Page 16

Willa

S eeing the man I love in so much anguish twists my chest. It’s like I’m being wrung out until my soul leaves my body.

I can’t imagine how he’s feeling.

I’ve never had a panic attack, but I’ve struggled with anxiety on and off. I’m very lucky that it was mostly situational, and if I worked out, took care with what I was eating, and tried to get enough sleep, it usually went away. I’m extra, extra lucky that I had Lynette there to guide me and help me through all the tough times and the not so tough times. With every passing day, I’m realizing more and more just how much she’s done for me that I didn’t even consciously realize before.

I slip my hand to Atlas’ arm, running it up and down slowly and soothingly. “Can I get you some water?”

He shakes his head, glancing back in the direction we just came.

“What hurts physically? You scraped your back hard . I think we need to go upstairs where I can help you wash it out and bandage it up.”

He winces. “Just let me get the cameras online first. The last thing I want is someone from the club showing up.”

I run my hand over his arm one more time, stopping at his wrist to flatten my palm over his and thread our fingers together. He doesn’t need any more worries right now. “Can I help you? I’ll make sure the back is cleaned up.” There’s orange juice spilled on the floor and restraints just lying there. I didn’t stop to get my bra on, and that’s an item I really wouldn’t like Wizard to spot when the cameras go back on.

I’m reluctant to let Atlas go. I don’t release him until we reach the back. He seems just as hesitant to drop my hand. While I’m cleaning up, I keep my eyes on him. You’d never know from the outside that something terrible just happened. It’s almost frightening how good he is at hiding, but isn’t that all of us?

The ominous dark spot on the back of his shirt lights a fire under my ass. I have everything clean and tucked away within a few minutes. Atlas is fast with the cameras. Switching them back on is as simple as finishing the adjustments and swiping through the programming on his phone.

After they’re back on, he follows me upstairs. Neither of us have said anything, but I’m no longer melting down on the inside.

He walks straight to the bathroom, shucks his shirt and jeans, and gets in the shower. I give him privacy, getting out the basic first aid kit that Lynette was always so adamant that I kept fully stocked.

Atlas shuts the shower off and wraps a towel around his lean hips. For once, I’m not distracted by his body, but I’m always going to be able to appreciate his beauty. He could be in a totally different body but have that same spirit that makes him him and I’d still find him beautiful.

I cover my mouth quickly when he turns, displaying the torn skin and fresh beads of blood. The cement isn’t exactly smooth or new back there, and it tore him a good one, right from one shoulder to the other and down along his spine.

When I dab on the antiseptic Atlas inhales sharply.

“Sorry!”

“Don’t be. None of this is your fault.”

I’d never been so afraid in my life as when I touched him and he lost it. There’s no worse feeling on earth than knowing that you’ve hurt someone you love and that you’ve hurt them badly . I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying in my muscles until they turn into jelly and I have to lean against Atlas’ broad back for support.

“Have you- ever hurt yourself before?” I don’t know if I mean accidentally, or if I mean on purpose. I hate that I’m even asking. “You don’t have to answer that. Or anything.”

“No.” His muscles ripple all the way down his back as I move to a new spot with fresh cotton balls, creating a new sting. “Sometimes I’ve wanted to because the illusion of pain is that it offers control, but it doesn’t. Some things make it better. The discipline of sports and of working out often takes the edge off, but not always. It’s completely random. That’s the worst part.”

“Are there things that trigger it or make it worse?”

“If you look it up, everyone says stress is a big one, but for me, that’s never seemed to make a difference.”

There’s a small amount of relief in hearing him say that I didn’t do this to him. We’ve had more than our fair share of stress for the past year, with renovating this place, classes, his club duties, and then finding that mother fucking trunk. Plus, I’m the one who pressed for this. For us.

“If it makes it better, I could tell Lynette that we’re together. She’d talk to Bullet. We’re not hiding, but if this is making things harder for you-”

“I don’t think that’s making anything worse. You can tell her whenever you think the time is right.”

I don’t get needy and ask him if he’s sure that we’re even still an us. I know what he was trying to do downstairs. No one wants to be a burden to anyone else. Atlas doesn’t want to be weak. Society tells men that they have to have their shit together and above all, be strong. All. The. Time. He was trying to push me away because he thought it would be better for me, but not having him would be the worst thing I could ever imagine.

