, humiliating second, I almost take it. By instinct, obviously.

“Your key,” he says. He nods at my dress, swallowing hard enough I can follow the movement in his throat. “Unless that thing has pockets?”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t.” I pass him the key. “Thanks.”

We don’t run into Steve or any of the other guests in the living room. It’s only us, walking silently side-by-side through the quaint neighborhood and along a sandy trail.

“I wish I knew why Nat wanted to come here.” I wrap my arms around myself, squinting out at the horizon. The sun is high in the sky, but with the steady wind, I can’t feel its heat. “I’m glad she did though. It’s beautiful. I doubt I ever would have ended up here without her list.”

Atlas shoves his hands into his pockets, walking close enough that I can feel warmth radiating from his arm. He’s always been like this. A walking furnace, regardless of the weather. In high school, he was one of those notorious guys who wore shorts all year long and never cared to keep a coat in his locker.

“Do you think she planned to come here with someone?”

I don’t know exactly when Nat wrote this list, but there’s a chance she and Michael were already broken up. Maybe she wanted to bring James or Shayna or someone else entirely. It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized how little I knew about my own sister. She may have had someone in mind for this whole list, and I’m certain it wasn’t me.

“I don’t know, Vi.” Atlas slows his steps as our dirt trail transitions into pale sand. Without the houses for coverage, the wind feels stronger. Colder. I tighten my arms, trying but failing to keep from shivering. If I look too miserable, Atlas will insist we go back, at least to grab a jacket.

Now that I’m in this place Nat wanted to see—but never did—I don’t want to miss a single second.

“It’s peaceful here,” he says after a long pause. “Maybe she wanted to come alone. Enjoy the quiet.”