Page 63 of What’s Left of Us

“Thanks for calling him.” I thanked her the same day Atlas showed up and held me while I fell apart. Now, a week later, it feels necessary again. “I wouldn’t have done it myself. I would’ve pushed him away. I would’ve been okay, but I wouldn’t have been good. So thank you.”

“I’ve got you.” She taps her foot against mine and grins.

“You know this thing is only a couple of days, right?” Atlas asks. We’re standing at his truck, and he’s loading my third bag into the backseat. “Same length as our trip to Cannon Beach, actually.”

“This is totally different.” For the record, only one of my bags is an actual suitcase, and it’s a carry-on size, at that. The other two are backpacks. One with the homework I can’t afford to skip, and one with my makeup and hair stuff. No matter how hard Hayden and I tried, we couldn’t get it to fit in one suitcase. “We aren’t going to be alone here, you know? There will be tons of people, and we’re going to be taking lots of pictures. I have to look cute.”

“You always look cute,” is his easy reply. He moves me out of the way to shut the back, then pops open my passenger door. “That’s why I buy you an endless supply of pickle chips.”

“Just admit you like them.” I climb into my seat, laughing at the impressive selection of snacks crammed between my chair and his. Multiple bags of dill pickle chips. Two brands of licorice (Red Vines for him, Twizzlers for me). An oversized bag of jerky. A few cans of soda and several bottles of water. I look at him, one eyebrow arched. “You know this drive is only, like, two hours, right?”

“Two and a half. Watch your legs.” I tuck my legs to the side as he shuts the door and rounds the front of his truck. He’s wearing a snug grey T-shirt, one of my favorites. His eyes are impossibly bright as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and he smiles at me, one hand draped lazily on the steering wheel. “I’m really glad we’re doing this.”

I mean to say, me too, Atlas. What I say instead is: “You brought condoms, right?”

He drops his head back as he laughs. Ever since we officially got back together, we decided to start using condoms again. It’s the responsible thing to do, after all, and the last thing the two of us need is a surprise baby. We haven’t even told our parents yet, and I’d rather do that long before I’m pregnant.

“Yeah, Vi. I brought condoms.”

“Enough?”

“More than.” He winks before pulling a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

“We’ll see about that,” I reply cheekily. Tempted as I am to ask just how many condoms he’s brought, I know I’m being ridiculous. We’re going to Seattle, after all, not the Arctic Circle.

Before long, we’re cruising down the interstate, the official Bumbershoot playlist blaring from his speakers. We’ve already discussed which bands to see and who to prioritize if it comes down to it.

As I look over Atlas, I’m not sure I care anymore. So long as I’m with him, this is going to be the best weekend of my life.

We arrive to our AirBnB when the sky is just starting to darken. This house isn’t nearly as cute as Mark’s Bed and Breakfast in Oregon. It’s a single-bedroom place with dead grass and dated furniture and a slightly weird smell, but it’s in the perfect location. Less than a fifteen-minute drive to the festival, and cheap enough we didn’t have to spend all the money in Atlas’s envelope.

We sit on the worn leather couch, curled beneath a fluffy white blanket. More music from the Bumbershoot lineup plays on his phone, and he’s got the small flat-screen TV working. He’s been flicking through movie options for a half hour now.

I’m tempted to tease him for it, but I’m too content laying here, my head on his shoulder. Before coming to the AirBnB, we stopped at a family-owned Italian restaurant and ate more pasta than should be feasibly possible. Now, I’m overstuffed and sated and dangerously close to falling asleep.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom. Ever since reconciling with Atlas, I’ve made a point to try harder with her. We talked for nearly an hour last night. It wasn’t anything deep or profound. I didn’t tell her I love her. I didn’t ask why she stayed with dad for as long as she did or why she still hasn’t filed for divorce. But I told her I was having a nice time in Aberlena. I sent her pictures of my shared house with Hayden. I made plans to visit her for an entire week at Thanksgiving.

And though I didn’t tell her, I’ll be coming home with Atlas. I know she’ll be happy, and though I was skeptical at first, Atlas has convinced me his family will be happy too.

I watch his profile for a few seconds before sitting upright. I grab my backpack from the floor and sift through my homework and school supplies until I find what I’m looking for. When I have my copy of Nat’s list laid out on my lap, Atlas pauses what he’s doing to look at me.

I go through the list, crossing out items as I go.

I rest my pen on number five, staring at it until Atlas taps it with his finger.

“Only one more after this weekend. What’re you going to do for it?”

“I already did.” I decisively cross out the fifth line. My face burns as I clarify. “Let go of a grudge. Came to terms with the past. Forgave myself…at least a little bit.”

Atlas kisses me, long and slow, so much more gentle than most of our kisses. I imagine, once the panic subsides and we both accept this is real and that it’s not going anywhere, we’ll have more moments like this. Comfortable and sweet and so full of love, we’ll feel it everywhere.

“Not to mention shower sex,” I say slowly, without pulling back, my lips brushing against his. His hands find my hips, pulling me fiercely against him. He’s already hard, and I laugh, tipping my head back to give him better access to my neck. And just like that, I’m not tired at all.

On the final day of Bumbershoot, I’m exhausted, my feet ache beyond belief, and I am having the best time of my life. Nothing else in recent memory even comes close. We’re moving constantly, getting free drinks at different promotional tents, squeezing in for front-row concerts with the newer bands, screaming along at the main stage each night.

Right now, several hours into the day, we’re taking our first break. We opt for a place in the grass, near one of the small stages, to eat an oversized tray of nachos. I’m wearing a cute pair of shorts and a white crop top. Sweat tickles my hairline, and I’m silently thanking Hayden for sending me with setting spray. If she hadn’t, I’d be a mess of smeared mascara and ruined foundation.

And Atlas wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me like a lovestruck kid. Or maybe he would. I’m starting to accept he looks at me like this, no matter my appearance or the situation.