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Would he remember the venom he spewed? Would he care? Drunken words were sober thoughts, after all. I believed that philosophy was the reason Mum never drank wine when my father was home.
As soon as I stepped into the club, I knew I shouldn’t have gone. My motivation for doing it was unclear even to me. After slogging through four hours at the cemetery and watching the sun dip into the night sky, I wanted to prolong my trip back to the castle that contained all my sins. As Leo drove me back to the castle, I told him to take a detour.
At first, he refused. Seeing August was a trigger for me. I craved him desperately, and if anything was going to derail my plans of leaving Aldrich, it was him. But once Leo learned where I wanted to go, a devious, knowing smile crossed his face, and he whispered, “As you wish.”
He knew how bad August had gotten and was happy to give me a front-row seat to what awaited me should I choose to stay.
What I got at Electric was a harsh slap in the face—a brutal twist I was unable to escape. I showed up expecting to relive happier times, but the experience left me humiliated. Nothing was the same. It was foolish to think that Aldrich was a time capsule for the friends I left behind. We grew up and grew apart.
August evolved as the evening continued. It was like watching a rabid deterioration. By the night’s end, he was practically foaming at the mouth and snapping at me. August sped through the stages of grief like he was in a one-man race. He was cruel. He was lost. He gave in and sobbed himself to sleep, unaware of the audience watching him break.
“Are you done pretending to sleep? I’m hungry, gorgeous,” Atticus said from his spot on the leather loveseat by the large window. I knew the wannabe royal was here, watching me snuggle next to August like he was the only source of heat in a blizzard. However, his voice still startled me. When I was a girl, I used to sleep in the very chair he currently occupied. I’d spend hours curled up in a blanket, listening to August mumble in his sleep.
I nuzzled deeper into the feather mattress. I wasn’t ready for the quiet moment to be over. I also wasn’t ready to continue our conversation from last night.
While August was losing his mind at the club, Leo spent the evening glaring at me, but Atticus? Atticus asked far too many questions. It felt more like an interrogation than a reunion.
What are you up to?
How have you been?
Did you miss me?
Do you remember our kiss?
That last question escaped his lips as he pressed me against the wall in the hallway leading to the restroom. I had to fight the instinct to push him off and bruise his windpipe with my elbow. I knew he was following me, and his persistence was probably the only thing that stayed the same these last three years.
I still wasn’t sure if Atticus truly wanted me or wanted the idea of me, though. Three years ago, I was open to entertaining his affections, but too much time had passed, and my heart was now a muddled, dead organ beating in my chest.
No matter how much time had passed, the answer to his unspoken question was still the same:
No. I don’t love you back. I force myself not to feel anything these days.
“Pretending not to hear me. Cute. Maybe I should just wake August and see if he’s hungry, huh? I’m sure all those awful things he said to you in the car ride home really worked up an appetite.”
I didn’t have to look at Atticus to know that he was disappointed in me. I could clearly picture his crestfallen face and the scowl on his mouth in my mind’s eye. Once again, I was chasing after August. Once again, Atticus was disgusted with my obsession and wanted my focus to be solely on him.
The heart wanted what it wanted, I suppose.
And the heart was a foolish fucking fool. My stubborn heart needed to hide away where it was safe.
I sat up in bed and turned to gaze at Atticus. He wore a wrinkled suit fit for the royal court and was leaning back in the loveseat, his legs stretched out in front of him as he stroked his chin. He looked like a lazy god, looking down upon his subjects.
“He was high,” I said. I was used to giving excuses for August’s behavior. We might have been good friends, but that didn’t mean he was a saint.
“What was it he said?” Atticus asked while staring hungrily at me. “I believe he called you a pathetic waste of space. Then he commented on the size of your ass and laughed about your degree plan. Said it was a good thing you had a trust fund waiting for you, because you’d never amount to anything with an art history degree. End. Quote.”
Atticus smirked. I cut my heart out of my chest so it could stop hurting so much. Figuratively speaking, of course.
“He hates me,” I mumbled, not bothering to defend him anymore. What was the point? August didn’t understand why I left. The queen had told him I wanted to study abroad. That was the story she told everyone.
“You can’t hate someone you don’t know,” Atticus replied with a refined wave of his hand. He leaned forward on his chair and rested his arms on the tops of his legs.
I gave him an incredulous look. “August knows me…well…knew me.” The boy sleeping off his drugs had no idea who I’d become or what I was capable of now.
“He never knew you. He knew himself through you, tied his identity up in your existence without letting you shine on your own.”
I frowned. “You seem to have put a lot of thought into this.”
