Page 5 of What’s Left of Us

I gave it to him. Not on purpose, obviously, but I hate that a piece of our history is forever ingrained in his skin. Right on his face, for everyone to see. At least it’s not on mine, I guess.

Even though I haven’t acknowledged him, Atlas remains beside me. One elbow against the bar, his body shifted toward me. Mom hasn’t noticed us together, but Mrs. Blake has. She keeps glancing over here, wearing a concerned expression.

For all the hugging she offered in the dressing room, for all the hopes she once had for me and Atlas, she doesn’t look pleased that we’re talking. Social politeness is one thing, after all. Closeness is another.

Don’t give me the stink-eye, I want to shout at her. Your son’s the one who came over here!

“Violet.” His voice lowers to a murmur. I don’t recognize this tone from him. It’s husky and deep, almost sexual—okay, fine, definitely sexual. It’s too manly to belong to the boy I once knew. He leans closer, and I realize he’s removed his suit coat. I don’t blame him. We stood in that direct sunlight for nearly an hour, and by the time vows were exchanged, I was sweating through my dress. The sleeve of his white button-up shirt brushes against me. “Look at me.”

I grind my teeth. I can’t decide whether I want to look at him. Is it cowardly to ignore him? Pathetic to follow his command?

Taking a long sip of wine, I slouch against the bar. I’m not going to look, but I won’t run off either.

Atlas sighs. I wait for him to leave. To say something. To apologize or give some lame-ass excuse. He doesn’t. He only stands here, breathing steadily beside me. It’s irritating. He thinks I won’t run, not now that I’ve made a stance.

I hate that he’s right.

Whatever. If he wants to stand here in silence, then fine. I might be too proud to run, but I’m not about to start a conversation. If there’s something he wants to say, he’ll have to⁠—

“How do you like Aberlena?”

It’s not what I expect him to ask, though I’m not surprised he knows where I attend college. Our moms are friends, and even if Mrs. Blake doesn’t want me anywhere near her son, I know she asks about me.

“Aberlena is fine. Rainy.” I take another drink of wine, a bit more than I probably should. I rarely drink, too afraid of the potential risks, but it feels necessary right now. Crucial, even.

“You like your classes?” he asks. “Education, right?”

“What are you doing?” I twist to face him, tilting my head up and up and up. I’m tall for a girl, but he’s taller. The last time I saw him, he was just starting to fill out. He’d spent most of our childhood scrawnier than I was. He simply grew too fast, but now, he’s finally grown into his height.

I wonder if he still races.

You know he does, a voice taunts. You checked his socials on the way here.

I grind my teeth, glaring up at him. He’s not matching my ferocity, and that, more than anything, is pissing me off. We’re mortal enemies, whether he likes it or not, but he’s not playing his part. Instead, he’s staring down at me like I’m a long-lost friend. Like he’s missed me. Like he’s memorizing my features.

“Stop that,” I snap.

“Stop what?” To his credit, his gaze sharpens. He’s back to the present, not in the innocent days of our youth, before he fucking ruined my life.

“What are you doing?” I repeat, rather than answering him. “Why are you over here at all? We’re not friends, Atlas. We haven’t been friends for years.”

He blows out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t my choice, Vi.”

My jaw drops. The fucking audacity of this man. Wasn’t his choice? As if our friendship ended because I was bored of him or I’d found someone more interesting. As if I somehow wronged him by cutting him out of my life like the malignant tumor he is.

How fucking dare he.

I slam my glass on the bar, and a heaping splash of wine spills over the edge. The clink is loud enough a few heads turn at the nearby table. I don’t check to see if Mom or Mrs. Blake notice. I’m already moving.

Mom asked me to come to this stupid wedding, and I did. She never specified how long I had to stay.

Abandoning my wine—and more importantly, Atlas—at the bar, I head for the nearest exit. I keep my steps slow and my chin tilted high. I’m not going to cry until I’m well out of everyone’s sight.

Pausing at the table of wedding gifts, I shoot Mom a quick text.

Too much. Heading home.