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He reaches for the door handle.
No, no, no! Don’t let him leave!
I lunge across the console and snatch the handle before he gets it. “Brandon, just wait. I’m sorry.”
“Let me go, Troy. I have to go!” He wrestles with my hand, fighting for control.
“No, please. Just stay with me, Brandon. I’m sorry. We can fix this. We can get you help. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“You don’t want me here. Just let me go.”
He pries at my fingers, and I swear he’s gonna have to cut them off to get out of this car.
I know this isn’t the right thing to do. Sure as fuck not thinking about safety now, but I’m desperate, and I’ll do anything not to lose him again.
“I do want you, Brandon. I need you in my life. Mom needs you. Please. I love you. I want to be here for you. Don’t leave me again.” My pleas aren’t like the man I’ve become, but like those of a child begging not to be abandoned once again.
“Get. Off. Me!” He flies into a fit, thrashing about until I feel his shoe on the side of my head. There’s athud, and then, “I’m so sorry, Troy.”
My body’s slung over the console, my face against the dashboard, which my head must’ve ricocheted off of when he kicked it. But I don’t have time to think about that. He’s going. He’s fucking leaving!
I crawl from the seat, out the door, which he left open. Soon, I’m racing across the sidewalk alongside the restaurant, but the car Brandon came in peels out.
“I’m so…fucking sorry…Troy,” I hear between sobs before the car jets forward.
And just like that, he’s gone.
He’s fucking gone. Again.
Taking deep breaths as I recover from the confrontation, I head over to the restaurant and lean against the brick wall. My head hurts, but my body’s aching with a pain that’s much worse than anything he did to me physically.
That might have been my last chance, and I fucked this up. I fucked it all up.
I curse, balling my hand into a fist and smashing it into the wall.
34
Atlas
I’d just pulledup at my apartment when my cell rings. It’s sitting on the passenger seat, and I glance over to see Troy’s name on the screen. My brain is a cluttered mess right now, but suddenly all of that is pushed out of the way, shoved to the back of my head because Troy iscalling.
Usually he texts. Everyone under forty fucking texts. Why in the hell would he be calling?
My heart leaps up and lodges in my throat as I click to answer. “Hey, what’s wrong?” immediately tumbles from my lips.
“Hey, I’m, um…in the hospital. Piedmont Eastside in Snellville. Can…can you come?” His voice is soft, sad, something I hate to hear from him. Troy deserves to be happy. All the time.
“Yes. Jesus. I’m on my way right now. What the fuck happened? Are you okay?” At first I’m not sure if he even replies. Somehow, I’m already driving again, and I can’t say how that happened, fear leading me, blood rushing through my ears and making it hard to breathe.
Troy has to be okay. Why the fuck would he be in the hospital?
“Yeah, I’m fine. I promise. My hand is messed up, and they want to make sure I don’t have a concussion, but I’m fine.”
I squeeze the steering wheel. A fucked-up hand and a concussion? “What. The. Fuck. Happened?” I bite out.
“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone, but I’m okay. I promise. I just…need you.”
And as much as I hate for him to be hurt, I’m proud to be the person Troy goes to. Proud he needs me because the truth is, I need him, need him more than anything in my life.