“I know that it would be tough, but if we found the right person, do you think you could talk to them? And maybe… try something?” He angles to look at me over his shoulder as I start applying topical ointment to his shredded skin. “No one wants to alter their body chemistry. Drugs, even pharmaceuticals, are scary. It’s hard to imagine not feeling like ourselves.”

“Believe me, I would enjoy that very much some days,” he states without his signature humor.

All I want to do is wrap my arms around him and hold him, but I finish bandaging him up the best I can. It’s awkward, given how big the area is. I only have so much gauze. This is for small injuries, not full body road rash.

“Maybe there’s something you could take when you need it, just when you’re feeling anxious. I had a friend in high school who had major anxiety issues. She got medication and sometimes she took a pill or two a day or a few days in a row, sometimes it was just one pill a month. It was random, but she said that having the power to stop the anxiety before it snowballed was huge. She was the one dictating the terms.”

Atlas is silent until I finish bandaging him up. He picks up his shirt, but doesn’t put the bloodied thing back on. His eyes have so much sadness in them that it crawls inside of me, fracturing my ribs as my heart throbs. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. All this shit. I hate being more like a problem child than your partner.”

I carefully slide my hand to the nape of his neck. He doesn’t shy away or shudder at the slightly possessive hold. “If I was only ever here for the good times, that’s not a partner. That’s not even a good friend. That’s very shallow.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That’s the last thing I’d ever call you.”

“You can come to me with everything. The good things and the bad. I can promise you that I’m strong enough to take it. I care about you. All of you. Not just the select parts. I appreciate how monumental your trust in me is already, and I know that’s a huge ask.”

He’s the one who bends his head and tips mine up, fusing our mouths together. He’s not kissing me to shut me up or to avoid talking to me. I can taste just how much he needs it. It’s more than just warmth that floods me. Whatever the feeling is, it scalds me. He leans against the sink and pulls me with him with a strong hand at my lower back. A growl tumbles from his lips and I consume it, devouring his sadness and his anger, his darkness and despair. He kisses me like he wants me to climb inside of him.

My heart breaks just a little bit more at his need for connection and assurance. He wants to drink me in, drown in me, fuse himself to me. He’s broken right now, and he needs me, even if I can tell that part of him still think it’s a mercy to try and push me away. He kisses like he wants me to stay, but he still can’t believe that I’m not leaving. It’s amazement and sorrow, the broken parts of him aching to be seen and swept up, held together in loving hands, and meticulously pieced back into place.

I can’t do that for him.

But I’ll never give up on finding any and all the ways that he can feel better.

The kiss isn’t the slightest bit sexual, but it is deeply intimate.

“It’s not a big ask,” he groans, breathing harshly as he breaks away. He leaves his hand on my hip, as though he can’t bear to not be touching me.

“Do you want some water? I’ll put your shirt in the washer and try to get the blood out.”

He passes it over. This isn’t me backing out of this or changing the subject. I just want to take care of him. It’s the small things that say so much.

“Do you have mint tea?”

“I do. I’ll make that.”

I take his shirt to the washer, apply a shitload of stain remover to it, and throw it in with the other darks that are already in there. I get it going and head to the kitchen to fill the kettle and get the mugs ready, thinking all the while about what he said about being constantly nauseous and how hard it was for him to eat.

We’re both quiet as we arrange ourselves on the couch. He sits ramrod straight, not wanting to have his back touch the furniture and risk smearing ointment and blood on it. Two mugs steam on the coffee table, their wispy white tendrils curling into the air like incense.

Atlas’ hair is still damp, curling away from his forehead. It’s a mess and he’s made no attempts to style it. He doesn’t need to. He’s so effortlessly beautiful. I don’t know if I should tell him that all parts of him are, even the stuff he hates.

He thinks he’s made a lifetime out of hiding who he is, but that’s just one aspect that has taken over his life. It’s not fair to him and I can see how he’d hate it and how the hate would spread and infiltrate him, poisoning the way he sees himself. It’s complicated, and I can’t heal a lifetime with just a few words. The only way to show him that I’m not afraid of any part of him and that I treasure the entire person he is, is to show him, over and over. As his girlfriend. As his friend.

I’d do anything to fight for him, but I also don’t want to crowd him. I’ve never been clingy. I hate that so much. There’s a difference in not letting someone shove you away so they can go die on their own hill of self-sacrifice that doesn’t even need to be a damn hill, and not giving them space to breathe.

