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I watch the empty space, the street seeming to turn into a black hole, and then I quickly turn, shoving my keys into the door and stepping inside my apartment.
Sanctuary.
I lock the door, checking several times to make sure it’s secure, then go around to the windows in the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, and bathroom and make sure they’re locked too. Even though I don’t normally go to sleep until 2 a.m., I quickly get into my nightgown, then go into the bathroom to take off my makeup. I look in the mirror.
Ugh.
I forgot that Matt had kissed me, so I was talking to Atlas that whole time with red lipstick smeared over my lips. Combine that with the fact that my hair is looking unruly and my mascara is smudged under my eyes, it’s no wonder Atlas seemed a little apprehensive about me.
Then again, I’m the one who had every reason to be apprehensive.
I quickly wash my face and crawl into bed, hoping sleep will come for me earlier than usual.
Thankfully, it does.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up tangled in my necklaces. I guess I forgot to take them off last night.
I delicately wrap my fingers around them, careful not to break the thin chains as I pull them away from my neck, briskly rubbing my fingers over the indents left in my neck.
And then everything about last night comes flooding back to me.
The man under the streetlamp.
The man in the suit.
Matt kissing me.
A man named Atlas Poe at the door.
I pull back the skull, staring at the stone. Black tourmaline? I’ll have to ask my mom. I have a lot of questions for her now.
I roll out of bed and blink at the light streaming in through my bedroom window, my eyes straining. They’re especially sensitive this morning, probably from all the drinks I had. I’m glad I don’t have a hangover though. I must have fallen asleep right away, so that helped.
I stagger to the bathroom, filling a glass with water and downing it, repeating the motions a few times, before I get into the shower, trying to wash away the night before.
When I feel clean enough, my head a little brighter, I get dressed in my studying clothes, leggings and a long burgundy sweater, putting my rings, bracelets, and necklaces back on, wrapping my hair into a towel. I have long light-brown hair, but I get blonde highlights done every so often, so I should probably take better care of them and do hair masks and the like, but my beauty practices always fall to the wayside when it comes to school.
I put on my slippers and pad over to the kitchen, searching for coffee for my French press. I should have got more Blue Bottle last night, but I know my parents have a ton of Peets upstairs, so I send my mom a quick text: COMING UP FOR COFFEE and then I grab my keys and head out the door. It doesn’t matter that I have a towel on my head, I’m only outside for a second, using the key to their house and unlocking their door.
I lock it behind me and go up the narrow stairs, letting myself through the top door. My mother is in the kitchen, already pouring coffee into the French press.
“Morning sweetie,” she says to me, smiling. “Run out of coffee or just wanted to see your mom?”
“Both,” I tell her, coming into the kitchen and kissing her on the cheek before sitting down at the kitchen island, elbows on the live wood counter. “Where’s Dad?”
“He already went to the farmer’s market to see what vegetables they had,” she says, pouring hot water into the press. “I’m hoping they still have Romanesco.”
So, my parents are kind of hippies. I grew up surrounded by organic produce, plants in every corner of the house, crystals, tarot cards, my mot
her using moon cycles for everything, a super clean diet. Really, like a lot of families in the Bay Area.
“If they do,” she continues, “will you come over tonight for dinner? I’ll make your favorite pasta.”
“Can’t say no to that.” It’s not the best dish when I need to study, as it makes me rather comatose, but hopefully I’ll need the break by then.
She steps away from the press and peers at me, hand on her hip. My mother looks exceptionally young for her age. Granted, she’s only forty-five, but we often get mistaken for sisters when we’re out and about. Okay, so no one has ever said sisters per se, but they definitely think we’re friends, especially with our tattoos.
