Page 63 of These Wicked Hearts

He smiles, looking up at me. “In my mind I know I have responsibilities, so I won’t fuck that up. I know I can’t have just one. That night on the roof I had nothing to do, so I went up there to check it out. Found you instead.”

“Lucky me.” I blink with a smile, but I can’t help thinking about why I was on that roof. I swallow the thought, shoving it away. “I’m sorry I don’t have real eggs or something more for you. Pathetic breakfast.”

“Food is food. I think it’s really cool you’re vegan.” He drums his fingers on the counter. “So, how long have you been playing music?”

“My whole life. It’s always been this thing that’s consumed me. Music is everything to me.” Sourness seeps into my stomach. This thing I love more than anything has become so tainted and twisted. I want to find the joy in it again. Music has helped carry me through the worst moments of my life. Through my birth parents’ death, then moving from home to home until I landed with the Marshalls for good. Music helped me through my first breakup, the first time I had sex. The time I got so shitfaced drunk on cheap vodka I thought I’d never stop throwing up. Music has always been there.

I want to love it again.

“When will you have to start working again?”

“We’re on hiatus right now. Three months.” They all think I just need some inspiration to write our next album. If they knew the truth, though, I would never be left alone. “I need some time. It’s been a crazy year.”

“I listened to your songs before the last game.” He smiles wide. “I like your voice a lot.”

Warmth hits my stomach. “Oh yeah? Do you have any favorites?” I’m just teasing, but also kind of curious.

Atlas thinks. “I’ve only listened to your End of Me album. I downloaded Crystal Earth and Fighting with Fire for my flight today. My favorite song so far is ‘Magenta Sky.’”

I smile a little and try to hide it. I remember when I wrote that song. Chen helped me tweak the verse when we started recording it.

“Did you write it?”

I nod.

“What’s it about?”

A heavy weight settles somewhere deep. I go to say something but decide on the truth instead.

“It’s about feeling hopeless, but then you’re sitting there and you look up and there’s the sky, turning colors. That feeling you have when you realize all your problems seem so small. In comparison, we’re all so insignificant.”

“Depressing.”

“It’s not.” I lean my elbows on the counter. “Think about it like this. You’re stressed, maybe having the worst day of your life, then you go outside and sit somewhere and watch the sunset. It’s like this calm washes over you. You remember how insignificant it all is. Nothing matters. All of this is made up. The things that upset you won’t matter in weeks or months to come. Shit happens all the time. Everything will be fine because none of this matters in the long run. So don’t worry about it. It’s all bullshit anyway.”

“Except, what if something happens that is significant and shakes you for the rest of your life? You can say it’s all fake and it won’t matter, but that’s not reality. We’re not here for long and we’ll die and whatever, but bad shit happens. Bad shit that feels very fucking significant.” He blinks hard, glaring at the counter. Then he shakes his head. “I understand what you mean, but living a lifetime with guilt, grief, and shame feels really fucking real to some people. It matters.” He swallows hard.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

His head lifts, and the hard look in his blue eyes throws me. There’s no light in them. “Are you?”

“Atlas—”

He shakes his head. “It’s easy to say ‘who cares,’ but when all your body and mind can do is relive, remember, and feel . . . well then, it feels very fucking real, Gage.”

What the hell is happening right now? I turn to the air fryer and plate his food, then I grab the hot sauce out and put it in front of him. Atlas grabs the plate and takes a fork. We eat quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I just don’t buy the ‘this is all fake and made up’ thing when horrible real things still feel physical. I think that’s an excuse people use not to care about anything at all.”

I want to know what horrible things this man has been through. I look at his chest, the script peeking out behind the hair on his chest. The tattoos on his arms are done in a specific style that make the simple script feel out of place. Everything feels very heavy right now, and I’m realizing how little I know about him.

We’re strangers.

If I were to feel the way he does, I know my thoughts and feelings would drown me. I keep telling myself that what’s happening doesn’t matter because in the long run I’ll be gone anyway. All of this will be gone. Being famous has a time limit and our time is about up. My time specifically.

Atlas’s words hit me in the chest. If I’d leapt off the roof that night we met, would it be insignificant to my friends? The people my body would have landed in front of? My fans? It would have hurt maybe, but I can’t imagine them mourning my absence for long. Why would they? Despite what Atlas may think, I am insignificant. In the long run, in the scale of the universe, my presence won’t mean shit. None of this is real.

“Gage—”