Right now, he hasn’t closed himself off. His expression is softer than I’ve seen it in a long time. He looks exhausted . That panic attack and all that adrenaline bled out of him and left him spent.

“Honestly,” he whispers, studying the steaming cups of tea. “I can’t remember the last time I was truly okay, even though I tell everyone that I am.”

I rest my hand on his knee, though a little tentatively. He edges it closer, wanting to be touched. “You’re not alone in that. Fine is the most universally un-fine word there ever could be.”

He covers my hand with his. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

I tighten my grip on him. “You can do that here. It’s a safe space.”

“I’ve always had a safe space. My parents are the most loving, open minded people that I know. It’s because of them that I never lost hope or spiraled straight out of control. They were just so… they’ve always been so proud of me. I didn’t want to disappoint them. I didn’t want them to find out how flawed I was, all while knowing that they’d love me no matter what. How stupid is that?”

He won’t look at me, but I study his face for any inflection, any emotion. He’s become very good at hiding it. Right now, the only cracks are in his voice, which is practically sandpaper.

“It’s not stupid.”

I yelp in surprise as he pulls me into his lap, dragging me when I can’t get my legs under me. He grazes his hot lips over my cheek, then over to my nose. I close my eyes and he kisses past them, his beard, his nose, his lashes, all tickling my skin.

“It’s how I feel right now. The push and the pull. I want to push you away so you don’t have to deal with this shit. Part of me wants to up and leave, go somewhere else for a while until I get myself sorted, but I know that will just hurt everyone and make them worry. I can’t just leave my job or my club. My parents would be out of their minds with fear. The idea is so appealing because it’s false. Going somewhere else isn’t going to fix me.”

“You’re not defective,” I say, too sharply, not angry at him, but for him, that he could ever think or feel that way.

His arms close around me in response and he hugs me as tight as if I’m going to vaporize. “Thanks,” he mumbles, releasing a small sigh. “I was supposed to be your bodyguard, but here you are, saving me.”

“Not saving you,” I insist, kissing his forehead. “Just being here with you.”

He shakes his head. “You keep me safe. It’s so crazy how the first time I met you, you just felt that way. Protected . I still kept things from you, but those nights we camped out here? They were some of the only times I’ve ever slept for more than a few hours at a time.”

“Is that why you looked so amazed when you woke up in my bed? I thought it was because it was mine and because I tied you- oh my god. I tied you up . I was just playing. I didn’t realize how that could make you feel.”

“It didn’t.” He presses the pad of his thumb to my bottom lip. I flick my tongue against it. He groans, his pupils dilating, his eyes getting heavy. “Nothing you’ve ever done made the panic worse or better. I’ve tried to figure out what causes it. It’s so damn random. That’s the most frustrating part. It comes and goes. There’s nothing that makes it worse or better. The small spaces thing, yes. I do hate those. I’m just lucky that usually I have enough warning before the panic hits. That’s why no one knows. Because I’ve always been able to get somewhere private. Or masked it by feigning illness or sports related shit.” He paints my bottom lip with my own saliva before leaning in and kissing it off. “You’ve only ever made me feel better,” he growls against my mouth. “Human.”

“I’ve grown so much with you.” I feed him the words between kisses. “I know that we’ve only known each other for a year, but I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“You won’t have to.” The sorrow and regret in his eyes burns unmistakably bright. “I- think I want… that I- that you’re right. I should talk to someone. I need to do something. Nothing that I’ve done has fixed me.”

I don’t tell him that he’s not broken again. I know that he heard me. I need to hear him now, however he chooses to express himself, even if that’s messy. Messy is okay. The fact that he’s told me all of this and asked for help is a huge deal. “We could go to Seattle. We could find a doctor, or several doctors, and be discreet. You could meet with them alone, or I could go with you if you want me to. Whatever you need and however you need it, I’ll be there. And just because you talk and you listen, doesn’t mean you have to do what they say. You know yourself. They don’t. If you don’t feel like it helps, we won’t give up until you find the right fit.”

He gnaws on his bottom lip so hard I’m afraid that he’ll draw blood. I press the pad of my thumb and index finger to the spot. He cautiously licks my finger like I did his, but he takes it further, grasping my hand and sucking them into his mouth. He groans. “I’m good at blending in. Too good.”

