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It’s only seconds before she dips down, picking up the shattered picture frame. I ignore my instinct to step in and clean up the glass before she can. Instead, I watch as she balances it in her small hand, being careful not to cut herself.
“Atlas.” She sighs.
“Don’t,” I cut her off before she can say anything more.
So I’ve got a fucked up family, who doesn’t? So, my mom skipped town when I was thirteen and I have no idea where she is or if she’s even still alive for that matter. Other people have it worse. Who cares if my dad is having another child when he couldn’t do right by his first one? Not my problem that he’s bringing another human in the world to epically fuck up.
I don’t care.
I don’t give a fuck.
Not one single fuck.
I hate the fucking lot of them.
Barlow stands, setting the broken frame on my dresser before turning to me.
I expect some bullshit to spew out of those pouty lips of hers.
I expect her to make some comment about how ridiculous and childish I am, trashing my room like a prepubescent teenager.
What I don’t expect is for her arms to slide around my middle and her petite body to come flush with mine.
Is she... hugging me?
My entire body tenses.
What the actual fuck?
In all the years I’ve known Barlow Ross she has never, and I meannever, shown physical affection toward me. Obviously, with the exception of what happened in the bathroom, but really, you can’t count that because that was me, not her.
I’m not sure how to react.
Do I push her away, tell her to fuck off and get out of my room?
Or do I do what every single bone in my body is aching to do and pull her closer.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, I opt for the latter, letting my arms slide around her petite shoulders before dropping my head into her thick mess of hair.
I breathe her in.
She smells like vanilla and peaches, just like her shampoo.
And no, I don’t know that because I’ve sniffed her shampoo that’s in the bathroom.
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I totally have... On more than one occasion.
“I’m sorry.” Her words vibrate against my chest.
I don’t think I’ve heard her say I’m sorry once a day in her life. Now twice in the matter of minutes? I’m starting to think maybe I’m dreaming. This has to be a dream, right?
She’s gone from not speaking to me, to so seething mad she could barely look at me, to hugging me all in the matter of one evening. Can someone say whiplash?
I don’t know how long we stand like that, her small frame wrapped in my much larger one. A minute? Five minutes? Ten? All I know is that when she pulls away, the only thing I want to do is pull her right back in.
What the fuck?
You hate this girl, remember?
