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The last person I ever imagined being on the other end of these conversations was Atlas Huxley.
The moment I saw him in the locker room, something clicked into place. Every little thread and comment that sounded vaguely familiar—they all pointed to him.
If I had to put a bet on Atlas being interested in anyone, it would be Shiloh. But the way he looked at me, the way his voice sounded on the call, those were all for me.
Me as in B.
Me as in Blair.
It sounds like a cosmic mistake, because being wanted by a stranger is a stretch, but being wanted by Atlas? That’s an impossibility.
“He’s fine,” Nurse Landry says as she steps away from the curtain separating Atlas’ bed and the rest of the room. “He’s sleeping. Looks like a mild panic attack, but he should be fine once he’s had some rest. They can really wear you out.”
Don’t I know it.
“Should I take him back to his dorm, or…”
“He can stay here,” she says, offering me a gentle smile. “You’re welcome to stay with him if you want.”
I nod and slip past her, taking up the lone chair beside Atlas’ bed. He was able to help me get him dressed before I brought him to the nurse, but he was unresponsive and groggy the whole time. She gave him some kind of pill when we got here, and that seems to have knocked him out, or maybe settled him enough that he was able to rest.
Right now all I want to do is work through the chaos in my head initiated by what Atlas and I have been doing for the last week.
I’ve had lots of meaningless sex, where I know I want something deeper but they don’t. Atlas can’t fall onto that list.
A was supposed to be a hookup I knew I’d secretly get attached to but would never actually have. That’s how it works for me.
Knowing it was Atlas on the phone—listening to him get off and touching myself in return—it changes things. Complicates them.
That’s a problem for later, though. Right now, Atlas needs someone to be here for him.
And that someone shouldn’t be me.
“What’s up?” Shiloh’s voice breaks through the phone’s static and shrill ringing. “I remember the appointment, don’t worry.”
“Hey, bud. It’s not that.” I look over at Atlas with his light snoring and the way he’s squishing his face with his palm. “Atlas is in the infirmary. Wasn’t sure if you had class, but I wanted to let you know he’s alright and might need you when he wakes up.”
“Shit,” Shiloh curses. “Did he hit his head? He doesn’t need a hospital, does he?”
“Nah. Just, uh, he wasn’t feeling well at the gym earlier. I happened to stop by. I think he’s just exhausted.”
“Yeah, okay. I can be over there in like ten minutes. Keep him company for me until then?”
“Will do,” I say, ending the call and stuffing the phone back in my pocket.
I brush my fingers through the still damp hair at Atlas’ forehead and try to consolidate the idea that sweet, dirty, curious A is right in front of me. That if he were anyone else, I could lean down and capture his lips with mine, taste the kisses he pretends to give solely because he knows I like them.
I fell into like with him from the get go.
What sort of heartache have I gotten myself into?
When I’m stressed, I clean. It probably stems from some trauma of living in a shithole most of my life, but questioning it doesn’t do me any good.
I straightened my room an hour ago, tidied up the living room thirty minutes ago, and now I’m scrubbing out pots and pans and bleaching the sink to keep potential gnats away.
The elastic holding the hair out of my face is about worn out, and I keep wiping suds on my forehead and cheeks when I push it back.
The mess in my head doesn’t alleviate for long, and remembering the way Atlas’ voice went from pleasured to pained haunts the back of my mind like one of those No Sleep posts you find on Reddit when you’re up in the middle of the night.