“That’s a skill people learn.” It’s hard to focus when he’s sucking on my fingers like that. “They adapt because they have to. That doesn’t make you a liar. It doesn’t make you less you .”

He pulls back, nuzzling my glistening fingers with the side of his face. It’s strange, but I happen to like different . “I don’t know how to talk about this. It started when I was ten.”

Jesus Christ. Ten? I know what it’s like to go through a rough time and be exposed to things that no kid should have to live through, but this isn’t that. I got through the trauma, and maybe it altered my brain chemistry or changed who I would have been, and not having my mom with me certainly impacted Lynette and I in vastly different ways, but it’s not comparable.

My trauma was from exterior forces. Atlas’ isn’t. I shouldn’t call it trauma. What your brain decides for you is not a tragedy. Although, the fact that he’s never been able to talk about this or get trust someone enough to get help, is a terrible thing. I don’t just hurt for him now. I hurt for every version of him.

“Dealing with stuff as a kid is hard. Being a teenager is rough too. It must have been exhausting.”

He bows his head. “The good days were good, but the bad ones were so bad that I just wanted out of my head.”

“I’m sure your head is also a great place. Or, it could be. We just need help getting there. That doesn’t mean fundamentally change who you are. Who you are is wonderful .”

He takes my hand again and presses the back to his forehead, sighing like he would if he was sick. “I don’t even remember what it’s like not to feel bad. Nervous. Edgy. Like I’m crawling in my skin some days, but it’s not bugs. It’s lies.” He brushes his lips over my knuckles and my heart practically tears out of my chest and gushes a river of pain for him. “That’s not true. Since I met you, it’s toned down. Sometimes, I’m even hungry. There are moments of true peace. I’m not saying that you have to be medicine. Just that I feel I have to strain way less to find my center when we’re together.”

“I’m so shattered that you’ve gone this many years dealing with this alone.”

He tucks my hand, pulling me in against him, guiding it straight to his heart. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought I’d scare the fuck out of my parents.” The steady beat throbs against my fingers. “I was afraid as a kid that I’d get put in a mental hospital. I had this image, for a long time, of them being super scary. I still think they’re scary.”

“Is that why you joined the club? For an outlet?”

Was he hoping to find a place where he’d finally fit in, where duty, and sometimes violence, could fill the void. A place where he wouldn’t have to pretend because men are accepted there for who they are, and it’s just a fact that most of them are looking for some sort of family and come with a whole trolley’s worth of baggage.

He keeps my hand pressed to his heart and shakes his head. “Working with my hands was a way to focus my mind, but that wasn’t the promise of getting to work on cars all day wasn’t the only reason. I like being on my bike. The Mustang is the only small space I’ve ever been okay in. I would never get behind the wheel of anything knowing that I might have a panic attack. I trusted myself enough at that point to know what my limits were and like I said, usually I have more than enough time to pull over before it hits. Today was… I don’t know. It came out of nowhere. Usually there’s more of a lead up to it.”

“Maybe it’s everything that’s happened these past few weeks.”

“Maybe.” His thumb strokes the pulse point in my wrist. “But that’s not on you, you hear me?” His eyes are the deepest blue that I’ve ever seen, and they sparkle with sincerity.

“I do.” I curl into him and drop a kiss on his forehead. I want to take care of him in the big ways, but in the small things too. That’s my love language. “Is there something you like to eat all the time, even when you’re anxious and you feel sick?”

His brows knit together. “Strawberry ice cream. I love the fruit too, or the yogurt. Not the candy. Never candy.” He tilts his face to graze the side of my neck. “You. You smell like ripe berries.”

“Do you want me to go get you some strawberry ice cream?”

“As long as it’s followed up with you after.”

I search his face, hesitant only because I don’t want to hurt him. His back is torn up, but so are his insides. He’s not burning with desperation or despair, but there is a question there. Is this okay?

“I’ll always be here.” I find my way to his mouth and skim my lips over his. He’s not the one trembling. I am. I want to tell him how much I love him, but I think I’ve said enough. He’s overwhelmed. I don’t want to make it worse. “I’ll always be behind you.” My hand lands in his head, twisting and pulling him further into me. “Whatever you need, I’m here.” His arms wrap around me, pulling me down into his lap. We hold each other tightly, already a part of each other, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, his heart mine and mine his.

If he’s wrecked, I’m wrecked. His pain is my pain. His joy my joy.

He knows.

I know.

We don’t need any other words, at least for the moment.