Page 6 of What’s Left of Us

I’m returning my phone to my purse when Atlas catches up to me, calling my name. I whip around so fast I almost fall, my heel sliding across the floor. Only his hand on my elbow keeps me from landing on my ass.

“Don’t.” I rip my arm from his and take a few unsteady steps backward. He raises both hands in surrender, but when he starts to speak, I cut him off. “Save it, Atlas.”

“Really?” His handsome face twists, the crease of his brows hiding his scar. I’m close enough to see those damned freckles. “You’re not even going to let me talk?”

“What could you possibly have to say?” I demand. “Are you going to apologize? Say that you won’t do it again? Because you can’t, obviously. Nat’s already gone, and she’s never coming back. Because of you.”

“I’m not sorry.” Despite the slight shake in his voice, his face is the picture of calm. He’s staring at me, so sincerely, as if I should be impressed by his endless arrogance. “That doesn’t mean⁠—”

“I hate you,” I snarl. Atlas stiffens, reeling backward like I’ve struck him. I don’t care. There’s no way he doesn’t already know. We haven’t talked in years. I blocked his phone number. Sent his emails to spam. “Since you apparently can’t take a hint, let me be clear. I have no interest in anything you have to say. Not now. Not ever.”

He swallows, looking thoroughly devastated. Good. Maybe he feels an ounce of the heartache he’s put my family through.

I move for the door, but I stop when he calls my name again.

“You don’t have to go,” he says. Soft, gentle, like he’s trying not to break me. As if there’s anything left to break. “Stay for the reception. It’s Phoebe’s wedding. I’ll leave you alone.”

I kick out of my heels, grabbing them with my free hand.

“I know how much you love tattling to my mom about her misbehaving kids, so let her know I left early, would you?”

“Violet—”

I start running. He won’t follow me. Not on Phoebe’s wedding day. Not even Atlas is that selfish.

I, however, totally am. I am twenty-one and somehow more irresponsible than I was at sixteen. Maybe, without Dad and Nat around, I had no choice but to become the agent of chaos. Someone had to fill the void, and luckily, I’m pretty damn good at it.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure I entirely mean it, but I know it needs to be said. Mom arches an eyebrow at me, clearly waiting for a better explanation. “I’m sorry. You know how mad he makes me.”

“You can’t just run off, Violet. Do you realize—You have to know⁠—”

“Yeah, I know.” I pucker my lips and settle deeper into the couch. It’s less than an hour since I left the wedding, which means Mom left early too. Probably to come here, to lay eyes on me and confirm I haven’t disappeared for good.

She stands across from me, dressed in her pretty green dress, one hand resting on her hip. Her eyes brim with tears, and she looks away, struggling to control her breathing. When I was a kid, her solution to unpleasant emotions was to hole up in her bedroom.

Now, she’s standing here looking like she’d love to do just that, but she doesn’t. She hasn’t in a long while. I guess it was one of the first things she worked through with her therapist. If I went to therapy, maybe I’d be better at communicating too.

“When Nat left, my whole world fell apart.” She’s choking up now, restlessly fidgeting with her necklace. “I couldn’t…If you were to leave, I couldn’t⁠—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” It’s the truth, but I know that doesn’t really matter. For all Mom knows, I’ve got a bag stashed somewhere, and I’m just waiting for the perfect moment to take off.

Mom lets out a little sob. Her makeup is already smeared, so she must have cried on the way home. My throat tightens. I know I’m in the wrong. I know that, and still, I can’t escape this wild anger within me. This knowledge that I was wronged.

I didn’t want to go to the stupid wedding. She shouldn’t have made me.

Mom turns for the stairs, and my stomach dips with guilt. There’s something broken in my brain that doesn’t know how to properly apologize, how to admit when I’ve hurt someone. How to say sorry and actually mean it.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask pathetically. I’ve got a blanket over my lap, and I fold it out of the way. “There’s a new rom-com I’ve been wanting to watch.”

Mom faces me slowly. She’s crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“We need to talk about him.” She dabs at her eyes. “About Atlas.”

“I can’t, Mom.” My voice is hoarse, cracked. If I say another word, I’ll be crying right alongside her, and what good will that do? “Just…just come watch the movie. Please.”

Mom sighs and kicks out of her shoes. She sits on the couch beside me, and I throw the other half of the blanket over her legs. There’s a strained pause of silence, when only our breathing and her quiet little sobs surround us.

“You can’t hate him forever, Violet.” She sounds so tired, so much older than she once seemed.